#How to Beat Alcohol Addiction Naturally

[patnaneuro]

https://patnaneuroandchildpsychiatry.in/tips-to-beat-alcohol-addiction-deaddiction-centre-in-patna/

[esotericcangel]

MANCHILD ♡ R.CAMERON

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ manchild!rafe x bitchy!reader ⭑ .ᐟ

SUMMARY: you’re fed up with rafe’s bullshit.

WARNINGS/TAGS: asshole/loser rafe, consumption of alcohol and drugs, language. reader putting rafe in his place!

NOTES: part of @zyafics MRGA campaign! hope you guys like it ♡

stupid. or is it.. slow? maybe it’s useless? but there’s a cuter word for it, i know.

manchild. rafe cameron was the worlds biggest manchild.

born and bred into a life of riches, the boy never faced anything worse than daddy issues, and god, did it show. you’d be in an on and off relationship with rafe for months now—a will they won’t they sort of situation.

you knew what everyone was thinking when they watched you. who will be the first to break?

and unfortunately for rafe, you weren’t a fucking pushover. you wouldn’t let him continue manipulate you, to try and get a reaction out of you. you wouldn’t satisfy his useless needs just because he couldn’t get what he wanted from his father as a child. validation.

music blared through speakers, the smell of expensive perfume and liquor permeating through the atmosphere. one rafe knew well. one he thrived in. and for him, it was like second nature. the drinking, the games.. the manipulation.

he was four shots in, mind a little hazy, dulled, but in that nice way, the way where his muscles felt looser and his brain stopped spinning for a second. he had a girl in his lap, his glossed lips mouthing at his neck, his large hand engulfing her waist. that’s how he liked his women. soft and docile, so eager to please.

but you were anything but what rafe cameron liked. and maybe that’s what drew him to you in the first place. how opinionated you were. how you didn’t take bullshit from anyone, much less him.

and in the corner of the room, where you chose to reside away from the main hustle of the party you really didn’t care for anyway, you were seething. not because you were jealous, no. but because somehow, rafe had managed to manipulate you. time and time again, he’d reassure you when you were suspicious of his actions— ‘baby, you’re the only one i want’, ‘you know she means nothing to me’. god, you were only even here because he’d invited you!

you’d been there for rafe through everything—his daddy issues, his addiction. you were a fool to think you were an exception. and truthfully, you knew you weren’t. but it was nice, even if it was for a fraction of a second, to feel like you meant something. even if it was to an overgrown child. a manchild.

you pushed past sweaty bodies and drunken women, trying hard not to slap the next person that stood in your way—and soon enough you were standing in front of rafe. rafe, and his girl of the night. and you didn’t hesitate.

your fingers wrapped around the first cup you found, and you ignored the ‘hey!’ from the guy you’d yanked it from—and you threw it.

“what the fuck?!” rafe cursed, abruptly standing, the girl who was once on his lap letting out a shriek of her own.

“the fucks your problem, huh?” he shouted at you, cerulean eyes shaking with anger, his body angled toward you like he was about to fall of the deep end.

you did something about it before he could.

a sickening crack sounded through the room—almost loud enough to compete with the music. and rafe’s cheek, once occupied with kiss marks from the lips of that girl, now held a red hand print.

“are you having fun, rafe? having fun with the ‘girls who don’t matter’? huh?” you mocked, your own eyes icy, narrowed and fixated on him in a way that made him feel exposed. rafe almost ever felt exposed.

he could only hold your gaze, unspeaking, and doing nothing, while all his friends and peers gawked at the scene. and while he felt utterly humiliated, for once, he didn’t do anything about it.

“hope she keeps your dick warm, and your heart beating for the night, rafe. because god knows no one could love you enough to do it unconditionally. especially not me.” a malicious smile spread on your lips. mirthless, but satisfied.

and then you were gone, walking, disappearing into the crowd as if you were never even there.

© 𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 please refrain from copying, translating or claiming my work as yours .ᐟ

🏷️: @winnie1emon @drewswife @urcoolgf @angvl3tears @browniepop62 @angel06babysworld

[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

[noriimura]

namgyu headcannons’’

warnings: dark! namgyu, drugs, thinness, eating problems, addictions, family issues

an: my thoughts on how I see namgyu outside the game, it's okay if our ideas about him may differ. english is not my first language. this is my first post of this kind, so I hope you enjoy it

part 2 is coming soon…

i think he grew up without a father, with a cold, distant mother who didn't need him. he always tried to get her love and attention by doing housework, drawing her pictures with the caption "mommy, I love you" or "mommy, you're the best," then finding the drawings in the trash. he tried to study well at school, achieve heights in the classroom and be better than his classmates, thus receiving the excellent student syndrome. however, as he grew older, he realized that it was useless, his mother would not love him, the imaginary interest that was present only out of a desire to please his mother disappeared altogether. he gave up on his studies, and in high school he periodically skipped school with friends, drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes one after another. after finishing school somehow and passing the exams with a low score, he gave up on education and decided not to go further to study, he went to work in a nightclub on the advice of his friend who worked there

due to the fact that his mother was often absent from his life, he developed an anxious type of attachment. he is not sure of himself, he is afraid that he will be abandoned, that he can be intrusive, constantly demands confirmation of love, but without saying so directly, he considers it humiliating and shameful even in front of his partner.

speaking of his anxiety, his partner will have a hard time, he is the most anxious partner who will be jealous of every pillar, will constantly write and ask who his partner is with, will constantly suspect infidelity, check the phone for suspicious correspondence and make scandals from scratch.

there is also a theory that namgyu has an avoidant type of attachment, it is difficult for him to get close to people, show his emotions and trust, which is why he does not enter into a relationship in principle, trying to avoid any obligations, responsibilities and the opportunity to get attached, when he wanted to have fun, he met another girl in a club with whom he was rude, animal, dirty sex without any feelings. in the morning, deleting the phone number without giving a chance for something more.

it seems to me that he grew up in a family full of violence and debauchery, even as a child when his mother and father communicated but were not married, his father often came, they drank, smoked and then quarreled, he beat her, they hated each other, he saw it, he grew up in it, he absorbed such an attitude between parents this became one of the reasons for his cruelty and problematic nature, later his mother went into fornication, she began to bring new men to their house, they had fun, had sex, and drank, little namgyu saw all this, he hated her for it, this also became one of the reasons for his consumer attitude towards women.

he does not like to contact people, even though he works in a profession in which communication skills are extremely necessary. he never starts long dialogues with visitors unless they arouse special interest or are beneficial to him. if he is not interested, he shows it with his whole appearance, gaze and actions, he never tries to look interested, which is why he is not very respected at work. if he finds the dialogue not interesting, he will not say a word from himself in an attempt to maintain the dialogue, except for a couple of clear phrases that his work requires of him.

for namgyu, drugs are primarily a way to forget about all his sins, problems, and debts. It is in his hallucinations that he lives happily. before using drugs, he was trying to find himself, something that would save him. he stayed up late at computer clubs, draining money for an extra hour in the game, his hometown club and attempts to forget himself in new acquaintances, alcohol and cigarettes, which to this day help him relax. It was his first time trying drugs with his friends. hallucinogenic trips in which he could stay until morning, complete relaxation and loss of touch with reality, this was what he had been looking for for so long, only this state allowed him to smile and feel in his place.

although namgyu found an outlet in drugs, however, his gambling addiction remained, most likely he would have played some kind of strategic team games in the MOBA genre like dota 2, I'm sure he screams all over the apartment when he is killed or someone else's team demolished their throne.

namgyu prefers sportswear, usually a size or two larger, it seems to me that he would not wear fitted clothes in principle, making a choice towards slightly baggy T-shirts and wide trousers.

I think namgyu would have eating problems, he often has no appetite, which is why he refuses to eat or intentionally does not eat, plus due to drug use and lack of physical activity, the guy has a rather thin build.

he's a misogynist, which is already canon. i think as he gets older, he just gets disillusioned with women. perhaps he liked the girl who rudely and shamefully rejected him and he remembered it forever. Indifferent, strong, wayward and cold women remind him of his mother, which is why he literally wants to kill them so that the metaphorical death of his mother would happen. yes, he won't kill every woman he meets, but passive aggression towards them is clearly present.

edited: part 2

[luxdove]

Drink Down Your Sorrows

Pure Vanilla Cookie x Drunkard! Reader (Platonic)

Randomly thought of this during school so might as well post this even though I don’t even know if I did this correctly

Characters might be OOC!

CW: Alcohol

You lived in the Pure Vanilla Kingdom for quite a while and yet every cookie seems to always be surprised when they see you- drunk

Pure Vanilla Cookie always tried to warn you about the dangers of drinking too much since ya know he’s a pretty close friend to you- yet you waved him off like it was no big deal- after all it’s just a simple drink; what’s so harmful about that?

you’re always seemed to be drunk, your tongue laced with intoxicating alcohol yet somehow you always managed drink enough to where it’s not so dangerous and life ending

However many cookies that knew you were obviously trying to get you to quit your habits

“My friend please I beg of you- can you please stop drinking? This is not good for you!” Pure Vanilla Cookie and other cookies that were acquainted with you kept asking

“What’s so dangerous about drinking? It’s not hurting anyone else is it? Let me endure the happiness that I can cherish even if it’s for mere seconds” you spoke with hiccuped, your breath stunk with alcohol, your eyes half lidded but your vision was clear as day face flushed as you drank more of the liquor

It’s not like you were a slacker, you worked with your heart beating with the liquor running in your dough

I mean how else did you managed to get enough currency to be living in the kingdom whilst getting your desired drink on the daily?

You weren’t irresponsible either, you were just a cookie who loves being drinking and being drunk all day and all night

Of course you just didn’t drink for fun, like most drunkards- yours had a story that started it all

A memory locked away in the corner of your mind, deaths filled your mind and was stuck in a never ending loop

So you started drinking- you drank and drank- all to cure your sorrow, painful, and pitiful self

So imagine the surprise on Pure Vanilla Cookie’s face once he finally saw you; the kingdom’s heaviest drunkard- finally not drunk and sober

You were in despair, tears fallen one after another, back hunched over as you looked…depressed really, eyes filled with no hope or meaning in life

Yet once you were drunk you were high with euphoria the laughter that is so easily whisked away with just a simple sip of that damn liquor

Pure Vanilla Cookie only needed a few moments to look at you to know what he must do, he will try to rehabilitate your habit of drinking because he will put a stop to this even if it means hurting you in the process

If anyone needed to convince you to do something all they needed to trade in was a simple barrel of alcohol- really you were just that easily swayed away

Now imagine the distraught you felt when Pure Vanilla Cookie finally made it to where there was a limit to your drinking

Perhaps you should move to another kingdom that didn’t have such rules? (All the other kingdoms have been informed with the rules so it wouldn’t make a difference)

oh how cruel he was to put an end to your happiness

Perhaps you should be an alcohol maker so where you had an endless supply and drink to your heart contents!

That would be the case if Pure Vanilla Cookie didn’t spend pretty much the whole day with you to keep you on lock down

Oh how double cruel! Even with the limits of drinking you haven’t even gotten a tiny sip of liquor due to Pure Vanilla Cookie sticking to your side like glue

It was cruel, it was horrible, you felt as the seconds gone by you were slowly suffocating by the sorrows that filled your past

“my friend what’s wrong? Don’t you love the  way nature brings in hope?” Pure Vanilla Cookie spoke in a soft, innocent, and calm tone “you had to let go of that habit my dear friend…it was getting dangerous if you didn’t stop now…” he whispered concernly

Yet you couldn’t bear it- you couldn’t handle the pain 

The addiction of drinking filled your dough and yet it’s been months without it

You’ve been masking your feelings in fear it would turn people away from you but Pure Vanilla Cookie being your closest friend could tell about your false feelings

So imagine one day you found your beloved alcohol just sitting on the counter of your household

It was tempting to you, it was like calling out for you to just take a sip…just one sip…

Yet that sip turned into a gulp…and that gulp turned into an empty bottle of glass

Yet…drinking didn’t seem to bring out the euphoria you thought it would bring

Instead it made you feel worse, in even more pain

So one day you met up with Pure Vanilla Cookie

You finally spilled everything, the start of your drinking habits to how now it doesn’t feel the same anymore

“Friend…I am so happy you tell me this…don’t you know how long I have been waiting for you to tell me?” Pure Vanilla Cookie said as he spoke soft yet his closed eyes faced showed how solemn he felt

Pure Vanilla Cookie comforted you as you cried your heart out, and you promised to drink to a limit and not to an everyday measure

Lowkey I was actually going to make it angst at the end but then I blanked out and made it comfort, your welcome you guys were saved 😡

The funny part was- when I first thought of this I only had “sorrow, pitiful self” line in my head and we somehow ended up here

[irlkisukeurahara]

I added HSR to my Genshin Sims 4 game and here are some more ridiculous shenanigans over the past few days: (this was all autonomous if you get on my ass about it being out of character you're cringe :3)

- When making the Sims, I purposefully gave Boothill, Aglaea, and Aventurine bugger asses. However, the ass that Sampo NATURALLY GENERATED WITH was even bigger. That just means it's canon now.

- Furina and Robin despise each other and I STILL don't know why.

- Caelus' autogenerated sleep outfit is Dan Heng's outfit. Kind of gay.

- Sparkle got Sampo addicted to ketamine

- Razor smoked a bong WHILE making edibles and then proceeded to eat the edibles while STILL high

- Aventurine practiced making alcoholic beverages for four in game hours and then proceeded to die of starvation (and Boothill couldn't convince the reaper to revive him)

- All of these Sims have so much sex it's fucking ridiculous

- Aventurine had one really bad LSD trip and cried

- Sparkle adopted a cat and it looks like it wants to escape

- March 7th and Sunday became best friends immediately upon meeting each other

- A burglar showed up to the Astral Express. Welt ran away screaming, Caelus tried to beat her up and lost spectacularly, Himeko called the cops, March did not give a fuck, and Stelle stayed asleep the entire time

- Boothill got Aglaea pregnant...Somehow.

- Aventurine reacted to that information like this.

- Have I mentioned how bad Sampo's ketamine addiction is yet? Sunday is not thrilled.

- Itto and Furina got married and it was a glitchy disaster. I had to tell them to get married at the altar about five times before they were finally married.

- On the second attempt to have them married, Razor and Gaming were sleeping together upstairs. And on the third attempt, Razor took a bong rip in the middle of the ceremony.

- Boothill set himself on fire TWICE, and Aventurine put out the fire BOTH times.

- Aventurine also got Aglaea pregnant. At least that one makes sense, given he actually has a dick.

- Baizhu apparently hates everyone except for Wriothesley

- Four Hertas invaded the household and Mr. Reca sold them all drugs

- Welt is apparently friends with the elderly Herta and finds her attractive.

- Boothill also finds one of the Hertas attractive.

- Aventurine almost died of hunger a second time but the game lagged enough that I could have him eat in time.

- Boothill, Wriothesley, and Firefly all constantly want to have kids. Boothill already has two kids.

- Boothill stood behind Aglaea just so he had an excuse to look at her ass.

- Robin invited Boothill out in public, immediately ditched his ass, and Boothill proceeded to do cocaine in the bathroom then go home.

- Boothill got sad because Aventurine was uncomfortable, and then Aventurine got sad because Boothill was sad. This happens a lot.

- Wonweek watches Sampo and Sunday sleep a lot. All the time, like every other night. My dude, chill.

- Every time Sunday and Sampo or Itto and Furina kiss they're actually just shoving their faces in the others' giant pecs because of the height slider mod. It's really funny to look at.

- I'm still not sure if Baizhu and Wriothesley are actually officially boyfriends, still. They literally have max romance and fuck constantly.

- Boothill and Wonweek are beefing with a plush toy.

- Everyone ate Razor's edibles and got incredibly fucked up. I think only Razor (the smallest one in the house) could handle them.

- Boothill has an alarming amount of weed in his inventory. I don't think he's smoked any.

- Robin stole Sampo's grilled cheese sandwich. Boothill then proceeded to steal Sunday's grilled cheese sandwich. I don't know why they're cheese thieves.

- Robin is uncomfortable and sad every time Sparkle is in the room, yet she still chooses to talk with her when she shows up.

- Sampo apparently does not like Aglaea and Aventurine's relationship.

- When Aventurine was still a ghost after dying of starvation, him and Boothill fucked and I got an achievement for it.

- Sampo and Boothill argued about politics over chess, which sounds like it'd end with a bullet wound to a head. Luckily for Sampo, I don't have Extreme Violence installed.

- No words. Just this face.

[deathoverdignity]

Squid Games 2 spoilers ahead

I’ve seen multiple people decry Seong Gi-hun’s death as cheap, selfish or rushed or in some way a consequence of bad writing and I HAVE to get my thoughts out on how wrong this is.

Seong Gi-hun was entirely narratively consistent in both seasons.

He is a revolutionary, first and foremost. Does that make him a bad father or husband on an individual level? Perhaps. But Seong Gi-hun was always motivated by the necessity to struggle for the greater good.

While working, his focus was on his union, striving to achieve better conditions for his comrades that ultimately led to murder and despair at the barricades by state forces. The strike break crippled him emotionally.

Gi-hun cannot function in a society that allows no hope for progress or struggle. The first time after his comrades deaths, this led to alcoholism and gambling addiction.

However his natural instinct for solidarity immediately resurrected during the first Squid Games. No hesitation, Gi-hun sided with unity against the oppressors.

Once again, this led to despair and death following another period of stagnation.

His moral victory against Oh Il-nam on the old man’s death bed was enough to relight the spark in him.

Despite his gambling addiction, Gi-hun was never motivated by money, as his immediate discarding of the blood money he won shows. He could have built a peaceful life with his daughter but again, chose the greater good over his own personal gratification.

Again, this pushed him forward until the failed coup in Squid Games 2, which again resulted in death and despair.

Gi-hun valued the need to overcome the systems which beat him and his comrades (of all walks of life) down. A failed revolutionary is still a revolutionary and one worthy of respect for what he attempted to achieve.

There was never any other ending for Gi-hun. There is no world where he would have survived such an injustice to be allowed.

A great character, and his end definitely makes future Squid Games less appealing for sure but an end that stayed entirely true to his character from start to finish.

[grapejuicestyless]

Orange Juice

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summery: High school sweethearts, the picture perfect pair whose story crumbled as quickly as it started. All because of a reckless boy and his addictive nature and an emotional girl and her growing tiredness.(warning: Mentions of addiction(alcohol).)

“I need you!” He pleads, words broken and grass stuck to his knees as he stands from his spot on the ground where he lay face down, passed out in the front yard of the chateau once again.

He held her hands in his, pulling at her fingers until her knuckles seemed to stretch at his sheer force and determination to keep her put in place, to keep her with him.

“If that was true you would have stopped!” Her voice was shaky, tears burning into her cheeks and her throat constricting with each choked up breath. Still, she couldn’t look at him in the eyes, the same deep blue eyes that held her youth and captured her heart with nothing more than the twinkle of innocence and play.

She knew if she were to look back she would try to keep fighting it, and as much as she longed to always be there to help, it was obvious her help was nothing more than something that delayed his progress. JJ was his father’s son, whether they admitted it or not. No, he never laid a hand on Y/n’s skin, but when he drank his words shot to kill. He carried the same fire in his soul and a pent up rage that seethed through the cracks in his teeth each time he held a solo cup in his palms.

No amount of comfort or persuasion would stop the boy from sending himself six feet in the ground. He had drank them both dry and Y/n hated to admit that she had lost the fight, she had to throw in the towel. He wouldn’t get better until she was gone, and she knew it, even if he refused to admit that he needed to let the harsh slap of reality to beat him senseless for him to find his feet.

“You know it’s not that simple, baby! Please, tell me you know it, I’m trying, I really am. Please.” He cries, lips trembling all ugly as his nose runs and his cheeks become blotchy. He’s a mess, looks it and smells it too.

His boyish smell of sweet cedar and the sandy beaches covered with vanilla are masked with the stench of whatever he pours into his cup and day old cigarette smoke. His blonde hair isn’t messy in the cute way that he wore it when her hands would ruffle through each lock, but because he hasn’t made it to his bed in days, choosing to pass out somewhere from the front lawn to the living room if he ever makes it that far.

“Don’t bullshit me, Jay. You and me both know it, I’ve tried, and I’ve tried and we’ve wasted all that potential to get better and we’ve fought this before. We win the fight, but what about the war? What about me, the bed I sleep in and the pillow that doesn’t even smell like my fiancé anymore because he prefers to be face down passed out in our lawn!” Y/n rips her hand away from JJ’s like it’s poisonous, a bite that stings and slowly works its way into her blood.

Y/n’s not angry at him, her lover, her sweetheart fiancé. No, how could she ever be when even at his worst she can only ever see the good hidden deep inside of his abusive behaviors and dependence on all the wrong things.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home for so long, so long JJ and you never come back anymore. You’re too far gone to even remember that theres a warm bed waiting for you.” She cries, eyes closing and head falling into the boy’s shoulder as she sobs out sentences aimlessly.

The worst part is that it’s his own fault. His whole life he tried so hard to finally break free of his family’s name, the bitter memories of his abusive father and absent mother leaving him with a motivation to be better than they ever could have been. Yet, here he is half drunk with the same smell stuck on his breath and some half-assed apology ready to spew out at his lover.

“I’ll get better, for you, I will. I’d do anything for you.” She pulls away, looking at him with big doe eyes and a scrunched up nose. He thinks he finally has a chance to change for a second, to fix all his wrongdoings until she shakes her head, looking down at her feet and stepping away from him.

“No, no. Jay, no.” Wiping her cheeks, Y/n seems to finally let go of the innocence that once masked all of his imperfections.

“Your heart has changed, your soul has changed and you aren’t the man I love anymore.” Watching how she fiddles with the ring on her finger breaks his heart, no it absolutely crushes it. Reality is a sour taste to be swallowed down and JJ just can’t seem to get it down now that it’s all right in front of him.

“And I’ll always love you, and if you ever need me I’ll still be here-“

“No, Y/n/n, no.” He tries to follow her, the ring in his palm burning a circle on his skin. A symbol of their eternal love that seemed to redefine what ‘forever’ really meant.

“But I can’t be the one you rely on anymore, it’s not healthy for you.” She tries to reason with him, but he doesn’t want to hear it, he only wants her to hold him again.

“I love you!” JJ tries to make her see it, how his blood only keeps pumping even when he should be dead by now because in his heart he knows he’ll feel her touch against his forehead in the hot summer mornings and her hips against his in the late afternoons that seemed to always slip away far too quickly.

“You’re not your father, Jay.” She reminds him, making JJ stop in his tracks where he debates whether or not to cry or laugh in relief or anger.

“So thats it?” He decides to be angry even if he really isn’t, even if it’s his own fault for driving the girl away. Even if they both recognize that she needs to go away for some time.

“You’re just going to go ahead and carry on? Leave me here alone like I don’t even matter? What, was I pulling you down? Was it just too much?” He spits it like fire at her heart and she tries not to take it too harshly. Y/n knows he gets mean when he’s tipsy, and the empty bottles hidden in the long grass tell her that he’s well beyond that point now.

“I need you to get better.” She begs quietly, looking down as she speed walks down the old dirt roads that lead to a better part of town. She feels naked without the ring adorned on her finger or the weight of her soul hanging over her shoulders.

Y/n swears she can hear his sobs from across town, the broken cries wondering where his lover went in the late afternoon and the even louder ones in the early morning once the fog clears and he comes to terms with his faults.

It’s all in her head, their friends remind her, and they send her photos of him in the mail to tell her how he’s getting better. But the polaroids become further and farther in between, and soon the eyes she swore she never wanted to leave her life became those of a strangers, a stranger who knew everything there was to know about her.

“I haven’t drank in six months, on the dot.” He leans over the kitchen table, indents from his rings and scratches from pen evident in the wood. His hair is just the same as it was when they first met, a blonde mop of waves that sit perfectly around his tanned face. Only now he doesn’t look so tired and he doesn’t smell so sour.

She can only smile at him, letting the crowd fill in around them and filter out through the door as time passes and the moon sets underneath the horizon. She still thinks about how light her finger feels without the handmade ring on her finger, the promise that was within the bent metal weighing more than any diamond any man could ever buy her.

“Can I get you a drink, to celebrate? Theres orange juice in the kitchen, bought it for our friends. It’s yours if you want it, just glad you could visit.” JJ doesn’t know about the piles of photos she keeps of him, the photos that she never had the heart to unpin in her room in the chateau. He’s acutely aware of the fact his friends had been sending the girl updates, he had even asked them to at some points, just so she wouldn’t carry so much worry and guilt as he put on her all those months ago.

“I’ve missed you.” He says it softly, hoping partly that the faint music and the dying chatter from the outside will drown out his confession of love for the girl in front of him, but the sad smile on her face tells him otherwise.

“Feel’s so empty here without you, like I’ve been waiting for you to come home.” He kicks the splintered wood, hands in his pockets and his eyes darting to the orange juice sat warming on the counter like it was placed there just for him. He knew it was, and he knew who did it too.

But Y/n started to cry before JJ could even begin to thank her for all she has done for him, for sacrificing everything just to see him get better.

Shes blubbering something about regretting how she just up and left him like that, how she keeps his memories with her and still wakes up smiling when she thinks of him in her sleep. But more importantly, she cries about how she doesn’t think that she can ever have him again.

Of course, it’s not her fault that she associates his condition with her. Each relapse happened in her company and each stage was only worsened by her staying. She had to leave for him to get better and now to her, it was evident it was for the best.

JJ knows she’s wrong, but how could she? It’s his own fault for what he’s done to her but it’s really not even his fault. Falling dependent on a substance that only ever caused harm was something he started to do for fun, he never intended to become addicted to it, to become mean. They were both just victims in an incredibly cruel situation.

“It’s like you said, Y/n/n, just like you said. My heart has changed, and my soul has changed, and this town has changed, and this world has changed!” He takes her hands in his, showering her his ring and offering a new beginning to their tangled love story.

“But I have not.” It’s so quiet when she says it, JJ almost misses it. She hesitates, flinching away from the ring and refusing to put it back on for the fear that the reoccurring nightmares she had conveniently left out of his condition would come true again.

“The last time you were drunk you were face down, passed out in our lawn.” She looks at him, closing his fingers around the ring and standing from the table.

“Theres orange juice in the kitchen, bought it for you. It’s yours if you want it, I’m just glad you could visit.” She admits softly, slipping past him as calm as she can keep herself, hoping that he can’t hear the way that her heart cracks with each inhale of air.

He whispers something about still loving her, and even though she never says it back, the fact that she’s just admitted to buying the drink specifically for him with the hopes of him showing up gives JJ hope, a hope that he secretly knows will only leave him more devastated in the long run, but one that keeps him going.

He pours himself a glass of the orange juice later that night, the crowd long gone and empty solo cups scattered along the lawn. The ring in his pocket weighs down his cargo shorts pockets and burns through the fabric to his skin, but deep down he knows that he’s changed, he’s been better.

Like she had told him the day it all came crashing down, he is not his father, so he will try and try until he can mend what he broke and the wound is nothing but a scar left behind to show his strength and resilience.

JJ prefers apple juice over orange juice, but as he takes a sip of the tangy liquid, he decides it tastes sweeter than usual, and he really likes orange juice better than any other drink.

[love-x-deepspace-headcanons]

Sylus' info~

comes from a broken home (his drug-addict mother left when he was 5, father was an abusive alcoholic and gambler)

was a constant troublemaker in school

self-taught genius (had extremely high IQ but was too bored by how ‘easy’ school was, so he put no effort in and failed out time and time again; spends most of his free time not at home, reading and learning)

naturally exceptionally talented in physical activity (sports and dance), as well as music (singing and playing instruments) that all his teachers lamented that all his talents would go to waste and he’d end up in jail his whole life

was transferred to different schools many times for how many fights he’d get into (especially anyone who learned about his family situation and tried to humiliate him with the truth around peers)

by 9, he’d joined up in a street gang of middle and high schoolers for somewhere to belong, starting off as a scrappy grunt who was treated like a nuisance younger brother

by 13, he was the right-hand of the gang leader (who was 19) because of his intelligence, skills, natural fighting ability, and his talent for always getting something done discreetly 

by 15, he challenged the leader to a fight and won, taking over as the gang leader

he rebranded the gang, calling them now ‘Mephisto’, and making their symbol a crow/raven

by 16, Mephisto had challenged and defeated/dissolved/absorbed many rival youth gangs, having total control over the troubled youth of the city 

by 18, Mephisto had become a full-blown underground criminal empire, evolving from petty thefts and fighting to ‘legitimate’ underground business

when 19, he was discovered by a kpop agent (Rafayel’s paternal aunt) when he upstaged a performance at a formal event to rap while his best Mephisto boys (Kieran and Luke, who are half-Asian/half-American) worked to hack certain businessmen’s accounts to acquire funds.

Sylus was so damn good that Raf’s aunt immediately dragged him to the Agency after his performance and a deal was struck- the Agency would try to ignore and sweep Sylus’ bad youth record under the rug if he became a new group’s rapper (that group was Love x Deepspace)

he keeps his bad boy personality and the fans stan him because they love it and think it’s just a stage persona, when he really is just that way

he still leads Mephisto, of course, but subtly because he’s so skilled by now to not get caught

it is a requirement for all Mephisto members to buy his albums

Luke and Kieran attend every show, and to the public, they’re his ‘younger best friends’

His father died when he was 17. Sylus came home to leave at least a little money for food (though his father only spent it on booze), and his drunk father stumbled home before he could leave. He began to beat Sylus (who could have killed him easily but took the beating on purpose), even smashing a bottle on his head and making him bleed profusely. His death? An accident, of course. His drunk father stumbled over his own feet while following him to beat him more, and simply slipped down the stairs. Sylus *definitely* didn’t nudge him.

many suspected the troubled teen of murder but the violent evidence of how badly hurt Sylus was proved to investigators that he was a victim (“i took the beating because I just couldn’t raise a hand to my own father even after all he’d done, officer”, an obvious lie for sympathy)

a year into his kpop debut, info of his father’s death and his abusive childhood were leaked (coughs in Luke and Kieran), and it garnered sympathy among his stans who loved him even more for what he endured

he likes to be shirtless so much on stage and in music videos to show off his huge crow wing tattoo. To stans, he just looks like a sexy bad boy. To those in the underworld who see him, it’s a threat to not mess with Mephisto because the kpop group is internationally famous

bro is a bird whisperer whom all the crows/ravens seem to adore

Sylus’ most prominent tattoo is the set of large crow wings on his back/arms, but he also has a small ‘N109’ tattooed over his heart. In interviews, he never answers questions about what his tattoos mean

his tattoo kind of looks like this

[cosmickid-inmotion]

About a Girl: Chapter 9

Beautiful header by my beloved @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

Joel Miller x Trans!Fem!Reader (Nickname, Blue)

Series Masterlist : The Last of Us Masterlist : Full Masterlist

Summary: Blue sets up her future in Joel's life, step by step by step

Warnings for whole fic, not chapter by chapter: 18+ ONLY!! I cannot warn against everything, but these are major themes. Joel is a lil ignorant but not out of hate. He just doesn't know. He's trying his best. There will be smut. Penetrative sex, all of the anal play, oral. There will be transphobia from other people. Addiction and alcoholism. QUICK child neglect not by Joel but I promise, Sarah is fine and is having a great time in life. Fetishization of women attracted to women by a shitty guy. Will update as needed. Again, this is adult content. Expect adult content.

Immersivity: Reader is transgender, AMAB female, reader has had gotten bottom surgery, not top, and is on hormones. reader has visible hair and a blue streak in hair, but not described. Could be braids, could be natural hair, whatever. Header is for aesthetics only. Reader is about Joel and Tommy's height. Let me know if i miss anything!

TAGS HAVE BEEN SHITTY make sure you're caught up!!

TRANS LIVES MATTER! TRANS YOUTH MATTER! TRANS ELDERLY MATTER! TRANS WOMEN MATTER! TRANS MEN MATTER! NON BINARY TRANS MATTER!

Step one: Kayla.

You knew showing up to Kayla’s front door was a bit of a risk, but for Joel, you’d do anything. When she opened the door to see you, her eyes went wide and immediately she trid to shut you out, but you stuck your steel toed boots in before it hit the doorframe.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, Kayla. You are stay’n the fuck away from Joel.”

She narrowed her eyes at you. “Thought he dumped your ass.”

“Yeah, because of you and his dumbass brother, but we worked it out.” After the day you lost your job, Joel came over a few times that week to check on you. That turned into helping you pack, which turned into him volunteering his truck and himself to move you to Tess’s place that was now going to be packed with the most rag-tag group of misfits you’d ever seen. Tommy was part of step 2. After spending time together again and Tommy wasn’t his sole responsibility anymore, you and Joel fell into each other again. And he fell into you again. And again. And again. Joel was yours and you were his, and you were making sure it stayed that way now. This had been carefully discussed with him, but there was no way you were sending your sweet, passive boyfriend to his abusive ex to lay out the boundaries.

You continued. “You can see Sarah, but like he said, ONLY under direct supervision. You will only contact him about that. If you show up unplanned around him, or harass or threaten him, me, Tommy, Tess, Sarah, hell, even Talia for whatever reason, we will be filing a restraining order. Tommy and Tess have eyewitness accounts of how you treated him, and honey.” You glare at her, using your height to intimidate. “He told me what you did to him. The hitting, the sexual coercion. You’re lucky he asked me not to, because I’d beat your ass.”

Kayla looked like she wanted to say something, to spit something back but thought better of it. “I’m not jumping through hoops just to see my daughter.”

Settling your feathers a bit, you step back. “That’s just it, isn’t it? You won’t jump through hoops for her. But Joel would. I would. Joel would fight tooth and nail for Sarah, but you know what? You’re the one missing out, because she’s a special kid. She’s kindhearted, funny, smart, and I get to see her almost every day.” Kayla scoffs, but you prod deeper. “Did you ever want her? Or was she just a prop to try and get Joel.”

“You have no right to ask me that-”

“I did anyway.”

“She’ll never love you.” Kayla stood up straighter. “It’s bad enough Joel chose a man in a dress above a real woman, but she’s going to hate you for what you are.”

She was trying to cut you deep, to hurt you are harshly as she possibly could. But that wasn’t going to work on you. You weren’t a child, you were secure in yourself, your femininity and the live in your little family. “No, she won’t.” You say with confidence. “Because she’s a good kid. Because I’m gonna be there for her like you never were. The world is changing, Kayla, and you should probably catch up. I’ll see you if you wanna come get Sarah.” With that, you turned on the heel of your black boot and walked to your car.

Step two: Tommy

“Hey baby.” Joel greeted you with a smile and a chaste kiss, Sarah trailing behind him. “Hey guys.”

Everyone greeted Joel, Talia asking Sarah if she wanted to go to the hottub Tess installed in her house. Sarah was enthralled, announcing she already had her swimsuit on under her winter clothes. Spring in Texas wasn’t bad at all, but the idea of getting water at this time of year was exciting to say the least to a 5 year old. 

Talia’s offer was intentional, planned. Tommy told Joel he needed to talk, and he needed Blue and Tess with him.

When they were all sat down, coffee in hand, Joel started.

“What’s go’n on, Tommy? Ya make’n me nervous. You okay?”

As nervous as Joel is, Tommy’s leg jitters until Tess places a reassuring hand on him. “It’s okay. You know he ain’t gonna freak out.”

That only served to make Joel more nervous. “Freak out about what?”

“It’s not a big deal Joel, I promise.”

He turned to you. “You know?”

Poor guy looked so worried. Despite the bickering, he loved Tommy so fuckin much. “I do, but please don’t be mad. It’s not something I was at liberty to say.” You turn to the younger brother. “Tom, honey, you’re freaking him out.”

Tommy nodded, taking in a deep breath before blurting out, “IM GAY.”

Eyebrows furrowing together, Joel looks confused for a moment. “No you aren’t.”

“JOEL!” You and Tess shout, chiding him for his reaction, but Joel is quick to defend.

“Shit! Sorry! I just mean, You like women, you’d always liked women. I’m sorry, fucking hell, I’m bad at this.” He scrubs his face, dagging wrinkled skin down with his fingertips. “Okay, I guess first, I love you, ‘M always gonna love you, and I obviously don’t care about that, almost everyone I know right now is gay or trans so-”

“But it’s different with your brother, isn’t it?” Tommy asked with a worried expression, leg jiggling again.

Joel shook his head. “No, of course not. I want you to be happy. Is this why… well, why you’ve been doing so much drugs and drink’n?

Tommy roled his eyes. “It’s not that-” But stopped himself when Tess elbowed him. Downplaying the incident with Sarah would re-ignite the tension. He sighs. “I guess that’s part of it. I’m um… checking into rehab at the veterans center next week. Got a room. I haven't been honest with any of ya’ll, but I ain’t been sober.”

Tommy told you this when he mentioned wanting you and Tess’s support talking to Joel, but Joel had suspected. Joel was used to Tommy lying about sobriety. 

Nodding, Joel squeezes your hand. “Okay, I’m glad your getting help. Let me know all the info and I’ll take you, be there with Sarah and Ellie for all the visits, all that shit. You talked to Bill yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. Kinda nervous, yuh know? Don’t wanna disappoint him.”

“You won’t” Joel assures. “Frank is who mentioned PTSD to me first, so I think they’ll just be glad you're getting help.”

But Tommy just groaned, burying his head in his hands. Joel’s hand disengages from you and goes to hug Tommy. Standing in the living room, Joel holds his baby brother close as he cries. “I love you, Tommy. I don’t care if you’re gay or whatever else you got go’n on, you're still my brother, and my best friend. I’m proud of you.”

Step three: Ellie

“Do we have everything?!?!?” Joel was running around the house, anxious. Everyone was here. Tommy, a few days before checking into rehab, Tess and Talia who were, in fact, engaged, Frank and Bill (Max was absolutely not invited to this one.)

“Baby, everything is perfect.” You assure Joel. Ellie was coming with next to nothing for personal items. She had a few things, but one item from her mom was a jackknife she obviously couldn’t have at 5 years old. She had a dinosaur stuffie, a picture of her and her mom, a dinosaur book… she had a thing for dinosaurs.

Joel picked Sarah up from day care a few months ago, only to find her sobbing. Her teacher was trying to get her to say what’s wrong, but she kept saying it was a secret, she couldn’t tell anyone. When Joel came, he was naturally very concerned, especially given that he knew Kayla had been letting strange men around her. When he convinced her that she doesn’t need to keep secrets from him, that he would take care of her no matter what, he was surprised to learn it wasn’t her secret. It was Ellies.

Ellie had showed Sarah the bruises on her from her foster parents. Calling Ellie over, the teacher checked, and yes, she had bruises on her pale skin. Joel sat with a crying Ellie and sniffling Sarah while the teacher made the call. The next few hours were long. Ellie’s foster dad came to pick her up before the police arrived, and from what you heard there was a little bit of a confrontation. Joel wasn’t violent of course, as much as he might have wanted to be there were children around. However, he did not let him get near Ellie. 

After giving his statements to the police, calling you and Tommy in to relay what you knew, the social worker approached him.

Ellie was up for adoption. Dad is completely out of the picture, never knew who he was. Mom is dead. No one had adopted her yet because of her behavioral issues and said she kept wanting Joel the whole process of interviews. Joel asked if he could be in the room with her with the polic officer, but they wouldn’t let him. She was, of course, being removed immediately from the foster family and being placed in a girls home, and the social worker broached the idea if Joel had ever considered being a foster parent.

He hadn’t, you knew. Sarah kept him busy. But you also knew that when she asked him, he knew what he wanted to do. He just had to ask Sarah.

“I just feel like I’m missing something!” He was very stressed. You took him by the shoulders, steadying him.

“Joel, sweetie. Listen. You got everything a 5 year old could need. A bed.” Bill built a bed for her to sleep in in Sarah’s room. “You got clothes.” Tess and Talia went on a shopping spree, keeping in mind how Ellie’s tastes differed from Sarah, but also getting dresses and girlie shit incase she wanted that too. “Lots of books and toys.” Tommy had gotten her toys, while Frankie went for books and more enriching games and activities. “And lots of fun times planned to make her feel at home and loved.” Your funds were a little low. You’d managed to find a daycare job to get by until you could start teaching in a neighboring district next fall, but that was minimum wage. Still, you wanted to welcome her home. You’d made the cake and snacks for the small welcoming party, but you’d also managed to get tickets to the planetarium for the four of you.

Normally a gathering like this wasn’t recommended for a foster situation, but Ellie was different. Ellie knew they were planning to adopt her, Ellie knew Joel and Sarah and Tommy. Sarah and Ellie were ecstatic to be sisters. Joel and Sarah had been able to visit the girls home occasionally under supervision as the foster paperwork was processing since they’d expressed desire to adopt, and Ellie had continued to attend kindergarten where Joel made sure to always come a little early to spend time with her and talk to her teacher about her needs and progress the same he did with Sarah. 

The reason he couldn’t say yes that day was because of Sarah. Between the turmoil with Kayla, you bein gone and coming back, Tommy moving out, he didn’t want to make this choice without her permission. Sarah said yes to fostering and adopting right away. The situation was a bit complicated but the plan was: Joel fosters Ellie, Joel adopts Ellie, Joel marries you, you adopt Ellie. Kayla hadn’t been heard of in months, and hadn’t seen Ellie for months before that. You would, of course, help Sarah and Kayla foster a relationship if Kayla showed promise of change, but they weren’t counting on it. If Kayla relinquished parental rights, you would adopt her too. Your little family.

A knock on the door. Ellie was here.

Im back from vegas!!!!

I had so much fun ;-; manages to not spent too much money either by just chilling at the hotel pool for several hours. I was just facedown on the innertube a chunk of time, occasionally paddling so they didnt think i was dead XD

I know Im late on my own pride event. embaressing. Clown behavior. If ya'll have submissions you wanna make you can keep making them until i post the masterlist haha

I need the epiloge and i kinda wannt write t4t transman santi and transfem reader. Thats for you, Fen!

ANYWAY

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[the-facets-of-man]

Meet The Facets: Jonathan Crane

A poor soul if you ask others, Jonathan Crane is the representation of Jon's past and trauma. From birth to college is his domain, and an unfortunate one at that. Memories of beatings from his father, bullying from his peers, and a serious drug problem all plague his every waking moment. One of these things still persists in the present day, and it isn't the first two. Jonathan didn't believe the split was the truth at first, and sometimes he still wonders about it even if he knows it's fact. In spite of his issues, Jonathan is one of the more affable of the Facets. Maybe a coping mechanism, maybe a tactic, maybe it's just how he is. He's easy to make conversation with, even if those conversations can be full self-deprecation and dark humor. But most can still manage to find him charming and want to have a few more conversations just for the fun of it.

Jonathan manages to be horribly hedonistic alongside his own insecurities. His favorite methods of pleasure-seeking are also self-destructive beyond belief. It didn't take very long for him to engage in drug use to alleviate the anger from his first argument with Nygma, and the same goes for alcohol and smoking. The effects on his health are undeniable, even if he'd really like to deny them.

Jonathan is a slipfast man outside of his social nature. While able to navigate conversations and interactions with ease, the wish to be able to just disappear is one he'll always have. He'd love to understand and absorb what happens with others without them doing the same for him, but it's just part of his being that he'll always catch people's attention whether he wants to or not. Likes Dogs - Aside from crows, dogs are by far his favorite animal. He likes all animals, don't get him wrong. He grew up with many and he loved them all no matter how unique or strange that may seem to others. But dogs are pretty much hardwired to love people the way that Jon's crows love him, though that took much more work. Jonathan likes being strong enough to pick bigger dogs up and cradle them like babies.

Waffle House - He's a southern man to his core, and he'll always love Waffle House. He doesn't care if the food is "trashy" in the eyes of some(he means Ed), it'll always be good enough for him. He was already upset when he realized Jon had moved to New Jersey, and the lack of Waffle House only made it worse.

Parties - Tying in with being such a social butterfly and being a fan of drugs and drinking, parties are an area where Jonathan can really shine. He's got an arsenal of party tricks he'll show off and when he's done with those, it isn't hard for him to pick up a "friend" for the night if he wants to. Dislikes Rehab - Jonathan is sure any other addict would say the same. He remembers what rehab was like back when Jon was going through his addiction, and it absolutely sucked. The memories blend together after a while, since Jon very quickly learned how to avoid being admitted, but Jonathan remembers always feeling empty and tired and sobriety only lasting for a few weeks. He doesn't think he'll break that cycle with his second chance.

Scarcity - As a child, Jon was deprived of a lot. Friends, pets, good parents, love, care, food, water. Now that he's a grown man and far past those days, he's developed a distaste for being deprived of anything at all, even if it hurts him. Scarcity makes him nervous if it lasts too long and he's left wondering how long it'll last for.

Worry - Jonathan knows good and well what does and doesn't help him, he isn't stupid. Which is why he's always annoyed when someone tries to express any worry for him. It almost always ends with them offering help and solutions and saying he needs to stop doing something and he's sick of it. If he wanted to do any of it, he'd have done it. [Edward Nygma] [The Riddler] [Eddie Nashton] [Doctor Crane] [The Scarecrow] You can find The Facets of Man here!

[contentloadingandstuff]

Fluff Headcanons - Spooky gaming with the genshin characters!

A/N: The fluff version of the Halloween special, and a bit of a new format. I hope you enjoy!

C/W: Modern AU, swearing, game-typical violence.

Alhaitham

This year, Alhaitham wanted something less conventional. Something that would really engage his mind with interesting commentary about society and the world at large, but still retain some of that spooky vibe. 

Cruelty Squad easily caught his attention with its assaulting graphics and interesting premise. It clearly begged for attention, and he was willing to humor it. 

It was precisely what he was looking for, and what an answer it was. Alhaitham had no trouble adjusting to a more corporate mindset.

Alhaitham: The super AI emerges from an extremely pornographic ultra hyper suck and fuck…

Kaveh: Um… What? What are you talking about?

Alhaitham: You don't understand, Kaveh. Everything that surrounds us? It's Gorbino's Quest. The Gorbino's Quest... of life.

Ganyu

The poor little cinnamon roll isn't that much of a horror fan. Violence and death generally unsettles her, but Ganyu still wants to feel some of that holiday spirit. 

After a lengthy deliberation, Ganyu chose Little Nightmares. The graphics are quite pleasing to the eye, it is horror, but not so horrible and violent. At least that's what she heard.

Ganyu: Oh, look! It's a Nome, right? And it's offering me food… How nice of it! Um… Oh n-no! Why would you d-do that?!

Amber

The great outdoors with a horror theme? Count her in!

Amber made sure to avoid spoilers to have the full, unprecedented The Forest experience. The landscape is so serene and peaceful… The freedom of movement, the sounds of nature and the survival elements are so fun and relaxing!

True, there are some hostile people on the island, but they seem harmless enough.

Until the night falls…

Amber: Wait… What's that? That doesn't look human… Did it just birth out… Ew… Yikes! It's coming at me! 

Suffice to say, Amber stuck around until more or less the moment when you have to chop up bodies and make effigies out of the parts.

Beidou

Alcohol, hard rock and murdering demons with big guns is how Beidou plays on Halloween, so she'll gladly hop on Doom Eternal.

There's nothing better than impaling a snake demon's head with its own broken arm, right as the beat drops. 

Beidou: Life has enough undefeatable horrors. Let's just have some fun tonight!

Ningguang

The old ones are the good ones! Ningguang doesn't play a lot of video games, but she did like a few titles back in her younger days. 

On this special occasion, Ningguang got a box of her old possessions to dig through, and found the original Dungeon Keeper on CD. 

Everything is just as she remembered it was. 

Ningguang: Oh, these imps… They are the perfect workers, aren't they? They don't eat, sleep, need vacation, have a social life, and they work harder when you slap them. Ah, if only I had them as my subordinates…

Keqing: *narrows eyes*

Kokomi

Another fan of the retro side of games, Kokomi enjoys a good tactical challenge - developing the ability to conjure small scale plans is as important as improving the grand ones.

Her pick is Myth II: Soulblighter. It’s a brutal, unforgiving RTS with a distinctively dark atmosphere - just perfect for the season at hand.

Even when Halloween comes to a close, Kokomi will find it hard to drop the game. The insanity that is Legendary is quite addictive indeed…

Kokomi: You here… You here… And now the crescendo!

Game: “Move here move there…”

Game: “Catch!”

Game: *explosion*

Game: “Casualty.”

Kokomi: Oh. Change of plans, I guess…

Yae Miko

Upon hearing of the wonderful possibilities for tormenting the other party, Miko didn't hesitate to bring out the Mora for Dead By Daylight and all of its DLC. 

Though it was quite fun at first, the ugly nature of the game soon surfaced. As none of her friends were brave enough to delve into this swamp, she was forced to join up with random people, who frequently threw the games. 

Such a combination was enough to make even such an ancient and wise kitsune lose her absolute cool.

Ei: Why are you crouching behind that tree, Miko?

Miko: The killer has caught one of my teammates, and I will release them by ambushing them with a flashlight! 

Miko: Come on… Now! You didn't expect that, did y- What?? Lightborn?! Again?! Who even plays it nowadays?! Oh, you daft, blind motherf-

Ei: Miko!

Miko: Oh… Hm. Sorry. I got a little carried away. But that's sooo unfair, isn't it? Why would they add a perk that cancels a whole mechanic? I can't believeitthegameissokillersided…

Xiangling

Xiangling absolutely didn't look forward to Halloween, especially with Hu Tao around. She just can't take horror, at all, of any kind, ever. Especially jumpscares.

She still couldn't believe that she agreed to play a horror game, let alone one suggested by the director. The one and only Five Nights At Freddy's at that.

Much to Hu Tao's amusement, she didn't even make it past Night 1. Xiangling was thoroughly spooked, and after being jumpscared once she completely refused to keep playing. 

Seeing Xiangling so terrified made Guoba very upset, and Hu Tao quickly apologized to avoid being roasted by the angry god. 

Hu Tao: So he killed the kids, but then! Their souls escaped their robot prisons and made an old spring lock suit crush him to death! WoOoo~

Xiangling: Ah! Hu Tao! No more! 

Guoba: Nane na! Grr…

Hu Tao: Oh, don't fret little Guoba! I'm just joking!

Zhongli

Morax always had trouble catching up with the latest cultural and technological trends of the humans. Sure, he can use a computer more than well enough, but he finds third and first person video games confusing. The gameplay is most often too fast and rapidly changing for him to be up to speed with it, let alone enjoy it. 

Throughout all of his exponentially long life, nobody was as persistent in including him in the festivities as Hu Tao. She tried to convince Zhongli to play something horror-related, but he was assertive. So, the director decided to find a game that would suit his liking - an indie title. 

Her pick fell on Water Womb World - it's simple mechanically, is quite disturbing and has an interesting concept. 

Much to her surprise, Zhongli thoroughly enjoyed his fifteen minutes with the game, even if he didn't find it very scary.

Zhongli: Ah, I agree with the message of this title. The blind belief in deities can lead to fanaticism, which breeds regress rather than progress. I do think that a more healthy and critical approach to Rex Lapis' rule would be beneficial to our current day society. Especially that the age of gods draws to an end…

Hu Tao: Aiya! Do you have to turn everything into a lecture, Zhongli? You're not my grandpa, are you?

Hu Tao

An avid enjoyer of the spookfest, Hu Tao decided to pick something hitting closer to home this year - Mortuary Assistant.

The gameplay loop feels great! Just like in her line of work, just without the smell. She's having the time of her life preparing the corpse for burial. And hunting the demon. That's also quite cool!

Hu Tao: *hums while wheeling the corpse into the crematory* 

Game: "Are you sure?"

Hu Tao: Yup! I know your tricks more than well. Aiyaya, you could try something more interesting next round! Furnace time~

Game: *sounds of fire and demonic screaming*

Hu Tao: Toodle-oo~

Bennet, Noelle, Fischl, Razor

A few weeks before Halloween, Bennett mentioned a game night, since he couldn't be there in person. Noelle, diligent as ever, picked this up as a cue to start looking for something. 

Luckily for her, Phasmophobia was on a large and affordable discount, so after proposing the idea and organizing a money pool, they all got to proving the existence of ghosts.

Lisa lent Razor her personal computer for the night, on condition that she could take a little peek every now and then at their session without interrupting - and what an amusement it was, as none of them are especially acquainted with horror.

Noelle: "The ghost responds only to people who are alone." Somebody has to go in to talk to it… 

Razor: Razor won't go! Ghost scary!

Bennett: I would go, but with my luck, the ghost will eat me right away…

Fischl: Hmph! Although yes, I, Fischl, The Prinzessin Der Verurteilung and the founder of The Immernatchreich possess the courage to face demons and spawns of darkness alike, I…

Everyone: So you'll go then?

Amy: Um… N-no! You m-misunderstood!

Furina

The Great-And-Grand Archon of Fontaine played and saw every horror game and movie, and never once got scared. Or that's what she claims, at least.

That's why Focalors decided to prove her excellence with a true, dark challenge she could easily overcome, thus proving her gaming capabilities for all to see!

In hindsight, Darkest Dungeon wasn't the best of choices she could have made… It did amuse Monsieur Neuvilette, however. 

Neuvillette: I think you should retreat. Your heroes are close to dying. 

Furina: I appreciate your advice, my dear Iudex, but your worries are misplaced! My Crusader will deal a critical hit, thus ending the pig-man's miserable opposition, and granting us treasure galore! Watch and marvel at my skill!

Game: "A singular strike!"

Furina: Ahaha, see? I told you it would be fine~ Wait… It's not dead yet…?

Game: "Mortality - clarified in a single strike!"

Furina: Um…

Game: "There can be no hope in this hell, no hope at all…"

Game: "And now the true test - hold fast, or expire."

Game: "Those who cover injury find it in no short supply."

Game: "As life ebbs, terrible vistas of emptiness reveal themselves."

Furina: Ret- T-tactical withdrawal! 

Game: "Cornered, trapped, forced to fight on!"

Game: "This is no place for the weak, or the foolhardy."

Game: "More blood soaks the soil, feeding the evil therein."

Game: "Perched at the very precipice of oblivion."

Game: "More dust, more ashes, more disappointment."

Game: "Another life wasted in the pursuit of glory and gold."

Game: "Wounds to be tended. Lessons to be learned."

Neuvillette: Lady Furina, if only you had-

Furina: Silence.

Shenhe

Shenhe never gets scared. The most terrible of monsters or existential terrors are no match for her training and resolve, no matter how unexpected they might be. She might not get scared, but she can get startled, right?

Who else would pose that question but Hu Tao, the mistress of horrors herself? It was always her objective to get some sort of reaction out of the adepti disciple, no matter how insignificant and small it might be. Many things were attempted - scary movies, troubling situations, body horror, cosmic horror, existential horror… But none of them ever worked. Shenhe remained stalwart.

Out of desperation, Hu Tao was forced to reach for the ultimate weapon. The bane of those unprepared. The myth. The legend. The game.

The Scary Maze Game. 

After plugging in an old spare monitor, she invited Shenhe to “test her precision”, and stepped a few safe meters back. 

The monitor ended up skewered with her polearm, but Shenhe did yelp - much to her delight. 

Not all was fun and games though, as Hu Tao got the mother of all lectures from Cloud Retainer. Something about Shenhe’s red ropes breaking, but the director didn’t pay much attention, and just nodded along.

Hu Tao: Heya, Shenhe… You don’t mind the little scare I gave you back on Halloween night, do you…?

Shenhe: Oh? Well, as much as I was upset during the moment, I must admit it was quite… cathartic. I never experienced anything like that. I do not hold any grudge towards you. Actually… Thank you for that, director Hu Tao.

Hu Tao: Phew! And I was here thinking I’ll share the fate of that display!

🎃Happy Halloween!🎃

[indras-wife]

hiii !!! I was wondering if I could request a yandere indra with a fem reader who smokes cigarettes? Maybe she grew up with a bad childhood, resulting her using cigarettes as a coping mechanism. I was wondering if you could make her be quite independent since she basically had to raise herself and she's quick to snap back at people whenever she doesn't get a cigarette since it contains nicotine to calm you down and makes you relaxed?

Also whenever the two would speak about their childhood, she would genuinely be quite surprised how it seemed a lot more normal than hers ? thank you !!!

This has to be one of the best requests I got anon! Indra has a very interesting woman to deal with it seems~ Two independent people... I wonder how this will go~✨👀 I was not sure whether you wanted modern or no, but I tried to write in a way that can suit both modern au and the anime era. Hope its okay with you sweetie(if no, let me know. I will write a separate one with the desired concept) 💖

A smoker darling...Indra never thought he would be so feral for such a woman. The way this woman presses the cigarette to her red pained lips, lights it, smokes and then looks at him with her jet black eyes as she puffs out the smoke, drives him to the edge.

He was first VERY VERY against the idea that his sweetheart is smoking. Not only because he hates the smell of burning nicotine, but also because women of inappropriate behavior are the ones smoking. In short, Indra thought of his darling being a prostitute upon their first interaction. Very judgmental of him, but this man has his opinions and he stick to them, as bad as they sound to others.

Surprisingly for him, as repellent as her smoking was, he was somehow enchanted by her. This man could not help himself but think of her every minute of his day. What was she doing now? Was she wearing her signature red lipstick? Was she smoking? Why was she smoking? Did she have a reason to smoke? The more he thought of her, the more possessive he became of a woman who he doesn't know well. However, later on, his obsessed ideas served the basis of their closeness.

When they got together, Indra was TRYING hard to persuade his darling to stop smoking. "The smell of nicotine gets stuck in your hair. I hate it. Stop smoking. Why are you even doing this?" Such sentences were being heard by his darling every day, 24/7, every hour of the day. At first she was laughing at him, not paying much attention to his rumbling and not giving him a definite reason for her habit but the more he spoke about it, she could not hide the reason for her smoking.

"This is just coping mechanism for me Indra. I smoke to relax and unwind" she explained, holding a cigarette between her delicate fingers. "I have been smoking since I was a teen, around 13 so its already something I got used to and cant change. Sorry"

Indra would just furrow his eyebrows at her explanation, feeling conflicted with many questions. Why was she smoking as a child? What made her smoke? Didn't her parent try to stop her? He had all the questions in the world ready for her, waiting for a moment to ask them.

His darling, defeated by his persistent nature(she found it hot nevertheless), agreed to reveal her reasonings, only if Indra promised to share about his childhood. Thinking he can escape, Indra agreed, not thinking much into it.

" My mom just gave birth to me, nothing else. She didn't raise me Indra. I did. I raised myself in the streets full of drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes and many other people who were shunned by everyone around them in their lives. The only thing that my mother did was beat me when I failed to get her the alcohol of her choice. Smoking helped me get through that depressive part of my life. I still have nightmares from my days of living in the streets so....smoking helps me cope with them.."

Indra was taken back by his darling's backstory. He was guessing something terrible happened that led her to this path of self-destruction, but he was not expecting for her story to be this...dark. He loved that his darling was independent, relying only on herself, but he had no idea that her childhood was the reason for that characteristic. Indra always acknowledge that his life was hellish, cruel and overall fucked up, but hers...Even worse than his!

He began to feel more sympathetic towards her and her smoking habits. Of course, he would not fully tolerate it, but he would stop driving her mad with requiring her to stop smoking.

He has some...unsuccessful attempts at trying to stop her smoking. He would sometimes snatch the cigarettes from her lips and drop it to the ground. He would steal her cigarette packs and burn them without her seeing, and when his darling would ask if he has seen her cigarettes he would just give a short "no". Of course his darling could instantly figure his doings, but most of the time she would not speak.

His darling, however, snapped one day at him for doing his usual "stop-her-from-smoking" routine. On that particular day (the day her mother died), she was feeling more anxious, so her only thought was to smoke. She picked a cigarette out of her pocket, but it was snatched away in an instant. Her eyes met with Indra's who was towering over her with a warning glare. His darling was not in the mood for his usual tactics so she just pushed him away hard and run off somewhere to smoke in peace. Indra tried to go after her but failed.

In the end, surprisingly, his darling introduced smoking to Indra, seeing how stressed he was from his duties. This was now something he couldn't live without and he both blamed his darling and thanked her.

He would not let her smoke with anyone else after he also got in the rabbit hole. Seeing his darling smoke was HOT and he was too possessive to let any other man see her. His darling didn't mind this and was in fact enjoying his possessive side.

These two would have silent "dates" where they would stand in the balcony of the house, smoke and look at the stars above them. A very romantic date indeed~

[iibonniee]

Cherry Lip Gloss | Part 2

Pairing: Im Changkyun x Reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings: totally fucking angst, no fluff (i got rid of that and this mini series has none of that), mentions of drinking, semi stalking (?) author almost cried

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 2.2k

Masterlist | Part One

Alcohol and a soft, crisp breeze.

Leather kept tan skin warm as the trees did another wave, allowing cool air to whisk away the once bearable air. Everything was silent besides the sound of water crashing on rocks. Not a single soul. Just silence and nature. Lips met the rim of the beer bottle; a long drag, then a mournful sigh. It had an addictive taste. To enjoy something so deadly will always come at an untimely cost.

Somber brown eyes met and enjoyed the view of the sun meeting the ocean. The sun seemed at peace, no matter what cycle it had gone through. He appeared at peace. He wished he was at peace. Rosy red cheeks had the cool breeze nipping away at him without much care. His vision blurred for only a moment, and he blinked away the threat of tears.

Inhale, hold it in, exhale. Don’t think about the consequences.

He didn’t. Instead, he listened to the same sound of the waves hitting the rocks while his mind continued on with the war he had wanted to desperately forget about. Life was never a kind thing. Not back then, and certainly not now. A man so broken is never meant to be fixed. All the pieces were lost where he once walked. Never to be recovered or fixed.

There was no way for him to collect them. To fix a hollow shell that was cracked beyond repair. A man who’s been through it all will certainly never see the bright side of it. Not him. It felt like his fate was set in stone. That this was the life he was meant to live. One so painful, yet the pain is never physical. His heart is the main victim in this story.

Don’t close your eyes. Never allow the tears to show. You’re stronger than that.

Strength. He was losing it. Each time the seconds met the minute and the minute met the hour, the feeling of growing weaker was welcomed. A quick swirl, brown eyes watched as the liquid swirled around in the bottle, soon growing still just seconds later.

Being envious is a nasty trait for anyone to have. How could a man be envious that the sky had the sun? That the moon had the stars? It was a question nobody could answer. It would only swarm around one’s mind until the day they took their last breath.

Stupid decisions come with stupid outcomes. Don’t think about it.

Does a heart realize how broken it is right away, or was there a waiting period? The sound of waves was just a mere distraction from heartbreak. Brown eyes once again blinked rapidly to avoid the onslaught of begging tears. A head shake, then a sigh.

End of the bottle, end of the road road. A path he walked down, but with every turn, he found it led to a steep drop to death. With a flick, the glass bottle flew almost in slow motion to the wet rocks below. Brown eyes watched closely as it bounced off one rock, then two, and landed. Unbroken and surviving.

How could one be envious that an object found a steady spot to land while the man with a beating heart felt like he was falling? Perfectly intact while his own beating heart was broken beyond repair. Large, shaky hands found a tired face to cover. Count to ten, and everything will be okay.

Blink the tears away. Don’t be a fool.

The heart knew what was happening. It was breaking while beating a steady and healthy beat. How does it hurt so much? Why does it hurt so much? He knew. But a brain so smart was attempting to save a heart from cracking anymore.

How many times does a heart have to beat to know when it will be okay? How many gasps of air are needed to feel like one is breathing properly?

Hell felt like a place on earth. Slowly waiting for one to accept that there was never a bright side. And god, was it ugly. An inescapable place. A suffering.

Accept what happened and move on. Living in the past will not allow you to move on.

Move on. It's such an easy thing to think about, but when one is faced with the task, it’s simply complicated. A task often unbearable and unbeaten. But time still ticked an ugly and nasty beat that he had wished would pause for a moment and allow him to take a break. How could he move on when it came down to feeling like the past was all he had?

A past with good memories. Memories that brought ease and not pain. An ear that would listen to a story that happened during the night was now an ear that would listen to another.

Breaks don’t happen. Learn to keep going.

But heartbreaks happen. Months, no, a year, and it was still the same. A constant cycle of rinse and repeat. Throw a smile, walk proudly, and don’t let them know. Smile. If they see, they’ll show pity, and pity is for the weak.

Love was always such a nasty thing. A pain that one could think about for a lifetime. That he would think about for a lifetime. Hands found warmth in the pockets of leather jackets in attempts to find something but came back with nothing. Not even enough money for another bottle.

Give yourself time. Take it slow. It will be okay.

A scoff, then a sarcastic laugh. Slow was never enough. Slow can never be enough. Taking it slowly only meant he would learn what it meant to break. Three times, only to be met with a wave. What went wrong? What did he do wrong? Why was he such a fool?

Don’t think about it. You’re damaging your heart more.

A blink, then eyelids decided to remain shut. For a mind not to think about hurting a heart more was a task in itself. A life that was meant to only experience nothing more, but pain and loss were what he would have to accept for himself.

His heart was aching, begging for anything, hoping to take the pain away. A shaky, pathetic breath came from him. A life where he could be happy was nowhere to be seen. Not even in one’s wildest dreams. He fucking hated having to pretend to be happy.

Your heart is in shambles. It’s broken beyond repair. She hurt you.

He shook his head. No. His mind wouldn’t shut up for even a moment. The growing aggravation was enough to drive a sane man mad. Teeth gritted together in an attempt to suppress an emotional scream. He couldn't bear anyone else hearing that.

A heart fighting with the mind. An ugly one that not even a voice from an angel could calm it down. This was hell. His heart was going through hell.

You hurt her. You didn’t mean to. You watched her leave.

Three times was too much but always felt like it was too little. There are too many chances to ruin something but too few to keep it going. A man so broken was undeserving of love. Love was never meant for someone like him.

Brown eyes watched as the waves soon grew closer to the water’s edge, of how the jealousy was real. He could leave. Never turn back. But why would he? Home was here. Home was where she could possibly return.

It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I promise.

Promise. Every person has heard that seven-letter word throughout their lives—more times than they can count. He’s heard it. It’s hard to believe anything would be okay when an outsider could see that his life was nothing more than a mess that could never be fixed.

Getting lost in a trance, his mind didn’t even realize the sun finally met the sky for a kiss goodbye. Stars now out, wishing everyone had a good day while the sun had said its goodbye no less than ten minutes ago.

Brown eyes were met with darkness, and eyelids greeted someone whenever they shut for more than a second. For a moment, silence was all that could be enjoyed. His heart was silent and steadily beating as his brain finally stopped arguing with his heart.

You can’t hide from your demons forever. It will be fine.

He couldn’t remember the walk to his car or the long drive back to the dorms. He knew the buzz from the alcohol had long since worn off with the sun's departure. All he knew was that he stood there almost awkwardly. How could one feel so unwelcome in a home that was their own?

“Changkyun.” He didn’t realize his eyes were closed momentarily, not even when he had been silently counting to ten to calm his unknown nerves. Eyes now opened in shock, they met with old but familiar eyes.

Count to ten if anything gets worse. You can't always hide from your demons, Changkyun.

His mouth opened and then shut. How does one feel like they’re suffering while the steady flow of oxygen flows through so easily without missing a single beat?

How could he feel so damn pathetic under their gaze? Why did he come inside? Why was he hyperventilating? And why did it feel like the world was against him constantly?

“I–” A stumbling idiot. His breath caught in his throat as he watched their worried eyes. Even as the days turned to months and the months finally met the year, he grew to hate how their eyes never hid the worry. “I’m fine.”

Lying always comes at a cost. You should know this.

“You’re not fine, Changkyun.” Hyunwoo was the first to speak up. Changkyun hated this. He hated the little interventions they threw at him. He was fine. He swears.

“Talk to us. Stop shutting us out.” It was Jooheon who spoke up next. The worry that laced their voices caused him to hate himself. If he wasn’t so addicted to the thing of the past, he wouldn’t be the cause of all their worries. He wouldn’t be the cause of all the tension and finger-pointing he knew they did behind his back.

“I just want to be alone.” His body was on autopilot. Quick strides took him to his room, where the door was locked, and the voices outside calling his name were blocked out. His phone was in his hands in seconds, and once again, on autopilot, he found himself searching for her name on Instagram. Thankful she hadn't blocked him.

The more you break your heart, the harder it is to repair it. Stop doing this to yourself.

He knew it was wrong. He knew it was wrong to ignore the pleas of the other members, but he also knew it was wrong to not give his heart a break. Shaky hands clicked on the first picture that popped up on her page. A beautiful diamond ring, her nails done to perfection, and a caption that eagerly said, “I said yes! I can’t wait to take your last name.”

And god did that fucking hurt.

Tears rushed to brim his eyes like a broken dam. His usual choked sob that he tried to silence wouldn’t fall for the command this time. It bounced off the four walls, back into his ears, and under the door's crack.

You’re breaking your own heart. You can be happy with someone else. Stop doing this to yourself.

He was a fool. How many times must he beat himself up and apologize for her to know he’s being honest? Must he rip his heart out to show her how broken it is? Must he break down in front of an audience and sing her name out just to get her back?

He hated this unknown man. He hated how his thoughts were quick to act and go against him. He shouldn’t be in her life. He was an imposter. Unimportant to the story, to their story.

He treats her well, I bet. Holds her tight at night. He surely wouldn’t do what you did.

“Stop it.” Changkyun’s choked-out sob was louder than before. “Stop working against me. Please.”

His pleas fell on deaf ears. He knew his heart was in a war with his brain. One would surely fall victim to either love or hate eventually.

Stop making stupid decisions you know your heart won’t be able to repair. Don’t call her.

He knew his heart was already a broken vessel that couldn’t be repaired anymore. Shaky fingers and blurred eyes quickly dialed the number the other members kept deleting.

One ring turned into two, two into three, then, “Hello?”

He knew this was wrong. It was so fucking wrong. It was wrong to call, and it was unfair she picked up.

“Changkyun?”

His world stopped, and his breath caught in his throat as he heard her say his name oh so softly. The tears couldn’t be stopped. He was choking on the sob that couldn’t previously escape, and he worried it would scare her off.

What was he to say? His previous attempts at begging her to come back always quickly fell on deaf ears. How could he do this to himself? Why would he do this to himself?

Because you’re a fool in love, Changkyun.

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

I love seeing Isaac suffer >:)))

I was wondering what is your headcanon for Isaac being extremely depressed or heartbroken?

...huh.

He really can't catch a break, yeah?

⚠️ Warning: PTSD, mention of self-harm, depression, loss of loved ones, alcohol abuse, angst.

Of all the guardians to watch over orphaned children, little Isaac got a real piece of trash. A man that by nature did not like children, beating those weaker than themselves, including little Isaac... And the stupid adults thought that person was the perfect person to be Isaac's mentor? Isaac would rather run the streets of Castle Village as an orphan than with such a guardian...

Self-harm was not new to Isaac. More often than not, Alesia caught the still young Isaac with bloody fists near the training dummy. The young adventurer, who had suffered another loss, was hitting the dummy, hitting and hitting so hard that he had to be dragged away by force and taken to a healer. The scratches on his hands were nothing compared to the self-hatred he felt for his weakness, for his inability to protect himself and others.

His facial scar is direct evidence that Isaac has been to Hell and survived. Which very likely left him with PTSD in addition to a disfigured face. The nightmares and flashbacks of that moment could show up at the worst possible moment, tormenting him now that he's alone.

There were problems with addiction, addiction to another bottle of wine or beer. How else could Isaac dull the pain if not at the bottom of a bottle? Good thing his coworkers didn't let him get himself into a very bad state.

He's lost a lot of people. Lost his parents, his first love, his friends, his coworkers... All of them. Isaac had lost many close people in this cursed desert, because of this monsters, and now he had already stopped getting attached to anyone. It's much easier that way. After all, Isaac's heart wouldn't be torn into hundreds of pieces if the person who was taken away by the Crimson Baldlans again wasn't someone close to him, right...? Isaac knows it's all bullshit and he's fooling himself.