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drewsephrry · 1 day ago

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Love Island: Episode 9 - Imperfect for You

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

words: 5.7k

series masterlist

The moon hangs heavy over the villa, draping the yard in a silver glow that feels too quiet, too still, compared to the muffled laughter and clinking glasses drifting up from downstairs. Y/N doesn’t move. Her hand rests on the door handle like letting go of it would make everything real.

“I…I didn’t think you’d actually come.” He says, voice low, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. She swallows, eyes flicking away.

“Me neither.”

A silence sits between them for a beat too long. Then he gestures softly toward the couch. No pressure, just hope. She walks in slowly, almost cautiously, smoothing the fabric of her jeans as she sits down beside him, though not too close. Her body is angled slightly away.

“You wanted to talk.” She says, staring down at her hands. “So…talk.”

He hesitates, his breath shaky.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Maybe the part where you lied to me?” She glances up at him, sharp now. He nods, as if the hit is deserved.

“Right. Fair.” There’s another pause, heavier this time and when he speaks again, his voice trembles just enough to show the crack beneath it. “I didn’t tell you about my last relationship because…I thought if you knew, you’d look at me the way I look at myself. And I already hate myself enough for what I did. I’ve gone to therapy, I had multiple conversations, apologies that probably didn’t fix anything but I still said them. I mean…I even apologized to her mom. I’m not proud of who I was. But I’ve tried to change. I have changed.”

She doesn’t answer right away. She just stares at him like she’s searching for the lie in his eyes.

“You could’ve told me.” She finally says, her voice sharp with emotion. “Maybe we could’ve saved ourselves from all of this.”

“I know.” He replies, voice raw. “I was a coward. And the other night, I was a massive dick to you. You were trying to help and I blew up. That’s on me. Every second of it.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes locking on hers with a sincerity he rarely lets show.

“I like you, Y/N. So much it scares the hell out of me. And I will fix this. I’ll fix all of it. If you let me.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“How do I know this isn’t just love-bombing?” She asks quietly. “How do I know you’re not just saying all the right things because you think that’s what I need to hear?”

His face falls and for a moment, he just stares at her, unsure if he should be hurt or if he deserves it.

“Y/N-” “No.” Her voice cuts through his like a knife.

“I can’t sit here and listen to the same lines I’ve heard a hundred times. ‘I’ve changed.’ ‘It won’t happen again.’ Spare me.”

His jaw tightens. The words sting more than he expects.

“I’m not like him!” The words come out louder than he means and her face shifts, just slightly, but enough.

“Him?” Her voice is smaller now. Unsure. He runs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to wipe the moment away.

“Kelce told me. About your ex.” He says it carefully, almost like he doesn’t want to say it at all. “What he did.”

Her body tenses. She looks away, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on nothing.

“That’s not your business.”

“It is.” He softens. “Because it’s still in the room with us. Even when you pretend it’s not.”

“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me right now.” She exhales loudly.

“I’m not. But you call me out for not being honest with you and I get that. I do. But you haven’t been either.”

“You didn’t ask.” She snaps. The words are quick, like armor.

“I didn’t want to push.” He pauses. “But I’m not gonna pretend like it doesn’t matter. You were hurt. And whether you like it or not, that matters to me.”

She stands abruptly and for a second, he thinks she’s going to walk out. But he reaches out, catching her hand. Not to stop her, just to hold something steady.

“I’m not like him.” He says again, quieter this time. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened to you. For how it’s still with you. And I’m sorry if I brought even an ounce of that back. You didn’t deserve that. Not then. Not now.”

She doesn’t speak. Her breath trembles and when her eyes meet his, there’s a storm building behind them.

“I’m not asking you to forget it.” He adds. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me. But I know what we have, whatever it is, it’s real. I feel it. I know it.”

He lets go of her hand.

“If even a part of you feels it too…just give me a chance. One more. I’ll spend every day showing you, proving to you that I’m not him.”

She stares at him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I’m not going to apologize for not telling you.” She says quietly. Rafe nods without hesitation.

“You don’t have to. I get it. You didn’t owe me an explanation. That’s fair.”

“But I am sorry…for pressuring you to open up.” She glances down, her voice softer. He shakes his head.

“You don’t need to apologize for that either. This was gonna be a thing sooner or later. I’m just glad it happened now, early enough that I might still have a shot at earning your trust back.” He exclaims. She nods slowly, but her expression stays guarded.

“It’s going to take more than this conversation.”

He nods right back.

“I know. I’ll do whatever it takes. You want me to beg? I’ll beg.” He suggests and her mouth lifts into a smirk.

“A little groveling wouldn’t hurt.”

Without missing a beat, Rafe slides off the couch onto his knees, taking her arms gently.

“Y/N-” “Oh my god, get up!” She says, half-laughing as she pulls him back up. He grins, now standing in front of her, his eyes flicking between hers and her lips. She mirrors the movement without meaning to.

“I’m gonna need time.” She says quietly. “To move past this. To trust you again.”

A beat.

“Though…a kiss like the one downstairs might help.”

He smirks and steps in, hands landing softly on her waist.

“Yeah?” He murmurs. “You mean the ‘10 out of 10’ kiss?”

She groans, pulling back and rolling her eyes. Rafe laughs and tugs her back toward him.

“You’re insufferable.” She mutters.

“You’re gonna have to deal with it, sweetheart.”

Her heart flutters at the pet name, but she tries to play it off. He keeps going, eyes glinting.

“And let’s be real, I’m gonna remind you about that kiss for a long time. Didn’t you call it-what was it? ‘The most amazing kiss of your life’?”

“I never said that.” She insists, shaking her head.

“That’s what I recall.” He teases.

“Are you trying to gaslight me right now? I never said that.”

“No?” He leans in with a smirk. “Hmm. Must’ve been the wind.”

She laughs despite herself, fingers weaving behind his neck.

“This is so wrong.” She murmurs. His brows furrow in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just…kind of toxic, isn’t it? We barely talk things through and then end up right back to our usual horny selves. Like, nothing happened.” She replies.

“Wait, are you horny right now?” He asks with faux innocence.

“Rafe!” She gasps, laughing as she swats his chest. “I’m being serious.”

“Okay, okay. I get what you’re saying.” He pauses, then shrugs. “But why is it wrong? We’re figuring it out. Following our hearts…or whatever Taylor Swift lyric fits here.” He tries not to sound as corny and she snorts.

“She hasn't said anything like that. Just...I don’t want to get into stupid fights with you just to end up making out a few minutes later.”

“So…we are going to make out?” He asks, one hand coming up to cup her cheek.

“Oh my god, do you hear anything I’m saying that isn’t about kissing?” She stares up at him in disbelief.

“I do. I swear I do. But you’re just really pretty. It's distracting.”

She blushes and hits his chest again, though this time she leans in.

“I hate you.” She mumbles.

“No, you don’t.” He whispers, smiling as their foreheads meet. “Can I?”

She nods just as he closes the distance. Soft, slow, but with purpose. His mouth finds hers without hesitation and this kiss is different. It’s full of emotion, but also something darker, possessive, desperate, aching.

It’s gentler than before, but hot enough to make her forget everything else. Forget the kiss with Ryan. The one she shamefully leaned into. The one that had rage flashing behind Rafe’s eyes and a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Now, his hands grip her waist tighter, pulling her against him like he needs her there. Like she’s the only thing grounding him. She gasps softly into his mouth and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

His voice drops an octave, low and raspy against her lips. “So…are you getting turned on?” He asks and she giggles, breathless, eyes flicking up to his with flushed cheeks.

“Honestly? Shut up.”

But her mouth crashes back into his before the last word even finishes. This kiss is hotter. Hungrier. His hands slide down her back, then lower, cupping her ass and pulling her harder against him. She moans softly and he groans into her mouth like it’s driving him insane.

When they finally come up for air, her fingers are tangled in the chain around his neck, her thoughts spinning.

“You good?” He murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that almost undoes her.

‘Yeah.” She nods. “Because we’re gonna be fine.” She exclaims. His lips twitch into a smile before he leans in and presses a soft, final kiss to her lips.

“We should…probably head downstairs.” He says, though he doesn’t move an inch. She turns toward the door, but Rafe stays put, exhaling hard through his nose.

“Just…give me a second.” He mutters, nodding down toward his pants, where the fabric is visibly strained. “He needs to chill.”

“I’m sorry.” She chokes on a laugh, hand flying to her mouth. “He?”

Rafe looks away, clearly flustered, trying to will his body into cooperation.

“George.”He mutters, with that smug little grin.

“George?” She raises her brows.

“You know…curious George.” He explains, scratching the back of his neck and she chuckles again.

“Oh, I’m absolutely telling the girls.”

“No. Y/N, wait-”

But she’s already slipped through the door, laughter trailing behind her.

“Fuck me.” He groans, chasing after her, catching up just before she reaches the stairs.

“Please, sweetheart.” He says, voice dropping into that low, sweet tone that usually makes her knees weak. She smirks over her shoulder.

“You said you’d make it up to me any way I wanted.” She recalls, with wide eyes and pink swollen lips.

“Fine.” He exhales, jaw tense “Go. Just…I seriously need a minute.”

She kisses his cheek, laughing softly.

“I said go.” He calls after her with a grin, adjusting himself with a wince.

“Sorry!” She shouts from halfway down the stairs. “Sorry George!”

His laugh follows her, thick with amusement and frustration.

Confessional - Y/N

She stares at the camera, slightly traumatized.

“I am never seeing Curious George the same way again.” She shakes her head. “Ruined. Completely ruined.”

The night winds down as the girls gather upstairs in the makeup room, wiping off their glam and slipping into cozy pajamas. Laughter bubbles up as they rehash the challenge.

“Maddy, you got the best one!” Alyssa teases, referring to Kelce’s win. The girls laugh as Maddy pulls on one of his hoodies.

“Guess I’m lucky.” She says with a shrug and a small smile.

“Anything exciting happen tonight?” Cleo asks, dragging a makeup wipe across her face. Sarah lifts a brow at Y/N, who meets her gaze for a second. Y/N gives a subtle shake of her head before turning back to the group.

“Y/N…” Kiara says, looking at her. “You and Ryan were talking before the challenge, right?”

Y/N exhales quietly, grateful they hadn’t caught the moment between her and Rafe. No one’s brought it up, yet.

“Yeah.” She gulps. “He pulled me for a quick chat. He was really sweet, honestly.”

“How are you feeling about him?” Cleo asks, eyes curious. “I mean…you did give him a ten.”

Y/N lets out a small laugh.

“Okay, to be fair, I didn’t even know that was him when I rated him. But yeah, I told him I want to get to know him. And the kiss didn’t hurt, that’s for sure.”

“What about Rafe?” Abigail chimes in, focused on braiding her hair. Y/N’s smile fades a bit. She glances at Sarah before answering.

“It’s still… complicated.” She replies, her voice softer now. The room quiets for a moment.

“Take your time with it.” Maddy offers gently.

“Honestly, Ryan’s a way better option anyway.” Kiara adds, applying lip balm with a casual shrug.

Y/N doesn’t say anything. She just sits at her vanity, staring at her reflection in the mirror, silently nodding as the buzz of conversation moves on around her.

Downstairs, the boys are in full post-challenge mode. Shirts coming off and banter flying.

“So…Ryan.” Topper says, tossing his button-up aside as he eyes him with a pointed look. “Enjoy tonight’s challenge?”

“Didn’t we all?” Ryan replies with a light scoff, earning a few nods and chuckles from the others.

Topper glances over his shoulder toward Rafe, who’s folding clothes in silence, clearly uninterested in the conversation.

“Just asking.” Topper continues, tone more loaded now. “You did get a solid ‘10’ out there.”

That grabs Rafe’s attention. He shuts the closet door a little harder than necessary and makes his way back to his bed without a word.

“It was…nice.” Ryan admits, a small grin creeping in as he thinks back to the kiss.

“The kiss or the rating?” JJ asks, half-curious, half-confused.

“Uh, both, I guess.” Ryan scratches the back of his neck and grabs a t-shirt to throw on. Topper leans back, watching Rafe again.

“She’s a pretty little thing, huh, Ryan?”

Rafe shakes his head subtly, trying to signal Topper to drop it.

“Yeah, for sure.” Ryan replies casually. Rafe picks up his phone, suddenly very interested in whatever’s on the screen.

“Would you pick her in a recoupling?” Topper pushes, eyes flicking between Ryan and Rafe.

Just as Ryan’s about to answer, the bedroom door swings open. Laughter fills the room.

“I’m serious, Sar!” Y/N’s voice rings out as she enters, wearing Rafe’s hoodie which is oversized on her, paired with boxer shorts. He looks up instantly, a smile breaking across his face.

She walks toward their bed, resting her water bottle on the nightstand as he lifts the blanket for her. The other girls start settling in and the tension in the room visibly eases.

“Neighbor.” Ryan says with a nod toward her as he slides into the bed next to hers.

Y/N nods back politely, adjusting herself under the covers. Rafe watches their exchange carefully. His hand slips beneath the blanket, resting gently on her thigh, giving it a light squeeze.

“I love that hoodie on you.” He murmurs, voice low so only she can hear. She glances over at him, smirking.

“Looks better on me, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, definitely.” He grins, eyes tracing her face as she snuggles into the fabric.

“It still smells like you.” She mumbles, nose wrinkling playfully.

“Is that a good thing?” He teases, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“God, no.” She groans jokingly.

“Oh, really?” He says with mock offense before suddenly launching into a tickle attack, his hands finding her waist. Her laughter breaks through the quiet hum of the room.

“Stop!” She gasps between giggles, trying to wriggle away.

When he finally pulls back, triumphant, she collapses against her pillow, breathless and glowing. Her eyes flicker to his lips for just a second before darting away nervously, checking to make sure no one else noticed.

Right then, the bedroom lights shut off.

“Good night.” She whispers, turning over.

Rafe hesitates, watching her. To him, it almost feels like things are falling back into place. Gently, he wraps an arm around her waist.

“Is…is this okay?” He asks, his voice soft.

She nods slowly, pressing back into him as he spoons her. His hand stays steady on her waist, his breath warm against the back of her neck.

And for now, that’s enough.

Morning sunlight creeps into the villa as the bedroom lights flicker on. Groans echo around the room as the islanders slowly stir to life.

Y/N pulls the duvet over her face, resisting the day with every fiber of her being. Rafe stretches beside her, arm brushing hers before he leans back against the headboard.

Suddenly, a burst of energy enters the scene. Sarah, wide awake and grinning, launches herself from her bed straight onto Y/N.

“Oh my god, Sarah.” Y/N groans, voice muffled by the blankets as Sarah giggles.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Sarah chirps, wedging herself between Rafe and Y/N like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Rafe just laughs, shaking his head as Y/N’s face peeks out from under the covers, eyes squinting against the bright lights.

“Get up, girl!” Sarah urges, grabbing Y/N’s shoulders and giving her a shake.

“Sarah…”

“Come on. Big day ahead. And I want you to curl my hair like you did yours the other day? It was so cute!” She exclaims. Y/N groans but finally sits up, adjusting Rafe’s hoodie on her shoulders.

“Why are you so energetic right now?” She asks, rubbing her eyes.

“Good sleep? Positive vibes? Who knows.” Sarah shrugs. She hops up and tugs on Y/N’s hand, urging her out of bed.

“You’re literally the most impatient person alive.” Y/N mutters, stretching as she stands. Her hoodie lifts slightly, revealing a flash of skin. Rafe watches, a smirk tugging at his lips. Ryan, from the bed nearby, does too, but more discreetly.

Y/N grabs her water bottle, letting Sarah drag her toward the hallway. The two of them head upstairs, just the two of them, chatting casually as they brush their teeth and wash their faces.

“So…” Sarah starts, drying her face with a fluffy pink towel. “What actually happened last night? You totally skipped over the Rafe part when the girls were asking.”

Y/N spits out her toothpaste and sighs. She dries her face with a towel and walks into the makeup room next door, Sarah close behind her.

“We talked.” She says, settling into her seat. “He explained his side. Said he didn’t mean to hurt me, that he was sorry.”

Sarah listens closely, perching on the edge of the counter.

“And…okay, this is something I haven’t told anyone in here.” Y/N continues. “Before Kelce, I dated this guy. Total douche. Cheated on me. Left me feeling like shit.”

Sarah reaches out instinctively, squeezing her hand. “Y/N…”

“I’m fine now, but…that’s why I reacted the way I did with Rafe. Anyway, Kelce told him and Rafe said he didn’t want me to think of him like my ex.”

Sarah nods, quiet, letting her friend talk.

“He said he was willing to do anything to make it up to me and regain my trust. I told him I need time to think. But also…that the kiss during the challenge was really good. And one thing led to another and…we made out. A little.”

“Oh?” Sarah raises her brows.

“And now I feel like such an idiot.” She pauses, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Why?” Sarah tilts her head, waiting.

“Because I said I needed space, but then I jumped right back into kissing him like nothing happened. It’s like…my brain and my heart just aren’t on the same page.”

Sarah nods, letting her speak.

“And what we have? It’s starting to feel real. Stronger even. But…I’m so confused.”

Sarah reaches out, brushing Y/N’s hand gently.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to figure this out right now. Feeling like this is normal. And I know you’re worried, but Rafe is totally down bad for you. Everyone can see it. I honestly believe he wants to make this work. He’s not just saying things to mess with you or make you feel stupid.”

Y/N looks down, voice softer.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the girls. I love them, I really do, but I was scared of being judged for forgiving him so fast. Actually, I was trying to find you last night to tell you first. But then Topper cornered me with some protein powder rant or something.”

Sarah laughs softly.

“You’re the one person I thought would really understand me.” Y/N says, glancing over at her. “You’re my best friend here.”

Sarah’s face softens. She pulls Y/N into a tight hug.

“I love you.” Sarah whispers.

“I love you too, Sar.”

“And for the record.” Sarah says quietly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. If you forgive him, that’s your choice. And if anyone judges you? That’s on them, not you. Period.”

Y/N nods, a small, grateful smile playing on her lips.

“So…” Sarah leans back. “What about Ryan? No pressure, but you said you wanted to get to know him.”

Y/N exhales.

“He’s…different.”

“Different how?”

“He’s softer. Calmer. Compared to Rafe, he feels more…balanced. At least from what I’ve seen so far.”

Sarah watches her, nodding slowly.

“I like where things are going with Rafe and I’m open to giving him another chance.” Y/N says. “But I’m not closing the door on Ryan either. It’s still early.”

Before Sarah can respond, the makeup room door swings open and the rest of the girls pour in, filling the space with chatter and laughter.

Y/N gestures for Sarah to take a seat so she can start on her hair and just like that, the morning rolls on. Chaotic, loud and full of possibilities.

As the girls finish getting ready, a knock sounds at the door, barely catching their attention. It creaks open a moment later and Ryan steps in, one hand covering his eyes, the other holding a glass.

“Is everyone decent?” He calls out, nearly bumping into Maddy, who laughs and steadies him.

“We’re good.” She grins, pulling his hand down from his face.

He blinks, adjusting to the light, eyes scanning the room until they land on Y/N. She’s sitting in front of the mirror, nearly finished with her makeup.

“Hey.” She says, smiling.

“Hi.” He returns the smile, stepping closer. “I made you a smoothie. Strawberries, bananas and blueberries. Hope you’re not allergic or anything.”

Y/N looks up at him, surprised and touched. She stands, wrapping her arms around him in a quick, warm hug.

“Thank you.” She says softly, pulling back to meet his eyes. “That’s really sweet of you.”

He hands her the glass with a small smile.

“No allergies?”

“Nope. Don’t worry.” She shakes her head.

“Oh, good.” He lets out a breath of relief. She takes a sip and her eyes widen.

“Okay, wait-this is actually amazing. Thank you, Ryan.”

He grins, nods once and heads out. The moment the door clicks shut behind him, the room bursts into squeals.

“Told you. The better choice.” Kiara points out again.

Meanwhile, Rafe, Kelce and Topper are mid-set, sweaty and shirtless, but the vibe is easy, until Rafe speaks.

“Y/N and I talked last night.” He says, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. His tone is casual, but the look he shares with Kelce has weight.

“Yeah?” Kelce raises a brow. Rafe nods.

“It wasn’t everything, but…it felt like a start. She said she’s open to forgiving me. Eventually.”

Topper doesn’t miss it. He glances over, unimpressed.

“So not actually forgiven, but you’re getting there?” Topper asks.

“I mean…we kissed.” Rafe says it with a small smirk, but his eyes flicker with hesitation.

“Okay, that’s something.” Kelce replies, leaning against the bench. “How’d it feel?”

Rafe shrugs, then nods slowly.

“Real. She wasn’t trying to shut me down. I didn't pressure her. It was just…her and me. Like before all the bullshit.”

“So why not forgive you already, then?” Topper asks, grabbing a dumbbell. “She kissed you but still left you hoping for her forgiveness?”

“She’s being careful.” Rafe replies. “I don’t blame her. I didn’t exactly make it easy to trust me.”

Topper scoffs.

“I just don’t get it. If she’s still into you, then why all the ‘I need time’ crap? What? Is she keeping you on standby while she explores other options?”

Kelce’s head turns sharply.

“Don’t do that.” He mutters and Topper blinks.

“What?” He asks.

“Don’t talk like she’s playing him. Or like she owes anyone an answer right away.” Kelce says flatly. “You don’t know what she’s feeling.”

Topper lifts both hands in defense.

“Alright, relax. I’m just looking out for Rafe.”

“Cool. Look out for him without throwing Y/N under the bus.” Kelce grabs his water and walks off.

Rafe stays back, running a hand through his hair, somewhere between frustrated and hopeful. Topper watches him for a second longer, then claps a hand on his back.

“Just…keep your head clear, man.” He mutters. “You’ve been through enough already.”

Rafe doesn’t answer. He just stares straight ahead, caught between the weight in his chest and the hope still tugging at it.

Confessional - Rafe

“She just needs time. That’s fair. Honestly, after everything...I get it.” He nods slowly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know she’s not playing me. She wouldn’t do that.”

The day drifts by in a haze of sunshine and splashes, the islanders lounging by the pool or stretched out under the sun. Kiara catches Pope’s eye and motions for him to join her. They head over to one of the yellow couches, the warmth still radiating off the cushions. She adjusts her sunglasses as she settles in, lips pressing into a line.

“How you feeling today? Having fun?” She asks, casual but kind. Pope leans back, smiling.

“Yeah, it’s been chill. I think we all needed a pool day.”

She nods, agreeing, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Listen…” She starts, hesitating. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a few days now.”

Pope squints, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. His expression shifts.

“I liked the time we spent together. You’re a great guy. But-”

“I get it.” He cuts in gently, a familiar weariness in his voice. “I’ve had this conversation before. You’re not interested. It’s okay.”

Her face softens, eyes searching his.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He replies quickly. “I just…wish I knew earlier.”

Kiara fidgets with the corner of a pillow.

“You didn’t waste time, Pope. I really did enjoy getting to know you. But we don’t have that…spark. We just don’t click like that.”

“I get it, Kie.” He says, gaze dropping as he looks away.

“You can still meet new people.” She offers quietly. He nods, jaw tight, emotions tugging just beneath the surface.

“Is that all?”

“I’m sorry.” She says.

“Yeah.” He says, standing. “Me too.”

She rises with him, smoothing her bikini bottoms before looking up.

“Can I… give you a hug?”

He doesn’t hesitate, steps forward and pulls her into a hug, brief but sincere. He presses a kiss to her temple and offers a small smile before walking off toward the guys.

Kiara makes her way back to the sunbeds, dropping onto the empty one beside Y/N and Maddy. Both girls peek at her over their sunglasses.

“I think I hurt him.” She says quietly. Y/N sits up slightly.

“What did he say?” She asks.

“That it’s not the first time he’s heard this. And when I apologized, he could barely look at me.” Kiara explains and Maddy sighs.

“He really felt something with you, Kie. That’s why we told you to talk to him sooner.”

“I know.” She murmurs. “But…am I the bad guy here?”

Y/N shakes her head.

“No. Your feelings are valid. But so are his. He liked you and he tried. So did you. You can’t force something that’s not there. But you also can’t expect him not to be hurt.”

“I agree.” Maddy adds, reclining again. Kiara lets out a slow breath and glances over at the kitchen, where JJ is trying to distract Pope with small talk and laughter that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

As the sun sets over the villa, the islanders get ready for another lively night. Cleo lounges on the daybed with a drink in hand, laughing with Maddy and Kelce when Pope walks over.

“Hey.” He says, offering a small smile. The group makes room for him, but then he glances at Cleo. “Actually...I was hoping to talk to Cleo for a second.”

Cleo raises a brow, surprised, but Maddy grins and gives her a playful nudge. With a reluctant smile, Cleo stands and smooths down her dress before following Pope over to one of the couches.

“You look really pretty tonight.” He says, sincere.

“Thanks.” She replies softly.

Pope takes a breath, clearly trying to gather his thoughts.

“Okay, I’m just gonna be upfront and say it. You’re amazing, Cleo. And I was an idiot for not realizing it sooner. And I want to get to know you, if you’re still open to that.”

Cleo studies him, not saying anything at first.

“Pope…” She finally says, her voice calm but guarded, “I’m not interested in being someone’s second choice. You and Kiara just ended things and now you’re here saying all this to me. Can you see how that might not sit right?”

“You’re not a second choice.” He says quickly. “What you said the other night...I felt it too. I just didn’t know how to deal with it then.”

“So how do I know this isn’t just a rebound? How do I know you mean any of this?”

Pope sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I get it. The timing sucks and it probably looks messy. But I’m not making this up. I’m genuinely attracted to you and not just physically. I want to see if there’s more there. I’m not expecting an answer right now, just…think about it?”

Cleo pauses, letting his words settle.

“I want to get to know you too.” She says carefully. “But if this is just your way of getting over Kiara, I need you to be honest now. I’m not signing up to be someone’s distraction.”

“I swear, Cleo, that’s not what this is.” Pope says earnestly. “Just give me a chance?”

Cleo watches him for a long second, then finally gives a small nod.

“Okay.” She says softly. He smiles, visibly relieved.

“Yeah? Okay.”

They sit for a beat, the tension easing slightly, but the air still thick with possibility.

Meanwhile, on the couch beneath the terrace, Rafe and Y/N sit close. Close enough to feel each other’s presence, but not quite touching. Y/N’s eyes scan the villa, landing briefly on each islander.

“You nervous or something?” Rafe asks, his tone casual but observant. His arm slips around her shoulders. She stiffens for a second before letting out a quiet breath.

“Sorry. It’s just…” She hesitates, trying to find the right words. “I haven’t told the girls about us…possibly making up.”

“Okay?” His brow furrows slightly.

“I mean, we talk about everything. And I didn’t want them to judge me for trying to fix things with you. They weren’t exactly Team Rafe after…you know.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” He says, nodding slowly. Then, more gently. “I…uhh…told Topper and Kelce.”

His fingers trail lightly along her arm, not pushing, just letting her in. She blinks, then nods.

“No, yeah…I get that. I just wasn’t ready. But I will be.”

He nods again, letting it land without pressure.

“Is that why you’ve been kind of distant?” He asks, his voice softer now. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, hurt. “Afraid they’ll see us?”

“I’m sorry.” She says quietly. “Everything just feels messy right now.”

“Don’t apologize.” He says, shaking his head. “Seriously. You’re here. That’s what matters to me.”

She melts a little, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He immediately darts his head around, pretending to scan for witnesses like a spy. She bursts into laughter.

“Oh! By the way, can I tell you something?” She asks, her voice dipping conspiratorially.

He claps his hands and rubs them together like he’s prepping for drama.

“Spill the tea.”

She chuckles again.

“Last night, during the challenge, when you had headphones on and Alyssa came up to you, she stopped and said ‘I never got my chance with him, sorry, Y/N’ but in this super passive-aggressive, mean girl voice.”

Rafe raises his brows, unsurprised.

“Honestly? Not shocked. You remember how she was when she first got here. I told you I didn’t trust her.” He exclaims.

“I know. It just threw me off because she’s been nice since our talk.” She sighs.

“You’re not seriously thinking about talking to her again, are you?” He asks, suddenly serious.

“I mean…I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t-” “You shouldn’t.” He cuts her off.

“But-” “No buts. You already gave her a second chance. She said she wanted to be your friend and now she’s pulling this? Nah. She’s not genuine.”

“Rafe-”

“You don’t see it or maybe you don’t want to, but she doesn’t care about you. If she did, she wouldn’t keep doing this. Did she even apologize?”

Y/N slowly shakes her head, lips pressing into a tight line.

“Exactly!” Rafe throws his hands up like it proves his point. She lets out a sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Okay.” She says, her voice a little steadier now. “I’m not going to bring it up with her. It’s not worth it.”

Rafe nods, firm.

“Good. You shouldn’t let people walk all over you.”

She gives a small nod back.

Suddenly, the sharp clack of heels cuts through the night. The bedroom door swings open and a figure steps out from the corridor of flowers. The villa falls silent as everyone turns to look.

From the beanbag, Sarah gasps.

“Ariana? What are you doing here?”

to be continued...

taglist: @cherrygirlfriend @judesgfirl @slickdickwitchbitchh @leather-n-velvet @alinavalentine @littlelamy @ts1mp0ne @starkeyslibrary @rafecameronsfavourite @rafesbuzzcutseason @lolharrystylesissexy @k4yr14 @drewslefttoe @angielvsnick @malibuhearts @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @harryweeniee @imawhoreforu @fastlovela @jjmaybankmylovee @nemesyaaa @drewsnr1slut @laniirackssss @oconnrs @cornliastreett @pvyden @swagmoneydrew @lerclec @rafecameronxxx @totalswag @xoxosblogsblog @julesbog @st8rkey @lewispool @silkylovey @heartlesslies @akobx @vdotcom @runawayrafetrain @stvrkeysgal @heartzshiftamy @xilatrxvmp @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @maybankslover @cameronsbabydoll @veesgrapejuice

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 3 days ago

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🧃 How to Develop a Vibe AND a Plot (aesthetic doesn’t cancel arcs. let’s balance them.)

hey you. yes, you. the one with the moody playlists, the 73-tab Pinterest board, and a half-written draft that just keeps…vibing in circles.

if you’ve ever written 10k of immaculate vibes but couldn’t tell anyone what your story is about, this post is for you. because here’s the thing: ✨ aesthetic is not a substitute for stakes. ✨

let’s talk about how to keep your ✨vibes✨ and actually have a plot that moves. no ✧ fluff ✧ just structure, character arcs, and some lovingly blunt advice from your local writeblr gremlin (me).

🌊 1. aesthetic is a result, not a premise

the most common mistake i see is starting with a vibe as the story. like:

“sad girls on the beach in 1996”

“a cursed forest full of dead gods”

“a pastel academic rivalry with secrets and sexual tension”

cool. great. love that for you. but… what’s the story? what’s happening?

✨vibes = setting + mood + tone. ✨plot = choices + consequences + change.

your aesthetic can inspire the story (please keep making playlists. i love them). but don’t confuse the feel of your world with the function of your plot. start with tension. stakes. character flaws. emotional damage. that’s the engine. the aesthetic is the paint job.

🎯 2. define your “emotional throughline”

okay, so you’ve got an aesthetic. what’s the emotional core of it? your plot should orbit a single emotional question, like:

will this character ever let themselves be known?

what does it take to unlearn loyalty?

is love worth destroying something sacred?

start with that. then attach aesthetic scenes to it.

🧩 pro tip: aesthetic scenes are more powerful when they contradict or complicate your emotional throughline.

ex: your story’s about loneliness? show them at the loudest, busiest party. story’s about grief? show them smiling in photos while everything breaks behind the lens.

aesthetic is stronger with irony. contrast. juxtapositions. don’t just bathe the reader in vibes. weaponize them.

💥 3. let your aesthetic hurt your characters

whatever your aesthetic is--soft academia, vaporwave horror, regency witchcore, don’t make it just a backdrop. make it an obstacle.

your setting should create problems. friction. conflict.

if it’s a sleepy coastal town: what’s festering beneath the quiet?

if it’s a hauntingly beautiful forest: what does it take from people?

if it’s a cursed mansion: what happens to the girls who stay too long?

every time you design a pretty place or moody visual, ask: ❓ how does this setting test my characters’ beliefs or desires?

because then your aesthetic drives the story forward instead of just decorating it.

📚 4. develop plot like a playlist: structure the escalation

your aesthetic playlist has structure, right? (don’t lie. i know you’ve got a specific song for act 3 heartbreak.)

plot works the same way. it’s not a mystery. it’s escalation.

you want a structure? here’s a dead-simple one:

give your main character a desire (internal & external)

give them a reason they can’t have it (flaw, fear, lie)

make them try anyway (rising stakes)

make it cost them something (midpoint shift)

force them to change or break (climax)

let that change play out (falling action / resolution)

that’s it. apply that structure to your vibey little story and suddenly it’s a book.

👁‍🗨 5. plot is what they do - vibe is how it feels

don’t choose one. you can have both.

you can have a soft lighting scene on a rooftop and the secret betrayal reveal. you can have dreamy prose and broken character dynamics. you can give me worldbuilding so lush it smells like petrichor and rot and still give me a plot twist that leaves me feral.

you just need to be intentional.

every scene = a purpose. every aesthetic = an angle. every image = tied to stakes, desire, or change.

✨ that’s the difference between “ooh pretty” and “oh my god i can’t stop thinking about this story.” ✨

💌 so in conclusion:

start with an emotional arc

let your aesthetic scenes earn their place

make your world fight your characters

escalate, escalate, escalate

and stop hiding a lack of plot under “vibe” like a glittery throw blanket over a broken chair

you’ve got this. now go write the beautifully messy, aesthetic and emotionally devastating story you were meant to.

i believe in you.

🧃rin t.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

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thisiswhattheycallafinecareer · 2 hours ago

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from Chapter 19 of Educated by Tara Westover (2018):

Failing a quiz did nothing to undermine my new devotion to an old creed, but a lecture on Western art did.

The classroom was bright when I arrived, the morning sun pouring in warmly through a high wall of windows. I chose a seat next to a girl in a high-necked blouse. Her name was Vanessa. "We should stick together," she said. "I think we're the only freshmen in the whole class."

The lecture began when an old man with small eyes and a sharp nose shuttered the windows. He flipped a switch and a slide projector filled the room with white light. The image was of a painting. The professor discussed the composition, the brushstrokes, the history.

Then he moved to the next painting, and the next and the next. Then the projector showed a peculiar image, of a man in a faded hat and overcoat. Behind him loomed a concrete wall. He held a small paper near his face but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at us. I opened the picture book I'd purchased for the class so I could take a closer look. Something was written under the image in italics but I couldn't understand it. It had one of those black-hole words, right in the middle, devouring the rest.

I'd seen other students ask questions, so I raised my hand. The professor called on me, and I read the sentence aloud. When I came to the word, I paused. "I don't know this word," I said. "What does it mean?"

There was silence.

Not a hush, not a muting of the noise, but utter, almost violent silence. No papers shuffled, no pencils scratched. The professor's lips tightened. "Thanks for that," he said, then returned to his notes.

I scarcely moved for the rest of the lecture. I stared at my shoes, wondering what had happened, and why, whenever I looked up, there was always someone staring at me as if I was a freak. Of course I was a freak, and I knew it, but I didn't understand how they knew it.

When the bell rang, Vanessa shoved her notebook into her pack. Then she paused and said, "You shouldn't make fun of that. It's not a joke." She walked away before I could reply. I stayed in my seat until everyone had gone, pretending the zipper on my coat was stuck so I could avoid looking anyone in the eye.

Then I went straight to the computer lab to look up the word "Holocaust." I don't know how long I sat there reading about it, but at some point I'd read enough. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. I suppose I was in shock, but whether it was the shock of learning about something horrific, or the shock of learning about my own ignorance, I'm not sure.

I do remember imagining for a moment, not the camps, not the pits or chambers of gas, but my mother's face. A wave of emotion took me, a feeling so intense, so unfamiliar, I wasn't sure what it was. It made me want to shout at her, at my own mother, and that frightened me.

I searched my memories. In some ways the word "Holocaust" wasn't wholly unfamiliar. Perhaps Mother had taught me about it, when we were picking rosehips or tincturing hawthorn. I did seem to have a vague knowledge that Jews had been killed somewhere, long ago. But I'd thought it was a small conflict, like the Boston Massacre, which Dad talked about a lot, in which half a dozen people had been martyred by a tyrannical government. To have misunderstood it on this scale-five versus six million-seemed impossible.

I found Vanessa before the next lecture and apologized for the joke. I didn't explain, because I couldn't explain. I just said I was sorry and that I wouldn't do it again. To keep that promise, I didn't raise my hand for the rest of the semester.

Tara Westover is an American memoirist and scholar of world cultures. The youngest of seven children born in a highly controlling religious household in Idaho to Mormon survivalist parents. Educated is her narrative of overcoming abuse, fighting for her education, and self-actualizing.

Full text for free found here.

Don't let them gaslight you into believing that any controlled religion is less dangerous than it is. It is deadly.

mormons undoubtedly in the top 5 worst things the united states has ever invented which is really saying something

#mormon #lds #mormon church #religion crit #religion critical #religion is not inherently hurtful on the individual level. it's when people forge a 'denomination' and exclude others #like the lds. that's all about control and it's hateful.#i don't understand people sometimes. I don't understand the compellment to protect hatred everywhere #tara westover #educated #summer reading

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pitlanepeach · 5 hours ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Two

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Eek, are we soft for them already?

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Maths was a unique kind of enemy.

Harper stared at the page, where a tangle of numbers mocked her in perfect, immovable silence. Quadratic equations. Graphs that looked like abstract art. Somewhere in her notes, her own handwriting had turned against her.

Jane was no help. "Look, I'd love to assist, but I operate strictly in the humanities. You want me to write an essay on why algebra is a metaphor for emotional repression? I got you. Solve for x? That's between x and God."

Harper sighed, banging her forehead on the desk.

Which is exactly how Oscar found her after his endurance run, still in his hoodie, hair damp and cheeks pink from the cold.

"You okay?" He asked.

"No," she mumbled into the table. "I'm dying. Death by numbers."

He peered over her shoulder. "Those are easy."

She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. "You would say that." She glared at him.

Oscar laughed and slid into the seat beside her. "Alright. Come on. I'll show you."

At first, it was just him. Patient, steady, explaining with short, clipped phrases and pencil taps. She wasn't sure if it was his teaching style or just the fact that he wasn't condescending that made it slowly start to make sense.

But by the next evening, word had gotten out.

Somehow.

The dorm common room turned into a weirdly specific academic support group. Oscar's roommate Sam pulled up a chair. Then Cal (Oscar’s engineer) FaceTimed in "for moral support"; and then casually mentioned that he has a masters degree in quantum physics.

Then two boys from Oscar's algebra class wandered over with snacks and just so happened to linger.

By the third night, someone had drawn up a "Harper's Maths Survival Schedule" and taped it to the common room door.

It read:

Monday: Oscar Tuesday: Sam Wednesday: Oscar Thursday: Alfie Friday: Matt

Harper laughed so hard when she saw it, she nearly cried.

And weirdly, somehow — it helped.

Not just the maths—but everything. The pressure. The loneliness. The constant feeling that she was a visitor in someone else's life. Here, she wasn't her mother's daughter, or the less-than-perfect student, or a problem to be fixed.

She was just Harper. And they liked her enough to stick around and actually put effort into helping her get better at maths.

One night, after everyone else had trickled off, Oscar hung around a little longer. She was almost too tired to think, her head tipped back on the sofa, eventually lolling over to rest on his shoulder.

"I don't know how you did it," she murmured.

"Did what?"

"Managed to turn maths practice into something I look forward to."

He laughed lightly. "You just needed to stop being so hard on yourself about it."

She looked over at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks, Osc."

He paused for a second too long. "Yeah. You're welcome."

She didn't respond. Just blinked at him, soft and warm.

And when he kissed her, it wasn't shocking.

It just felt... right.

—

Oscar wasn't supposed to be here.

Technically, he could be permanently expelled from the school. Lose his scholarship.

Not that he seemed particularly worried about that as he ducked beneath the low dorm window Harper had jimmied open earlier that week with a pen and a high level of angry rebellion.

"You're late," Jane said from where she sat cross-legged on her bed, dabbing highlighter onto her cheekbones. "Harper said you'd be five minutes."

"I had to wait for your prefect to leave," Oscar replied, swinging a leg inside. "She was sniffing around like a bloodhound."

"You're lucky you're cute," Jane muttered, not looking up.

Oscar took in the room; two mismatched duvets, makeup scattered across the long desk, fairy lights tangled above a heart shaped mirror. The air smelled like vanilla body lotion and expensive shampoo and some kind of spice he couldn't place. Cinnamon, maybe.

Harper was perched on the windowsill, brushing her hair into a ponytail with one hand, holding a lip balm in the other. She was wearing a navy jumper over leggings, ankle tucked under her thigh like she hadn't even noticed he'd arrived—even though the pink high in her cheeks suggested otherwise.

"I feel like I've entered another dimension," Oscar said, warily eyeing an eyelash curler. "What is that?"

Jane brandished it like a weapon. "Beauty, my darling. Don't question the process."

"You're both unwell," he muttered, but he was smiling.

Harper rolled her eyes at him, but had to purse her lips to hide her smile. "You're the one who insisted on coming over."

"Yeah, and now I regret it," Oscar said, perching awkwardly on the edge of Harper's bed. He knew it was hers because her pillowcase was monogrammed with a cursive H. "What are you doing?"

"Makeup," Jane said, blending concealer with terrifying precision. "You should try it."

Harper handed him a compact mirror with a sly smile. "Want some mascara, Osc?"

Oscar caught his own reflection and made a face. "No. I'll stay ugly, thanks."

Harper rolled her eyes at him and nudged him. He noticed that she'd painted her fingernails a glittery pink. He liked them.

Jane tossed an empty crisp packet across the room and it landed somewhere close to the bin.

Harper held up two near-identical shades of what was apparently lip gloss and demanded that Oscar choose.

Oscar chose the darker pink and Harper beamed at him.

Eventually, Jane pulled her riding boots on and announced, "Right. I'm going to grab some water bottles. Don't kiss until I get back — I want to watch."

Oscar opened his mouth to say something — anything, but she was already gone.

And then it was just the two of them, the room suddenly quieter, more tense. Harper turned toward him, one knee bent on the chair, her face lightly painted with makeup, her cheeks flushed from the laughter.

She looked at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks for coming, Osc. I missed you this weekend."

He stared for a second too long. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I wanted to come. I missed you too."

She didn't look away, and suddenly he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

He pushed off of the bed and walked over to her, leaned down and cupped her face in his hand and kissed her. Long and soft and perfectly minty — from his gum or her lipgloss, he wasn't sure. Maybe both.

Teamwork.

When they pulled apart, she exhaled shakily."Okay," she said, so softly it barely existed. "That was nice."

Oscar looked at her for a long moment, his thumb brushing a smudge of mascara off her cheekbone.

Then Jane banged back through the door with a flourish, freezing mid-step at their closeness.

"Oh my God, did you—? You did, didn't you. I missed it again!"

—

Half term at Harper's house felt like walking around in someone else's skin.

Every day was a new performance: a crisp outfit, polite laughter, perfectly timed nods in rooms filled with too-white teeth and names she was supposed to remember. The dining tables were long and silent, the smiles were sharp, and the wine flowed never-ending.

Her mother paraded her through charity galas and luncheons like she was a debutante being rebranded.

"Stand up straighter, Harper."

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"Do not mention anything to do with your schooling. God forbid they ask about your grades."

So Harper swallowed herself down, tucked her sarcasm into her clutch bag, and became exactly the daughter her mother wanted. For six days.

By the seventh, she'd become brittle.

When the train pulled back into the station near school, Harper had barely spoken a word for almost five hours. The Uber to the gates was quiet. Her mother didn't even look up from her phone when she said goodbye.

And then the building appeared—stone and ivy, wind in the trees, the faint smell of grass and cafeteria food.

Home, almost.

She hadn't texted Oscar. So she just walked straight to the common room, her bag still digging into her shoulder, hair pulled into a too-tight twist, like a fingerprint that her mother had left on her.

He was there, leaning against the radiator with his headphones half on, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up once and blinked like he wasn't sure she was real.

"Hey—"

She dropped her bag before he could finish. Crossed the space in three quick steps.

And then she was in his arms, burying her face into the curve of his neck.

No words. No warning.

Oscar caught her without hesitation, his arms sliding around her, his hands settling at her back like they'd been waiting. He held her tightly.

For a long time, they didn't say anything.

Just her fingers fisting in the back of his hoodie. His chin tucked gently over her hair. The low hum of the radiator and the quiet outside, and the way she was shaking, not crying, not quite, but trembling with the pressure of having to be somebody else for too long.

Eventually, he whispered, "Was it that bad?"

She nodded into his chest.

"I missed you," he said.

She didn't answer; just held on tighter.

It was the first time she'd ever let herself lean on somebody like this. Not perform, not pretend—just be held. And she didn't care who saw or what anyone thought.

Oscar had quietly become her anchor. Her soft place.

And maybe that was terrifying.

She was only fourteen, Oscar fifteen — but God, his arms felt like safety. And warmth. And something else that she couldn't bear to even consider yet.

—

Harper's fifteenth birthday wasn't eventful.

She didn't tell anyone. Not because she didn't want them to know—but because birthdays in her world had always come with strings. Lavish luncheons, social climbing events, gifts that felt like bribes.

She just wanted this one to pass through quietly. Like a train through a tunnel.

Jane, of course, knew anyway. She left a pastry and a glittery crown on Harper's bed with a note that said, "You are legally required to feel loved today. I don't make the rules." The crown had little fake gems and kept slipping off Harper's head, but she wore it anyway during breakfast.

Oscar wasn't there.

He was in Italy. Or Belgium. Somewhere with a name that tasted foreign and exciting. Somewhere chasing corners at 120 miles per hour while she spent the morning trying to translate her messy English notes into a coherent essay.

Her and Oscar still weren't... official.

No labels, no silly promises.

Just soft looks and secret smiles, warm palms pressed together in the dark of the common room. Kisses that stretched time. Late-night texts that made her stomach twist in ways she still didn't know how to name.

But still. It was her birthday.

She didn't expect anything.

Which is why, when Jane dragged her back to their room after dinner, she nearly tripped over the package sitting on her desk.

There was no name on it. Just a strip of tape across the top, and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to the paper.

She tore it open slowly, heartbeat ticking louder with each pull.

Inside: a hoodie. Worn-in, navy blue. She recognised it immediately—it was Oscar's. The one he always wore over his racing suit, with his initials inked inside the collar. It smelled like him. Like soap and sun and sweat.

And tucked inside the folded fabric, a card.

H — Happy birthday. Sorry I'm not there. Don't let Jane make you wear the crown all day. Put this on instead. I'll be back before the end of the week. Save a birthday kiss for me. Osc x

She stared at the messy, awful, hardly eligible handwriting for a long time.

Then she pulled the hoodie on and let it swallow her whole.

Later, when they'd crawled back into the common room to watch a movie and everyone was pretending not to watch her phone light up every three minutes, Jane nudged her.

"You know he's basically your boyfriend, right?"

Harper rolled her eyes. "He's not, though."

Jane shrugged. "Oh, puh-lease. You're always wearing his clothes. You look at him like he's the moon and you're the stars. You guys kiss all the damn time — like you've got nowhere else to be."

"I don't need a label." Harper said.

"No," Jane said, smiling. "But you'll have one soon. I'd put money on it."

As if on cue, Harper's phone buzzed.

A photo. Oscar, in his race suit, grinning with helmet hair and grease on his cheek, holding up a little cupcake with a candle in it.

Wish you were here. Celebrating for you anyway. Happy Birthday, sunshine.

Harper didn't reply right away. Just closed her eyes, let the warmth bloom under her ribs, and whispered, mostly to herself, "I wish I was there too."

—

The night was cool and quiet in the early spring, the kind of night where the world seemed to be holding its breath for a warm day.

Harper waited near the edge of the astro turf, shadows stretching long under the floodlights that were turned off but still gave the field a faint glow from the nearby streetlamps.

Her hoodie was too big, but it felt like a shield—and it smelled like Oscar.

She heard footsteps before she saw him, and when he appeared, the grin he gave her was full of all the things words hadn't managed to say.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey," she replied, stepping closer.

They settled on the edge of the turf, legs stretched out, the grass synthetic but soft beneath them.

For a while, they just sat. Quiet but close. Hands finding each other like magnets.

Then Oscar broke the silence. "So... uh, us," he started, voice hesitant but steady.

Harper turned her head toward him, watching the way his eyes caught the light, shadows flickering like secrets.

"I don't want to mess this up," he said, his lips curled awkwardly. "But I really like you, Harper. Like... so much."

She took a breath. "I like you too," she whispered. "More than friends."

He grinned, that slow, real smile that made everything else fall away. "So—you want to be my girlfriend?"

She stared at him, her stomach warm and twirling, her lips twitching into a fond, sweet smile. "Yeah, Osc. Yeah. I want to be your girlfriend."

—

The track in Essex was wet. Not just damp — soaked. The kind of cold, miserable damp that clung to your bones and turned the air misty around the edges.

Harper stood at the edge of the paddock with Mark, a steaming takeaway cup with hot chocolate cupped between her hands, the sleeves of Oscar's team hoodie pulled down over her wrists. Her boots were already muddy. Her nose was red. She didn't care one single bit.

Because out there — helmet on, eyes narrow, engine growling beneath him — was Oscar. Fast, fluid, terrifyingly good.

Mark watched silently, arms folded, one eye on the stopwatch. "Final lap," he murmured.

Harper didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was in her throat.

Then he crossed the finish line — just ahead, by a fraction of a second.

A cheer broke out across the team tent, someone throwing their arms in the air. Mechanics pounded backs. One of the younger juniors swore loudly in delight.

Oscar skidded into the pit lane and yanked off his helmet. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His face was flushed, wild-eyed, grinning.

Harper barely waited. She ducked under the barrier and ran straight into his arms.

He caught her mid-stride, lifting her clean off the ground with a muddy laugh.

"You did it," she breathed, half-laughing, half-crying.

He held her tighter, nose brushing her temple. "I did it."

Their kiss was messy and cold and perfect.

A few feet away, Mark shook his head with a smile and muttered, "Teenagers."

Later, after the podium and the trophy photos and the engine checks and the interviews he barely paid attention to, Oscar found her again — sitting on a folding chair, wet hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her boots still caked in track dirt.

He dropped down in front of her, ignoring the mud. His hands slid around her knees.

"You cold?" He asked.

"A bit."

He peeled off his jacket and tugged it over her without thinking.

She let her hands drift to his collar. "You really are the best boyfriend ever, aren't you?"

He shrugged. His cheeks flushed a little. "I try my best."

They sat like that in the growing dusk, a boy covered in sweat and rubber and a girl who didn't belong in this world — but somehow fit in it perfectly anyway.

They still hadn't said the words.

But everyone around them already knew.

They could see it.

"Bloody young love, eh?" One of the mechanics said to Mark, giving him a friendly grin.

Mark stared at his protege and the girl he was wrapped around. "Yeah. Young love. A hell of a thing."

—

The Monday morning after Oscar's karting championship win was business as usual — at least for everyone else.

The cafeteria stank of burnt toast and unripened bananas. Someone's rugby kit had been left to rot in the corridor again. Teachers were barking about mock exams and how important breakfast was for concentration.

Rain pattered against the high windows.

The whispers had started the moment they walked in — not mean, just curious. A mix of respect and amusement. He's the karting kid who actually did it. And she was the girl who'd been there.

They didn't hold hands in front of everyone, they were both too awkward for that, but they walked close. His bag brushed hers. Their shoulders kept touching. She caught him glancing at her more than once, and she blushed every damn time.

They sat at their usual table; Jane joined them, already mid-rant about the biology quiz, and Oscar slid into the seat beside Harper like it was instinct. A few of his mates clapped him on the back, one of them tossing out, "Bloody hell, Piastri. Gonna forget us little people soon?"

Oscar grinned but didn't rise to it. His hand brushed Harper's knee under the table.

After breakfast, Harper slipped away early. Sometimes, the morning noise was too much. She wandered toward the astro, the damp still clinging to the edges of the pitch, her trainers leaving faint impressions on the stone pathway.

A minute later, she heard footsteps behind her.

"You always going to run off without me?" Oscar's voice, soft, teasing.

She turned and squinted at him. "I wasn't running," she said.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "You okay, babe?"

Babe.

Babe. Babe. Babe.

"No," she said. "Yes. No. I don't know. I just needed to breathe."

He stepped up beside her, both of them facing the empty turf.

"You think my mum's going to be pissed when she finds out?" She asked after a minute.

He glanced sideways at her. "About you going to the race?"

"No. Yes. But I meant more about us."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. She probably will."

She looked at him; saw the mud-streaked, medal-wearing, boy-who-won-the-thing him. The one who kissed her under floodlights and held her on her worst days. The one she'd never trade for any high-brow, suit-wearing finance guy in any universe.

"You really aren't going anywhere, are you?" She whispered. "

He shook his head. "Not unless you're coming with me."

She stepped into his chest and sniffled a little, then looked up and lifted onto her tiptoes to let him kiss her.

—

It started as a joke.

One day in maths, Harper made a face so violently pained at the sight of a clock diagram on a worksheet that Jane nearly fell off her chair laughing.

That evening, Oscar mentioned it to the guys — just casually, in that offhand way that somehow made them all very invested in Harper's educational redemption arc.

By the weekend, there was a printed-out worksheet titled "MISSION: TEACH HARPER TO READ A CLOCK" taped to the common room wall.

It escalated quickly.

Now, every Tuesday evening, the boys' dorm turned into a chaotic, loving, entirely misguided tutoring group.

Like an off-brand of the maths tutoring program they'd thrown together for her — but with more interest.

There was Oscar, naturally, trying to be the patient one. Then Alfie, who thought yelling was teaching. Ethan, who brought snacks. And Matt, who had made a papier-mâché clock face out of a pizza box. With arrows.

Harper sat in the middle of them like a hostage.

"I'm telling you," she said, pointing wildly at the pizza box. "That one's ten. I swear. It's a ten."

Oscar, sitting cross-legged beside her, gently rotated the cardboard. "Harper, the big hand is on the two. That means it's ten past the hour. Not ten o'clock."

"Okay but how am I meant to know which hand is the minute hand? They're both just... hands."

Alfie groaned. "The minute hand is the longer one! Like, always! What do you mean 'just hands'?"

"They're not labelled!" She cried. "If someone handed you two spoons and said one was for soup and one was for jazz, would you know the difference?"

Everyone stopped.

Matt blinked. "Why would I have a jazz spoon?"

Oscar covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

Ethan passed Harper a cookie. "Here."

She took it. "I'm just saying — numbers on a clock move. They're not meant to move." She grumbled and gave herself a frustrated forehead tap. "God, I'm so stupid."

Oscar leaned his shoulder gently against hers. "No you're not. You know that you're not, Harper. You know you're brilliant at a million other things."

She glanced at him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"You have perfect spatial memory. You memorised my whole kart setup after watching one session. You've mastered a million different coding languages already. You're good with people. You know how to read a room faster than anyone I've ever met. And," he added, deadpan, "you've successfully confused four teenage boys into thinking teaching time is a fun group activity."

She laughed then, warm and tired. "Well. Can't say I'm not a good influence, can the?"

"You're just a bit of a lost cause when it comes to clocks," Alfie muttered, re-taping the pizza clock for the fifth time.

But Harper didn't care about clocks. Not really.

Because she was surrounded. Because they kept showing up — Oscar with his soft corrections, Alfie with his shouting, Jane peeking in with popcorn halfway through every session. They all knew. About the dyscalculia, about the clocks, about her brain doing loop-de-loops over simple sums.

And none of them ever made her feel stupid for it.

Just... loved.

Even if she still couldn't tell the difference between three-forty-five and quarter past the hour (because what the hell did that even mean?).

—

It happened on the following Wednesday.

Halfway through the day, Harper was pulled from class. A quiet word from a teaching assistant, a murmured excuse. No one offered a reason why.

She thought it might be something small. Maybe Jane had accidentally set off the fire alarm again.

But then she stepped into the front office — and saw her mother sitting there, spine straight, legs crossed, lips pursed in thin, unimpressed silence.

Harper's stomach dropped.

"Come," her mother said, standing. "We'll talk in the car."

⸻

The car was parked on the far side of the lot, a sleek black town car that looked like it belonged outside a private gallery in Mayfair. Not a school car park.

Harper slid in, cold air brushing her ankles, heart thudding in her chest like it already knew what was coming.

Her mother didn't speak until the door shut.

"A karting race?" Her voice was like glass. "Karting, Harper?"

Harper blinked. "How do you—?"

"I got a call," she said, cutting her off. "From someone on the board. They saw photos. You, standing in the dirt with oil on your jeans. Smiling like you'd won the lottery. Holding hands with some, boy, in a racing suit. Do you understand how humiliating that was for me?"

"It's not—"

Her mother turned, eyes sharp and glittering. "Do you have any idea how much I've done to protect your name? Your future? And you're throwing it away for... boys who drive go-karts and call it a sport?"

Harper's hands curled in her lap. "He's not just a boy," she said quietly. "And it is a sport."

"Oh," her mother sneered, "is he your boyfriend now? Do you want to bring him to your cousin's wedding in Vienna next month? Shall we seat him between a baroness and a venture capitalist and see how long he lasts before talking about gear ratios?"

Harper flinched. "Stop."

But she didn't.

"You are not one of them, Harper. You are not some muddy little pitlane girlfriend who throws her life away for some boy with too much money and a ridiculous dream. I will not let you become a story people whisper about."

"I'm happy," Harper said, voice rising. "For once in my life, I'm actually—"

"Enough." Her mother's voice was like a slap. "We're withdrawing you at the end of term. I've already spoken to Madame Viard. There's a place for you at Lausanne International. You leave for Switzerland in January."

The silence after was suffocating.

Harper sat frozen, winded, as if someone had punched all the air out of her.

Her mother adjusted a glove, calm again. "You'll thank me someday."

But Harper wasn't listening anymore.

Her mother's jaw was clenched so tightly that a vein twitched in her temple.

"Fine," Harper said, voice low but steady.

The word dropped like a weight in the space between them.

Her mother blinked, surprised by the ease of her surrender.

But then Harper looked up — and there was fire behind her eyes. Her voice was calm, controlled, but every word burned.

"But you should know," she said, leaning forward just slightly, "that when Oscar's driving in Formula One — not if, when — and he's one of the most successful athletes in the world, I won't look back. I won't give you an inch. I'll let you sit in your wrongness and stew in it forever."

Her mother went bright red. "Do you think you're making this better for yourself?"

Harper laughed — a bitter, tired sound. "No. I know I'm making it worse. I'm very aware of how this works, Mum. I step out of line, and you slam the gates shut. But what else can I do?"

She paused, chest heaving slightly now.

"You don't listen to me. You never have. You just tell me what my life is going to be. What I wear. Who I talk to. Where I study. Who I sit next to at dinner parties like I'm some sort of accessory you place on a chair next to a financier's son. You talk through me like I'm not a human being. Like I don't have wants and desires and dreams of my own."

"Harper—"

"No. You don't get to talk now."

She didn't raise her voice — didn't need to. Every word sliced clean and deliberate.

"The worst part? The part that actually makes me want to scream? Is that I know Dad would be so happy I found someone like Oscar. That I found someone who likes me in the quietest, most awkward, most real way."

Her breath hitched — not from tears, but from the pressure of keeping them in.

"He's so bad at it. At being romantic. He blushes when I look at him for too long. He stammers when he's nervous. He opens doors and fixes my hair without saying a word. He doesn't like PDA. He frowns when he's concentrating and forgets to drink water and spends more time worrying about everyone else's lap times than his own."

She looked her mother dead in the eye.

"And yeah — he races karts. But he moved all the way here from Australia on his own at fourteen. He trains his body every single day for hours on end. He's braver than anyone I've ever met. Can you name one of your friends' sons who would've had the guts to do that? Or who would sit with me for an hour to explain how to read an analogue clock without laughing at me? Or who lets me cry without asking questions because he knows I hate explaining myself?"

Silence crackled in the car.

Her mother's lips parted — but nothing came out.

So Harper filled the space.

"You raised me to care more about perception than truth. To be polished. Obedient. Photogenic. And I'm done."

She reached for the door handle, voice like steel. "You want to send me to Switzerland? Fine. But you'll have to drag me there. Kicking and screaming."

She opened the door, letting in the sharp slap of cold air, and turned back one last time.

"Because I've finally found something that's mine. And I'm not giving it up for you. Not this time."

Then she stepped out of the car and walked back to class.

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munsonsmixtapes · 2 days ago

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Love Letters to You

Eddie Munson x reader

You find Eddie’s journal and realize that he is very much in love with you.

Thanks @the-witty-pen-name for this idea!

You enter Eddie’s cluttered room where you expect to find him, but he’s not there. You figure he’s just late getting home from work so you sit in his room and wait for him. You’re at the point in your relationship where you don’t feel weird doing that anymore. You sometimes even help yourself to a snack while you talk with Wayne.

You feel so comfortable in that little trailer, the place where you spend more time than your own home. And the Munson men always welcome you with open arms because to them, your family. Wayne loves that Eddie’s finally found someone who treats him the way that he deserves. He’s been kicked around quite enough so it’s about time that he got the girl.

You sit on Eddie’s bed, drumming your fingers against your legs as you look around the room for something to entertain you. Your eyes lock on a journal that’s amongst the clutter. You know you shouldn’t, but you reach for it and flip through it. Eddie’s always told you that what’s his is yours and you think that applies here.

You open the journal and it takes you a second to be able to read what it says. As soon as you can make out the words, you feel tears well up in your eyes. You just know it’s about you from the way it’s written. It’s so beautiful, so poetic and you don’t think anyone has ever written anything like this about you.

Our fingers are like puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly. I never thought I’d be able to hold my entire world in my hand, but here you are.

You feel so lucky to have found someone like Eddie. Everyone else always thinks of him as this evil person, but how could someone evil write something so sweet like this? This just further proves that he’s not at all like what they say.

Your voice is the perfect song. The kind that I want to play at full volume as I cruise down the highway with the windows down on a warm summer day.

You flip through the pages and they're all filled with little poems and lyrics-all about you. You seem to be the only thing that lives in his head and it warms your heart to have someone who thinks so highly of you.

My entire life I never felt like I had a place to call home. Then I looked into your eyes and realized that home isn’t a place, but rather a feeling. And that’s what I feel like when I’m with you.

You’re so engrossed in what you’re reading that you don’t even hear Eddie come in. He just stands in the doorway, looking at you with so much admiration, smiling like an idiot.

He clears his throat and you jump, almost losing your grip on the journal and he just laughs, making his way over to you. He sets the journal on the bed then pulls you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before pulling you in for a hug.

You’re so overcome with all of these different emotions that you can’t help but cry into his shoulder. It’s the happy kind of crying-the kind where you feel so loved, so appreciated.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into his skin and he just rubs your back like always, knowing that this is the best way to soothe you. “I just-I didn’t know you felt that way about me. I mean, you love me?”

“Sweetheart,” he chuckles. “I have loved you since the moment I saw you and I will continue to love you even after I take my last breath. You’re it for me.”

“I love you too,” you reply as he wipes away your tears.

You’re wearing matching grins and neither of you can believe that you actually got this lucky. You know it’s still early, but you’re sure that you’re going to be spending forever together.

“Now c’mon, let’s get washed up. Don’t want to keep Wayne waiting,” he grabs hold of your hand and pulls you into the kitchen where you wash your hands together, giggling as Wayne watches you with a giant smile on his face. He knew the kid would find someone eventually and god is he glad that it’s you.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x gender neutral reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine

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transmutationisms · 9 hours ago

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what does therapy do, in your eyes? i know youve said that like, its a lot of self help platitudes and fairly shallow in a lot of ways (which i generally agree with, thrrapy for me was really only helpful in that i could talk about most things with a person mostly disconnected from my life, and thats about it). but i know there are others who at least feel like they have gotten a lot out of it. why do you think that is? is there a place in your idea of a better system for a person whos job it is to be the person people talk to, or is the fact that exists just kind of a relic of our shitty psychiatric system?

sorry for the long ask, but i assume youve thought more about this topic than me and am curious.

SAID NONJUDGMENTALLY i think people like talking about ourselves i think it feels good and is sometimes useful to boot and we all spend 24/7 locked inside our own heads and we can never truly understand even 5% of whatever is going on in someone else's head and so yeah it feels good to feel understood & cared for. if you are one of the very few people who is materially positioned to experience therapy as a room you voluntarily enter to talk about yourself and your problems, and you like doing this with a specific kind of worker-client professional etiquette, then yea i imagine therapy feels great sometimes.

however i don't really think it makes sense to talk about whether 'therapy' as such would exist in a better world because this ⬆️ is not actually what therapy exists for, this ⬆️ is an incidental output of a system that is designed to medically treat various forms of social non-compliance by interpreting them as evidence of brain diseases. that is not something i want to exist or think is necessary, and if we're not talking about that then we're not actually talking about therapy, despite this website's best efforts to wilfully disregard what it means to medicalise. i do think people will always enjoy talking to each other about their problems and i don't have any opinion on whether that's done with a stranger or not; that seems like mostly a matter of personal preference to me, once we've dispensed with the notion this is some kind of scientific medical treatment that can only be legitimately performed by a trained emotions technician.

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earthsparked · 3 days ago

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There were a lot of sideways looks and mechs falling silent whenever anyone brought up the former Decepticon warlord around you. Even the former ‘cons who historically had a dim view of organics had learned your worth. If the sparkeater incident hadn’t done it, you sneaking onto the bridge through the air vents to stop an accidental self-destruct lockdown and saving everyone’s afts, most certainly had. But Megatron? He hadn’t been there for that.

Rodimus had been the one to say it.

The human is not to be left alone with him. I’m serious! He pointed at you specifically. Do not go near him. He can’t do much to us without his weapons and on a diet of fool’s energon, but one wrong move and we’re down a human. And good luck trying to get any new humans to sign on when they find out he’s on board. We are NOT losing you.

Nobody had actually bothered to ask how you felt about it. Except Rung, of course. And he’d gotten an audial-full from you.

By the time Megatron actually came on board, you’d already more or less decided your course of action. You hadn’t hidden away. You’d walked up to him and looked him in the optic from your enormously different perspectives.

Rodimus had tried to hastily nudge you behind himself with the toe of one of his pedes, but you’d sidestepped him.

You really weren’t sure you could keep the emotion out of your voice if you tried calling him Megatron. There was too much tied up in that name. Instead, you’d called him captain.

Welcome to the Lost Light, Captain. I’m the ship’s human. I’m here to provide services as needed.

And then you’d given him a polite nod and left and gone about your business. Your heart pounding in your chest. You’d felt how his red optics had followed you as Rodimus had jumped in to distract him.

You’d been a child when the worst of the fighting on earth had taken place, but that grey plating was nonetheless a part of the background radiation of the Cybertronians’ presence on your home planet in some early memories. The blurry video, the images in newspapers and on the news.

You knew exactly who he was. You knew exactly what he’d done. That he had not managed to exterminate your species, destroy your world, like he had so many other organic civilizations over the course of the war? You had no illusions that it was out of the goodness of his spark. It was because he’d failed.

Seeing him without his weapons was strange. Seeing him without his purple Decepticon sigil, bearing the red Autobot sigil instead, was even stranger. You had to get Brainstorm to confirm you hadn’t slipped into an alternate reality (again).

Chaos reigns as it always does, and before long you and everyone else gets distracted by the day to day realities of your quest. Megatron proves to be an entirely competent captain. The mechs rally to make sure you’re never alone with him. You spend a lot of time thinking. You wonder how long it will take before you stop flinching at the sound of his voice.

One night it’s really hopping in Swerve’s. Megatron is there, nursing his fool’s energon. You sip your whiskey and coke, and brood.

Finally you shake it off and pull out a credit chit. You push it across the bar to Swerve. You’d say you were getting his attention, but the guy always has at least one optic on you, as if you were a rockstar or somebody important. You weren’t anybody important back home. But you know who you are, and what you stand for.

Swerve, two cubes of the good stuff, please.

He has to cycle his systems, and then checks, Two…cubes..? Little guy, you know you can’t drink energon. Are you feeling okay?

You smile tightly and push the chit closer. Yes, I’m fine, Swerve. Thank you. I didn’t say I was going to drink them.

Oh! he exclaims, and awws at you. Aren’t you sweet! Buying a round for some friends?

He sets to getting the cubes and you wait until he places them down to answer.

No, not tonight. Could you get me another jack and coke, too, please?

You finish your drink and stand up, walking along the bar to where Megatron sits. You can’t even imagine what he’s thinking as you enter his immediate sensory range and his big grey head turns to regard you. You meet the same optics that were the last thing so many people - so many humans as well as mechs - ever saw.

Those are yours. You point to the cubes. They’re too big for me to lift. You’ll have to grab them.

And you thought his attention had been intense before. His gaze sharpens, and his smile is bitter.

Trying to get me killed, human? I admit, it’s rather clever as assassination attempts go. My former lieutenant could have learned a few lessons from you.

You snort and shake your head. I’m not a murderer. And if they wanted you dead after the trial, they should have executed you. But what they’re doing to you, isn’t punishment. This is cruelty. Go get your energon, Captain. It’s even more dangerous out here for a mech not in top condition. And, I’m told Swerve makes the best.

You turn and fight the urge to shudder. Despite your display of courage, you’re very frightened right now, and you know they can all feel it no matter how you try to hide it.

But the trembling anger and disgust is stronger.

Swerve tries to talk you down. In a hushed voice, glancing worriedly between the cubes and Megatron, who still hasn’t moved.

Hey - you can’t - I mean, kiddo, what are you doing? Have you forgotten who he is? What he’s done? This is for everyone’s safety. Especially yours.

You stubbornly sit down, and cradle your drink in your hands, refusing to look at anyone.

I know. I know why he’s here. But I think you may have forgotten why I am here.

Your voice loses its hesitation, becoming every bit as hard as any mech’s armor.

While I am on this ship, this is my ship. While you are on this ship, you are my mechs. While you are my mechs, I don’t let anyone hurt you. I don’t let my mechs starve. I don’t let other people starve my mechs, and call it justice.

You’d examined your contract very, very carefully. Given the nature of the relationship between the handful of humans willing to become ships’ humans, and the huge demand for you on the Cybertronian fleets, those contracts were both highly coveted by captains - and extremely tilted in your favor. Humans liked their independence, and didn’t like being given orders. Your contract reflected this.

Even Ultra Magnus wouldn’t be able to seal up this loophole.

I’m an independent contractor and technically not under Cybertron’s authority. There isn’t shit they can legally do to stop me. It’s not illegal for me to buy some energon and give it away.

Besides.

And if the powers that be don’t like it? What the hell are they going to do? If they wanted authority over him that bad, they could have kept him locked up somewhere they could enforce it.

You give a half-shrug, and toss back your human-sized drink. If anybody complains? Tell them it was me. I want them to know. Tell them to come talk to me. I have plenty to say, and I’d rather say it to their fucking faces.

There’s dead silence in the bar. A feat you’re not sure has ever been accomplished. You feel every optic in the place on you and Megatron. You’re pretty sure you’ve pissed off some friends tonight, or maybe even lost some. (It’ll be a long before it hits you that you might have gained some, unlooked-for, too.)

It’s not that you like Megatron. It’s not that you trust him. It’s not even that you forgive him. It’s that there are things you cannot allow to continue and still be able to look at yourself in the mirror. As it turns out, enforced malnutrition as a condition of prison release is one of them.

Swerve’s a good guy, and he leaves you alone about it after that. Even if he keeps hovering a little.

The silence doesn’t last long. There’s some muttering, some surprised exclamations. The mood has shifted, and you decide you don’t want to be here anymore. Setting down a tip, you take the human-sized walkway down to the ground and grab the scooter you use to get around the massive hallways. Leaving Megatron and the cubes behind.

- - -

author’s note: obviously this happens in a scenario where the human is not “in” on the whole fool’s energon thing. Wouldn’t have been told the secret.

#transformers x human #transformers x reader #human distribution system #megatron x reader #swerve x reader #humans are space (ship) cats

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captain-huggy-bear · 1 day ago

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Hi!! I just had a thought for Clayton or Kess that I had to share. Reader who either has a concussion or amnesia after surgery forgetting that they’re dating and being so flustered when he’s acting like a boyfriend. Sorry if this didn’t make sense. It just came to mind and I had to share! 🫶🏼

Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 (We're nearly at request reopening time though) Writing Masterlist

He was warned that you might be a bit confused when you finally came round from your surgery. Specifically he was warned that the anaesthesia might make your memory a bit fuzzy. You might not remember that you'd come in for surgery on your knee or that you had a problem at all in the first place.

So when you wake up to him sat next to you, your hand clasped in both of his own and stare at him like he's an alien, your mouth open, eyes wide, he doesn't take it too personally.

"Hey, baby..." His voice is sickly sweet, soft, oh so soft, and you're so confused because Clayton Keller did not call you baby...he barely even talked to you. Your cheeks grow hot, blood rushing to your face. "How you doing, sweetheart?"

"I...what happened?" You try not to let it get to you, the pet names, the sickly sweet tone, the soft eyes. You try not to think about how your hand is definitely growing sweaty and clammy from nerves where Clayton is holding it because when did he hold your hand? When did Clayton Keller even look at you, let alone touch you? Last you checked you just happened to exist in the same circle as him, just that girl who happened to be friends with Michael...why wasn't Michael here instead?

"You had your knee surgery, baby, remember?"

"Wha'?" You're getting so confused that you're starting to get emotional, tears coming to the surface, bottom lip wobbling and it has Clay shushing you, moving from his chair to the bed with you. He tugs you into his arms and you freeze like a deer in headlights.

"You okay, baby? What's wrong?" He knows you don't remember the surgery, that bit is obvious, but you're not acting like you normally would around him. Your face is fully flushed, nervous breathing, muscles tense like being this close to him is making you nervous. You haven't been nervous around him for months now.

"Why are you calling me that? You never call me that..." You tug away from him, enough to put space between you because Clayton Keller does not cuddle you. Not in your wildest dreams.

"Baby...I call you that all the time?" He's a little hurt actually, confused too now, because he calls you baby all the time. He barely calls you by your name anymore, in fact you tell him off if he calls you anything but a pet name. You get offended that you've been downgraded to your actual name.

"No you don't. You barely even talk to me...."

"Y/N, I'm you're boyfriend. We live together." It's like a bomb has been dropped, your face paling, body freezing up even further because that's not possible. Clayton Keller barely talked to you, let alone dated you. You still lived with Michael as your roommate...

"No you're not. No we don't..."

"Yeah, we do, see..." He gets his phone out. The lock screen is the two of you, you kissing his cheek while he grins the goofiest, widest smile possible. His dog is at your feet. He unlocks his phone and goes to his camera roll and each photo confuses you even more.

Pictures of you in your PJs on the couch, pictures of the two of you cuddling, kissing, holding hands, pictures together curled up in bed...Pictures at the beach. Pictures at dinner. Pictures upon picture of you and Clayton clearly together, clearly in a relationship. Not something he could just fake.

"You're my boyfriend?"

"Yeah, baby, have been for 8 months now...you don't remember?"

"Noooo..." You're starting to get teary again, drawing out the word, "Why don't I remember?" Your distress is from your sudden realisation that you've forgotten 8 months or more of your life.

"Hey, hey, baby...it's okay...the doctors said you might be confused for a bit. It's just the meds, it'll wear off." He tries to reassure you but he's also reassuring himself a little. A tiny bit scared you might actually have forgotten him forever...although if you have he's determined to make you fall in love with him all over again.

"You promise?"

"Of course, baby, c'mere..." Clay's quick to pull you back into his arms, cheek pressing against the top of your head as he rocks you. "You're going to be okay...oh, baby." He's babying you, he knows he is, but he also can't comprehend how scary it must be for you. You can't remember nearly a year of your life and even if that's temporary that's scary.

To add to that he's here. To him you're his long term girlfriend, but to you? To you he's a guy who could barely talk to you for months and acted disinterested because he liked you so much he got too nervous to talk to you. To you he's the unapproachable captain of your friend's hockey team. He's a guy you barely speak too...and he's here calling you sweet names and telling you you're living with him.

So yeah, he babies you, and yeah when you start to cry he holds you tighter...because this isn't about him, it's about you and how scared and confused you are right now. His job as your partner isn't to get upset or angry that you can't remember him, it's to help regulate you, to help you feel safe when everything you know is unsteady and unstable.

#clayton keller x reader #huggy bear writes #clayton keller/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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oldtranswoman · 2 days ago

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nah nah nah nah nah, this thing about seeing "non passing" people irl and thinking theyre the other gender? cap. actually, more often than not, *many* people get attracted to "closeted"(or "non passing") trans people and think theyre another sexuality or that this attraction is an exception.

by that it mostly reminds me of that one time we had one of our best friends being a transwoman (who told us later into the friendship. and also clocked my guys as transmasc right away even though our body was very fem presenting lol-) and how we got alterous attraction to her, but it felt different than the attraction our system had with men? (attraction is complicated anyway, but this felt like "fem attraction" for some reason lol)

by that i mean. maybe people are just psychics and mindreaders subconsciously? but regardless. many just know the feels and vibes of a woman, and get attracted for who you are. it does really feel different, and most attraction is actually gender driven, not sex or aesthetic driven. so yeah, usually someone's subconscious Just Knows most of the time. it happens way too often to be a coincidence.

rambling aside (because i remembered that interesting phenomenon), i dont know you as much personally as your husband does, but im pretty sure youre wrong with all those points negatively targeted at yourself.

plus even if you look like "a cis guy" or masculine, thats just. how some women are? regardless of if theyre cis or trans. people just feel forced most of the time to label people a certain way if its deemed "too masculine" by the average. which is a stupid thing that can make either cis or trans people be misgendered if they check certain imaginary boxes of what "the appearance" of either binary gender should look like. theres like, infinite ways to be x gender(s), it just so happens that in this point in time, place, and ethnicity(?) those boxes are oddly placed. but i guess im not telling you anything new huh.

but what i mean is that, people are just told and lowkey forced to think that xyz characteristics should be associated with a man/woman, and that actually doesnt necessarily reflect their thoughts either? its such messed up bullshit and i think most people just do it by habit because its passed from generation to generation from a young age, rather from them critically/actively/consciously thinking "oh, that must be a man".

but then again all that might mean nothing, because i in fact have the exact same concerns as you now that i think about it. but again, i still think a good amount of people can clock the right gender on others, they just mostly go "oh, this person has xyz characteristics, i dont think theyre x gender but I'll use those pronouns because thats what ive been taught is socially acceptable". even if they mostly think that internally and may not actually stay on that point for long.

i dont know. i think i might be trying too hard to solve an issue about feelings and emotions with logic and that, may not be the right thing to do or the right approach, in fact. will it help to say that, despite all your fears people actually can and will genuinely see you as a woman despite those characteristics? if you dont trust your own experiences, at least listen to mine. i have had so many of my headmates- well actually probably all of them, collectively deciding to use she/her almost all the time despite me using he/she officially, because they just saw my emotional reaction to it and, i guess also could literally see my gender (perks of being in the same brain i guess smh/lh). and all that while i was still one foot in the closet and trying to convince myself that i didnt mind being seen as a man either. and the only times they accidentally use he for me, it never sits right for them and feels a bit like taking a coke bottle but finding out its actually filled with orange juice. yet again, perks of being in the same brain i guess and i can see their thoughts (which i know cant be applied in outersys relationships, but my point is if people usually think that way they probably think that way outside too). basically if they use the wrong pronouns it's never after an active logical conscious thought of "this person fits the mould of a man so im gonna call them a man", it's mostly either habit because they used another pronoun for you in the past or because they are socially expected to/used to. and well, even if thats not 100% of people's thought process, i feel its a good majority at least. just. people understand gender with vibes most of the time you know? not even with appearance. you may think that many people dont actually see you as a woman, but i think the truth is they still somewhat get it, even if theyre not used to that feeling or to listen to those vibes because that feeling is very often associated with xyz physical attributes that theyve been taught to associate with it.

mh. that's. actually a super long post. so sorry about that. its probably a useless addition anyway. you can ignore it its fine. i just really wanted to try and help, since you are someone i like and respect and who is having similar issues as me. and knowing that i would probably succumb to those thoughts if i didnt have support all around me, i dont like seeing those thoughts get to you. so umh. listen to your husband, and those around you. as much as your mind may make you think that theyre lying or wrong, i assure you theyre simply reflecting the truth.

Maladaptive deeply held belief: nobody could ever love me. Im going to die alone

Positive counterthought: maybe someone has an exceptionally rare form of mental illness that would cause them to make the grave mistake of wanting to fuck me

#rb #why did i try to math my way out of gender dysphoria and self hating thoughts i have no idea.

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goldfades · 2 days ago

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congrats on 6k, love!!

'Thinking back on the good times and going in a dark loop again because maybe nothing will be the same again and all due to a petty mistake of yours' / 'As you stare at the ceiling watching the fan spin, echoing your mind spinning in dark spirals, stuck as if in a loop, you realise there is nothing much you can do' with paige bueckers, please? preferably angsty, with plot (no smut) and have sad/open ended ending

have a lovely week! <3

thank you so much, baby! i hope you enjoy<3

warnings: fuckboy paige!!!! this is lowkey my favorite trope, call me crazy but the angst and toxicity makes me spin (i need therapy desperately). lots of angst (NO HAPPY ENDING!!), undefined relationship, emotional spiral, heartbreak, gaslighting (im a psych major what do we expect), no comfort, internal monologue hell

It started with the little things.

Like how Paige would always dribble the ball twice before every free throw, not one more, not one less. Or how she’d find you in the crowd during warmups even when the arena was loud and stupidly full because she said it calmed her down, like checking in with gravity. She'd smile, real small, just with her eyes, and you’d feel like you were watching the sunrise in real time.

You weren’t dating, technically but you also weren’t not. It was complicated in that very specific, slow-burning, college athlete way. Where the days blurred into practice and travel and recovery and the only constants were the ache in your legs and the way Paige’s knee would bump yours under cafeteria tables, like a little secret. You’d known her since freshman year, back when she still wore that silver chain everywhere and had that stupidly cocky smirk like she knew the future and was already bored by it.

You started actually seeing Paige the summer before junior year, back when things were easier: hazy days that smelled like sunscreen and campus gym floors, all cracked sneakers and sweat-drenched playlists. She was already a name, already moving like she had something to prove like she knew the whole world was watching and couldn’t quite decide whether to love her or wait for her to fall.

You? You were just orbiting her brilliance, trying not to burn.

It started as a summer thing.

You told yourself that a thousand times. Late-night texts turned into late-night drives and somehow you were at a park at 2AM, your legs thrown over hers on a graffitied picnic table, passing a bottle back and forth and talking about everything except what you really wanted to say. She made you laugh in the way only people with walls too high and smiles too sharp can. The kind of laughter that hurts after. You knew, even then, it wasn’t harmless.

But she kissed you one night. That changed things.

It was after an open gym scrimmage. You stayed after to ice your ankle, she stayed after because, well, you never really asked. She sat next to you on the training table and your skin was still hot from the scrimmage and the lights in the facility had already dimmed like the world was giving you permission. You said something stupid, something about how she always acted like she was untouchable, and she leaned in and kissed you mid-sentence.

Soft. Quick. Like a dare.

And from then on, it was something.

Not official, not labeled, God forbid either of you admit that. But she started coming over more. Leaving her slides by your door. Sleeping in your bed and stealing your hoodies and scrolling through your playlists like she had a right to them. You went to her games, even when you told yourself not to. She texted you good luck before every exam and called you “baby” when no one was listening. She'd kiss you slow in the back seat of her car and then pull away like it didn’t mean anything, like it was normal.

And yeah, she had a past. Everyone knew that. Paige didn’t do “simple.” She didn’t belong to anyone, at least not before you. But that summer, she told you you were the only one. She said it on the hood of your car, stargazing in a Wendy’s parking lot of all places. You’d joked about being a cliché and she just stared at you, dead serious and said, “I’m not talking to anyone else, okay? It’s just you.”

You believed her. And maybe that’s the part you can’t forgive yourself for.

Because fall came. And with it, the whispers.

At first it was subtle.

She stopped replying as fast. Said she was “busy” more often. But she still showed up to your apartment late, still fell asleep on your chest like everything was fine. You let the doubts sit quietly in the back of your throat. She was under pressure. She had media to deal with, scouts watching, expectations she never asked for. Of course she was distracted.

But then you saw the messages. You hadn’t meant to. It wasn’t snooping, not really. She’d left her phone unlocked on your counter while she was in the shower. You were getting water. And her screen lit up. A name you didn’t recognize. A heart emoji.

You shouldn’t have looked. But you did.

And what you found was a month’s worth of late-night texts. Pictures. Inside jokes. Too familiar. Too much. You couldn’t breathe.

She lied, of course. Said it was nothing. Said it was old. Said you were overreacting. You wanted to believe her. You tried to believe her. But the pit in your stomach wouldn’t go away. The way she wouldn’t meet your eyes. The way she changed the subject.

And then you saw them together.

In the locker room hallway after a game. You weren’t supposed to be there but you had a credential pass and too much hope. She didn’t see you. She was laughing — that laugh, the one she used when she was trying to charm someone. And the other girl touched her arm like it wasn’t the first time. Paige didn’t move away. Didn’t flinch.

You didn’t say anything that night. You just left.

She called. You ignored it. She texted. You read it and put your phone facedown. For a few days, she blew up your notifications. But she never said the right thing. Never apologized. Not really. Just “you’re being dramatic” and “it’s not like we ever defined it” and “you knew what this was.”

But she promised. And maybe that was your real mistake, thinking a promise from her meant something solid.

Now, it’s been three weeks.

No contact. No explanations. Just silence and old memories echoing through your head. You keep thinking about that night in the Wendy’s parking lot. About the way she looked at you like you were gravity, like maybe she was scared you were the one thing she couldn’t outrun.

You don’t know what hurts more — the betrayal or the way she’s pretending it never mattered.

The campus feels colder now, even though it’s spring. You still expect to see her walking out of practice, earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped. You still hear her voice sometimes in the hallway outside your class. And every time your phone buzzes, there’s a split second where your heart lifts, just in case it’s her.

It never is. And maybe that’s the answer right there.

Maybe it was always going to end like this. Not with a fight, not with a slammed door but with a slow unraveling that leaves you sitting in the middle of a life that still looks the same on the outside. Still your room. Still your clothes. Still your routines. But none of it fits the way it used to.

You don’t know how to explain the loss of something that never had a name.

But it feels like mourning just the same.

She showed up unannounced.

It was raining, the kind of cold spring drizzle that soaks into your sleeves and makes your skin ache. You were on the couch, barely functioning, stale coffee on the table and a blanket tangled around your knees like a half-hearted attempt at comfort. She didn’t knock like someone who was sorry, she knocked like someone who still thought she had the right.

You opened the door because part of you wanted to see if she’d look guilty. She didn’t. Her face was drawn, sure, a little tired around the edges but there was still something smug behind her eyes, something stubborn that made you want to scream.

“You’re really not gonna talk to me?” she said, brushing past you like this was her place. Like she hadn’t cracked your trust clean in half. “You just ghost me now?”

You stared at her. “Are you serious?”

She scoffed. Dropped her duffel on the floor like she planned to stay. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. That girl, she’s nothing. We were just talking. You know how people talk to me.”

Just talking.

Like the texts. Like the way she laughed with her. Like the hand on her arm. Like the emoji-laced messages that went too far.

Like all of it meant nothing.

“You lied,” you said, your voice shaking, but not with fear, with something sharper. Anger with nowhere to land. “You told me it was just me. You looked me in the face and said that.”

“I didn’t do anything with her,” she said, folding her arms. Defensive, dismissive. “God, you’re being dramatic. You knew what this was.”

That word again. Dramatic. As if your feelings were just noise to tune out.

Something cracked inside you.

“No,” you snapped. “I knew what I thought this was. I thought it was something real. I thought maybe you weren’t just using me to feel better after games or when you didn’t want to be alone.”

She looked like you slapped her. But you didn’t feel bad. Not even a little.

You kept going. “I let you in. I let you stay and the second it got hard, the second you had to be honest, you ran.”

“Jesus, you act like I cheated on you,” she muttered.

“I act like someone who believed you!” you snapped back.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, it was hollow. She shifted, tried to fill it, but there was nothing left for her to grab. Not anymore.

You pointed to the door. “Get out.”

She didn’t move. “You’re really gonna do this?”

Your eyes burned, but you held them steady. “You already did.”

She left without another word.

You didn’t cry. Not at first. You just stood in the middle of your apartment, shaking, staring at the dent her bag left in the carpet. The silence after the door shut felt deafening. Her absence screamed louder than her presence ever did.

That was two days ago.

Now, you’re staring at the ceiling again. Watching the fan spin slowly in its quiet rhythm. It creaks every so often, a soft groan like it’s struggling under the weight of doing the same thing over and over and over. You know the feeling.

Your phone is upside down on the nightstand. You turned off notifications hours ago. You can’t bring yourself to turn them back on.

The room is dim, just the dull blue glow of the outside world leaking through the curtains. Your blanket is twisted around your legs again. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept.

As you stare at the ceiling watching the fan spin, echoing your mind spinning in dark spirals, stuck as if in a loop, you realize there is nothing much you can do.

The worst part is the doubt.

The tiny, gnawing thought that maybe you did overreact. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe everyone talks to people like that. Maybe she didn’t mean to hurt you. Maybe you’re just too sensitive.

And just like that, you’re back there again. Thinking back on the good times and going in a dark loop again because maybe nothing will be the same again and all due to a petty mistake of yours.

You think about her laying next to you, her hair damp after a shower, her voice low and tired when she whispered, “I don’t let people in like this.”

You think about her squeezing your hand under the table when her team lost and everyone was looking to her for answers she didn’t have.

You think about the way she looked at you, sometimes, like you were the one thing she hadn’t yet figured out how to win.

It was real, wasn’t it?

You keep rerunning every second of it. Reframing, rewriting, asking yourself where you went wrong. Was it too much to ask her to be honest? Too much to expect exclusivity from someone who couldn’t even define what you were?

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. She lied. That’s the truth. And it wasn’t petty. It wasn’t some tiny, forgettable mistake. It was a choice. A conscious, repeated choice to hide someone else from you while convincing you you were the only one.

Still, your chest aches like you’re missing a limb, like you’ve been carved out and left empty.

You replay the fight in your head over and over. Her voice, the disbelief in it. The mockery. The way she walked out like it didn’t kill her too.

You wonder if it did kill her. If she’s laying somewhere right now, in her stupid grey hoodie, staring at her own ceiling, wondering what she threw away. Or if she’s already moved on. If she’s with her. If she’s laughing again. Smiling that smile like none of it touched her. Like you didn’t touch her.

The loop keeps spinning. You can’t make it stop.

Maybe you’re the fool. For trusting her. For loving her without a net. For thinking someone like Paige Bueckers, someone so golden, so watched, so relentlessly desired, could ever just be yours.

You close your eyes and all you see is her.

That stupid chain around her neck. The lopsided grin when she beat you at Mario Kart. The way she said your name like it was a secret, like it was sacred. The way she whispered “I’m not good at this, but I’m trying” into your shoulder after her worst game of the season.

You wanted to believe her. You did believe her.

And now?

Now you’re left with silence.

You check your phone. No new texts. No calls.

You want to reach out. You don’t.

You want to scream. You don’t.

You want to stop thinking. You can’t.

The fan keeps spinning. The ceiling stays still. Time drags on without meaning.

You wonder if she’ll ever come back.

You wonder if you’ll let her in again if she does, and that scares you more than anything.

Because maybe you would. Maybe you’d let her sit on your couch again and lie to you again, and kiss you like nothing ever broke. Maybe you’d believe her all over again because the idea of letting go hurts more than staying hurt.

Maybe that’s what love really is sometimes. A quiet ache you learn to live with.

The fan spins. And you stay still. Waiting for a version of the story that doesn’t end like this.

But it never comes.

my 6k celly!

#evangeline's 6k celly!#paige bueckers #paige bueckers uconn #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers smut #wbb x reader #wbb imagine #wbb fic #wnba basketball #dallas wings #wnba x reader #wcbb x reader #ncaa wbb

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luvyeni · 2 days ago

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you’re crazy , baby i know ๑. ( 엔하이픈 )

[ req? yes / no ]

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ─── yandere! enhypen a reactions to you call them crazy and lashing out on them …

( 対 ) ot7!enhypen + fem. reader wc. 0.6k genre angst , yandere · contains! dark themes , suggestive themes in heeseung mature content. / back to library

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 yeni’s note .ᐟ little bit of yandere for the people …

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 정원 : jungwon ﹚ .ᐟ

you think he’s crazy? he’s gonna show you crazy. he gonna go mad and give you a reason for calling him crazy. “you think i’m crazy?” he shouts slamming the glass down on the floor making you shriek. “a narcissist are you serious?” he laughs , but like a crazy one. when you try and runaway , just trying to leave him be, he grabs your hand. “you want crazy ? do you really want too crazy?” he said gripping your wrist. “because trust me i can show you it , but trust me you aren’t strong enough for that.”

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 희승 : heeseung ﹚ .ᐟ

he just smiles , because he knows; heeseung knows what he’s doing is wrong , he just doesn’t care. he loves making you get to that breaking point , smiling in joy as you finally snap; throwing things , breaking things around as you scream about how crazy he is and how much you hate him. “yeah?” he says coolly. “what else baby , tell me everything.” he knows it will drive you even more crazy with the way he’s talking .. and he loves it , it turns him on almost every time.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 제이 : jay ﹚ .ᐟ

he doesn’t care; in fact he watches you with so much disinterest just letting you go on and on about how you think he’s a narcissist. once you stop talking , he just goes. “are you done?” it throws you through a hoop of emotions on how uninterested he was. “are you even sure what you’re saying? do even know what those words mean?” he makes you feel stupid. “crazy ? you’re the one screaming like a crazy person right now. he will gaslight the fuck out of you , until even you believe you’re the crazy one.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 제이크 : jake ﹚ .ᐟ

so you hate him and you want him to die? because that’s what he hears , if you loved him you wouldn’t be insulting him like this. “why would you say that?” he’s a crybaby , so he’s full on sobbing when you say this. “i’m not crazy, please don’t say that.” he’s literally begging you to take it back , he’ll drive himself insane with the way he begs for you to take it back. “don’t call me crazy , i’m not crazy , i just love you , i love you so much , why are you saying that.” he’s a messx

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 성훈 : sunghoon ﹚ .ᐟ

much like jay; he doesn’t care what you’re calling him, but how dare you raise your voice at him. throwing and breaking things? oh you’re really asking for it. grabbing your wrist to stop you from slamming the vase down. “say what the fuck you want , i really don’t care.” he wrestles the vase out your hand , tossing it on the couch. “but breaking shit and yelling at me? baby you’re the crazy one here.” he said , gritting through his teeth. “because i’m being nice , i can show you the true definition of crazy if you fucking want me to.”

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 선우 : sunoo ﹚ .ᐟ

this might actually trigger him; like this might actually make him snap and go crazy. he thrives on your opinion of him and if you think he’s crazy he’s going overthink it to the point it actually drives him fucking nuts. “you’re crazy!” you shouted at him? you think he’s crazy , he fucking spirals out of control , to the point he’s throwing shit and crying about how could you say such awful things about him , even though he’s showing you the exact reason why.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 니키 : ni-ki ﹚ .ᐟ

complete opposite to heeseung , he hates this , because in ni-ki’s eyes … he’s not doing anything wrong , so how dare you speak to him in such a way? but like he’s also kinda of amused , he’s conflicted… he might let you go off , smiling watching you make a fool of yourself but when he gets tired of the insults and the throwing and breaking stuff he just grabs you , pushing you down. “enough , okay? you’re on thin fucking ice already.”

©️LUVYENI

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02lvr · 2 days ago

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stay quiet for me, would you? — sjy!

synopsis; jaeyun likes his neighbor a little too much, and he's bad at expressing his emotions. what could go wrong when all he does is look for you when he's drunk? — childhood friends/neighbors au!; desperate! jake x neighbor reader (smut, angst, somewhat fluff if you squint)

warnings — slow unprotected sex (wrap it!), drunk/needy (sub!) jake, everything's consensual, jay mention (friends), jake that overthinks everything and treats it like a situationship, and reader that doesn't know how to talk to jake.

note; everything's obvs fictional and for vibes! (didn't proofread ^^)

jake at 5. a studious kid who wanted to be everything that fit in his tiny mind at the time.

jake at 15. a kid from a rich family who played soccer with everyone because that's what he thought he was good at.

and jake at 22. a boy that covered his mouth after begging you to come to his house due to "an emergency" with layla when he wasn't aware of what to do (which wasn't a lie) but was a lie when you two ended up fucking in his closet because he was so unbearably needy that he didn't hear his parents come home late that night.

because childhood friends aren't supposed to be making out at 2am because he called you to fix his problem after he got so drunk with his friends that he ended up confessing everything. so, jake that would pretend like nothing happened when he saw you outside because he's so afraid of how dirty to might think of him for wanting to fuck his neighbor any chance he got.

until you two ended up hiding in his closet becaues of how needy he got. a childhood friend that was so in love with you but his dick was much more brave than him to confess. a loser. "don't make any noise, please, my pretty?" as he covered your mouth and forced himself in, closing his eyes at how tight it felt at this time.

and jake that would feel so embarrassed to confess about how he feels after that until he goes to your front door one night when nobody is home and kisses you like he's leaving tomorrow.

"you're the prettiest one for me, right baby?"

jake that would lie on his back staring at the window as he heard everyone outside, but he was too afraid to go outside. it had been two weeks since he last saw you. a little too long but a little too short to miss someone that he didn't date.

so, he would go on walks anywhere and everywhere until it got dark, and jay would drive him back home, asking each time why he walked for so long, knowing that jay lived far away. but how was he going to explain what you and him were? you're not dating. he's someone that wanted to fuck his neighbor and now that they left back to their hometown, he regrets it a lot- until jake got drunk.

12 hours were all that they gave him until he would call you asking to meet, unaware that you were so far, but you really weren't. you were home but not in the usual house next to jake's, but rather sleeping in the city for an event that took a huge amount of your time. but jaeyun missed you.

he liked the name jaeyun more than jake because when you called him jaeyun it made him feel a bit warm than jake. but all jake did was look for you when he was hard because how is he supposed to explain that an occurrence once didn't mean that he saw you as a one-night stand but rather someone that he's so in love with that he took painting classes in order to learn how to portray you through art.

so jake, that would force you to sit in front of him when he gets so drunk that jay has no choice but to call you, claiming that he didn't remember anyone's number but yours when it was actually the first contact that appeared when jay opened jake's phone. and jake that would sit in front of you with a lovesick look on his face as he traced your face, taking his time because maybe if he did, then time could stop for a moment.

"i kinda missed you, you know?" but jake avoided eye contact right after because of the serious look that you gave him, unsure of how to take his comment.

"let's get you to bed jaeyun." and jake, that would make himself heavier in his seat in order to avoid being carried to bed since he wanted to spend more time with you.

"you know, i liked the way you kissed me. it makes me feel that you actually like me back." jake that would say that but feel so much guilt the next morning when he would wake up and see you on the floor next to his bed. so he'd get up faster than a phone call and force you to sit on his bed because while you did avoid him, you still listened to him.

so jake that would sit you on his kitchen counter taking his time with you, holding your face while slowly going down to your neck and whimpering because of how sensitive he felt while you pulled on his hair. he swore he spent so much on every detail on your skin that the cookies in the oven were burnt 20 minutes ago but he could relive this moment every time because he wasn't sure on when you'd trust him like this again.

because all he did was turn off the oven and spend his time eating you out while you covered your mouth in case the neighbors heard you. but all jake wanted was to see you in more ways than just naked in his bed.

"i wish you could trust me a little bit more my pretty. stay quiet for me before my parents come home baby."

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theaxolotlkween · 3 days ago

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Okay. So. I had to process this information. I think I'm still processing it a bit, not as much as I was initially, but like. Fucking hell.

So first I feel like I need to start with the obvious. I know that this is fiction. When I describe the experiences and stuff as if it is real, I am aware that this is fiction. That this never actually happened. But it's more in the spirit of the fact that, by participating in the story, you kind of become a character. So I guess I'm writing it from a "character" perspective, but also from a third person perspective a bit as well? I also might not entirely understand what exactly this is saying, I have been having some neurological issues lately. Also spoilers for The Social Experiments, obviously. Anyway, here we go.

I've been wanting to talk about the experience of having participated in The Social Experiments for quite some time now. It's been hard to put into words because I don't exactly remember them, but I remember mostly how I felt at the time. I don't know exactly if I can explain it, either—I've never exactly been the best at quantifying my feelings and my memory's gotten a bit screwy since then, so bear with me here. But so far I've not forgotten the feelings I felt, especially if I rewatch the actual VODs. I remember being a bit confused at first at the comedy aspect of it. It can be difficult to remember that there was a time before TSE, that there was a time before we knew exactly how things worked, what exactly the story was, not knowing about the Founder or the Hetch, all of that, back when the Lostfield Incident was being teased and talked about and theorised on, all that. But there was. I remember some emotional ups and downs at first, loving the comedy, Christian Hell is still one of my favourite jokes, frustration at that one tube puzzle in episode two (did it break? I think it broke), and then there was that gut punch of a finale. I don't remember if this is how it actually went, because unfortunately I can't find any chat messages from myself in the VOD, I think I was just too shocked to process it and type anything. Again, I am not the greatest at expressing feelings. But this is what I remember happening:

I remember feeling shocked, maybe a bit betrayed. We did everything right, didn't we? The Hero found the button! They should've exited! Why was this happening? Did we do something wrong?

I remember the choices. Live or Die. Well, obviously the choice is Live, right? We've been trying to save the Hero all this time, surely we're meant to pick Live? But... Die is there. Why is there Die? The chat exploded with a way to save the Hero; get it 50/50. Break the game, try to take control, to do something! Of course, no one knew at the time how accurate the vote was. No one knew at the time that there could never be a true 50/50. There was not a secret third option, no way that we could save him, nothing we could choose other than Live or Die.

I remember thinking, even in my blind hope that there was something we could do, wait, this doesn't make sense. What would us getting the vote to 50/50 even do? Was that even a real option? It didn't make sense. And then the Hetch dropped the bomb. There was no saving them. Not really. Not in the way we wanted to. The Hero could Live, forced for eternity to be put into these experiments, these stories. Bound to a fate of life eternal in this endless (not Christian) hell. Or, at least, until he no longer had a use. Or, we could kill them. We could end this. But he would Die. There wasn't an escape from this.

I don't remember if I initially picked Live. I don't think I did, but I can't remember. I just remember that, in the end, I picked Die. I know I did. The box slammed shut. The curtains closed. The mousetrap went off. And this time there wasn't a piece missing.

And that's how I learned that I was capable of killing someone if it came down to it. Great lesson to take away from all this, definitely information to learn about oneself, thank you RanbooLive! Or, I guess canonically, the Founder? The Hetch??? Idk. Either one of them, I suppose. It was a bit of a team effort kind of? Not really? Anyway...

I tend to joke a lot about TSE as "that one time I killed someone live on Twitch", and the tape of The Founder's Cut I bought is "the home video of that one time I killed someone live on Twitch" because, honestly, yeah. It's a pretty fun and silly thing to say. But at that point in that story, fully immersed, I felt bad. I didn't necessarily want to kill the Hero, who had been through so much. In character, I wanted this character to know that I didn't blame him for the part he played, that I didn't think they were a monster, et cetera, et cetera. Of course, when TFC came out, the ending hurt even more. If being there was a gut punch, then TFC removed my rib cage and its associated organs with that swing.

That, I think, brings us to now. All this information. I have been focusing mostly on the Hero in having to process this, because even though if you think about TFG, the Audience is responsible for all the deaths just by watching, but the Hero's death is the only one I feel culpable for. All the other information here is sickening as well. From the perspective of someone that is observing the story as an observer and one of whom's special interests is storytelling and being a sucker for those involving the nature of choice, I love this. I love how sickening this is.

However, from the point of view of someone who was there, someone who tried to save this person in the only way he knew how, from the point of view of my, well, character, I guess, it made me ill. It made me a little angry. I might be reading this wrong, because yeah, I might be reading thing wrong, anyone is capable of doing so, but to me the implication is that the Hero's corpse is still being used. Maybe I'm confusing the concept of "every time you watch TSE the story happens again" with the concept of "the Hero's corpse is now being puppeted in other shows and stuff too", because that's a thing that could be going on. But it got me thinking, did my choices actually matter? Did I really make the right choice? Can there be a right choice if you don't have all the information? If you don't know what all the consequences will be? There was never any way to save the Hero, though. Not really. Their brain was full of wires, and his mask was sewn onto his face. There really wasn't an escape for them. There never was. Was it still the right choice, then, if his corpse is still being used, Frank-style? At least they aren't alive for it, right?

My actual self, the one obsessed with stories and how they work and are told and the philosophy of choice, is, of course, eating this all up. My "character" self, the one part of the Audience and involved in GenLoss, is, of course, disgusted and maybe even angry. But that's the beauty of Generation Loss, isn't it? You get to be a character, an active participant in a story, one of many, and you get to be here, too. Maybe the reason it's hard to explain my feelings about Generation Loss because it's not really something I've experienced before. Active involvement in a story that hits all the right beats for me. Not just reading or watching, but doing. Participating.

So, thanks for that story two years ago that completely changed my brain chemistry and that I wrote this long-ass post about. I can't wait to see what's in store in Gen 0, and the rest of the story. I have a lot of other thoughts about Generation Loss that I could infodump about, thoughts that I can only say, "hey, someone should make a video essay about that" about it's me, I'm the someone that should make a video essay about that

Also we know that the symbol is called the hetch now so that's cool.

Now, here's a couple GenLoss drawings I did awhile back because I like these a lot and didn't have the time/energy/cognitive function to draw anything new as a reward for sticking to the end of this insufferably long post:

Happy Anniversary

#i was going to go through each section of information and write my thoughts about it after my initial musings on the experience #but then talking about the experience got so long-winded that i decided not to #i still might though idk #legit after i first heard the news i did ruminate for about an hour on the nature of my decisions and the consequences of my actions #and that was maybe three or four hours before i typed up this monstrosity #to ranboo if you have the misfortune of reading this #sorry i know this post is... a lot #but it's what you get for making me kill you that one time #but like. fictionally. in fiction.#generation loss #genloss #generation loss fanart #genloss fanart #gl ranboo #the founder #the social experiments #ranboolive #ranboo #ranboo fanart

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studiogrimm810 · 1 day ago

Text

Hate What You Do To Me

// Est. Dean Winchester x you

summary: dean has been unable to understand the emotions he feels when he's with you so he defaults to pushing you away to avoid the creeping ache in his chest, that is until he jarringly realizes what those feeling actually mean and decides to act on that // 2.1k // base content: quick enemies to lovers vibes, protective dean, make-out scene

A/N: pulling this one from the vault cause i’ve got nothing else to post atm😎 (i am completely wrapped up in a series i’m working on heheh)

He can’t do this right now. Watching your lips part to welcome the rim of an icy beer is fucking killing him. He could deck Bobby just for thinking of inviting you.

God, you.

You got under his skin and prickled like barbed wire, anchoring deep into his bones and refusing to escape his subconscious. He hated the feeling, of which he had no name for, that you awoke in his chest. It was his best guess that it was anxiety or maybe a type of annoyance he had never experienced before, whatever it was, he hated it.

Your laugh echoes through the room as Sam tells some joke that makes Dean roll his eyes. The belt of your joy only worsens the ache in his chest and he wonders if a hatred this deep was actually a common occurrence or rather a special instance for people like you.

Your voice is sweet and misleading, as if you were actually as kind and innocent as your tone insinuates. He’s not falling for it. He’s especially not falling for the warm gaze you give him that makes his stomach clench and ricochet like a ping-pong ball in his abdomen. He swears his lungs even cinch when your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“Well that’s what I tried to tell him, but he was not having it,” Sam shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. You laugh simply out of a polite response, but it seems Dean’s cold glare has affected your mood. He was surprised when the reaction didn’t cause him pride but instead.. shame?

“Maybe next time you just give ‘em my number like you’re s’posed to,” Bobby grumbles, fingering the neck of his beer to bring to his lips.

Voices continue to carry but it’s mellowed down to just Sam and Bobby. The buzz under Dean's skin is almost numbing, like he missed your contributions. Of course, not because he actually liked listening to you speak, but because he didn’t feel like a dick for acting so cold towards you. But that wasn’t his fault. It’s not his fault you irk him like you do. He has to remind himself of that.

A phone chirps and you check your device, your face falling further. If Sam or Bobby notice, they sure don’t say anything about it. The irritation in Dean's chest ignites again, a burning restless feeling that makes him want to know who put you in a sour mood. Who overstepped Dean's effect on you? He couldn’t have that.

His eyes peek at the lit screen but it’s not like he can read anything.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, standing and leaving the room without raising much suspicion, at least not to a common onlooker of the conversation. Dean knew though. He knew your tells and mood shifts, he had to in order to be able tolerate your presence. He had to.

What really irks him too is how little he knows right now. God, you’ve left the room and you still have your claws sunk into him. It killed him to not know what was wrong with you. He’ll claim it’s because to be a hunter, you need to have a level head. All it is is hypocritical avoidance and unrecognizable emotions that he was never accepting of before.

He takes a deep gulp of his beer, trying to wash away the bubbling anxiety you’ve caused him.

And another gulp. And one more. But none of them make the time pass quickly enough and he’s even more restless in your absence. He can’t help himself, he has to know that you’re okay.

He stalls at the thought. He doesn’t have to. He just wants to. He wants to?

Doesn’t matter.

Dean excuses himself and goes off to find you. He follows the flow of an agitated voice and his brows furrowed slightly in confusion. The voice, your voice, leads him to the main entrance of the home. The door creaks open and he can hear you better, as if you just came in from talking with whoever was bothering you outside.

“Just leave me alone, I’m serious,” your tone is demanding and a little scary if he’s being honest- something that’s rare for him as of late.

He rounds the doorframe as soon as you hang up the phone and his presence startles you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, unsure if he actually even cares. He shouldn’t- he doesn't. He’s just curious about whoever seemed to have more of an effect on your state then he did. Dean is just a little cold and annoyed with you, that warrants a sour mood for the recipient, but who the hell thinks they have the right to make you talk to them like that?

“What-, like you care?” You ask in a dull bite, he scoffs.

“Shouldn’t’ve even asked,” Dean rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and turning to leave but he hesitates. “Just-,” he clears his throat, “sorry ‘bout whatever you’re dealing with.” He turns to leave but the sickeningly sweet pull of your voice keeps him put. He holds back a sigh.

“I worked with a hunter a few weeks back and he’s just been.. clingy,” you cringe, looking down at your phone for a moment. Dean didn’t like that.

“Clingy?” He echoed, turning back around and furrowing his brow.

“Yeah…” you sigh, pocketing your phone and glancing back up at Dean. “It’s probably nothing, but he’s just lonely I guess and keeps trying to get me to work these cases with him,” your shoulders slouch, almost like the situation has exhausted you. Dean’s chest tightens again- annoyance, he deems. You turn to face the screen door, letting the breeze kiss past your tired face.

“And you don’t want to?” Dean completes for you, his tone indicating impatience and misunderstanding.

“Of course not, he’s a creep!” You turn back at him, your face contorted in disgust but your eyes glint something that eases the tightness in his chest.

“Just block him,” he says, like it’s that simple. You just scoff and look back out the door. You can’t even find the energy to walk through the whole situation with Dean on why you can’t simply ‘block him’. “Do I need to have a talk with this guy?” Your body stills and brows pull together as you look back at him.

“What?” You ask, completely caught off guard by the offer.

“I said,” Dean rolls his eyes subtly, “do I need to take care of him?” He repeats, staring right at you with a deep rooted anger burrowed towards someone else for once- it makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Why do you even care? Don’t you hate me?” You scoff, trying to remind yourself of the pain in the ass he’s made you feel like to him. He hated you. He did, right?

Something in your snap cracked some capsule in him and infected his veins, all the way to his fingertips, with a cold rush of realization.

“Hate you?” He asked himself as well as you. His chest cinched tightly at the accusation, that he hated. It’s like every memory of you flashed in his mind and in every scenario, he never remembers actually hating you but how you affected him. How you made him feel unnaturally unsettled and antsy, like he couldn’t stand the edge you teetered him on. His eyes watched your expression go from frustration to confusion and then to impatience and even then, as he watched your features melt along its expressive path, he realized that he did not hate you. “How could I hate you?” His words escape before he can filter them, but then he can watch as your annoyingly pretty features contort yet again to something indescribable for him.

He felt selfish, extremely selfish, for the way he’s pushed you away and treated you because he knows it’s not really your fault for how he feels. But then, why does he feel such strong and uncomfortable emotions for you? Why the fuck did you settle so deep into his very being that it’s uncomfortable for you to be here in front of him?

Your head tilts and you look so lost. Your tongue peeks out to wet your lips and it clicks.

The ache in his chest isn’t anger or annoyance, it’s a craving. Here you are, dangled right in front of him with your pretty eyes and soft confusion and he’s forced to just stand back and watch as you exist without him. Every time he’s seen you in the past, it washed over him that he’s just been needing something he subconsciously knew he could never take.

“You-,” he tried to start, his hands dropped to his sides as he figured out his next move. He wants so badly to just cross the invisible line he’s made for himself but you think he hates you.

“So you don’t hate me,” you try to state, keeping a suspicious eye on him as he shuffles through whatever is rattling behind his eyes.

Dean only shakes his head, taking a step forward without even knowing he’s moved until your face is just a wish away.

“Dean?” You ask, looking up at him and taking in details you never thought you’d get close enough to notice.

The sink in his stomach as you say his name scares the hell out of him but he doesn’t know if he has the strength to turn away now. Something so cosmic holds him still like he’s stuck in quicksand, ready to drown in you.

It happened so fast, that switch, like seeing your vulnerability as you admitted you felt hated by him made him fix his shit real quick. He couldn’t have that, he wouldn’t allow you to go on thinking he hated you.

“I’m an idiot,” he admits in a whisper that echoes faint beer, from the round just a few moments ago, over your cheeks.

“That’s one word I’d use,” you scoff lightly, your attitude altering the rest of your body towards turning away but you just can’t seem to get your eyes to listen and follow.

“Can I try something?” He asks, his eyes stuck into yours like glue, like he’s scared to rake over your skin and down to your lips, like he’ll jinx himself and lose any shot he never had.

“You’re a free man,” you challenge, narrowing your gaze and starting to expect his next move. But even with anticipation, it doesn’t soften the electricity that sparks as he pushes you against the screen door and directs your lips to his. His hand holds the back of your head so that the screen isn’t split and his other hand, without much planning, hooks just two fingers in your belt loop, unable to wait on finding a more suitable place.

Another fresh breeze falls past the slits of the screen and runs through your hair and over your exposed skin, tickling every exposed nerve that he bloomed under your skin.

With his lips fitting perfectly around yours and taking you in, he pulls in a deep, full breath to inhale your scent. The sweet pine from outside accompanies your signature scent that he convinced himself to hate long ago, but now he can’t get enough. He could actually laugh at himself for how stupid he’s been to think you would be nothing but perfect to him if he just welcomed it.

Because now that he has finally allowed you in, he doesn’t think he can ever let you go now.

He pulls out of the kiss, his lungs burning for air but his skin aching for more of you. As you lean back to look at him, his greedy lips follow like a lost puppy, making sure he’s able to latch back on when he needs another fix of your taste.

“I’m being serious, y’know,” he breathes, his eyes still glued to your, now swollen, lips glistening with his spit. Fuck.

“Hmm?” You hum, studying the lazy droop of his eye lids, but your breath is sucked out of your lungs as his eyes snap right back into yours with a contrastingly serious switch.

“That prick that won’t leave you alone, I’ll take care of him,” he says, looking into your eyes long enough to make sure you understand. His hand at your belt loop now snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against him and his eyes melt back down to your parted lips. “Won’t ever have to worry about that again,” he barely gets out before eating you right back up.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>>check out my other works here

tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler @iamaslytherin0

#supernatural #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #fandom #dean winchester #spn fanfic #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader

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