#actuallyawkward!reader

“i don’t know how to be the one you take home.”

pairing: brian o’conner x actuallyawkward!reader

tw: angst, heavy themes of insecurity and anxiety, jealousy… brian calling reader ‘baby’ a lot, brian learning that his actions mean nothing if he won’t back it up with his words.

from the beginning, you were unsure of your place within the toretto family. an okay driver, an even more okay mechanic. jesse was the one to make everyone laugh, and no one could quite resist the twinkle in mia’s eyes whenever she asked for a favor. everyone had their niche— except you. even when you were a kid, it felt like you were just a placeholder in the clique. a back-up of a back-up, someone with no real purpose. you know it isn’t fair to be so critical of yourself, yet you do it anyway. ramble, realize, retreat, repeat.

it worsens once brian comes into town. he’s the kind of handsome that makes old ladies swoon; a teenage girl’s airport crush. what sucks the most? brian is… nice. he helps wash up after family dinner, and has no issue taking any kind of shit from vince or dom. brian blends in perfectly within the group, and you’re jealous.

why? why couldn’t you be like him? leon seems to be your only solace. ‘everyone has their own thing, kid. who else could hold down the fort like you?’ you know that’s supposed to cheer you up, but it doesn’t do the trick. who wants to be known as the bystander anyway? stuck between a rock and a hard place, you don’t know how to move forward, or if you should even move forward at all.

it’s another family dinner. you’re stuck with the dishes, while everyone else settles in the living room for some beat cop movie. you’d gone quiet during mealtime, out of the ordinary for everyone yet no one mentioned it. if they even noticed. lost in a sea of your thoughts, you don’t notice how long you’ve been scrubbing at a dish, or how brian creeps into the kitchen. “damn, i think it’s clean, baby. here, why don’t you wash and i’ll dry, deal?” he laughs, and you can feel your heart stutter. sure, you’re friends with brian, but if you can avoid it, you don’t let yourself be alone with him. it’ll either end with you hopelessly in love, or so envious of his effortless existence that you want to stab someone.

you nod, passing off him the dish and continuing to scour at the dinner plates like they personally offended you. it’s not much, but it’s honest work. brian, who is trained to notice every display of body language, takes note. you always seemed to act like this when he’s around. it’s as if you’re performing for everyone, but especially him. his shoulder nudges at yours, “hey. you okay? you seem… off.”

there’s a brief pause. you didn’t expect anyone to call you out, certainly not brian. your lips turn upward in a slight smile, then you shake your head. “yeah, ‘m fine. just tired.” your voice doesn’t carry how it normally would— the lack of excitement is palpable. brian might not be your best friend, but he does know you. you’re always up to move the conversation forward if no one’s making the effort, and you have this kind of confidence that allows you to keep a joke going for far too long. brian shifted, gently taking the plate away from your wet hands and placing it to the side.

his eyes are magnetic, a feat you can’t ignore or pull yourself apart from. “c’mon, baby. i’m pretty but i’m not dumb. what’s goin’ on?” brian asked. you want to give in; to slump against the sink and let your hidden insecurities overflow into reality. it’s not a bad idea, considering that brian seems genuinely concerned. but, what would that make you? you’re already the kind of person who can’t shut up, so why would you add anxiety and jealousy into an officially fucked-up equation? you smile again, and it looks slightly more authentic this time around. you jab at his chest with your finger, “b, don’t worry about it. i promise that i’m fine.” the pair of you relapse into washing and drying again, conversation falling flat. still, brian doesn’t buy your reassurance, even if he doesn’t say anything else.

from that point forward, brian made it his mission to seek you out any chance he had. whether it was crowding beside you on the already full couch, or keeping by your side whenever the group attended a car show. his hands linger even after he’s moved away from you, and he’s the first one to be on his feet if you break away from the group. ‘i think bri’s got a little crush on you! seriously, he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.’ you want to reprimand mia when she mentions it to you, her voice hushed as brian and dom move around the kitchen. it isn’t true, you know it can’t be.

you can’t exactly shake brian off. and before you know it, you find yourself leaning into it. it’s a bad decision, yet you can’t find anything in you that will help you stop. every car show, you pull up in his car— shuffling out of the passenger seat like you really shouldn’t even be sitting there. brian doesn’t care, because he will round the car and immediately sling an arm around your torso; practically gluing you to his side. more often than not, brian crashes at your place when he’s ’too tired’ to drive back to harry’s shop. he lounges on your bed like he’s meant to be in it, and you stay up even later because you’re too invested in the conversation to stop. ‘alright, i’m goin’ to bed. g’night, baby. come and get me if you can’t sleep.’ brian whispered, pecking your cheek swiftly and exiting before you can even react.

this weird, almost domestic limbo lasts for months. everyone thinks that you’re secretly dating, to which dom will make the comment of how you’re not very good at hiding it. it’s not dating, or really anything, if you’re honest with yourself. brian just… gravitates towards you, for some odd reason. this confounds you, and brian seems like he doesn’t even notice. maybe he just doesn’t care.

you remember when the limbo broke. some house party that one of dom’s high school buddies had— bodies packed in tight like sardines. the loud music overwhelms you, and it’s the same for the ménage of empty solo cups and various little baggies of white residue. when you step out on the back porch for some air, flirty giggles cloud your hearing. “you’re not taken, are you? because everyone thinks you and that friend of yours are, like, a thing.” the voice slurs, obviously feminine and potently drunk. there’s a twinge of empathy for her, you wouldn’t want someone to traipse into a trap of someone who’s taken.

you don’t expect to hear brian’s voice. he stuttered a bit, “can’t a guy be touchy anymore? nah, we’re not together. why? you wanna be like a thing with me?”

stupid. so fuckin’ stupid. you knew it was too good to be real. you let this happen. digging your nails into your palms, you inhale sharply. all that work you’d done with brian over the past few months vanished. every time he saw you, he’d make you repeat affirmations to yourself. ‘i belong here.’ ‘i have friends who love me.’ ‘i am not a burden.’ it was never romantic, you know that now. sure, you thought it wouldn’t happen, but there always was this spark of hope that kept you going. that maybe, maybe it would. you were wrong.

brian can’t remember what happened at the house party. all he knows is that he found someone who looks a lot like you, and then it blurs. but, brian notices the distance you’ve created between the two of you. your apartment is no longer a free invitation, and you shut him down each time he asks to stay the night. instead of piling in next to him on the couch, you sprawl out on the floor next to leon. he’s brushed off whenever he offers to help with the dishes. brian just doesn’t know why.

it was late. brian offered to take you home again, and you relent. you’ll have to erase the tallies on a whiteboard in your kitchen— promptly titled ‘days without giving in.’ so much for that! there just seemed to be a glint of hopelessness in his blue eyes that struck at your heart, like he was one rejection away from giving up entirely. to put it plain, you felt bad.

the car ride was silent, save for the low humming of the engine and the radio playing softly. you don’t expect brian to walk you to your door, yet he does. just as you’re about to unlock the front door, brian latched onto your wrist. you can’t look at him, not now. he’s almost breathless, “baby… what’s goin’ on? you don’t let me sleep over anymore and you barely even talk to me. is your anxiety still bothering you? because we can work on it like we used to.” you keep quiet, working with your non-dominant hand to unlock the door and finally escape him. brian huffed, why weren’t you saying something? saying anything?

after fumbling with your keys, you enter the apartment and brian is quick on your heels to find out what the fuck is going on. “y/n. ‘m serious, baby. what’s goin’ on in that head of yours? something’s killing you and i can fuckin’ see it.” his voice is rougher now, less patient and more determined to figure you out. the thing is? you don’t even really know what’s up with you. were you upset about what he did at the party because you liked him? or was it jealousy that he was able to connect with someone like that and you couldn’t? maybe an uneven mix of both— probably 60/40 instead of 50/50.

it takes a moment or two before you break. shoulders start to tremble, and you can feel your grip on reality slip. “i don’t know, brian. i don’t know! this is just the way i am, okay? ‘m self-conscious and awkward, a-and i can’t keep up with you.” you cry, palming at your eyes as if they weren’t welling with tears. brian immediately pulled you close to his chest, murmuring sweet nothings that you can’t decipher. it’s not like it matters. brian o’conner wouldn’t be yours. that’s what matters most.

once your shoulders aren’t so unsteady and the sobs aren’t so strong, brian pulls back to study you. you have this look in your eyes, like you’re torn between two different places. “baby, you don’t have to keep up with anyone. it doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to act. you’re you, and that’s what i want to see.” there it is. ‘if you don’t know how to act.’ how does he not see it? how can he not understand that you’re not trying to keep up with anyone except for him?

you inch away from him slowly, arms crossed over your chest like a defense mechanism. “being me isn’t enough. clearly not for you. cause you seem to want everyone else. and… i don’t know how to be the one you take home.” your voice carries through the silence of your apartment. it’s deafening. brian freezes.

sure, he did all those things for you because you’re a friend, but… brian didn’t know that it felt different for you. it’s not like he didn’t sometimes picture what a relationship would look like. brian just isn’t cut out for romance, and he thought you weren’t either. when he doesn’t say anything, you scoff. “you know what? go home, brian. this whole thing was stupid and i don’t why i even bothered. just lock the door on your way out.” you snapped at him. brian can’t remember if you’ve done that before. you’ve never done it to him, at least.

watching as brian sulks out of your apartment, you slam the door and throw your head back. why’d you let yourself do this in the first place? his skyline revs, and you can hear it speed away. once brian is for sure gone, you pat into the kitchen and stare at the whiteboard on your fridge. the tallies return it, taunting you for failing. and you? you just wipe it away.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

ac speaks!

“i like ya when you’re all zen.”

jj maybank x actuallyawkward!reader!

cw: none? pet names, slight mention of anxiety. just pure fluff between jj and the lovely reader!

the chateau is silent— save for the low humming of the run-down ac and cicadas chirping outside. you’re nervous, there’s no way around that. jj’s been staying with john b forever, and he had no reason to go back to his own place. yet, you can feel yourself vibrating as jj leads you through the chateau to his room.

“jb’s out with the princess, kie decided to spend the day researching microplastics and pope’s… fuck if i know. so, it’s jus’ you n’ me, baby.” jj’s slight southern drawl echoed off the wooden walls, while he flung himself on the bed. your knees buckle slightly— being alone with jj isn’t new for you. you’ve been here plenty of times. it’s just… different now. you’re not just friends anymore, but rather this weird limbo of ‘dating but not really’ that makes your stomach turn. your voice quivers softly, “o-okay. uh, did you wanna get, like, snacks or anything? ‘m sure johnny doesn’t have much, but sandwiches with mayo and bananas aren’t so bad!”

jj throws his head back, guffawing at your statement. you’d always been a little weird, the kinda weird that made him question whether or not you were from this planet. but, things shifted over the years. sure, you were still you: all toothy smiles and racked with conspiracy theories that seemed ridiculous to everyone, including him. now? jj can’t seem to have enough of you. he needs a fix of whatever book you’re reading that he’s sure doesn’t exist in a language he understands, (which is just english,) or the way your hands don’t really know where to go when he pulls you in tight for a hug.

he pushes himself up on his elbows, sitting up straight and his hands going immediately to your hips. in the split second those blue eyes meet yours, you’re rendered useless. this whole… ‘being together but not exactly’ thing frightens you, but you can’t really help but feel like you and jj exist outside of the cut. like you’re both stars in the galaxy, filled with blinding light and a ferocity that’s hard to contain. (well, jj’s that kind. you’re not too sure about yourself.)

“y’know, i like it when you’re all jittery n’ shit. makes me feel like i got some affect on you.” jj murmured.

a chuckle escapes your lips, but it suddenly feels like your tongue is too heavy for your mouth. your shoulders shrug, “i, uh, don’t really know how to respond to that. i mean, it’s not like you don’t have an affect on me. cause you definitely do, i just… scratch that, reverse! jesus fuckin’ christ, did i actually just say that?”

a tell-tale sign of you getting flustered is the way your voice gets higher in pitch as you talk. jj always thought it was adorable, and worked especially well when trying to scheme any adult the pogues ran into. he laughs again, and you wish that you could shrink yourself into something else. something smaller, something that isn’t so… present. you squint your eyes shut, attempting to hide yourself away from jj maybank and his smoldering stare. a feather-light kiss to your wrist causes you to blink one eye open— like an american girl doll with a fucked up eye-joint.

“you flatter me, honey. but i like ya when you’re all zen. when you don’t worry about sayin’ the right thing, and you’re just… you. my lil’ oddball.” jj’s voice holds a speck of tenderness that you’ve never really heard before. usually, he’s the loudmouth— the kinda guy you need when you’re hustling a game of pool. the next two seconds or so are spent trying to figure out how you can be ‘zen,’ coming up short after thinking of crush from finding nemo. jj, however, catches you off guard. in one swift motion, you’re laying on the bed: head on his chest while your legs tangle together. your high-top laces ache around the ankles, your shirt gets all bunched up in the back… it’s overstimulating, no doubt.

but, what relaxes you is how your face feels smushed against jj’s chest. his heart beats steady, the kinda steady you’d always prayed for one day. you just didn’t think it’d come in the form of another human. the two of you lay like that for a while, and for once? you don’t have anything to say. perfectly content with just… existing.

jj notices this, pressing a soft peck to your forehead. “here they are. my sweet thing. let’s jus’ do this for a while, k?” normally, you’d be shifting— itching to find something that could help you relax. but, the forehead kiss and the way jj clutches you is enough. he’s not holding on for dear life, but it’s not so loose that you can squirm away. it’s enough. when you part your lips to speak, your voice is level. there isn’t any wavering or flailing hands to emphasize your presence. it’s you. every little bit of you that jj maybank thinks about day and night. “i feel like i’m at home when ‘m with you.”

the blond can feel his lungs filling with heat, spreading across his chest and shooting into his veins. there’s been a few isolated incidents where he’s almost drowned, but those can’t compare to what you said. jj knows that you mean it, that the shape you’re in right now is the most authentic version of you. no flitting eyes or lip curls that make you look like elvis. “me too, baby.”

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

ac speaks:

“you want me to rev your engine?”

jax teller x actuallyawkward!reader !

tw: one (1) sexual innuendo, some sexual references but not super graphic? reader is trying their best™️ at making conversation, jax is amused and somehow turned on, set in season one bc im still new, and reader’s uncle is also trying his best™️.

jax teller. VP of the local motorcycle club that seems more like a cult from the outside, excellent mechanic, and stupid hot. you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man that handsome in real life, not even with some of the guys at your college classes. and they’re all relatively good looking. but, not like jax.

what makes it worse? your uncle loves to cozy up with the sons— always parading you around at every gathering he can. “they’re so smart, y’know? if y’all need any help around the shop with bookkeeping, they’d be happy to help!” he beams, clapping at your shoulders with pride as you squirm under the intense gaze of a few sons. one of them, a long-bearded man, is softer; like he can feel the awkwardness radiating from you. clay smiled right back at your uncle, “eh, what the hell? you’re getting in the ring, kiddo.”

jesus christ, why would your uncle do that?! to torture you with public humiliation, force you into a job surrounded by some of the sexiest yet scariest men you’ve ever met. the first few weeks were nerve-wracking, with you barely being able to balance the books without being interrupted by one of them. it didn’t matter which one! juice, as you know now him, loved to munch on potato chips while peering over your shoulder. irritating, to say the least. tigger, the creeper, always makes comments that are just sly enough to leave you wondering if he’s flirting or if he’s trying to piss you off.

the bearded man, opie, is chill. he treats you like a baby cousin, poking at your temple and always making sure donna packs him an extra cookie to share with you. clay leers over the garage, like he’s waiting for a customer or one of the newer mechanics to make you upset. you’re not sure why, but it’s probably because your uncle told him all about your inability to hold a proper conversation. and then… there’s jax.

you know he’s a ladies’ man. it’s obvious in the way he saunters into the garage, his voice stuck in a constant drawl that makes your knees weak. every day, jax greets you with an underwear-dropping smile and a “hey, darlin’. you doin’ good today?” your responses have gotten much better since your first day, a slight progression from full on stammers to barely even stuttering through three sentences! it’s a win in your book, and besides, you’re the only one in charming who’d even been interviewed and hired for the bookkeeping position. the sons’ matriarch, gemma, usually took care of it, yet she seemed to have no issue with you taking over.

“it’s nice to not have that bullshit weighing me down. let me know if anyone gets mouthy… or handsy. clay and i will take care of it.” she mentions off-handedly one morning, and before you can even ask what she means, gemma is already setting off to yell at one of the prospects. okay then…

you show up for work that morning like normal— already a little bit brighter than normal. a good eight hours of sleep, and a new episode of criminal minds premiered tonight! who could really deny themselves the sexiness that is SSA derek morgan? elated, you settle into your chair and immediately begin flipping through different bookings for today. a ménage of oil changes, a breakline repair on big otto’s daughter-in-law’s car, and a surprise tire rotation for an out-of-town fire chief. light work, in your opinion, and certainly for whoever else is working today.

humming softly, you fail to notice jax swaggering into the garage while searching for a phone number on file for the fire chief. his blue eyes take the time to rake over your figure; because you always seemed to show up to work and look so damn good. even in the baggy jeans and slouchy t-shirts, jax can’t ignore a pretty face or a pretty body. he’s a man, it’s just how he is. jax whistled, “mornin’, babe. you seem happy today.” you flinch a little when you hear him, your eyes flickering up to look at jax briefly. ugh, why did he have to be so hot?! “hey, jax. jus’ had a nice night, and i’m hopin’ tonight will be the same!”

jax teller did not want to explain where exactly his mind went when you answered him. a nice night? the fuck did that mean? a nice night for him means not having to make a run, and then hopefully find someone to suck him off. oh, oh. jax knows you’ve never mentioned a boyfriend, so in his head, there’s only one answer. suddenly, he’s picturing you sprawled out in your bed, hands traveling down to the waistband of your underwear and just as you’re about to slip into your—

“jax? are you listening? sorry if i bored you with my criminal minds rant! i just can’t wait for this new episode.” you apologized quickly, as jax snapped out of his thoughts. sinful, utterly sinful, even more so when your uncle is a good friend of the club. he shakes his head with a smile, “nah, darlin’, you’re good. what’s so special about that show anyway? if you want real action, you should just come to a party here with some of the other clubs. can get pretty wild.” instantly, you’re gaping at him. there are plenty of reasons as to why criminal minds is special! you just happen to have six… with an offended look, “um, hello? shemar moore? the six pack? the best addition to television since MTV.”

what jax really wants to do is lift up his shirt and flash his own six pack at you, (and it’s more like an eight pack these days!) that would 100% get you going, and you’d forget all about some fake cop on a tv show. jax leans his elbows on the counter, his head slightly peeking over the top. wow, he’s even better looking up close, and you feel the softest hint of insecurity hit you. his eye contact never wavers, even as you begin to stammer out another defense. you offer a polite grin, “thanks for the offer, but i’d rather not deal with guys revving their engines all the time. i’ve always wondered why you guys seem to like it, because it doesn’t seem that exciting to me, i guess.”

you’re simply not prepared for what comes out of jax teller’s mouth. “you want me to rev your engine? you’ll find out real quick how exciting it can be.” he said it so casually that you could feel your eyes physically stop blinking every so often. (it’s a habit since being around him is… an experience.) what the actual fuck? even if jax said it as easy as he’d light a cigarette, you weren’t stupid. you noticed how his eyes widened when he asked, gauging your reaction while he messed with the rings on his fingers.

‘this is a joke. he has to be kidding.’ the tiny angel on your shoulder tries to reason with you, while the cartoonish devil concocts an elaborate scene of you and jax tangled together in the sheets. jax recognizes this pretty quick. there’s no cringey quip back that he’ll immediately deem adorable, and for you; easily excited, motormouth, sometimes-overwhelming you? that’s a feat! “are you joking with me? ‘cause i feel like i missed the mark here.” you question, gesturing to yourself with a flick of the wrist.

when jax snorts, you’re sure of his answer. ‘of course it’s a joke, babe. you can be so gullible.’ the mere idea of it makes your stomach churn. he’s jax teller! why on earth would he say that to you and it not be a joke? jax clicked his tongue, “i’m not sure yet. it’s funny that i getcha all riled up, but it’s kinda cute too. i wouldn’t mind lending two very helpful hands.”

there isn’t any time for you to react. tigger and opie start strolling through the garage towards their stations, while juice rummages around in a bag of gummy bears. “morning, VP! sec, you’re looking good this morning.” tiggy greeted the both of you, and you’re still frozen. jax waved him off— while also ignoring opie’s curious gaze from across the garage. jax gives you a once-over quickly, then pushes himself off of the counter. with a bright smile, “gonna get busy now. ‘m serious, though. you need any hands-on help, i’m available.” with that, jax sauntered off to where opie was, and you’re still sat in your spinny chair.

‘well, that’s nice to know.’

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

ac speaks!

thinking of…

barry flirting with actuallyawkward!reader☺️☺️

tw: suggestive content, flirting, mentions of illegal substances, reader being adorable, barry being down bad

you’re new to the whole ‘4/20 blaze it’ mentality. it’s all because of an off-handed comment from a distant cousin— saying that some weed would mellow you out and you wouldn’t be so ‘goddamn nervous’ all of the time. you’re not sure how true that hypothesis could be, but isn’t it worth the risk?

everyone knew barry. kooks, pogues, tourists. if they wanted to get high, barry was the guy. you don’t know much about him, other than that he lives in a trailer deep in the cut and he doesn’t seem to have a last name. he’s also kinda cute, but that’s neither here nor there! you figure that a drug dealer probably doesn’t want to be known as ‘cute’ anyway… so, you set off one saturday afternoon; fifty bucks in your back pocket and sweat clinging to your palms.

barry’s sat in his lawn chair, fucking around with a pistol he nicked off of some guy at a car show on the mainland. how he managed to get through security and back to the cut without any trouble was beyond comprehension, but barry didn’t care. it was just his way of life. he’d done terrible things, yet never seemed to face any repercussions. it’s a bad mentality to have, the whole indestructible thing. barry doesn’t dwell on it, focusing on attaching a magazine when a lone figure walks up.

you’re skittish, he can tell. your hands fumble with a necklace, and you keep chewing on your bottom lip like you’re a kid who’s in trouble. weird as fuck, but… almost cute. barry doesn’t know you, never seen you around before and he’s instantly curious as to how you stumbled upon his lawn. “hi, darlin’. you need somethin’ or no?” barry asks, his slight drawl forcing you out of a reverie. ‘damn it. i hate it when i’m right. he’s cute and he’s got a hot voice.’ you curse yourself, but quickly move a hand towards your back pocket to pull out the cash.

you offer a shy smile, “um, hi! ‘m y/n… and i-i was coming to see if you had any, uh, weed? i brought fifty, but ‘m not really sure how much that’ll get me. i’ve never smoked before, so, uh…” leaning forward, barry sets the gun aside before your eyes can land on the weapon and scurry off. he takes a moment to give you a slow once-over. a couple of bruises on your knees like you were accident prone, an oversized t-shirt that clings to your shoulders and frayed around the hem. his kinda thing. barry likes ‘em a little bit off. you seem to be just that.

“guessin’ you already know my name. i’ll see what i can do for a sweet thing like you. y’know how many ounces you want?” being called a ‘sweet thing’ dazes you, and it’s not like you even know how much you want anyway. didn’t you just admit to him that you haven’t smoked before?!

before you can remind him that you haven’t smoked, barry snaps his fingers. he chuckles, “shit, i forget you said that you ain’t never smoked. my bad, honey. how ‘bout a quarter ounce? i don’t want ya all dizzied up in that head of yours.” you’re still reeling from his previous comment, so you just nod along and fork over the crisp, fifty dollar bill with no issue. barry’s hand gently brushes yours away, pursing his lips together as he continues to stare. jesus, you were adorable. walkin’ up like you’re so unsure, almost afraid of a man like him.

typically, he sold quarters for about sixty-five— sometimes higher if he wanted to piss off a kook or some lame-ass touron. but, you’re standing in front of him with these glassy eyes that cause his jeans to tighten. how could he say ‘no’ to a face like yours? “lemme make you a deal, okay, baby? consider this a freebie, since you’re poppin’ the weed cherry. you end up likin’ it, and we’ll figure out an arrangement. sound good?” barry offers.

arrangement? what did that entail? like a payment plan or was it something more… physical? while barry’s hot, like stupid hot, you’re not that kinda person. but, he’s being nice. much nicer than anyone else is used to dealing with. besides, it wouldn’t be bad, right? you nod reluctantly, ignoring the jolt of tension that sparked when barry declined your money and shoving it into your back pocket once more. “y-yeah, that’s cool. um, thank you! i really appreciate it. i know that first-timers can be annoying… or that’s what i’m guessing!”

barry lets out a laugh, as he stands up and gestures to his trailer with a tilt of his head. “you stay right there, sweetheart. imma run in real quick and get you settled. just look pretty for a sec, mkay?” the man doesn’t offer you a moment to react, he’s already setting off towards the trailer with a swagger that makes your knees weak. well, this seems like a mission accomplished. or, that’s at least what you’re hoping for…

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

ac speaks!

“take it from me, holding on for dear life won’t do you any good.”

isabel ‘belly’ conklin x actuallyawkward!fisher!reader !

tw: reader will use she/her for this!! intense sapphic yearning, breaking toxic family dynamics, susannah lowk sucks in this, and belly realizing she chose the wrong fisher once again.

conrad or jeremiah. the question of the century. the steady, reliable older brother versus the laidback, happy-go-lucky youngest son. most people forget that there’s a third fisher child— the only daughter caught between two sons as the middle child. what could you do? you weren’t like conrad; with his initiative to keep everyone and everything in line. you certainly weren’t akin to jere, who made everyone laugh with some stupid joke. where did you fit in the hierarchy of the summer house’s children? the oldest daughter, sure, but you knew it didn’t really mean anything.

there were moments where it didn’t even feel like you were your own mother’s child. susannah and belly had this magic between them that couldn’t be replicated or shared, not even with you. “our special girl.” your mother would chide laurel each chance she had, especially when belly acted out of turn. you wondered if she ever said that about you. ‘no, certainly not.’ you’d remind yourself. maybe you didn’t like older movies or enjoy late night swims, but you didn’t mind playing dress-up with your mother for a few hours. if it made her smile, wouldn’t it be worth it?

the debutante ball scorned you. of course she’d pick belly. and why wouldn’t she? always so agreeable and eager to please, unlike you, presumably. the look on your mother’s face… god, it was like she’d been waiting for this all of her life. susannah wore that look a couple of times, mostly with connie and jere. and now, belly, you guess. “beck, bells doesn’t even like this type of stuff. a-and y/n/n’s more of that age, anyway! she’s about to be eighteen soon.” laurel attempted to dissuade your mother, but she was too overjoyed at the mere idea of belly being involved in the debutante scene.

once she’d caught laurel’s eyes, susannah glanced over at you. you’re leaned against the counter— a gleam in your eyes that pleads with her. ‘look at me, mama. i’m here. why don’t you see me?’ of course, she doesn’t notice. your mother comes up to your side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and smiling gently at you. she clicked her tongue, “y/n/n’s not into a big show like that anyway. remember how we used to do fashion show nights and she’d hide under the couch? besides, we’ll do something special for just us two after the ball!”

you remember it more clearly than susannah does. you hated fashion nights because all eyes were on her. belly. the bane of your existence. your gaze flickered over to her, and she’s still there. beautiful as ever, even with the bruise on her cheek. it makes sense that everyone’s so obsessed with her. you were obsessed, too. you just couldn’t figure out if it was because of the glaring mommy issues, or maybe you’d always wished she could share some of that love with you. the world may never know.

it’s late— late enough to where belly should be finished with her midnight swim and the backyard would be barren. just as you slink out of the door, your ears perk up at the sound of splashing water. nope, she’s still there. her hair all wet and matted with chlorine, and you’re sure her brown eyes are blotted with red after keeping them open under the water. “hey, y/n/n. i didn’t think you’d be up this late.” belly said, a smile gracing her lips as she caught your gaze.

your stomach turns. you’ve grown up alongside belly, and she seemed to forget that you inherited at least one trait of your mother’s; being a night owl. but, you’ve always been more perceptive of people than isabel, and that’s what hurts the most. she doesn’t see you, your brothers and steven don’t either. and who can forget about your doting parents? the same dad who bought you a needlepoint kit for your birthday because it’s “basically the same as crochet.” the mother that neglected to pick you, her daughter, to be apart of debutante society. where laurel fit into the equation? you’re not certain.

you offer belly a grin, but it’s more of a grimace that overtakes your entire face. “i like when the house is quiet like this. makes it easier to think, i suppose.” you answer, scuffling over to the pool’s edge. far enough away from belly to prevent any further conversation, but close enough to where she didn’t think something was up. belly only proved your theory by moving closer to you, propping her chin up on her crossed arms and looking up at you. wow, she’s got puppy eyes. even with the red strains around her pupils. she questions, “what’s on your mind? you seem off.”

‘you. you’re on my mind. you stole my mother.’ that’s what you want to say, but you know it isn’t fair. none of it is fair, and it turns you inside out. the whole dynamic between your mother and isabel cannot be explained. if you say something, if you say anything, it’d be like unraveling a new roll of ribbon. easy at first, but difficult to return back to the original state.

a brief pause settles between the two of you— just light whispers of waves crashing and the pool filter bobbing around. “…i was just curious about your opinion on the whole deb ball thing. you seemed excited, but you and i both know how hard it can be to say ‘no’ to my mother.” you opt for a more sensible approach, instead of ripping belly’s head off for no good reason. she takes a moment, then huffs with an adorable, exasperated look on her face. belly shrugs, “i mean, it’s not exactly what i wanted to do with my summer. but, i guess i’m cool with doing it. i dunno, i just… don’t know why she picked me over you.”

you almost laugh, how could belly not see it? too naïve, too agreeable, you want to assume. still, it was almost rewarding to have someone else notice the discrepancies in treatment. “you and me both, bells.”

time does not heal all wounds, as you come to realize. you thought that your mother’s death would spur something into action— that you’d finally be free of her influence. that was not the case. saving the summer house was done out of loyalty to your brothers, even if you’d witnessed conrad stumble over belly and now watched jere do the exact same. susannah fisher still lingered, with her ‘special girl’ calling the shots and you’re clutching it to your chest like an old teddy bear. all you wondered was ‘why?’

you hated yourself for it. hating belly didn’t do you any good. this obsession just morphed into something else, something more like love and it plagued you. all three fisher children pining after one girl. disgusting, borderline incestuous with how she’d been intimate with both conrad and jeremiah. yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to blame her. since her birth, isabel conklin was led to believe that she was meant for a fisher; like it was her sole purpose in life. the summer house’s magic lacked without your mother’s presence, and belly was doing her best to keep it alive.

the dedication was pleasant. jere, hesitant about making speeches, begged for you to take the lead. without conrad there to be steady and firm, you decided to spearhead the service. you were no longer that little girl who scampered away from the spotlight, who hid under couches and behind doors to escape confrontation. no, you were a woman; fresh out of the university of columbia and on your way to working in the corporate world. high-heeled, stocking-clad, and ready to be gentle yet stern.

belly noticed. your wrists weren’t decorated in an array of friendship bracelets, and your eyes seemed dim in the sunlight. she couldn’t tell you the last time you were in the same room, and now you’re here. you’re speaking to a crowd of people, and you are still the same— even if it’s a little bit different. she was always caught between conrad and jeremiah, but belly never felt that way with you. even more so than conrad, you could see people at their core. it frightened her, yet belly found herself wanting more. you could be everything your brothers were and everything they weren’t.

upon conrad’s arrival, the air shifted. belly, with a wedding ring tucked in her purse, felt her mouth go dry. her hand intertwined with jeremiah’s is slick with sweat, and isabel doesn’t know where to look. to lock eyes with jeremiah, her fiancé. sneak a glance at conrad; her first boyfriend, first time, first love… or, belly can look at you. the only other girl of the summer house, the girl she compared herself to out of both jealousy and complete enchantment. she was fucked, so royally fucked.

“we’re getting married!” hearing those words slip from belly’s lips causes your heart to catch in your throat. even without the debt to your dad and belly still not graduating yet, it stings. oh, if only your mother could see it now. her special girl would finally be a fisher, and you’d be replaced as soon as the officiant uttered, ‘you may now kiss the bride.’ your dad shares a look with laurel, while steven’s eyes flicker between you and conrad.

the aftermath is worse than what belly expected. as quick as her mom asked for the check, conrad escaped the restaurant. she can feel her heart sinking with every step she takes outside, still hand-in-hand with jere. her mother moves to speak with adam for a moment, while steven situates himself in the front seat of the car. and you? you’re trailing behind the scene, rendered speechless by this sudden proclamation. before you can make a move to get into your car, jeremiah calls out for you.

“c’mon, y/n/n. don’t be mad at us! you know this is what mom would’ve wanted.” there’s an inclination to open-hand slap your younger brother in this parking lot, yet you refrain somehow. how dare he? invoking your mother’s name to justify this rash behavior? and even then, why you? jeremiah could easily play that card with either your dad or laurel, or guilt-trip conrad into supporting the engagement. but, you? the least favorite only daughter? your glare settles on jeremiah, and for a split second, isabel is grateful that it’s not on her. but, good things don’t last forever, and then she’s forced to confront your icy gaze.

your jaw clenched. after all these years, isabel conklin still couldn’t realize how she affected people. you couldn’t blame her for stealing your mother away. that, of course, wasn’t her fault. you couldn’t really blame her for being trapped between your two idiotic brothers. but, to stand there and allow her supposed fiancé, your baby brother, to use your mother’s memory as evidence? it only confirms what you’ve known for years now. when backed into a corner, belly will use your mother’s love for her against anyone.

“jeremiah, stop. the two of you need to rethink this. oh, and take it from me. holding on for dear life won’t do you any good.” your words were sharp, calculated. it felt like losing susannah all over again for belly. was it true? was she holding the loss of her mother figure over everyone’s heads? and if that’s what she was doing, what was jere doing?

belly can’t speak, and neither can jere. they watch as you stalk away from the restaurant and into the parking lot, while belly is pulled away from jeremiah. she’s banished to the backseat, her gaze flickering between jeremiah in his jeep and the sight of your car speeding off. “i hope you’re happy.” steven lamented. isabel doesn’t respond— sinking into the car door with one thought in her mind. ‘she got away.’

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

ac speaks!

“and for that, you’re worse than i’ll ever be.”

rafe cameron x actuallyawkward!reader !

cw: arguing, toxic relationship, canon!rafe, self deprecation on reader’s part, mentions of sexual activity but not detailed, drug usage, rafe’s anger issues, rafe’s daddy issues.

it just seemed like you couldn’t do anything right today. well, you couldn’t do anything right most days, by rafe’s standards. you were too talkative one moment, then he’s getting on you for not speaking up for yourself. he doesn’t like shorts that are too short, yet he’s angry when you forego shorts and wear pants instead. there’s no winning. just rafe, dangling a carrot of stability and comfort over your head.

and it’s not like you don’t try to fit in with rafe and his kook world. you’re diligent in making conversation when it’s something you find interesting— like topper’s work with a nonprofit that advocates for harsher penalties surrounding animal cruelty. you nod along to whatever girlfriends of the group are conversing about, even if it’s about the renovations of their winter chalet. you always remember your table manners, and you’re getting better at keeping up appearances of being rafe cameron’s perfect partner.

still, there’s this nagging feeling of rafe not really wanting a partner at all. he’s pushy, manipulative, the kind of man who throws a tantrum if he’s not in total control. that feeling lingers— like the burn of whiskey in your throat when you take too big of a sip. it’s clear to you, and everyone else, that you’re just there for theatrics. to prop rafe cameron up for even greater attention and affection. you feel like the vintage action figures in your dad’s office. you’re meant for display, not to be touched other than parading around.

his room in tannyhill is quiet, other than the splattering of water from the shower and the low volume of some cop show rafe turned on. laying on the bed, you flip between tiktok and instagram. nothing satiates you, not even the tiktok slideshow of ‘your month, your outdated meme.’ then, rafe emerges from his bathroom and you don’t even spare him a glance.

“sure you don’t wanna shower, baby? i bought that stupid native shit you’re always usin’. dunno why you wanna smell like coconut and vanilla.” his sharp voice slices the air, while you try to answer. your mouth feels fuzzy, as if you’ve just swallowed cotton balls and you’ve got no water to wash it down. rafe barely gets his sweatpants on before he’s spinning around quick enough to break his spine. he’s in front of you in a split second— blue eyes holding you captive from even looking away.

rafe breathes out through his nose, “a-are you pissed at me or somethin’? cause i haven’t done shit to you today. i didn’t say anything when you knocked over the vase at the club, even though you made a fuckin’ fool out of you and me. i let you play your dumbass beanie baby or whatever her name is in the truck.”

confrontation isn’t new with rafe. he’s always searching for a reason to go after someone, even with you. especially with you. why? you have your theories. daddy issues, undiagnosed anxiety, coke-induced stress. you’re good at taking it. you’re trained to just nod your head ‘no,’ to reassure him with lingering touches to his biceps or an impromptu blowjob. but, you’re growing tired.

the way he flips the switch so easily. like he’s not worried about the repercussions. he’s rafe cameron, heir to the cameron empire. who’s gonna put him in his place? ward doesn’t look at him long enough to care, and the pogues can’t afford a lawyer or jailtime. certainly not you. his partner, his sweetheart. the one he can scream at for being so fuckin’ stupid, and then get between your legs as an apology.

“why are you so mean to me?” you ask, your eyes never moving away from him. rafe scoffed, clicking his tongue and starting to wring his hands out. he’s wearing that gold one on his pinky finger. you bought it for him with some money you saved up for his birthday. you’ll never forget the way he tossed it to the side so carelessly once his birthday party ended— like it wasn’t worth the effort to look at. rafe might wear it now, but you can’t let go of that feeling. wanting your bones to collapse in, and you just melt.

there’s a few beats of silence after. you’re cringing, awaiting some type of retaliation. verbal, physical, anything. rafe hasn’t ever hit you, but… you know that punching through drywall and throwing knickknacks around isn’t normal behavior. “you think i’m mean to you? i’m mean? why the fuck are you here then, huh? i’m so mean, i’m such an asshole, why don’t you go find someone who’s all flowers and sunshine?” his questions are rhetorical, and you know it. you can’t give him an answer. because he’s right.

you’re not exactly the most wanted person on the island. kooks think you’re too weird, too much of an idiot to interact with. they tolerate you with the hopes of landing themselves in rafe’s good graces. the pogues aren’t exactly welcoming either. you’re a liability for all their illegal activities, the kind of person who could be easily swayed by the promise of freedom or lesser punishment. sometimes, you wonder why if that’s why rafe picked you.

slowly, you move from the bed, keeping enough distance between you and him. rafe cocks his head to the side, like he’s questioning your entire existence. he chuckled, “what? you gonna leave? gonna put your big kid pants on and break up with me? huh? good. can’t believe i wasted my fuckin’ time on you. y’know what, i’m happy for ya. you can take your weirdo ass and get the fuck out!”

there’s not much of your things to gather. a tote bag with a few bobbles, a book or two. you don’t even bother with putting your shoes on. but, just as you go to brush past him and leave tannyhill for good, his hand clasps in yours. there’s the switch again.

rafe was bluffing. he didn’t think you’d actually have the gall to leave, to break up with him. you’d always been the one to apologize first, the first one to forget what happened. he dangled it over your head in later arguments, but still. you stayed. that was much more than ward had ever done. how could he lose you? you’re the only thing that’s really his. you’re the person he comes home to every night, the one who cares for him after an argument with ward or a bad batch of coke.

“baby… fuck, i wasn’t serious. c’mon, it’s not a big deal. we can just forget about it, okay? go on and shower and i’ll pop some popcorn, a-and we’ll watch that werewolf show you like.”

he’s pleading. he’s doing that kicked puppy look that traps you every single time. but, you can’t do much more of this. the back and forth, the switch flipping. you hadn’t thought much of the future, but you wouldn’t want your kids to grow up like this. walking on eggshells, terrified of disappointing someone who’s supposed to love them. your parents weren’t the greatest, but they never made you feel like rafe does. ever.

you inhale quick, knowing that once you say it, you’re done for. no more wonderful rafe cameron and his devoted partner. you know, to your core, it isn’t worth it. “i know i’m weird, and i’m embarrassing, and i can’t do anything right. at least i try to do right by myself, by you. you can’t do that. and for that, you’re worse than i’ll ever be.”

rafe cameron could actually hear his heart break. he didn’t think you had it in you. he thought you’d cave, everything forgotten as you settled in bed with him and a bowl of popcorn between you. when rafe doesn’t move or say anything, you seize the moment. just as soon as you slip out of his bedroom and flee tannyhill, rafe shuts the door softly. then? he turns to his nightstand, taking out a little baggie and cuts a line.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

ac speaks:

“you don’t have to be scared with me, baby.”

john b. routledge x actuallyawkward!reader

tw: mentions of past abusive relationships, cursing, anxiety, etc! (this is really fluffy for the most part lmao)

summer fell— and now it’s a bitter winter in the obx. yet, you don’t feel so bitter or cold at all anymore. the memory of escaping tannyhill that one late night is faded now; like a baby photo shoved inside a drawer with the corners worn and folded. rafe is still everywhere, still lingering as if he’s some scorned widow awaiting his revenge. you don’t notice, (at least not as much as you used to.)

befriending john b. routledge and his group of fellow pogues was not what you expected. you’d been by yourself at a kegger— forced to vacate your home because your parents were in a mood and you didn’t have the energy to be a shadow. sarah cameron bounded up to you, all smiley and genuinely happy to see you. “come hang out with me and my friends! kie will love you! pope’s pretty awkward but he’s so sweet once you get him to open up, and just ignore jj if he starts flirting.” sarah neglected to mention anything about john b., but wasn’t he her boyfriend anyway? before you could shake out an excuse, she’s already tugging you over to a bonfire where they all sat around, laughing and passing around a blunt.

conversing with the pogues felt like trying to fit into a shirt that’s too small. awkward, uncomfortable. like sarah mentioned, jj tried to make several passes at you— calling you “babe” and “sweetie”, tickling at your cheek like he was an annoying younger brother. you just let out mirthless laughs, until john b. forced himself in between you and his best friend. “jayj, you wanna give ‘em some space? ‘m sure y/n doesn’t want your cooties.” john questioned, as kie and sarah giggled at his comment while pope stifled a laugh. jj just rolled his eyes, not before murmuring a quick apology and nodded.

your heart almost lurched out of your chest. you weren’t used to someone noticing you. your whole life had been a myriad of people brushing past you, barely sparing a glance— training your breath to not go higher than a puff as to not disturb the moment.

and john b just… didn’t even mention it. the conversation quickly turned into a heated debate between jj and pope on the topic of the smartest animal; where pope backed hawks due to their keen hunting instincts and jj argued that snails were the most intelligent because they just “roll around all day.” obviously, you didn’t throw your hat in the ring, but it was… nice. to be sat on a piece of driftwood, not engaging with the conversation but still noticed. still seen.

slowly, you infiltrated the pogues and their way of life. kiara taught you to weave friendship bracelets, and made matching ones to adorn both of your wrists with. then, pope added you into a discord server where him and a group of his online friends discussed the newest caseoh stream, (a streamer you loved, but rafe always dismissed because “who wanted to watch some dickhead play a kid’s game anyway?”) surprisingly, sarah and jj nestled you under their wing of surfing, and even if you continually wiped out, jj was always there to lug you back up on the board with a high five.

and… john b. you assumed pope was the quiet one— the one who only spoke up when needed. yet, it seemed like john b. routledge didn’t need to speak sometimes. he had this natural sense of self about him, like he just knew what everyone needed and wanted all of the time. and his eyes. god, his eyes. always watching; this hazel shade following you whenever you slightly shifted in your seat on the porch or you drew in a sharp breath. almost like john b was studying you. the only question was “why?”

it was a friday night, and you’d been invited to a girls’ night at kiara’s house. with a pit in your stomach and bottles of nail polish in a duffle bag, you rocked on your heels while you waited for the doorbell to stop its incessant pinging. kie and sarah opened the door, immediately ushering you in with beaming smiles and guiding hands on your waist.

“oh, sare, how’re things with the new guy?” kie’s voice rang through the air, cutting into the clairo record that hummed along. sarah, looking up from her now polka-dotted nails, grinned. “amazing! he’s such a nice guy, and he’s got abs for days. i can’t believe john b had been hiding him all this time.” you pause— hand hovering over a message to the discord chat between you and pope. you were under the impression that sarah and john b were still… in love? dating? friends with benefits? since when did this happen?

sarah noticed your hesitation, and immediately smacked her palm to her forehead. “y/n/n! i forgot to tell you! john and i… we decided to break it off. we’re still friends, but i didn’t want to say anything because i know that things with… him are still fresh and i didn’t want to bring up bad memories.” with that? you want to somehow crumple your body up like a piece of paper and be thrown in the trash. sarah, your friend, didn’t want to tell you that she broke up with her boyfriend because it would remind you of… rafe?

you suppose it makes sense. but, still. were you really that fragile? sure, you might be biased, but you think you’re healing fairly well. there aren’t as many nightmares, and your closet isn’t this sanctuary where you can hide away, but rather a place for you to sift through hand-me-downs from kiara and sarah. you’re doing good.

as good as you can be. girls’ night slowly morphed into something lighter, and you were able to go through the rest of the night without that gnawing sensation in your stomach. but, as soon as you felt it dissipate, you feel it rush back and there’s not anyone else around. other than him.

the pogues were supposed to meet at the chateau to prep for a beach day. however, it seemed like you were the only one on time. john b, as welcoming as ever, guided you onto the porch and helped you settle into one of the dusty couches. he didn’t say anything— just set you up to wait while he busied about the house with certain odds and ends. beginning to fidget, you wonder why john b isn’t delegating tasks out to you like he does with everyone else.

is it true? maybe you are that fragile; and even john b, who has been nothing short of a saint, thinks you’re a basket-case. with a small spark of determination, you meander into the house, with the hope of proving yourself useful.

just as that small spark casts the softest of light, it burns out. with your eyes trained on the floor as to not trip over anything, john b turns to place a bowl packed with some weed on the counter and you bump into him. the bowl clatters to the linoleum floor of the kitchen, shattering while the weed creates a dingy cast on the floor.

that sound of glass breaking… suddenly, you’re not in the chateau with john b. you’re in that bedroom again, and you can feel the anger in his eyes burning holes into your skin. “stupid fuckin’ bitch. can’t do anythin’ right! always in my damn way. god, i don’t even know why i put up with you.”

immediately, your knees hit the floor— with your hands scrambling to pick up the shards of glass. “i’m so sorry, john b. can’t do anythin’ right. always in your way. so stupid. don’t even know why you put up with me.” your voice isn’t the mellow and hesitant tone that john b is used to, rather a hushed, venom-laced tongue that he doesn’t recognize. john b can make out small mumbles tumbling from your mouth, repeating certain phrases over and over. calling yourself a “stupid fuckin’ bitch,” while your hands haphazardly grasp for the broken bowl.

john b tucks his arms under your shoulders, tugging you up from the linoleum and pushing you til your back rests against the counter. “woah, woah, baby. let’s take a deep breath, okay? can you take a deep breath for me, honey?” you shy away from his calm demeanor, wanting to shrink into yourself as your mind begins to register how john b’s hands now rest on your waist. trembling, your eyes glance back at the glass, and your reflex is to bend at the knees again. it’s like john b knows before you even get close to the floor again.

“ah-ah, let’s not. what did i say, hm? take a deep breath for me. don’t look at the glass, baby. look at me, okay?” john b counters, his right hand coming up to your chin to gently lift your gaze to his. your pupils are wide— like you’re a deer stuck in a trap. he offered a small smile, “there you go. now, breathe in for me. i’ll do it with you, okay? inhale…. hold it. now, let it out.” you mirror him, forcing yourself to inhale and let it bellow in your throat for a moment before exhaling. his hazel eyes bore into you, with this tinge of concern and almost… pride that you’re listening to him.

john b instructs you to do it one more time, and again and again until your breathing has evened, and your pupils have relaxed. “did such a good job. really proud of you, bubba. do you wan’ to tell me what’s goin’ on? or do you not wan’ to talk about it?” john praised, moving slightly to stand beside you as opposed to caging you against the counter. you glance away, now focusing on the pictures adorning the wooden walls. with a slow sigh, you begin to mumble. “i, jus, um had a moment, i guess. reminded me of him. jus wanted to help, wanted to prove that i’m capable, y’know? and when i bumped into you, and i broke the bowl, i got scared. didn’t want to be yelled at. don’t want to be yelled at anymore.”

john b. routledge hated rafe cameron. his slicked back hair, his ability to make everything about himself. when sarah and john b were together, he hated how rafe treated sarah— but sarah always brushed it off. she always mentioned the poor little soul who had been swept into her brother’s grasp, how they had it worse than she did. and now? seeing your downcast face, while you fumble with the friendship bracelet on your wrist, john b felt that hatred turn to something else.

how could rafe even dare to belittle your soul? did he not see the sorrow in your eyes, the way your lip quivered while you fought to keep your breathing small and shallow? john b’s stomach turned, like he could throw up from how sick he was. how he wished he could’ve saved you sooner, to beat it into your head that you weren’t stupid, you weren’t a burden.

“that’s okay. wanna know somethin’? you don’t have to be scared with me, baby. okay? it’s jus a bowl and a lil mary j. can always get another bowl, can always get more weed, alright, honey? you walkin’ with me?” john b murmured, tentatively slinging an arm around your trembling shoulders and bringing you into his side. you give him the smallest of nods, focusing on how nice he smells instead of the still-there shards of glass. john lets you linger for a moment, not daring to move aside from rubbing at your arm with his calloused hand. then, he hears the softest puff of air escape you. john b halts his hand, “you okay, baby?” “yeah, ‘m okay, johnny. you jus smell really good. like, um, sandalwood. and sweat. but in a good way.”

john b laughs. the rumbling of his chest bumps against your skin, and you don’t feel on edge. it isn’t the forced laugh from rafe— the one where he would silently dig his fingers into the nape of your neck like a mama dog picking up a puppy while he guffawed. it feels… calm, safe. you don’t have to be scared. for once in your life, you don’t feel afraid to move wrong.

approaching laughter breaks you apart. “aw, man! what the fuck happened to my mary j?” before you can scramble into an apology, john b holds up a dismissive hand, and tucks his other into the loops of your shorts. he’s keeping you still. with rafe, you would’ve immediately stood up a little straighter, fussed over how your hair looked. but, you relax against the counter and immediately perk your ears up when pope asks about the last caseoh stream. john b, still holding onto your belt loops, ignores the knowing looks from the girls— and focuses on chastising jj for buying such a shitty bowl.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

ac speaks!

hey… hey… how yall doin? 😅

“you might’ve loved them, but you didn’t like them.”

rafe cameron x actuallyawkward!reader , sarah cameron x actuallyawkward!reader !

tw: confrontation, arguing, canon!rafe, reader finally accepting themselves for who they are (yay), mentions of depressive behaviors/episodes, rafe’s canonical daddy issues and drug abuse… sarah being an absolute angel to reader <3

the word spread fast— like a winter cold that confines you to the bed. rafe cameron fucked up. and he fucked up bad. well, to those who didn’t fall for the propaganda of a perfect cameron heir. desperate finance bros still held rafe in the highest regard, and sorority girls flocked to him since he was freshly available. yet, rafe didn’t seem interested in either cluster of groupies. he didn’t seem interested in anything at all.

rafe’s confined in his connected bathroom, hunching over the counter like he’s about to throw up. there’s this itch, this tantalizing sensation of spiders crawling up his legs and fusing together beneath the tanned skin. his hands shake, a weak attempt to reach for the knob and run his face under the cold water. waterboarding seems like a viable option, yet rafe knows he couldn’t do it himself. too much time, too much effort. he doubles back to what he’s familiar with; another little packet of white residue that makes it all go away. he doesn’t even remember your name, or the way your fingertips traced his collarbones when you laid together. you’re just another failure on his long list of disappointments.

you, however, seem to be healing. forever the awkward homebody, you don’t make appearances often, but it still shocks the young adult population on the island. there are no excessive under eye circles, or hair that frays from the slightest touch. you aren’t rafe cameron’s little pet any longer, just a cross between a ghost and a survivor. how on earth did you make it out? you don’t have a clue. stroke of luck, guardian angel, or whatever else the kids want to conjure up. you’ve always been you.

your parents, albeit annoyed that you’ve returned home so quickly, are somewhat relieved. the cameron family is infamous around the island, they don’t want you mixed up with something like that. even if it means dealing with your presence again. you know you’ve never been the favorite kid, but it still stings. you feel the same way about rafe. sure, he sucked and everyone could see it, yet you couldn’t find yourself splitting away from him. like how the muscle still works once the limb is gone. there’s remnants of him everywhere, and there isn’t much to do about it. the only way through is to outlive it.

“hey.” going to a kegger at the boneyard wasn’t your greatest choice, but there wasn’t anything new on the history channel and your parents seemed annoyed that you were even existing outside of your room. so, when sarah cameron waltzed up, you knew you fucked yourself. sarah notices the way your shoulders immediately tense, and how your eyes scan the beach for any sign of him. she offered a smile, “d-don’t worry, he’s not here. pretty sure he’s on a coke binge.” the middle cameron’s always been the easygoing one— the kook princess who could charm her way through anything. you consistently wondered if it ever got exhausting, to be so accessible at all times. it wasn’t until you got with rafe that you got a snippet of that feeling; that icy numbness covering you like a jacket that doesn’t fit anymore. uncomfortable, feeling like you don’t fit in your own skin.

“sarah, i don’t mean to be harsh, but… there’s no reason for you to talk to me. ‘m not with rafe anymore so we can just, i dunno, go back to being strangers? not cut out for either side of this dumbass turf war anyway.” you say. sarah’s left hand twitches, sloshing cheap beer onto the sand and trailing down her forearm. she’s wearing a tiffany ring, only in gold because that’s just what cameron’s wore.

sarah thought that no one could ever know rafe like she did. like their dad did. his irritation that blossomed when he was just a kid, the yearning for ward to do anything with him. then, the drugs once he got to junior year. just cheap shit at first, molly and a little bit of K. after? cocaine, experimenting with dealers like barry who owned way more spoons than the average american. then, you came along.

the awkward, afraid-to-move-wrong you. it seemed like you could walk on eggshells just fine, and that’s what rafe was. what rafe is. there isn’t any light left in him, sarah believes. but, you made it seem like there was— even if it was just the fluorescence that follows you in the dentist office or in the grocery store.

“i jus’ wanted to see how you’re doing. and that i’m really happy that you left. i know he had his good moments, but he’s not a good guy. you shouldn’t have been caught up in hurricane rafe. and i feel like i let you.” she speaks quickly, as if daring to utter his name will summon him from the depths of hell. you aren’t incredibly sure, because if anyone could find a way, it’d be him. it’s nice, almost endearing to know that sarah takes blame for allowing the relationship to happen. you both know it’s not true, yet you don’t rush to correct her. there’s a silence that plagues the two of you— managing to drown out the noise of blaring music and boisterous laughter.

you don’t how to answer the question of “how are you doing?” you’re straddling the fence of past and present, only a few skips away from the future. but you can’t get down. there’s still a little bit of hope in you. that maybe he didn’t mean all the things he said that night, or even all the other mornings, noons, and nights. the worst part? you know it’s not true. no matter how big of a gap between yesterday and today. he’s controlling, and he’s arrogant, and he doesn’t care about anyone. not himself, and certainly not you.

sarah realizes how your eyes aren’t as narrow now, softening as you stare at her. your arms fall to your sides, there’s no need to protect yourself from anything. “i’m just… here. i’m here a-and i’m healthy and uh, i’m outta the hurricane. that’s enough for me. for right now.” you finally respond, voice trembling like a ripple in the sea. it’s an eerie moment, how the seconds it took for you answer sarah’s question felt like hours. the way miller lite clung to the air and made it difficult to breathe. she pauses, before she nods at you slowly. in one swift move, her red solo cup is tossed carelessly to the ground— in true cameron fashion. then? sarah’s arms stretch out towards you, and you can’t find it in yourself to hold back. sarah, you notice, is warm-blooded. it’s comforting, even with her chin digging into your shoulder and her tight grip. at least it’s real, and that’s more than you ever got with him.

like the news of the breakup, sarah cameron’s unexpected hug was the shot heard around the world. rafe, of course, is the first to know. he’s got eyes and ears scattered around the island; and the fact that his own sister would dare approach you is baffling. it’s just rafe and sarah at tannyhill— ward at a business meeting on the mainland, rose and wheezie busying themselves with upcoming events for back-to-school. she’s in the kitchen once he finally lays eyes on her, humming a song he doesn’t know while making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. her favorite since they were kids.

“you, uh, wanna explain to me why you were talkin’ to my ex? ‘cus i really don’t think it’s your place to play nancy drew and find out what happened between us.” rafe asks, rubbing at his nose with his fingers. he’s been using too much; the nosebleeds and the sleepless nights are haunting his life. sarah let out a huff, the butter knife clattering down on the countertop. she shrugged, “i can talk to whoever i want. and we didn’t even talk about you, so… i dunno what you want me to say.”

there’s a sharp pang in his chest, was sarah serious? surely, you must’ve talked about him. what else was there? you were too well-off for the pogues, too poor for the kooks. a freak of nature, he believed. rafe scoffs— clicking his tongue in disbelief. “nah, nah, don’t lie to me, sare. what did you fuckin’ say to them, huh? that they were stupid to even get with me? t-that i’m the worst person alive and i would’ve drained them dry?!”

sarah notices the way her brother starts to whip his head around, searching for an anchor who’s not there anymore. you’re gone, long gone and he chose it. not you. the lines and the partying and the drinking all come back to him; rafe cameron and his inexplicable thirst for something, for anything. when she fails to answer, rafe laughs as if he couldn’t fathom what was going on. “what’d they tell you, hmm? that i treated them like fuckin’ dirt? well, they fuckin’ let me, so i dunno what the animosity is about. i gave them everything, every damn thing i could and they were too scared to say thanks! i loved them better than anyone ever could.”

she never thought he’d admit the quiet part out loud. rafe cameron picked you because he knew no one else would ever make you feel loved. not even the only people you had, your parents. sarah inches towards the plate, her eyes never leaving rafe’s face. he’s red in his cheeks, skin peeling around his nose and sarah knows what that means. he’s losing it, and she’s not sure when he’ll hit the bottom.

“you might’ve loved them, but you didn’t like them. that’s why they left, rafe. it’s not anyone’s problem but yours.” sarah’s voice cut through the air, and stopped rafe in his tracks. he doesn’t move to crack his knuckles, or run a hand through his greasy hair. rafe stands still, like one of the little action figures you always talked about before. they were your dad’s, you weren’t allowed to move them. rafe couldn’t imagine what that felt like, until now.

all rafe can hear are sarah’s footsteps up the stairs and the ringing in his ears. is it true? was that how people saw you and him? like an obsessive doll collector and his new favorite piece? no, no, that couldn’t be it, there was no way! rafe loves you, even if you basically damned him to hell and left without any goodbye. his baby, his sweetheart who tried. you tried so hard, and he didn’t even notice. didn’t care to notice. what did it matter now?

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ac speaks!