partygirl14

Latest Posts by partygirl14

Daisy Jones & The Six (2023) A Complete Unknown (2024)

I can’t fucking stand Daisy Jones

when you let him stay. - rafe cameron.

this is part of the 'Not Your Girlfriend' series! catch up on the other things: 1 | headcanon | 2 ♡

--

You wake up first.

Which is annoying, because he’s the one who snuck in at 2AM like a raccoon with a key. He should be the tired one. He should be snoring or sprawled like a starfish or drooling on your pillow.

But no.

Rafe Cameron is lying next to you like he was carved there—like someone painted a boy who never learned how to sleep alone, then dropped him in your bed with a note that said Handle with care. Prone to clinginess.

His arm is heavy across your waist. One leg tangled with yours. His face soft in a way you rarely see, all the sharp edges dulled by sleep.

You should’ve kicked him out hours ago.

That’s what you usually do. Not cruelly—just... with rules. With space. With boundaries you both pretend matter.

But last night was different. He didn’t try to leave right away. And you didn’t make him.

He asked—quietly, fingers brushing your hip, lips at your shoulder—“Can I stay? Just this once?”

And you’d nodded, your voice lost somewhere under the sheets, under the weight of how much you love him. How tired you are of pretending you don’t.

So now, here you are. Morning light creeping through your curtains. Your chest tight with something that feels suspiciously like peace. And Rafe’s still here.

He shifts against you in his sleep, face nudging into your neck like he’s dreaming about you. Like you’re the safest thing he knows.

You let yourself watch him for a moment.

Just a moment.

Because he's beautiful in the mornings. Not just hot, though he is that too. But beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache. In a way that makes you think about toothbrushes side by side and coffee mugs that say “his” and “hers” and things that feel dangerously close to a future.

You brush a strand of hair off his forehead, careful not to wake him.

He stirs anyway. Cracks one eye open.

And smiles. Sleepy. Unfiltered. Like you’re his favorite dream come true.

“Hey,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “You stayed.”

You laugh under your breath. “This is my bed, Rafe.”

“Semantics,” he mutters, tightening his hold on you like he’s worried you might change your mind now that the sun’s up.

You don’t. You let him hold you. Let your fingers trace lazy circles into the warm skin of his back. Let yourself feel what it’s like to not run.

“I thought you’d sneak out before sunrise,” you say quietly. “Or make some dumb excuse. Something about needing to check on your car or intimidate someone at a gas station.”

He hums against your collarbone. “I was gonna. Had the whole fake emergency planned and everything.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. But then you sighed in your sleep. Real soft. Like you were dreaming of something nice. And I hoped it was me.”

You’re silent for a moment. Then—

“It was.”

His head lifts just slightly, eyes meeting yours.

“What?”

You shrug, suddenly shy. “It was you. In the dream.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you like you’re the last good thing in a world that never gave him many. And maybe you are.

“You never let me stay before,” he says softly.

“I know.”

“You were always gone before I woke up.”

“I know.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “So… does this mean I’m your boyfriend now?”

You snort. “Absolutely not.”

He groans, flopping back into the pillow dramatically. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You like it.”

“I love it,” he says instantly. Then quieter, “I love you.”

You inhale sharply. Not because it’s new. He’s said it before—usually like a dare, or a joke, or mid-argument while bleeding.

But this time it’s quiet. Sure. No punchline. No performance.

Just true.

And the wildest part?

You don’t panic.

You don’t deflect.

You don’t roll your eyes or throw a pillow at his head.

You just look at him. Soft and tired and yours.

“I love you too,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Because right now, it is.

He blinks. “Wait, like for real? Full sentence and everything?”

“Mhm.”

He beams. Beams. Kisses you so hard he knocks you back into the pillows, laughing against your mouth like a kid who just found out Santa’s real and hot.

“This is the best morning of my life,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Top five for sure.”

“You’re such a sap.”

“You’re cuddling me.”

“You’re warm,” you defend weakly, snuggling closer. “Like a space heater with daddy issues.”

He cackles. “Okay, wow. That’s fair.”

You fall quiet again, the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty. His fingers trace idle shapes into your arm. Your foot hooks over his calf. It’s domestic. Disgustingly so.

He kisses the top of your head. “Can we just… stay like this? For a while?”

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. We can stay.”

No running.

No pretending.

Just love. Messy, chaotic, ridiculous love.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re not so scared of it anymore.

---

tell me I'm not the only one who deactivated twitter

"If you have sun in the 12th house you're meant to work behind the scenes" Girrrrl, are you stupid? Fucking Madonna has sun in the 12th house. Do you really think that she was made to work behind the scenes?

Rita Hayworth as Gilda Mundson in GILDA (1946) dir. Charles Vidor

I love Aphrodite, man. Goddess of love, sex, beauty…oh and also war, because sometimes even hot girls just gotta kill a motherfucker

I feel so disgusting and uncomfortable in my own skin I don’t wanna be here

i want to go home. i will always want to go home. even when i am at home i want to go home. but i’m not really thinking of a place, it’s more that feeling of everything finally being over, of seeing the light in the windows of your house on a cold night, of being safe, the relief of leaving a party you’re not enjoying, like when you felt sick at school and they sent you home, or when you got upset at a sleepover and they called your parents. i want my mam to come get me. i want to go home.

“girls support girls” no. girls protect girls. I could hate a girl to death and I still wouldn’t take my eyes off her drink at a party, I could hate her like she was the devil but still I wouldn’t make her go back to a man that was beating her.

“Every man is an island. I stand by that. But clearly some men are part of island CHAINS.”

— Barney Snaith