#And there's nothing actually wrong with that right. And that you can do whatever you want forever and so can others right. Right.

[moran-with-a-g]

You must understand that a political issue is not something that's just going to disappear once you stop caring about it. It's not like "A x B are a toxic ship and you should only ship A with C!!" or whatever other fandom drama people participate in.

And in fandom, if you follow what's popular, it becomes the fanon. There's no fanon for real life issues.

You won't hurt anyone by getting the point of a fictional story wrong. You hurt a LOT of people by not understanding the holocaust and acting like you do.

People call it "whataboutism" when you try to try and tell them "why do you care about this, and not that?" The question doesn't mean to say "you should care about that more", or "you should care about everything horrible going on in the world rn". It's "why, out of every horrible thing that's happening in the world, did you choose to focus on this issue and on this perspective?"

Some people focus on gay rights because they're gay or know someone who's gay. Some people focus on climate change, or pollution, because they learnt about the impact it has on our world and want to make it better for us and for future generations. Some people focus on a war because they have families or friends living there.

And then a lot of people look at them, go "this is what a good person does nowadays", and join in on supporting the issue without the proper research of what they're supporting. And when you don't properly understand what it is you're fighting for, what it is that your movement is trying to achieve, and what's the best way to tackle the issue - a lot of times you will cause way more harm than good.

A cis person who doesn't actually understand what being trans is could go and protest for our right to have our gender in our ID instead of our agab, protest for us to be treated like our gender and not our agab, and then also promote that doctors treat trans men exactly like they treat cis men - and end up blocking trans men from treatments related to pregnancy, breast cancer, etc. The same cis person could also go and say that transmascs can't be lesbians and have nothing to do with the lesbian community because they're men, without bothering to learn the shared history the two groups have.

Some issues are more clear-cut than others. Some APPEAR more clear-cut than others. In politics nothing is ever a simple right and wrong, good and evil. And if you're going to actually dedicate yourself to an issue you have to understand what it is you're supporting, what the goal of the movement is and why, and the history behind it. You can't ever claim you know everything there is to know, or that you know enough. There's never a point where you'll know everything. And you definitely cannot know everything about an issue that went on for over a thousand years.

Self doubting is SO important when it comes to political issues. You ALWAYS need to ask yourself "Why am I supporting that? What am I supporting? How will that affect others? Is this truly the best course of action to take?" and sometimes the answer should be that you don't know. That it's too complicated to know, that you don't have enough information to form an educated opinion. This is not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of maturity and responsibility. Those things you support affect the life of real people, and you can end up hurting the ones you support more than the ones you oppose.

I tried to make it as general as I could because this is not just about I/P for me (even though this is mainly about I/P). This is about every political issue that becomes a "trend". It's good when a political issue gains a lot of support, but if that support is uninformed and only follows what the trend is, it could snowball very fast and turn a crowd of people to support a very new and harmful perspective instead. It makes it so easy for people who are against this issue to chime in, alter the way they explain it a little bit, popularize the new idea and repeat until suddenly the whole issue is flipped.

open your third eye QUICK by realizing that people engage with politics in the same way that they engage with fandom

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Puck-cident

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Blood, vomit, injury, hurt/comfort

Summary: You are the unfortunate soul that takes a puck to the face during one of Utah's games, Clayton sees whole thing and demands to be let off the ice.

Notes: By popular demand I have finally gotten around to this fic ☺️This turned out to be like 5.5k so...enjoy?

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Everyone always knows there's a risk involved with sitting in the audience at an ice hockey game. The announcers at every game never fail to remind people that pucks can travel at well over 80mph and can go into the audience. Always reminding people to keep their eyes on the puck. But, no one actually ever thinks it'll hit them. You've seen your fair share of pucks caught in the crowds, you've never seen someone get injured.

You've been to so many ice hockey games that maybe you've been lulled into a false sense of security, a sense that nothing bad could possible happen to you, not when you're sat in the stands to watch your boyfriend play. Not when you're wearing his jersey, Keller plastered across the back, number 9 bold and clear. Not when you feel so at home in that space, so secure. Turns out you're terribly wrong.

Normally Clayton's eyes wouldn't have followed the puck as it went out of bounds, normally he'd have sighed and moved to the new faceoff circle, caring very little for what fan had managed to catch it. Normally, he'd be more concerned with the fact that they were in a two goal deficit. But, something made him stop on the ice today, something made him follow the puck with his eyes to its end destination. Eyes widening in horror as the scene started to play in slow motion while he was utterly helpless on the ice, stood there with his grip slacking on his stick.

Clayton never imagined that it would be dangerous for you to come to one of his games because fans getting hit by pucks? Getting genuinely hurt? That seemed like such a fluke incident and you'd never been hurt before, not in all the years you'd been coming to his games. Even before you were with him you'd gone to ice hockey games, not once had you had an issue. But, it sinks in, the reality of it, that it does happen and can happen to you. That it's happening to you right now and he can't do anything to stop it.

The piece of vulcanised rubber that had flown off the stick of the opposing team flies over the glass into the stands and he watches like some sort car crash, a sick slow motion view as the puck finds you, like your name was written on it. It's hard to tell from this distance how hurt you are, or where you were hit, but he can see the crowd writhing around you, the panicked yells telling him enough.

Enough that Clayton's skating towards the bench as fast as he can, shrugging off teammates and referees who try to insist he stays, who keep asking him what's wrong and where he's going. His coach tries the same, stepping in his path, confused as to where Clay's off to in the middle of a game as the captain of the team.

"Keller, what do you think you're doing?"

"Respectfully, Bear, my girlfriend just got hit by a puck going nearly 90mph. I'm going to see if she's alright." His tone is short, clipped, trying to be respectful of his coach, a man he does respect and admire. But he's made up his mind and nothing and no one is going to stop him from going to you right now. He'd sooner quite hockey entirely than play a whole game unsure if you're alright after being injured.

"Keller, the game..."

"Fuck the game, you've got enough players. I need to see her, coach." Maybe it's the wild look in his eyes, the way panic stands out stark and clear. Maybe it's the tense set of his shoulders or the fact that his stick creaks so hard under his grip that it sounds like it may crack. Whatever it is, he isn't yelled at like he expects, no one tells him to go back out on the ice.

Instead Tourigny steps aside letting him past as Clayton storms down the tunnel, passing his stick off to someone. He's barely aware of the fact he takes off his skates, shoving them in someone's arms before he's running out towards the entrance to the stands in just his socks, the only thought on his mind being you and whether you were okay right now.

It's hard to describe what goes through your head when you see the puck coming straight for you, a blind sort of panic that has you freezing in your seat, not that you had anywhere to go to avoid it, not at the speed it had come at you. You're in such shock that you don't really feel much after the initial impact, head buzzing and dazed, neck hurting from the snap of your head backwards, ears ringing as people around you start fussing over you. Someone has you up out of your seat, your arm around their shoulders helping you out of the stands. The feeling of wetness glides down your temple and you raise a hand to your face that comes away red, noticing almost numbly that you're bleeding, blood running down the side of your face, upset because it starts to drip on Clay's jersey, the white one he'd lent you. The fabric being stained, ruined.

"Keller has left the ice, rather abruptly, we're unsure if it's related to the fan in the crowd who's taken a puck to the head or not." Someone has the game station on, clearly enjoying having the commentators speak during the game, the crowd is so loud as you're all but hauled up the stairs to the exit of the stands. You have just enough awareness to wonder if Clayton had seen you get hit or whether he'd been hurt on the ice himself or wasn't feeling well.

You feel like you're going to be sick as you're helped into the main entrance of the arena, lights blinding you, head pounding, the numbness starting to fade in favour of such blistering, aching pain in your head that you can't help but start crying. You feel pathetic, scared, panicked and in pain. You just want Clayton but he should be playing a game right now and the realisation that you couldn't have him with you only makes you cry harder.

It turned into full on sobs when your dizzy, double vision locks on to Clay who's running in just a pair of socks towards you, frantic, helmet being tossed behind him to someone. There's two of him, your vision going in and out but you're so happy to see him that it doesn't matter. So happy that he's here that you can almost ignore the pain, the nausea, and the blood.

He's got you in his arms before you can even comprehend reaching for him, whoever had helped you this far taking a step back to let him take over. He's petrified, you look horrific, blood coating the side of your face and neck, red clotting around your temple. Your eyes unfocused, the white of his jersey bloodstained, tears streaming down your face and he knows someone's calling the first aid team, but it doesn't reassure him when you look like that.

Clay's hands cup the sides your face, your blood is sticky against his palm and he knows he shouldn't be, knows its not anyone's real fault, but he's irrationally angry. Angry at the other team for sending the puck off into the stands, angry at you for always insisting you sit like a normal fan rather than in the box for family and friends, angry at himself for not insisting, angry at Tourigny for trying to stop him from coming to find you, angry that he wasn't with you when it happened. Angry because the alternative is fear and he's not sure he's ready to feel that right now, not sure he can, needing to keep it together for you because you're still crying, clutching onto him like he's the only thing that can bring you comfort right now. He can't help the way he grips you back tightly, trying to reassure himself that you're okay, even as blood keeps flowing from the split skin of your temple.

"You're going to be okay, baby, I've got you...It's okay." It's not, fuck, it's not, but he's trying to stay calm for you, a blank mask on his face rather than blind panic as he watches a stretcher be wheeled towards you. Runs his fingers through your hair in an attempt to soothe you and himself at the same time, he knows his hands are shaking so fucking badly and he hopes you don't notice, hope you feel reassured by him, feel like he's steady, stable.

"We need her on the stretcher, Keller, so we can have a look at her." Clay's attention goes to the first aiders behind you, the stretcher pulled close enough that all you have to do is step back and jump up.

"It hurts, Clay..." You're sniffling into his shoulder, blood getting on the jersey he's wearing, not that he cares. The equipment team are used to getting blood out of things. Two bloody jerseys is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

"I know, baby, oh, I know...I'm just going to give you a little boost up, okay? We're going to get you sat up here, okay?" He talks you through each step as his hands find your waist, helping you jump up onto the stretcher. The movement makes you dizzy, nausea filling you to the point where you know you're going to be sick, desperately trying to keep it in, being unable to. You can't help it when you're sick...all over Clay, head leaning forward between your legs as you vomit over his legs, whimpering as you do so.

"I'm sorry...I've got blood on your jersey and now..." You're crying harder now, embarrassment and shame added to the whole issue because you've just vomited over your boyfriend's expensive hockey gear after bleeding over 2 different jerseys. But, Clay doesn't flinch, hands stroking your hair as you lean forward to quell the dizziness. Is it gross? Oh, totally, does he actually care? Not really. It's testament to how much he loves you that the grossness doesn't matter, he'd let you vomit on him a million times so long as he can look after you in the process.

"It's okay, baby, I need you to lay back, okay? They're going to check on your head..." His hands are gentle on your shoulders, pushing you back while helping you swing your legs straight on the stretcher. Clay's fingers brush back your hair as he looks down at your hazy gaze, "I need to go change real quick and I'll be right back, sweet girl."

When he goes to step back you're grabbing his hand with the precision of a star goalie, even with the double vision and haziness you manage to find his hand. The grip you have on him is so tight, scared for him to leave you, scared you'll be alone like this. Even as you know he's covered in blood and vomit and needs to change, deserves to change.

He's right back to stroking your cheek, backs of his fingers gentle on your skin like he's afraid you might break, "I'll be right back, you're not going anywhere without me."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He tells the medical staff not to go anywhere with you without him. The fear of coming back to find you gone roiling in his stomach, not really wanting to leave you alone but knowing he can't stand here covered in sick. He's so quick, running down the corridors to the locker room to limit how long he's gone. The speed with which he takes off the vomit soaked clothes and sweat stained uniform is probably record breaking and despite the smell of sick he doesn't even contemplate a shower, just throws on some old sweats and a t-shirt, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers before bolting back to where he left you. He can take a shower later, once he knows you're okay, once you're both back home.

You're lying back on the stretcher with one of the first aiders, Clay thinks his name is John, leaning over you, shining a torch in your eyes to check for a concussion when Clay returns. He can tell already that you have one between the dizziness, vomiting and the way you seem to wince at any and all light. It doesn't take a genius to realise the puck to the face has rocked your brain a little too hard.

The middle age first aid looks up at Clayton as he finishes checking you over, Clay coming up on your other side to grab your hand again. The way you look at him, so trusting, so happy to just have him back makes his heart skip a little even as it breaks at how tired and in pain you look.

"She has a concussion and needs stitches, we're not allowed to do them here as she's a member of the public, she needs to go to hospital. It might also be a good idea to get an x-ray, make sure she's not got a fracture or anything like that." John turns to Clayton, pocketing the flashlight. It's not what he wants to hear, Clay would rather hear that you're perfectly fine, but it's obvious you're not. Still panic closes his throat at the thought that you might have something even more seriously like a fracture or worse.

"Does she need an ambulance or can I drive her?" Either way Clayton's coming with you, whether in the back of an ambulance or in the driver's seat of his car. He'll deal with the aftermath of leaving the game later, but right now? You're his priority and he's not leaving you.

"Probably quicker for you to take her yourself, Keller. I can help you wheel her to your car?"

"Thanks, that'd be great, John."

"No problem."

Clay has your hand in his, walking alongside the stretcher as John wheels it down to the parking lot. You're dazed and slightly giddy, laughing at each bump despite the pain and that's more concerning to Clay than the crying. A cloth has been put to your head, held there by your free hand, knuckles tight like you're working off instinct just to keep it there. He's not sure you'd be able to release it with how tight your grip is. He knows head wounds bleed a lot, but that doesn't make seeing the cloth already red with blood, any easier or less worrying.

Clayton's decided he has a new appreciation for how you feel whenever he gets injured on the ice. It's...God, it might be one of the worst things he's ever had to go through.

He's proven right, that you can't seem to let that cloth go when he helps you down from the stretcher and to his car, your hand doesn't move, cloth pressed to stem the flow of blood even when you stumble. He has you in the passenger seat and buckled in as quickly as possible and maybe he breaks a few traffic laws on the way to the hospital, but anyone would. The way you're barely there next to him, so dazed that he's worried the concussion might be something more has him pressing a little harder on the accelerator.

The blood is enough in the emergency room for you to be fast tracked to a doctor and a bed, struggling to sit upright he makes the decision to get up on the bed with you. You rest between his legs, leaning back on him heavily, Clayton the only thing keep you sat upright as the doctor, Dr Pandya, pries the cloth from your hand and assesses the wound.

You shy back into him when the doctor wipes away at the large cut with antiseptic to clean away the blood, only for more to come spilling forth. Clay's arms wrapping tight around your waist, linking your hands with his to give you something to grip onto.

"You need stitches, it's not going to close on its own."

"Okay..." He can tell you're trying to be brave, breathing suddenly heavier, fingers tightening around his until his own start to go numb, but he doesn't complain. Just lets you lean on him, seek support from him.

You're brave throughout the 14 stitches it takes to close up the cut on your temple, more stitches than you've ever had to have in your life. But, you don't complain, don't ask to stop, don't hiss, just let it happen as you grip onto Clay with everything you have. The warmth of his back behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder, pressing kisses to your neck, helps. Having him with you helps.

"All done. You have a concussion and need to rest for at least 2 days before you do anything. Avoid bright lights, loud areas. Keep those stitches dry for at least a day, so no washing your hair just yet unfortunately. If it starts to bruise, ice it."

The doctors turns to Clay this time, "If she starts to seem confused, keeps vomiting or just doesn't seem to be getting any better then bring her back in. But she should be tired for the next few days but start to feel better soon."

"Thank you," You're quiet but polite, not wanting to be rude when someone has taken the time to help you even if it is the doctor's job to do so.

"Thanks, Doc."

There's a quick sort of turn around in which Clay fills out the necessary paper work, financial details, insurance and the like before he's helping you up and out of emergency room.

All you want is to sleep, curl up in bed with Clayton and hide from the pounding in your head, the bright lights and loud sounds of the outside world only making it worse.

He's calmer on the drive home, no more traffic laws being broken even if he grips the steering wheel a little tight and keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, assessing. Some of the panic has eased, but not all. You're still hurt. Concussed, stitched up, definitely going to bruise and swell, and in need of rest. Rest he can't be there for the entire time because of his job. He might have gotten away with leaving the game tonight, but he knows he'll be expected at practice tomorrow, knows he'll be expected at the home game the day after and that means hours of time in which you're alone. He hates the idea of it, already running through a mental list of people he could call.

"I got blood on your jersey..." You're sniffling again when he pulls the car into the driveway, putting it in park. He turns in his seat, leaning an arm on the headrest to watch you. You're staring at the blood stains on the jersey you're wearing, tears dripping down your cheeks and it's...it's so silly and so sweet that some of that panic eases further.

"It's okay, baby, the equipment guys can get the blood out."

"Really?" You look at him so hopefully, so innocently happy. He hates that your reaction is like that because of your injury, at the same time finding it amusing, a small smile reaching his lips for the first time since he saw you take a puck to the face.

"Yeah, baby, they're great at that..."

"Oh..."

There's a beat of silence where you just blink at him, sighing out each breath like even that's too tiring right now. There's blood crusted around your stitches that he knows you're going to get annoyed with while you can't get water near them, bruising starting to pop up around that side of your face, swelling beginning to show and make you look a little lopsided.

"Let's get you inside and into some comfy clothes, yeah? You tired?"

"Really tired..." You blink all slow at him, eyelids feeling supremely heavy and he knows you're going to be out like a light the moment he gets you into the bed. That's reassuring in a way, that you'll find it easy to rest, at least tonight, before the aches fully settle in.

He's tries to be quick getting round to your side of the car but he's starting to feel just as tired. A combination of playing half a game of pro-hockey, the anxiety, panic and worry over your wellbeing, being thrown up on, going all the way to hospital and back, all working to make Clayton feel like dropping where he stands. But, like always you're his priority.

His hands reach for yours, tugging gently to pull you from the car, "Okay, out you get, baby." You go willingly, letting him guide you from the car and through the house. Letting your brain shut off because he's got you. You trust him to guide you around obstacles, through doorways, a level of trust that Clayton can't help but feel honoured by as you let him sit you on the edge of your shared bed.

You blink up at him all slow and sleepy, shoulders slumping and he's certain if you laid down you'd be out in seconds.

"Arms up, baby." You don't question him, don't hesitate, arms straight in the air with the sort of sluggishness that tells him even doing that feels hard right now.

Clay's careful of your hair and your stitches as he pulls the bloodstained jersey over your head, throwing it in a corner to take back to the rink to salvage. You leave your hands up as he helps you out of your undershirt and replaces it with one of your favourite big comfy t-shirts. You don't drop your arms until he tells you to, the sort of obedience you fall into around him because he takes care of you so well that you trust him more than you trust yourself.

"Wanna shower..."

"You can't get your stitches wet yet, sweet girl, tomorrow night I'll help you shower, but not tonight, okay?"

"Okay..." He knows you hate it, your routine is like clockwork. Every evening you shower, washing the dirt and grime of the day away, and breaking that is upsetting to you. But, you trust him. You listen without protest and let him lay you back so he can wriggle your jeans down over your hips and off your ankles, socks coming with.

"Up for me, baby." You reach for him from the first word, arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his chains as he lifts you to your feet, keeping an arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls the covers back.

He settles you in against your pillow, swinging your legs up and pulling the covers up to your waist as you cling to him. Your fingers don't detach from his chains, holding tight to him so that he can't pull away, hovering over you.

He's so handsome, maybe it's the concussion talking, but he's always so handsome. Your free hand reaches for his cheek, tracing the skin beneath his eyes and he can't help but smile at you, at the soft way you're gazing up at him. Still dazed, but oh so loving.

"You okay, baby?" He huffs a laugh down at you, teeth peeking out and you love that smile, god it makes him so pretty. So, so pretty. Even prettier when one of his hands cups your cheek like that, long finger stroking the skin gently where your cheek lifts from grinning up at him all dozy.

"Mmm, you're really pretty."

"I think that's your concussion talking, sweet girl." His fingers graze the swollen skin by your stitches lightly, not hard enough to hurt or sting, but a reminder to himself that you've got 14 stitches right now. That right now you're brain is a little scrambled.

"Nuh uh...you're always pretty...I got really lucky." You might be concussed but you know it's true. Clayton's so handsome you spend half your time wondering how you managed to bag him because he could have any woman he wanted and instead he chose you. This handsome, beautiful, kind, caring man, a pro-athlete, and he chose you. Normal, little old you.

"Wrong way around, I'm the lucky one. You took a puck to the face for me, that's pretty hardcore, baby." The blood around your stitches is dry and flaky, proof that today wasn't just a dream or imaginary. Proof that his girlfriend had taken a puck to the face, survived and only vomited once, pretty hardcore.

"Didn't mean to..."

"I know...it worried me though, just glad you're okay."

His fingers caress your skin as silence over takes the two of you, just gazing at each other as each of you feel the other under your fingers. To feel the way you graze the tip of his nose, how you tug a little on his chains to bring him just an inch closer. It's grounding to have you in his hands like that, to feel your warmth, to know you're going to be fine even if he'd been scared today. The whole thing has just solidified in his mind how much he loves you, how much he'd be willing to do for you, to give up for you. That you're it for him whether you realise that or not.

You take a shuddering breath, eyes shifting away from his like you're embarrassed by what you're going to say next even as your fingers tighten around his chains and keep him close. His blue eyes fixed on you, attention unwavering and loyal.

"I was...I was scared I'd be alone...just wanted you..." Your head isn't quite as fuzzy as earlier, but you can remember it clearly. Feeling the panic at the thought that you wanted Clay but he wouldn't be there...then the joy at seeing him, the relief as he ran out in full gear except skates, socks only on his feet.

"You thought I wouldn't be there?"

"You had a game...a-and I didn't know if you'd seen it happen...thought you'd still be playing." It's like you're ashamed for thinking he wouldn't be there, and while he hates that you did, he understands why. There was no guarantee he'd have even know you were hurt, it was just by some fluke of luck, by sheer chance that he'd actually watched the puck fly into the crowd for once. Even then, in some arenas would he have even been able to tell it was you?

"They'd have had to chain me to Schmaltz to keep me on the ice, baby. Always going to be there for you, no matter what. You first. Hockey second." He means it. Hockey has been his life since he could put on a pair of skates, and he'd worked hard for it, always having to do 10 times what the bigger guys did and do it 10 times better. But, you? You're it for him you'll be it for him when he retires from hockey, when he can no longer play and that? That's worth more than a game, even a game he loves. It's practically a proposal in itself, a promise to you because he never wants you to think he'd pick the game over you, especially not when you're hurt.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." The smile you give him is blinding, so full of love that he wants to bottle it, memorise it to keep for those bad days. For the days when they've lost a game, for the times when he needs a reminder to keep pushing, to keep going.

"Come to bed?" You try to tug him again by his chains but he unfurls your fingers gentle, one by one, smoothing over your knuckles in reassurance.

"I've got to shower baby, but I don't want to leave you alone..." The idea of taking his eyes off you, of not being able to see that you're okay for even a minute makes him feel sick.

"You smell like vomit..." You wrinkle up your nose, scrunching your face like you've only just realise that he smells. Your hands pushing on his shoulders a little, moving him away rather than closer and he can't say he blames you. Even he's over the smell now.

"That's your fault, baby."

"'m sorry..." You mumble, warmth flooding your face at the memory of throwing up on him, his hockey gear taking the brunt of it rather than the floor.

"It's okay, I'll go shower, but you'll okay if I leave you for a few minutes?"

You nod your head gently, carefully because nodding too much hurts right now. Clayton presses a quick kiss to your forehead, avoiding the swollen areas of your face before leaving you.

He's no nonsense about it all, washing with a precision and speed that would make the army consider recruiting him. He's thorough, however, skin scrubbed down until he smells like your vanilla body wash and not vomit.

Clay doesn't faff with clothes, just shoves a pair of boxers on and curls up next to you, you're already asleep, mouth open slightly, the tiniest hint of drool at the corners. Endearing. He wraps an arm around your waist, dragging you gently closer until he can curl around you like that might keep you safe from any further puck based incidents.

Clay doesn't sleep...not well at least. He spends half the night just watching you breathe, scared that if he closes his eyes something might happen. A total of 3 hours all he gets, so when the doorbell rings shrill and loud at 7am all he can do is groan loudly and burrow his face into your shoulder.

The doorbell rings again and he's swearing under his breath because if it's a sales person or a cold caller he might actually commit a crime. All he wants it to stay curled up with you, maybe get some more sleep now you seem a little perkier, eyes blinking open and more coherent than they were yesterday.

"Clay...the door." It's your worry about ignoring it that has him groaning, stretching and shoulders popping as he stumbles out of bed.

"I know, baby...stay here."

He doesn't even bother putting on clothes, just walks to the door in his boxers. Your head might still be fuzzy but you can't help the way your eyes trail over his back, the way his arse looks in his boxes, the thick set of his thighs. You're almost certain he puts an extra little saunter in his step because you're watching.

He kind of hopes whoever has disturbed his rest with his injured girlfriend gets the shock of their life seeing him open the door in just his boxers. Unfortunately, it's just Kesselring, who has seen him in his boxers more times than he can count, completely unphased.

"What're you doing here, Kess?"

"Came to check on Mrs Keller and brought a gift," The taller man holds up a little gift bag and as much as Clayton wants to slam the door in his face he doesn't, just stepping aside to let Kess in.

He leads him to you, where you're wrapped up in all the bed blankets, making yourself a little cocoon and your face brightens at seeing one of your favourite members of his team. Kess is only your favourite because he lets you go round to see the cats whenever you want, whether he's there or not. Or that's what Clayton says to ease any of that ugly little jealous side he has that occasionally rears it's head. Even knowing that Kess treats you more like a sister than anything else.

"For you Mrs Keller," Kess hands you the gift bag even as you swat at him weakly. He'd been calling you that ever since Clayton announced you were dating...the alternative wasn't much better, referring to you as the team mom because Clayton was the team dad.

"Thank you, Michael," You pull out a wad of tissue paper, unfurling it to reveal the last thing Clayton ever wanted to see.

"You brought the thing that nearly killed my girlfriend into the house?" He's actually irrationally angry at the rubber. The black has been cleaned, not a speak of your blood on it and the edge has been covered in white stick tape. In black sharpie, 'the puck-cident March 2025' has been written in Kess' chicken scratch handwriting.

"Kells, it's a puck."

"It nearly killed my girlfriend. It's evil." He sneers at the inanimate object in your hands.

"Clay," you're laughing at him, giggling at the way he glares at a piece of rubber, "It's sweet...Michael, it's very sweet." You turn to the taller man, smiling up at him because it is thoughtful in a weird sort of hockey logic way. To bring you the puck that gave you 14 stitches, like it was some gaming winning puck you scored with.

"Well, figured you might want a souvenir from your puck-cident," Kess grins at both you, the pun so bad that Clayton and yourself are both groaning at him.

Clayton pointing to the door, this time with humour in voice, head shaking, "Out! That was so fucking bad, man!"

"I'm going, cap, Jesus! A guy can't do anything nice these days! What a pucking crime!"

"Kess!"

[rosiecosy]

seventeen vs. math˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

(seventeen x reader) - fluff

a/n - just a little one-shot i thought about in class

predebut life was already exhausting, but school? school was the final boss.

you sat hunched over in the green practice room, your math textbook open in front of you, pencil tapping aggressively against your forehead.

"i hate this," you muttered.

"what now?" seungcheol plopped down beside you, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"math," you groaned. "i have a test tomorrow, and i don’t understand anything. i think my brain is rejecting numbers at this point."

he peered over your shoulder at the textbook. "how hard can it be?"

two minutes later, he was frowning deeply.

"…okay, maybe it’s a little hard."

"let me see!" seokmin slid in dramatically, rolling across the floor like he was about to save the day. he snatched your pencil and started scribbling furiously.

woozi, who had just walked past, peeked at what he was doing.

"that's wrong," he said flatly.

"what?! no way!" seokmin turned to him, betrayal written all over his face.

"it's way wrong."

"but i—" seokmin stared at his work, then groaned. "fine. whatever." he shoved the pencil back at you, defeated.

one by one, the others started trickling in between practice breaks, all drawn in by the sight of you suffering over your textbook.

jeonghan lasted exactly thirty seconds before closing the book and patting your shoulder. "have you considered dropping out?"

"i—jeonghan, that’s not helpful."

mingyu tapped his chin thoughtfully. "what if we… call a teacher?"

"mingyu, it’s 9 p.m."

"okay, what if we call a different teacher?"

hoshi, looking over the problem, nodded sagely. "what if we just make up an answer and hope for the best?"

"what if you stop talking," you shot back.

wonwoo, the quietest of the bunch, studied the page intensely before finally speaking.

"…i understand the question."

your eyes lit up. "yeah?"

"…yeah." he nodded slowly. "i just don’t know how to do it."

"oh my god."

woozi, usually the most reliable, stared at the problem for a long moment before shaking his head. "this isn’t math. this is dark magic."

by now, everyone was sprawled around you like a crime scene, staring at the problem like it was written in an alien language.

"maybe we should summon a ghost to help," dino suggested, laying on the floor like he had personally lost a battle.

seungkwan groaned, dramatically flopping onto jun’s lap. "we’re all so dumb."

jun, deep in thought, suddenly perked up. "wait. what if—"

everyone leaned in.

"what if we just ask the internet?"

the room fell silent.

"jun," joshua said slowly. "that is the first actually useful idea anyone has had in the last thirty minutes."

"WAIT, WAIT, WAIT," hoshi cut in, jumping to his feet. "NO. this is a matter of PRIDE now. we are trainees of seventeen. we do not back down from a challenge! we have fought through sleepless nights, grueling practices, and the wrath of trainer hyung—WE CAN SOLVE THIS."

the room erupted in cheers.

"yeah!"

"we got this!"

"LET’S GO!"

and so, the great seventeen math tournament began.

one by one, each member took turns trying to solve it.

seungcheol went first, furrowing his brows as he carefully wrote down an equation. everyone waited in tense silence.

after a moment, he set the pencil down and leaned back. "nah, i got nothing."

next was dino, who, after five minutes of struggling, wrote: pls give me marks for effort and handed it back.

joshua, the calm and mature one, tried explaining the problem step by step—until he got confused halfway through and quietly slid the book to someone else.

"okay, i actually was good at math in school," mingyu declared confidently, cracking his knuckles.

three minutes later, mingyu was lying face down on the floor, utterly defeated.

"i take it back," he mumbled.

by the time wonwoo gave up, even hoshi, the self-proclaimed leader of the mission, had lost faith.

"…maybe jun was right," he admitted weakly.

"wait," woozi said suddenly. "where’s vernon?"

everyone looked around.

the youngest foreign member was sitting in the corner, quietly scribbling on a piece of paper.

"yo, vernon?" seungcheol called.

he didn’t respond. just kept writing.

"what if—" jeonghan whispered. "what if he’s actually doing it?"

a hush fell over the room.

the entire group crawled over, watching as vernon furrowed his brows in concentration, then finally—

"…oh."

"OH???"

vernon casually pushed the paper toward you.

"yeah, i got it."

you grabbed the paper like it was a sacred relic, eyes scanning the neatly written solution.

"…HOW?!"

he shrugged. "i just did it the way my teacher showed me."

the room exploded.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

"WE SPENT AN HOUR ON THAT!"

"VERNON, YOU’RE A GENIUS!"

"nah," he said, grinning. "i just paid attention in class."

everyone groaned.

seokmin dramatically threw himself onto the floor. "I CAN’T BELIEVE IT WAS VERNON WHO SAVED US."

"i feel so betrayed," hoshi whispered.

but you? you just sighed, shaking your head with a fond smile.

"vernon, i owe you one."

"yup," he said smugly.

as the others continued to bicker about their failure, you realized something.

school might suck. but at least, with seventeen around, suffering through it was a lot more fun.

[dokyumms]

seventeen's reaction to you having a nightmare !

a/n: first time i've written any ff in a WHILE, hopefully i still got it in me (ᵕ •_• )

seungcheol - the second seungcheol wakes up to you curled into yourself while sniffling he instantly goes into dad mode. he'd immediately ask you what's wrong as he turns your body over to face him (if he wasn't already bear-hugging you in the first place). when you start tearing up again while trying to tell him about the nightmare, he feels his heartbreak and he wants to start crying, but in true seungcheol fashion, he puts on a brave face for you. he'll hug you tightly, reassuring you that he's right here and that he'll protect you from anything.

jeonghan - being the light sleeper he is, jeonghan is awake before you are, waking up to your quiet sobs. he shakes you gently, telling you to wake up and when you do, you're already being coddled by him. he'll ask you what your nightmare was about and try to persuade you into believing it was something dumb. not in a mocking or rude way, but just to make you laugh. like if you said a killer had held him hostage or something, he'd tell you that he could easily outsmart whoever it was; he's quite the manipulator after all.

joshua - joshua is worried the instant he wakes up to you poking him awake with teary eyes. he asks if you're hurt and he melts when you say you had a bad dream. he would wipe your tears away and stroke your hair gently before offering to watch an anime to help you forget about the nightmare. he watches horror movies a lot, so he tells you that you have nothing to be afraid of as you lay your head on his shoulder, the anime acting as white noise putting you to sleep.

jun - this man is PANICKED. sure he has a younger brother, but he totally blanks out whenever it comes to you. he'd still do everything to comfort you though, just in a more unorganized, not-so-calm way. it's sort of like he's trying to take care of a baby that isn't his when it starts crying out of nowhere you know? finally, he lands on you and him sitting on the ground eating his stash of chinese snacks while he yaps and yaps to you. honestly it works, the spiciness in the chips and his voice effectively making you forget of the dream.

hoshi - at first hoshi doesn't realize what's happening, still dazed from the sudden wake up call, but when he does realize what happened he's ON it. he might just be scaring you more than the nightmare itself, stomping around the house with you in hand, demanding whatever monster that scared you to come out because this black belt tiger ain't scared! it's really cute though, and all of the sudden you're really thankful to have a boyfriend who believes he's an animal.

wonwoo - soooo wonwoo is actually sitting on his computer playing league of legends whenever you have your nightmare which makes you more terrified, waking up to an empty bed. you tip-toe around the house till you find him quietly cursing at his dumb support. you tap him on the shoulder and when he turns around to see you puffy-eyed, he drops everything he's doing. so what if his whole team reports him for being afk? all he cares about is you. when you explain what happened, he apologizes for not being there with you when you woke up, offering to make it up to you through many hugs and kisses.

woozi - woozi is also not in bed when you wake up, busy working on some songs for the next album at the studio. but you're still his biggest priority; he practically sprints back home whenever you call him, asking him to come home in a shaky voice. he's quick to hug you whenever he sees you waiting for him on the couch. he'll ask you what's wrong while holding you to his chest- you can hear his heart beating a million times per minute because that's just how fast he ran (or maybe because he's super worried about you). either way, he'll hum you one of his songs to calm you down and maybe even play some guitar for you.

dk - this poor man is actually so so so sad when he sees you crying in bed. he'll hug you so tightly, asking you to tell him what happened. when you say it was because of a bad dream, he's almost in tears, but when you say the dream was about HIM? oh now he's bawling. the tables have turned because now YOU'RE the one comforting him. it's endearing nonetheless, the thought you possibly crying over him has him sobbing. you two just end up holding onto each other with you both teary-eyed.

mingyu - mingyu's got you caged in his arms the instant he wakes up. he doesn't even know about the nightmare- it's literally just out of instinct. but when he notices the tear streaks on your face, he uses it as an excuse to hug you even tighter. he doesn't ask about what happened because honestly, he's a little scared to know. he just kisses your forehead while telling you that you're okay. later, he'll offer to make some food for you and eat while you explain to him what happened.

the8 - minghao was already awake while you were having your nightmare. after multiple unsuccessful attempts to wake you, he decides to prepare for when you do. he brews some tea and lays down a blanket in the living room, setting up a makeshift tea ceremony. he's by your side as soon as you wake up, ready to hold you. he immediately grounds you, whispering in your ear that everything is okay, no one can hurt you, and it's just him there with you. he holds your hand as he guides you to the living room, sitting you down and offering you some soothing tea.

seungkwan - seungkwan is actually upset when he wakes up to you in the living room crying, explaining that you didn't want to wake him up. he knows that he does NOT like to be disturbed in his sleep, but when it comes to you, he wouldn't mind being woken up every hour in the night. he kneels in front you, holding your face and reassuring you that your his number one priority while littering you with kisses. he pouts when you tell him about your nightmare and he vows to wack the ghost haunting your dreams with his badminton racket if he ever comes across it.

vernon - he's honestly taking care of you while half-asleep LOL. he doesn't say much, letting you cry into his chest as he strokes your hair and kisses your forehead. he kind of just says "it's ok" and "i'm here" over and over again, but it's enough for you to calm down. the fact that he's so calm about it helps too, his low voice luring you back to sleep.

dino - this is when dino's older brother switch turns on. he's making you hot chocolate while you stand next to him like a little kid watching their mom bake. he's constantly asking if you're okay while making it, looking over his shoulder often to make sure you're good. and when you're both done drinking the hot chocolate on the couch, he's wrapped around you, turning on some cheesy romance movie because he decides now’s the time to be romantic.

⤿ sorry if this is bad! i didn't realize how hard it would be to come up with 13 different reactions lolol, but hopefully i'll get better with time and if you see any grammar errors then uh... (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

[lily-jaxk]

MC Twin AU - CALEB'S Spitfire [4]

When you arrive at the airport, just as the text stated, Caleb was there.

He had his hat on, his very familiar (to you at least, but you suppose you had to act like this was new to you) Colonel's attire, and sleek black gloves on his hands. Ignoring the driver as he opened the door for you, you accepted your handbag and marched over to your purple eyed boyfriend.

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to push him into an empty room and tear off his clothes.

But the only thing you could do as you finally got close to him, was place your bag down and slap him across the face.

His cheek grew red from the impact, but he barely made a sound. "Months." You start, gripping the front of his suit to drag him down to your level. "Months have gone by when I thought you were fucking dead. And suddenly you send me a text and I see you're alive!? What the absolute fuck Caleb!?"

Your grip tightens on his suit, and you glare up at him even as he cups your cheeks with his gloved hand, resting his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry." He says, and you glare even harder.

"I'm going to punch you."

"Go ahead. Punch me as much as you want spitfire." He rubs your cheek gently, a soft smile on his face. "I'm just glad you're ok and here, with me."

"Stop agreeing with me and being so sappy you bastard!" You snap, struggling in his hold as he drags you into a hug. "Ugh! Lemme go!"

He chuckled softly, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "You can yell at me all you want spitfire, but not here. As much as I want you to, I am still the Colonel, and many eyes are still watching me."

You huff again but relax, realizing he was right. This wasn't the time nor place to beat him up. "Whatever. There better be food on the plane."

"Only the best for you."

When you arrive at his place, you drop your bag on his couch and move to where you assumed his kitchen was, using your limited understanding of playing his Myths and Cards in the game to help guide you. "I'm still mad at you." you begin, watching as the cabinet opens and a glass flies into your hand. You turn around to see a bottle of orange juice open by itself, then tilt as the liquid poured into your cup. Stupid Caleb and his stupid Evol and his stupid understanding of what you wanted. How can you be mad at him when he does cute shit like this!?

"So." You turn around to face him, gulping down your drink so you can distract your mind. "Wanna explain how you're alive!?" You slam the cup down on the counter table, anger making your blood boil. You don't know why you were so angry, you knew he was alive. you knew he was fine. Still. . . . still . . . . what if you dating him made things worse? What if he actually got hurt!?

Tears suddenly dripped out of your eyes as you helplessly stared at him. "You . . . you died Caleb! You died and you left me behind! What is wrong with you!?"

"I had to act like I was semi-ok in front of MC! She was devastated! She lost her best friend, and I lost my boyfriend, yet here you are fucking alive!?"

You close your eyes as you try and wipe your tears away, not noticing him walking towards you until you feel his arms wrap around you. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, rubbing your back gently as you continued to cry. "I can't tell you why I left, because it's related to. . . . well a lot of things, but I want you to know, that each time I closed my eyes, each time I woke up, each time I went down to the Deepspace Tunnel, you were on my mind spitfire." He kisses your head, breathing in deeply. "I've missed you so much spitfire, and this time I promise nothing, and I mean nothing will drive us apart again."

"I will never let you go."

You sniffled and shoved your face deeper into his chest, choosing to remain silent in the meantime as you continued to sob. After a few minutes though, a small sigh escapes your lips. "If you pull a stunt like this again, I will kill you myself."

A fond chuckle leaves his lips, and he pushes you away gently so he can cup your cheeks. "Noted," he murmured, then pressed his lips against yours, your first kiss after months of being apart.

When you woke up the next day, it was to the smell of pancakes. Grumbling under your breath, you pick up your shirt and place it on, waddling over to the kitchen to see Caleb by the stove pouring more batter into the frying pan, a plate of perfectly cooked pancakes on the side. You pick up the fork and begin to dig in, humming at the taste. "Good to know that your dying didn't take away your skill of cooking."

"I practiced extra harder for you spitfire." Caleb leaned towards you to press a small kiss on your cheek. "Eat up, you're going to need all the energy you can get."

"Yeah yeah..." you mumble, shoving more food in your mouth. "Oh hey, where's my phone? It should have woken me up with my alarm."

Caleb turns back to the stove. "I'll get you a new one."

You pause your chewing, quickly swallowing it so you can talk clearly. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm keeping your phone hostage."

"Why?"

He turns his head to give you a gentle smile, though his eyes have darkened. "You don't need that phone anymore, trust me, spitfire."

Ok, what the fuck?!

Taglist! - @sleepydang @junrui @animecrazy76 @reni502 @yjhcheri @sanstype @smoophie @young-adult-summer @l4venderia

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

[twst-drabbles]

Octavinelle 18

Summary: After some whining and pestering on the seafolks part, you gave in and decide to sleep in the tank room for the night.

(Ough, I'm glad that I recovered from my pain, but now it means I have to trudge through writer's block all over again! All my writings at the moment just feel so… rusty. I really need to get my practice in.)

Initially, you were under the impression that while seafolk don't mind affection, they weren't especially needy for it. The sea is a cold place and often time is spent either hunting, feeding the young or looking out for danger if nothing else.

Essentially, when you first got Azul, Jade and Floyd, you were very much expecting to give more attention to their tank than to the actual creatures themselves. You'd come in, feed them until they're properly filled rather than stuffed, then spend the rest of the hour checking up on the particulars around them. Bitten fingers? Expected, you knew tense pets when you see them. Jets of water in your eyes? Also expected, Azul's particular breed are known for those kinds of warnings.

You were, however, not expecting for them to eventually get so attached that they'd get fussy about it.

It started off as these simple, long-held whistles, heard from right at the edge of your ear. At first you thought maybe it was your AC acting up again, or perhaps the plant nymphs outside practicing another strange ritual you're not aware of. So, you just ignored it. Wasn't bothering you anyway. Honestly, it was even a little cute when it turned out to be just Floyd whistling. A little playtime with him and it was enough to calm him down.

He did nip at you at the end when you left but you didn't pay it any mind.

Then Jade joined in as well, and boy do those two make a mean harmony. Those two bounce energy off of each other all the time. Could practically hear it from all the way in the backyard.

You played with them, coaxed them into their cave, but twenty minutes later, they would be back to their whistling sessions. Again, you didn't pay it much mind, you figured it was just another form of playing.

Then Azul chimed in with his trills. His trills, usually cute in how whiny they sounded, were very guttural. Like he was choking on something.

Of course, you go to the tank room to see what's wrong and guess what? They quieted down as soon as you opened the door. Even had the cheekiness to chirp in smug victory that they got you to their room.

You closed the door, and not even a minute later they began their noises all over again.

And so here you are, under a few layers of blankets because this room's practically a fridge, scrolling through your phone because your body's just not ready for sleep. Yeah you can sleep on the couch in the living room, and you have collapsed on the rug back when you had one, but sleeping with a sleeping bag on the hard floor was another sensation entirely. You're probably gonna be here all night, which sucks because you were just starting to sleep properly for once.

Oh well.

You took a cursory glance back at the dimly lit tank and saw three squishy faces pressed up against the glass, side by side, all giving the biggest of frowns. How long were they watching?

"What?" You're here, aren't you? What else do they want? "I'm not sleeping in the tank with you."

You turned back around and went back to reading whatever catches your interest, adjusting the pillow between your arm.

About a few minutes later, you heard a gentle pop.

Your thumb stopped, already sighing through your nose. "Oh boy…"

Immediately, your face was slapped with fish, three magical seafolk creature fish that is. You curled up. Wet slime rubbed at your ear, little claws on your cheek and lips, and finally tendrils on your shoulder. All so cold you had to clench your jaw to keep from shaking them off.

"Alright, alright," you gently pried Azul, Jade and Floyd from your skin and put them on the floor. "Give me a moment."

You swiped a towel from one of the cabinets--seafolk playtime never fails to leave water everywhere--dunked it in the empty tank, wrung it, then folded it right next to your pillow.

Floyd didn't hesitate to belly flop right onto the damp towel. Jade slithered right under a layer and purposefully butted Floyd to the side before poking his head out the other end. Azul slowly crawled over to the very corner of the towel, picking the one closest to your pillow with a very expectant look on his face.

"You can hang, but I'm putting you to bed when you're asleep, alright?" Can't have their skin drying out and making them itch.

Did they understand? Probably not since they're still just giving you that empty eyed stares of theirs.

You laid back down, and they all pounced on your face.

"Come on!"

This is going to be a long night.

[27spoons]

CRUSH | ACT TWO: IF YOU'RE TOO SHY (LET ME KNOW)

pairing: natalie scatorccio/fem!reader

summary: Two weeks since the night at the party, you find yourself at Natalie's side, again. Nothing ever seems to go wrong when you're together.

wc: 5970

warnings: mentions of drug usage, threatening behaviour, mentions of violence (nothing actually depicted), lowkey some spiraling thoughts towards the end

a/n: i have angst in my pants! sorry this took so long lmao I'm a chronic procrastinator

ao3 / masterlist

PREVIOUS - ACT TWO: RIBS

NEXT - ACT TWO: SMOKE SIGNALS [WIP]

"We're gonna get stabbed." Are the first words out of your mouth when you turn down a very… unbecoming street.

"We are not gonna get stabbed." Nat snorts, flicking out her switchblade, "If anyone is doing the stabbing, it'll be me." She makes some stabbing motions for effect, her grin wide and goofy at the sound of your laughter.

You two have been hanging out more frequently since that night at the party, and it's been easier than expected. You aren't sure if she feels bad for flirting so aggressively, feels bad for ignoring you the entire party, or something else entirely, but it's been nice getting to know Nat.

"You know, that is not as comforting as you think it would be." You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth tug upward in a small smile. "Because nothing says 'safe' like my friend waving a knife around while we walk down a sketchy street."

"Friend?" She echoes, raising an eyebrow and twirling the blade once before closing it with a satisfying click. "That what we're calling this now?"

A scoff leaves your mouth in an attempt to hide the blush that's appeared on your cheeks, "Well, I don't know. What else would I call it?"

She shrugs, shoving the knife back into her pocket. "I dunno. Just feels weird to hear someone like you call me a friend."

"Someone like me?"

Nat shoots you a look, "See, I know you're smart. So why you're playing dumb…" She trails off, and you roll your eyes. "Whatever. Here we are, anyways." 

A beat passes before curiosity gets the best of you as you walk past the third building with boards in the windows, "Speaking of… where is here?"

She nods towards a gap in the chainlink fence that looks like it's been cut open with bolt cutters, "Just trust me, Princess."

You aren't sure when you started trusting her. Maybe it was that night she walked you home, and you had an epiphany. Maybe it was the Monday after the party when she showed up at your locker with a cup of hot coffee and acted like it was no big deal. Maybe it was when she started texting you memes at ungodly hours of the night with dumb captions. Or, maybe… it's simply been building over the course of the two weeks since that party.

Whenever it started, you're grateful that it did. Your friends have started telling you that you've been more confident recently, and your parents have noticed that you've been coming home later after school than usual and on days that you'd usually come straight home. They haven't asked why, but even if they did, you'd probably just tell them you've been spending it in the library. 

Well… you're pretty far from the library right now, aren't you?

"Hey," Nat cuts off your train of thought, "You're being quiet. Thinking about me?" She teases, bumping your shoulder before moving the chainlink to the side.

"Thinking about how you still haven't told me where we're going," you shoot back, hoping it's enough to convince her that you were not, in fact, thinking about her.

"Why would I tell you when you can just see?" She shoots you a wide grin, "We're almost there. C'mon."

You make a noise of disagreement as you move through the hole, Nat following close behind you. 

"I'm really hoping this isn't all part of a long scheme to murder me." 

"Oh, trust me." The blonde chuckles as she starts walking down the makeshift path that's begun to form in the ground, "If I wanted to kill you, I would've done it that night we went to the skatepark. Or the night I walked you home. Or any of the occasions I've had you alone. Spending more time with you is a terrible way to draw attention to myself, Princess." She turns her head to look at you, "You've been around me often enough—have you not learned anything?" Nat clicks her tongue and turns her head back.

"No. I don't pay attention to your delinquent activities, Natalie." You grin, taking a few quick strides to catch up with her.

"Oh, yeah?" She shoots a smirk at you that has you almost tripping over a rock, "Well. We're just gonna have to start spending more time together then, Princess."

Natalie doesn’t wait for you to respond. She strides ahead, her boots crunching against the gravel path as if she knows you’ll follow. And you do—because, of course, you do.

You sigh (although it's more of a huff, really) at her comment and continue to trail slightly behind her. "We already spend far too much time together." A beat of silence and a low laugh from Nat prompts you to keep talking, “Are you actually going to tell me where we’re going, or is this another one of those ‘just trust me’ things?”

The blonde shoots you an infuriating grin over her shoulder, continuing those long strides. “It’s always ‘just trust me,’ Princess. Keeps you on your toes.” She turns around to face you, walking backwards. "Plus, surprises are fun, yeah?"

A huff escapes your lips at that comment, "First of all, you're gonna walk backwards into a tree. Second off, I hate surprises." You cross your arms defiantly, "I thought you knew this by now."

"If you hate surprises, you sure keep picking the wrong person to hang out with." She sidesteps a tree behind her without even thinking about it—like she's taken this path enough to know it like the back of her hand, and she probably has. "Because I am just full of surprises. Shit, you still got a bunch more just… waiting to be uncovered. Like Pandora's Box!"

"...isn't Pandora's Box mostly bad things?"

Nat nods in agreement to your statement, that dumb grin reappearing on her face. "Yep. Released evil into the world, or something." A dismissive wave of her hand, "But it's the curiosity that kills. And we both know you are very curious, Princess." 

You huff, glancing away briefly in an attempt to hide the blush that burns up your neck at the tone she uses, "I don't—" Another huff, "Whatever. What's your point, Natalie?"

She shrugs, spinning back around to keep walking, "Nothin', nothin'. Just wondering how bad it's killing you right now to not know where we're going."

The scoff that leaves your lips is far too forced to escape the notice of the girl walking in front of you, and you can almost imagine the grin on her face as you reply, "Not that much." 

Nice. You sound like a whiny child. Good on you, really showing her.

"Sure, sure," Nat says, pushing some overgrown bush out of her path. "C'mon. Almost there. Promise."

You follow her through the bush, almost getting smacked in the face with a branch when you lose your attention for half a second, but successfully make it out unscathed, and you find yourself standing in front of what looks like an abandoned house. The white paint has long since peeled away, revealing weathered and rotted wood underneath. With the way the windows are bordered up, door hangs half-open in the wind, and roof looks half-caved in, you're starting to wonder if you were right about the whole 'her murdering you' thing.

"I can't remember if my tetanus shot is up to date…" You murmur as you carefully step over a broken bottle, a far contrast to how Nat is walking right now, all confidence and swagger. You'd be lying if you said you didn't envy the air of it that she seems to carry with her at all times.

Nat laughs lowly at the comment, shaking her head as she approaches the front steps to the house, "Never gotten one, and I've been fine so far." She briefly glances at you and gestures to the steps, "Watch your footing. It's rotting. Step on the spots that look dry."

You cringe at the comment about the steps rotting and watch carefully which parts she presses on. "I'm starting to think you have a thing for sketchy places." 

"Yeah, well." She shrugs and stops the front door from clattering against the frame, "They’re quieter than most places, y’know? No one bothers you out here.”

"That's because no one wants to come out here."

"Exactly." As you carefully walk up the stairs, she grins at you, "You're getting it, Princess. Pick the places people don't want to come, and you won't be bothered." 

Despite the steps protesting with every step you take, you make it to the top without falling through a rotten wooden plank. Nat gestures for you to enter first, which makes you hesitate for a few seconds, but you ultimately enter before she does.

The interior is… not terrible, surprisingly. Sure, it's abandoned and worn down, but it doesn't smell like death, and the grattifi on the walls gives the place some weird charm.

Nat drops her bag on the ground and stretches, cracking her neck. "Welcome to the 'Not-A-Crack-Den' Crack Den."

You stare blankly at her, blinking a few times. "The… 'Not-A-Crack-Den' Crack Den." You parrot, nodding slightly. "Right. That is… very reassuring, Nat. Thanks so much."

She grins at you as a particularly satisfying crack from her lower back sounds, "What can I say? I pick good names for things." A beat passes before she glances around, gesturing toward a few crates pushed up against a wall with peeling paint, "C'mon, sit. Promise you won't get stabbed by a shard of broken glass or whatever." With a grunt, she hoists herself onto one of the crates, nodding towards one pushed against an adjacent wall.

With great trepidation, you drop your backpack onto the crate before moving to sit on it, glancing down at the dirty floor before meeting her gaze again. "So…" You trail off, waiting for her to tell you why she brought you here.

"So…?" Nat repeats back, glancing at you with a curious expression as she pulls out her pack of smokes, tapping it on her wrist a few times before opening it up. "You gonna finish that thought, or just waiting for me to speak?"

A huff leaves your lips as you cross your arms, "No, well, yes, but—" You groan and rest your head against the wall behind you, "I just… why show me this place?"

Nat scowls to herself at your comment, clearly taking some form of offense to it. "What? Don't want me showing you my hangout spots anymore? Because I don't have to. We can go back to sitting around the school or the skatepark."

"No, no, wait, that wasn't what I meant. I just meant that—" You cut yourself off with a sigh, clearly just as terrible with words as she is. "Like… why this spot in particular? Just… uh… curious. Is all. Sorry. I didn't mean to…" You let yourself trail off again and rub a hand over the back of your neck in frustration at yourself and lack of proper communication skills. 

Cigarette smoke fills the room around you as Nat puffs on the end of a Marlboro Red, a sigh leaving her lips at your words. "No, I…" She scowls again, but this time more to herself than you. "I just wanted to bring you to another one of my spots, is all." She feigns nonchalance, but you can almost physically see the underlying sincerity behind her words.

"Oh." You say quietly, not quite sure how to respond to that.

The silence blooms between the two of you for a moment as Nat pulls drag after drag from her smoke, clearly also unsure where to go from here. 

Eventually, it's clear Nat can't take the silence anymore, and she speaks again with a low grumble, "Don't you have… like… your sketchbook or whatever?" She grunts and stubs the smoke out on the crate before flicking the butt to the ground. "You can, like, draw some inspiration from this place or whatever."

That, surprisingly… isn't the worst idea.

So, you unzip your backpack, pull out a pencil alongside your sketchbook and flip open to a fresh page. An unsure sigh leaves your lips as you glance around the decrepit house, a slight frown tugging at the corner of your lips. "I mean… it's definitely… atmospheric? I guess?"

A scoff parts from Nat's lips as she crosses her arms and leans back against the wall, "Atmospheric?" She chews on the word for a moment, "So… fancy art school talk for 'kinda shitty,' yeah?"

Your frown deepens for a moment before you realise she's just fucking with you, and you roll your eyes as a smile finds its way onto your lips. "No, I mean it. It's… abandoned, but not… forgotten?" You muse, tapping your pencil on the page, "Like there's still some life left in it."

"Shit, Princess." She raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest, "Didn't take you for a poet, too."

"Shut up." You mumble, glancing down to the page as you start sketching the first thing that comes to mind: Nat.

By now, she's pulled out another cigarette (because, of course, she has). She's idly smoking it as her attention shifts between her phone and you, seemingly just enjoying being in your presence without worrying about ulterior motives.

The first thing you sketch is how she holds it between her fingers, loosely but firmly enough that it won't slip from her them—an interesting juxtaposition, you think. Something about it feels similar to her character, in a way. Regardless, you choose not to linger too long on the thought. 

With the general shape of her hand done—slightly soft but still with visible definition—you start focusing on the finer details. The way her nails are cut so short you can't see the white tips on the ends of them. The slight boniness she has on the knuckles of her fingers. The rings she wears—mismatched with different shapes and colours. The prominent bones of her ring and middle fingers that appear when her hand flexes as she returns the butt of the cigarette between her parted lips. 

This brings you to the next thing you draw—how her lips wrap around the end. Soft and full but chapped. You imagine she's the type to lose every chapstick she's ever had.

You get so lost in this daze of sketching her features, the features that a part of you wishes you could learn more intimately, that you barely even notice Nat hopping off of her crate and walking up towards you, leaning forward to look at your page.

"Whatcha drawing?" She asks, peering over your shoulder to get a better look.

Her sudden appearance shocks you slightly, and you can't help it when you jump and almost send your pencil flying across the room. "Oh, uh!" shit. "I was just, uh, drawing, uh, the—"

"Ho-ly shit. This is wicked." She grins toothily, taking a long glance at the page that you fail to hide from her gaze, "I think you were drawing me, Princess." She points to the small sketch of the cigarette between her lips, "You even got the teeth right. Nice to see you aren't just turning me into a Barbie." Nat slaps your shoulder with her hand as she properly looks at your work once you stop attempting to hide it. "It's good. Real good." Her voice lowers to something more genuine and soft, mirroring the way her expression shifts. "It's, uh, nice. Seriously."

Your face heats up at the compliments, quickly turning your attention away from her. "You're only saying that because you don't know anything about art."

Nat hums, considering that. "Maybe. But I know what I like." She taps the page with her index finger, "And I like this."

A mumble leaves your lips, something that sounds like a meek 'thanks,' but it's quickly becoming clear that the smoker isn't done yet. "I don't show people my spots, you know? Most of the time, they either ruin it or just… don't get it."

A beat passes before you glance back up at her, "I… you think I get it, then?"

She meets your gaze, her expression shifting into something you can't quite place, and leans in slightly. "I think you get a lot of things about me that other people don't."

You swear time pauses, but that could very well just be your heart ceasing its beating, but the moment is gone all too quickly when you hear the creaking of wood and hushed chatters of… what sounds like a group of men.

"Fuck." Nat hisses, immediately pulling back and darting her eyes towards the door, "I didn't fucking think we'd have company right now. Shit."

You shake your head in confusion, "Wait, wait, company? Other people come here, then? Should I be—" Your words are cut off abruptly when a trio of men step into the house one by one. 

The first one, evidently the leader, sports a battered leather jacket and stone-washed jeans. His dark unkempt hair frames a crooked scar that stretches from the corner of his left eye to the bridge of his nose.

A low laugh spills from his lips when his steely eyes land on Nat, and the grin that splits his features is nothing short of feral. "Oh, shit! Scatorccio! Was wondering when we'd see you again."

Nat scowls at him, one of her hands reaching to rest on the handle of her pocket knife by habit. "Denny." She spits, "I was wondering when you'd end up dead. Shame it hasn't happened yet." The venom that drips from her words makes you shrink into yourself, genuinely surprised to hear her speaking with such a tone when she's been mostly calm with you.

The man, Denny, laughs again and scratches his chin as he speaks, "Yeah, bet you'd like that. Would be real convenient for you." 

He's about to keep speaking when one of his goons—a shorter man who honestly looks twelve—nudges him and points to you, sitting idly on your crate, sketchbook clenched tightly in fear.

"Oh, shit." Denny takes a step in your direction, and Nat's hand tightens around the handle of her blade, but she makes no effort to step in his way. "When did you start hanging around the…" He gestures vaguely to you and your form, "Loser type?"

A laugh spills from his lips, immediately echoed by the two men standing in his shadow, and this time, Nat does step forward. "Who the fuck I hang out with is none of your business, Denny." Her eyes flash to the man who nudged him, "At least I pick the ones that don't act like they need to fucking live in my shadow, Jackson."

Jackson, you assume, scowls at Nat but doesn't bite back with a comment of his own. 

Denny’s grin falters ever so slightly, a shadow passing over his features as his eyes dart toward Nat. "Careful, Scatorccio. Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable running your mouth, yeah? Might get you into trouble."

Nat scowls at him again, "I don't give a shit where my mouth gets me, Dennis. I've spent more than a few nights behind bars. I'll do it again."

The man chuckles, but it’s colder now, devoid of humour. "Right, right. That's real cute, Scatorccio. But we both know I'm not talking about being in a prison cell. What's it been now, huh? A month? Two?" He tsks and shakes his head, "I'm keeping track. Are you?"

You see the way Nat tightens her jaw at the comment, "I don't owe you shit." 

Denny—Dennis?—lets out another cruel laugh, "See, that's the funny thing about debts, yeah?" He takes a step towards her and, by extension, you. "They don't just… handle themselves. And your old man… well, I don't see him handling them anymore. Not that he ever really did, anyway." He spits on the ground as he looks towards you, nodding his head in your direction. "Say, your little friend here know about daddy's little tab? Or you keepin' that piece of information to yourself?"

"This isn't about her." She says immediately, "Leave her out of it. This is about us."

"Mm, no." He shakes his head, "I think you got things mixed up here. You brought her here, so now she's involved. You know we like to come 'round here. You seriously telling me it's such a shock we did?" He scoffs and crosses his arms, "But hey, I’m a reasonable guy. You hand over what you owe—or come up with a reason for me to walk out of here without making a mess—and maybe we won’t have to get anyone else involved."

Nat stands her ground, but the way her fingers curl tighter around the knife’s handle tells you just how thin the ice is beneath her. You catch her glancing at you out of the corner of her eye, and the faintest trace of panic flickers across her face.

Which, in turn, makes you panic. Not that you weren't already, but it becomes far more visible on your features now. 

"You should leave." Nat mumbles to you, nodding her head to a rear door, "You shouldn't have to be involved in my shit."

Seeing Nat's head move, Denny nudges the remaining unnamed man who came in with him, and the guy heads towards the rear exit. "Nah. We're here, and we're gonna work somethin' out. Ain't that right, boys?" The two men nod their heads, and the one that looks like a literal child cracks his knuckles, and although it really isn't that menacing, it scares you all the same.

"So," Denny speaks after a moment, clearing his throat as his grin returns, "what's happening, Scatorccio? 'cus I doubt you got the cash on you to pay this off right now."

Nat fidgets, eyes darting between you and him nervously. "I told you I was working on it." She mumbles under her breath, which earns her a cruel laugh from Denny.

"Yeah, and you've had two months to work on it, sweetheart." The pet name comes out as an insult, and the unnamed man snorts at the use of it. "And, honestly? I'm done fucking waiting for you to pay up. I'm a reasonable man, Natalie, but even I have my fucking limits."

The blonde swallows nervously, knowing damn well she's outnumbered and you are far from a fighter, so she removes her hand from the handle of her blade and tentatively approaches Denny, speaking low enough that you can only make out a handful of words, most of which are swears.

It's a solid two minutes of them talking, and you trying not to actively have a panic attack with the way the other two men are looking at you before Denny claps his hands and steps back from Nat.

"I expect you to be there, Scatorccio. If you aren't?" He clicks his tongue, "I think that I'll be paying the trailer a visit next time. Maybe say hi to Vera, yeah?"

Nat doesn't say anything back to that as the men filter out of the house, but it's more than clear that she's shaken from the encounter. 

She doesn't face you again for thirty seconds after they leave, and she can't meet your eyes when she does. You see her jaw set uncomfortably tense, and her eyes flicker from point to point, but never to yours.

"Nat…" You trail off, not even noticing that you've clenched your notebook so tight that the page has started to rip, "Who… who were those guys? What… debt?"

"It's none of your business." She snaps immediately, eyes meeting yours now, "You weren't supposed to see or hear any of that. Just wrong place at the wrong time."

"But I have seen it." You murmur, glancing away from her and down to the ripped page, "I just… I don't know what it means—"

"And you won't." She cuts you off, "Because this point of conversation won't ever be brought up again, yeah? A one-time thing."

You frown and stand up from the crate, still clenching the book tightly. "It didn't seem like a one-time thing—"

"Drop it." Nat says, her jaw tightening.

"But I can't." You shoot back before you can stop the words spilling from your lips. You take a shaky breath, and everything you just witnessed is sinking in. "I can’t just pretend I didn’t see that, Nat. They… they threatened you. Your mom.” Your voice cracks slightly, but you push through. “And I have no idea what the hell is going on, but I care about you, okay? I can’t just let it go."

She laughs, cruel and sardonic. "Care about me? You don't fucking know me. You don't know shit. All you think you know is what you've pieced together from a few hangouts and some rumours. That's it."

“That’s not fair,” you counter, your voice rising slightly. “you don’t let anyone know you, Nat! You hide behind all this—this bullshit bravado and sarcasm because you think it’s easier than letting someone in.”

"Yeah?" Nat sneers, her voice cutting through the stale air surrounding you, "Well, maybe it is. Maybe it's easier to keep people like you at arm's length so I don't have to deal with… shit like this." She gestures between you, movements sharp and erratic, "You don't want to be a part of this world, Princess," The pet name rolls off her tongue in a way that makes you cringe and recoil into yourself, the once gentle name being used as something far more cruel, "so stop trying to be."

"You don't get to decide that for me!" You finally snap, stepping towards her in frustration as you throw your sketchbook down onto the crate you were sitting on, "I'm standing right here, Nat! I'm not going anywhere. And, yeah. Maybe I don't know everything about you. But I want to!"

Her breath catches slightly at your words, and for a brief moment, the mask she wears slips. But it’s back just as quickly, replaced with a hardened expression as she hisses, “You’re wasting your time.”

"Maybe." You murmur, taking another tentative step towards her, "But I don't think you get to decide that for me."

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Nat doesn't move, eyes boring into yours, and for a long moment, you worry she's going to say something scalding or just leave; the distance between the two irreparable. 

But, then, she's moving, crossing the short distance between the two of you in a single stride. Her hands grip your arms, both firm and uncertain, and before you can process what’s happening, her lips crash against yours.

You have no idea what's happening if you're being honest. Sure, you've had a few kisses before, but they have been like this. This passionate and intense, this filled with emotion. 

Nat kisses you with an urgency you've come to expect from her, and she doesn't half-ass anything; it's all or nothing, and this is no different. 

At least, at first. 

Then, she realises that you aren't kissing her in return, and she releases her hold on you, stumbling back a few steps and swiping at her mouth. 

Silence blossoms again as you stand there and stare at her, lips still tingling from the sudden crash of hers against yours, and you stare at her with your jaw slack. You aren't sure if you're even breathing at this point. Everything feels like it's balancing on a knife edge, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Fuck!” She hisses under her breath, raking her hands through her hair. “Why the fuck did I—God, why are you like this?”

You blink and shake your head a few times, still in shock, but now even more so. "Wait, wait, hold on, what?" Finally, when you get your head back on, you only get more confused. "Why am I like this?" You snap at her, expression shifting from surprised to hurt. “Why are you like this, Natalie? One second, you’re—” You cut yourself off, throwing your hands in the air. “You’re impossible!”

Her laugh is sharp and humourless. “Me? I’m impossible?” She takes a step forward, frustration etched into every line of her face. “So what’s the point of you coming out with me if you’re just gonna be a fucking uptight bitch about everything, huh?”

"Wasn't it you that told me I needed to live a little, Natalie?!" You yell back, equally as frustrated. "And wasn't it you that said I should learn to say no?! God, why are you being like this?!"

She scoffs, "Has it occurred to you that maybe I would like you better if you just fuckin' took your clothes off, Princess? Huh?" She takes a step forward, "Even you aren't thick enough to see that I've been flirting with you for weeks."

That stings in a way you weren't expecting it to. You take a momentary step back, face contorting, "Fuck you, Scatorccio." You hiss at her, taking a step forward again and jabbing a finger into her chest, "Has it occurred to you that maybe I would like you better if you actually opened up about shit? Huh? Even you aren't thick enough to see, I've been trying to get you to open up for weeks!" You say, throwing her own words back at her.

"Listen, Princess," She sneers, jabbing her finger in your chest, "I'm just tryna fuck. Maybe you should get that through your fucking skull." But, even as she says it, and as much as the words sting, there's a waver in her voice as she says it like she doesn't really mean it but doesn't know what to say in this situation.

"Well, I'm not. And if that's all you want, then you have the wrong fucking person." You cross your arms defiantly, "You should have known that from the start, burnout."

Natalie's lip twitches in displeasure, but she seems to hesitate before saying whatever she is going to and instead opts to scoff and take a step back. "Whatever, nerd. Have fun with your fucking calculus textbooks and your neat little bubble." Then, she turns around and stalks off, slinging her backpack over her shoulder before burying her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket.

And then she’s gone, turning on her heel and stalking off into the shadows, leaving you standing there, raw and reeling, wondering how the hell it all went so wrong so fast.

You glance around the decrepit house, the air feeling much colder than when Nat was with you. The building no longer feels like there's life left in it—but rather, devoid of it. Empty and barren, mirroring the way you feel right now. You hate the place your thoughts take you to—the dark void that plagues you from time to time.

You look back down at your sketchbook, pages half torn and splayed wildly across the top of the crate you formerly used as a chair, and a shaky, weary sigh leaves you.

Gingerly, trying to stop the shaking in your hands, you slowly pack up your belongings, actively avoiding the way you etched her likeness into your book (and mind) as you do. Every move you make echoes in the space; the ruffling of pages and closing of your backpack zipper might as well sound like a plane taking off. 

You hadn't even spent that long with her today. You two had plans; she said after this that the two of you would go to that diner on fifth that serves breakfast all day. Maybe eat some shitty pancakes and get a milk-stache from a milkshake. 

But… the longer you think about it, did she even want that? Did she truly just… want one thing? Did she just see you as a body to use to pass the time with? A fleeting attraction that would fade once she got her fill? Playing the long game, just to see if it changes how the sex is?

Was that all she wanted?

The wooden steps protest under your weight as you leave the house, the wind picking up and pushing the door shut behind you—almost like a metaphor for something you'd rather not think about right now.

Gravel crunches beneath your feet as you step off the rotting porch, the cool evening air biting at your exposed skin. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, wishing it could shield you from the ache settling deep in your chest.

Your feet carry you, almost on autopilot, down that same path that Nat had taken you through earlier, but it doesn't feel nearly the same. What was once exciting, thrilling, something out of your comfort zone… now just feels like a harsh reminder of what transpired between you. Empty and desolate. 

Fuck. When did you become so… tragic?

The streets are quiet. It’s almost eerie, the way the world seems to hum with an indifference that mirrors the hollow ache inside you. Your mind keeps replaying her words, the venom in them, the hurt you saw behind her eyes that she so desperately tried to mask with anger.

Why did it feel like she was pushing you away the second it felt like there would be any form of struggle within your relationship?

Better to hurt than be hurt, you suppose.

You stop under the dim glow of a streetlamp, your breath visible in the cool air. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, startling you from the train of thought you were stuck in. You fish it out, half expecting it to be her, even though you know better. It’s just a notification about some school assignment being due soon—something that feels insanely trivial right now.

Shoving your phone back into your pocket, you continue to let your brain send you down a path of thoughts you really shouldn't be letting it take you down. When she had leaned in earlier, voice uncharacteristically soft, telling you that you understood her in a way that others didn't… for a moment, you believed that maybe this could be something more.

But now? Now, you aren't quite sure what to believe.

You let your feet guide you down streets that are both familiar and foreign, not even registering the houses or buildings you walk past. 

Maybe this is who she is, you think. Chaotic, unpredictable, and closed off. And perhaps you can't change that, no matter how much you want to.

Maybe you don't want to. You just want to know why she is the way she is. An insight into the brain of Natalie Scatorccio. Something that people would likely pay to see.

Maybe… maybe she's just scared. Like you, but confronting her fear differently. 

When you finally reach your door, you linger on the porch, staring at the peeling paint on the frame and letting the silence stretch. The sound of the Monroe kids across the street playing basketball, the dog tied to the post a few houses down barking, and the wind shaking the leaves in the trees fill your ears and give you some clarity in this strange situation.

By the time you finally crack the front door to your house open, your mother is cooking something over the stove while idly bickering with your father as he leans against the countertop, neither of them noticing your entrance.

You'll eat your food and try to sleep, but realistically, you'll just stare at your ceiling and replay every aspect of your interaction with Nat for hours, and sleep will never come.

Fucking Natalie Scatorccio.

Fuck Natalie Scatorccio.

Fuck Natalie Scatorccio and the way you still fucking care about her.

Fuck.

a/n: man, when i said this chapter would be hard to write, next chapter... oof. next chapter is gonna be heavy in so many different aspects. you will both hate and love me, if you don't already. <3333333333

[officeobject]

(Half-related vent to Tumblr, no need to read, not recommended to read, nothing personal, etc):

Why am I still being recommended an account of a person I'm never gonna meet anyway, when I thought my interests (aka myself), and my fears (aka teens), were made very clear, as well as what triggers my addiction. It's great that this person is having birthday, but I wouldn't know that, if Tumblr would stop recommending them. I'm not gonna block them, as that's extreme, and I have no reason to, and they're welcome to talk to me, I just expected this to go away on its own. I know how this person is, coming back isn't a welcome - it's like coming back to school, aka an arena full of teenagers - as they have, like, a BILLION notes every time, especially compared to me, and, what, I'm supposed to praise them as well?! What am I supposed to do?! You want me to see their posts?! FINE, I'll SEE their posts, but don't come YELLIN' at ME when I vent in them or whatever! I have a hard time enough ignoring things as it is, and then there's half this person's posts, which are presumably about some other hormone-having thing - and as blockable as I am, I don't wanna be RUDE or anything (even though romance and other stuff should be tagged and I don't tag all my posts almost every single time, just to end up reading stuff that makes me side-glance my damn addiction), and like, good for them ... what now though? And WHAT ABOUT ME? Isn't my ACCOUNT, about me? Like, PLEASE, can we focus on the one I have regular contact to (aka ME), who DOESN'T have a thousand MILLION notes at my feet at each vent or each unfunny post, and who I NEED, to focus on, because "just don't think about things that trigger your addiction", and, "think about things that make you happy, not scary teens!" - and like, I didn't WANT, to be back - TO A PERSON WHO REMINDS ME OF PEOPLE I WISH I NEVER MET BY THE WAY - but anyways, in order for this to not just be a roasting session (that's later today, with marshmallows, and not with the flesh of some hormone-container), I do wanna add some compliments, because I don't hate this person, but I do fucking hate my fucking life, right now: they seem nice, nice positivity or whatever when they're being happy and positive for no reason, nice cohesive memorable Picrew, grammar not bad except for lack of capitalization, points for honesty, paragraphs are nicely spaced out (not relatable LOL - shit I didn't even space THIS one out) - pretty Picrew person, and that's all I guess. I don't wanna come off as rude (after I just came off as very rude), and yes they don't need to know that, but like ... actually, it's not like my choices in life always make sense, or are always nice or anything - I don't know why I just don't or what is wrong with me or why I just DO, but it's in my personality, and I have a weird tendency to follow that, which contrasts with what my addiction even is.

i dont know why im doing this, but

hi, my name is rin.

you might know me already, seen me in passing, hate me or know nothing about me.

you may also know me as batman, or ria, or ren or even sometimes raf.

i like a lot of stuff, like music and poetry and writing.

I love my partner. a lot

i do some sports, like archery and rock climbing, but thats not really my thing. i also write songs, play flute and ukulele.

i like math, and design, i enjoy reading and writing essays, i got gifted kid burnout but i love doing stuff too much to stop.

sometimes, i feel rather old. but im just a kid in this fucked up world and sometimes that makes me sad.

im depressed, and have anxiety, and a slew of mental health issues. i'm also probably neurodivergent.

im not very normal, in a lot of regards, but i think that adds to my character.

im trans, specifically genderfluid, but im getting to a stage where im starting to not give a shit.

im aroace, aroflux technically. but as far as im concerned i like my partner and i dont really know what else.

i do a lot of stuff, i consume a lot of media, you will never catch me lacking cus im really chronically online and just a little bit insane.

my birthday is soon, which i suppose is why im writing this, but i thought i should reintroduce myself to me. as i age i've managed to be the same person, in a lot of different ways. i dont always recognize the person in the mirror, but i think thats ok.

i hope its ok.

and ive come to realize maybe i dont need to be fixed. im definitely not normal but i've never wanted to be either.

id like to be someone who does cool shit, and someone who makes and advocates and does what i love. but normality is simply not for me and i really rather be a crazy bitch in the middle of the woods than a normal bitch in the suburbs.

so yeah, i'm rin, welcome or welcome back to my shitshow of a brain.

[gliphyartfan]

Do you know Dr. Stone? If so, can I have the Chain with a fem human reader who is like Senku? The reader takes advantage of being in Hyrule to do research on the different species that exist there and does experiments or machines that the Chain doesn't know about and using the Chain as guinea pigs to learn more about the biology of the Hylians.

I am…SOMEWHAT familiar with Dr.Stone? Not enough to be part of the fandom, I just know a vague gist, but a crazy scientist reader shouldn’t be too hard to figure out ! (Has to give the wiki a quick scan tho…😅)

——————

Let’s face it, Reader is a menace. A lovable menace, sure, but a menace nonetheless. They had too many ideas, too much knowledge, and zero fear of experimenting on the people around them.

The Chain quickly realized that you weren’t JUST curious about Hyrule’s different species, you were curious about EVERYTHING. Every village you passed through was a new research opportunity.

Gorons? Reader poked at their rocky skin, tested their body heat, and theorized why they could survive on a diet of literal rocks. Zoras? Reader studied their scales, their gills, even how their body structure compared to fish. Rito?

They nearly plucked a feather off a passing child before Twilight stopped them.

Reader: ”For SCIENCE, Twi! You don’t understand.”

Twilight: ”Only thing I understand is that you’re about to get your ass kicked by an entire flock of angry Rito parents.”

But the real problem?

The Chain was their easiest test subjects.

Hylian biology wasn’t anything too different from what they already knew, but they still had so many questions.

Why were some Hylians taller than others? Were their ears actually good at hearing? How different was their anatomy from a normal human?

Reader poked, prodded, and took notes on everything. They even tried to draw their anatomy from what they could figure out. (Sky was so red when he saw the diagrams, Legend smacked them over the head, and Hyrule just turned and walked away.)

Reader’s biggest victim? Wild.

Why?

Because he lets them.

Reader “Hey, Wild, can I take a sample of your hair?”

Wild: “Sure, do you need a chunk or just a few strands?”

Wild: “What about a small blood sample? Nothing major, just a few drops.”

Wild: “Eh, why not.”

Twilight stopped them from collecting his spit.

Reader: “IT’S FOR A PH TEST, YOU COUNTRY BUMPKIN.”

Twilight: “WHAT EVEN IS THAT?!? YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW THE pH OF HIS SPIT, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

Reader took advantage of the fantasy setting to its fullest. Hyrule had magic, unexplainable creatures, literal deities, and they were going to study all of it.

When they realized that the Sheikah Slate had materials and blueprints from an advanced civilization, Wild barely had time to react before they yanked it from his hands. It took a whole week for him to get it back.

Wild: Reader, give me my Slate.

Reader: “I am doing RESEARCH.”

Wild: “IT’S MINE.”

Reader also invented shit.

Without modern resources, they had to get creative. Thwy used the environment, Wild’s cooking materials, and whatever spare parts the Chain had to make weapons, tools, even small gadgets.

The first time they made a small explosive, Time nearly had an aneurysm.

Time: “NO MORE BLOWING THINGS UP.”

Reader: “It’s for DEFENSE, OLD MAN.”

Warriors was their second biggest victim.Why? Because they used him as a guinea pig for their “hybrid energy” experiments.

Reader: “Okay, so technically, Hylian magic is a force field of energy produced from within, right? So, theoretically, if I adjust the angle and density of my conductive rods, I should be able to create an artificial current—”

Warriors, exasperated but curious: “Reader, are you trying to electrocute me?”

Reader: “It’s FOR SCIENCE, CAPTAIN.”

Legend was your biggest hater.

A few things the vet has said to them:

“Oh, great, what’s the lunatic trying to build now?”

“Reader, if you explode something again, I’m throwing you in the nearest lake.”

“STAY AWAY FROM ME WITH THAT NEEDLE.”

(To name a few)

But the moment he got injured, Reader was the first person he went to because their medicine worked better than potions and elixirs at times.

“Shut up,” he muttered as Reader smirked at him. “You’re the only one with antibiotics.”

“Oh? So you need me?”

“I WILL STAB YOU.”

They once started a fire in the middle of camp just to see how different types of wood burned.

Time banned them from touching firewood for a month.

Overall?

The Chain loved them, but they were a constant headache.

Reader was the only person who wanted to be in Hyrule for the sake of research, and even though their experiments terrified them, they couldn’t help but admire their genius.

Even if it meant they had to keep a close eye on them before they accidentally (re)invented nuclear warfare.

(Moment Wild mentioned Purah’s antics, the chain were horrified at the inevitable possibility of what the both of them would do together. So they drive to keep Reader as far from Purah as possible. It’s inevitable tho so..:sucks for them 😆)

[stnkiconverse]

Hello! I would appreciate it if you wrote Toby's reaction upon seeing his partner (dead for whatever reason you choose) come back from the dead as a ghost after months, without remembering anything. It's something I like to roleplay with on C.AI.

Thank you

Gone.

Ticci Toby x Dead!Partner!Reader

Warnings: Death, Angst???

Toby didn't think something was wrong when he came home. Just another mission, another night of blood, exhaustion, and trying to not worry too much about how numb he felt.

But then he opened your and his shared room door and the air didn't feel right. Too still. Too silent. Like there was something missing.

And thenhe saw you.

Your body wasn't hot when he brushed against it.

It wasn't cold, either.

Just—empty.

Like everything that made you had already left.

No blood, no violent scene, just you, dead, unmoving.

He dropped to his knees next to you, fingers hovering but not touching.

He couldn't.

If he touched you, it would be real.

His breath halted. His fingers convulsed uncontrollably. His tics struck him full-blown, angular, jerky snapping of his shoulders and neck, his throat made a choked sound as he fought to keep up with what he was seeing. What he wasn't seeing.

This didn't happen. This couldn't happen.

He let out a hollow, strangled laugh, gripping his hair. “Hah— okay, okay, real funny, you can stop now—”

But you didn't so much as stir. Breathe.

The world went fuzzy, but he had no idea if it was from the way his head spun or if he was actually crying. He didn't know until he felt the wetness in his palms. He shook you more forcefully once, twice.

"Wake up."

Again. Again.

"Wake the fuck up!"

Nothing. Nothing.

Toby couldn't remember how long he sat there, how long he stared at you, waiting for something, anything to change. It never changed.

Your body wasn't your body anymore. It was a body.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he felt more alone than ever.

Toby barely left his room.

People noticed, sure, but no one really bothered him about it. He was a loner to begin with, but now? Now, he was silent. Withdrawn in a way that wasn't just him not liking crowds— it was like he didn't even exist.

The sketch pad he never left behind, the pages previously covered in doodles and sketches and little comments in the margins about you were blank. He hadn't even opened it since you died.

He talked to you too, sometimes. At night, when he was alone, lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling like if he stared hard enough, he'd see you again. He said things under his breath into the void, voice cracked and rough.

"I dunno what the fuck I'm gonna do now."

"This is fucking bullshit, y'know. I didn't even get to say anything."

“You should be here. You‘re supposed to be here.”

Sleep refused to arrive.

It never would, but whenever he closed his eyes, he saw only you.

The second he realized you were dead. The discovery of your body.

The failure to say goodbye. His own voice crying out your name, over and over, as though perhaps doing so could retract something.

On certain evenings,he was sure he felt you there.

Swore he heard the sound of footsteps when nobody else was there. But each time he turned, you weren't present.

Because you were gone.

It happened on one of those nights—one where he was too exhausted to sleep, too alert to rest, too weary to go on but couldn't stop going on either.

He sat outside, hood pulled up around his face, sitting on the porch steps, simply existing.

And then he felt it.

That feeling. The one he'd experience when he turned around, knowing that he'd find you smiling at him.

His breath caught in his throat. He slowly rolled his head to the side, hesitantly, as though if he turned too fast, it would shatter whatever moment this was.

And then, he saw you.

Standing there, looking at him like he was just some other stranger.

For an instant, his mind didn't work. It wouldn't. His body moved ahead of him, standing up on shaking legs. You were there. You were- you were-

But something was wrong.

You seemed the same, yet not the same. Ghostly translucent. Glittering with a supernatural light. Your face was blank, curious, but hollow. No recognition. No welcome.

"Y/N…?" His voice was gruff, cracking, hardly above a whisper. As if saying your name too loudly would make you disappear.

You blinked. Tilted your head to the side. "Who's that?"

His stomach dropped.

Everything inside him stopped.

The seconds dragged on too long, too heavy, too suffocating. His mind was racing, trying to catch up, trying to piece it together, trying to make it make sense.

And then, you spoke again, voice soft, distant. "Do I…know you?"

Something in him broke.

There was a choked, snickering laugh. His fingers quivered, coiling into fists on either side of him. "Oh—oh, that's rich- that's really fucking funny—"

You simply stood there. Confused. Like you didn't know him anymore.

Like you'd never even met him.

The weight of it hit all at once. You were here—but not really. You weren’t you. Not his you.

Something in his chest contorted so fiercely it was as if he couldn't breathe. His throat burned. His eyes stung. His tics struck him full-force, cruel jerks of his head, his fingers convulsing against the fabric of his hoodie.

You were right here. And he'd lost you all over again.

I surprisingly rlly like this :D!!

I hope you like it as much as I do!!!

[marzipanilla]

They coulda still had all the overarching stories but with their new character development from the show! They coulda !

I can sit there and try and justify everything, Oliver is an alien (true!), compassion and empathy are different things, it would be neat to see an actual portrayal of a character who lacks empathy and must learn to operate with compassion- except if Oliver gave zero fucks about life, why does he give a shit about being a hero? What is his motivation at all for stopping 'bad guys' if he thinks life is worthless/meaningless? It's like every time I try to apply nuance to the situation I'm just left with more questions about why the fuck the situation is that way at all. All surrounded by the singular question, why does he give a single flying fuck about Nolan.

FR ! Like, I get that in some capacity you are Tired, Mark, but quite frankly- most of the time- the world should operate without you operating as a hero. Cecil would arguably dial back on stalking your life if you took a break from heroing (since it is apparently such a fucking burden??) and just focused on your brother. Let guilt build up in him that way! I took a step back because people didn't trust me, but now maybe there were things I could have stopped! What would it have been like for Immortal to have to come to Mark for help with something ??? What if they tried to guilt trip him bc he wasn't helping only for him to snap that helping wasn't making them happy either and now not helping is getting the same result! It's like S1 almost set him up for the whole Superman-esque morality, and then everything after has sort of failed to live up to that. Mark doesn't seem to have a very consistent moral compass, though I can definitely see people arguing his fight with Cecil is an extension of that compass, except the entire thing feels self-sabotagy and perfunctory on Mark's end. If he is desperate for black and white morality after what his dad did, portray it more??? His whole response to what his dad did IS very personal and self-centered and has nothing really to do with right or wrong, he is just determined not to be viewed the same way!

And I get not wanting to be viewed as a murderer! Very understandable! But what are your stances on helping people?? is it truly just guilt ?? Everyone who does anything bad ever should go to prison forever IS a very young concept of justice, and he IS a teenage boy! So where is his breakdown over needing to go to prison! Mark can acknowledge nuance, sometime, so is his moral compass just, if I fight someone they must go to prison bc I am right?? When did he ever have an opinion on right or wrong?? His only stance on anything is apparently, don't kill ppl, which is wild bc pretty much ALL the heroes of this world are shown very offhandedly killing people very casually. (Immortal throwing a man into space in ep1 anyone...) so like. His no kill ideology is very much tied into what his dad did. idk. I can talk myself into circles trying to sort out whatever the fuck is going on there. and then I'm just going in more circles lol

Immortal waiting for the actual threat to be gone before he has an opinion is wild xD And after you shook his hand and acted like you were totally cool w him after the seqid shit too. His consequences shit STILL gets me. Sir. You actively quit heroing bc you felt sad then invited your own ass back. Where was your sense of responsibility then? Your concept of CONSEQUENCES? You're allowed to take yourself off the board, potentially contributing to the death of countless civilians since this world apparently can't do shit unless there's at least one superman-figure present, but no one can call you out for that? If it is such a damn honor and privilege to be a Guardian why are you walking away from it?

Nolan having zero social concept of interacting with people in a 'I am not here to rule you way' arguably makes SOME sort of sense (god I still can't fathom what his thought process was there, like sir, they STILL know where you are, even if you won on Thraxa everything would still suck), but Immortal?? bruh?? you lived how damn long and somehow you came to the conclusion being an authoritarian was good??

Allen annoys me not bc he falls flat as a comedy relief char (and admittedly I'm also just not a Seth Rogan fan so when I hear his voice I just go -.-) but bc he gets to magically become strong and impossible to kill. Just like Oliver suddenly being so strong after having powers for .5 seconds, it just becomes- what's the point of Mark putting in effort if literally every character around him doesn't have to??? His effort isn't even rewarded! He's still getting his ass beat by a low stakes S1 villain! And then people bring up the whole Mark is holding back thing, and then that all collapses back on itself bc, then where are his guilt trips when he loses it. Not to mention you literally could have just flown through the Pauls to grab Rex and not wasted time punching their heads offs? Again, sir, you are indestructible battering ram who can fly to the moon and back in seconds. Who cares about your sudden lack of punching power despite that supposedly being the thing you've improved on, I need you to start moving faster.

Mark agreeing to go hang out on a beach w Debbie instead of refusing and the beach is Beach City (am now officially thinking too much about this crossover lol)

The way I got caught up on our back and forth I almost forgot this, lol! AND OH MY GOODNESS, IMAGINE? I forget exactly what which point Debbie makes the beach offer, but I’d love when exactly in SU/SUF-timeline they’d go? There’s something so fucking funny to me about them going during the SUF-timeline and always narrowly missing the strange, Steven-shaped mental breakdowns in the back. I know those don’t occur in a single day, but it’s tickling me. How could they miss anything? I don’t know I just think it’s funny.

Though, post-SUF is interesting if Gems can see the similar “world on your shoulders”, Mark has going on! Steven can shunt the narrative in the Gems’ minds, which I think is neat, if I’m not misusing the phrase since the guy’s on the road far away. Or maybe it’s just before Steven goes and they stumble into each other. I’d kinda love Pearl and Debbie interacting, honestly, if they could talk about loving someone who hurt you, hide things from you, even when you thought you knew them so deeply, and they left you to raise a child. Pearl being in a well adjusted space, and Debbie still grieving.

Honestly, the gems could help train Mark, they’re got experience and similar-ish powers in strength, sturdiness, and they can jump/run fast enough for flying to be vaguely similar enough to lecture about, I think. Or Lapis Lazulis, haha! Peridot with her trash can lid! Garnet, I’d love to see if she told Mark anything about his future in vague, well meaning advice. Or even giving relationship advice considering Amber. Or, importantly, how to convince an entire reign to end their colonizing ways, lol. Is Mark perhaps willing to start a war, take advantage of being related to any leaders, or fake his own death to varying results?

In general, there’s something so fucking funny to me about Nolan, in the sake of comparison, being Pink Diamond coded. Like OH, did an important or well respected of the colonizing empire come to earth and learn the beauty of its people and nature, including faking/lying/omitting things about his identity and background to being in, only to feel conflicted when his responsibility still remained, and he tried to free himself from them? Yikes! We’ve been through that before! Like gimme Pink Diamond and Nolan outfit swap rn. This is tickling me so much oh my goodness.

[todayisafridaynight]

sometimes i get nishiki i really do

[lemongogo]

need 2 find myself again in 2025 . tbhwu

[benkaben]

Sometimes people get really caught up into old-fashioned fandom discourse you have to step aside and remember that it's, in fact, just playing dolls man. Just plain old playing dolls.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

[pericky; a look into ricky's head during their meeting.]

---

"I'm glad you came, I wasn't sure you would." The wine pours, the sound of it drowning out the missing word in that sentence: back.

Of course, is the response, and the part of Ricky that's spent twenty years tearing itself apart to understand why vibrates with relief. It doesn't matter anymore. Of course, of course, he thinks giddily along with the words. He never needed to wonder why Pericles wasn't coming back in the first place; he was always going to.

I'm happy you invited me, and of course he thinks again. A lifetime of pretending he wasn't always going to either falls away. However harsh and lonely the world has been, all's right with it again; and the shy voice of the boy inside him that he's tried so hard to kill says, so quietly, I missed you.

[apathyfairy]

every time it's the end of the year i feel like i'm going insane like the entire year just culminates into me just mcfreaking losing it on new years eve