#I hate them (I love them more than anything ever) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lupinqs · 1 day ago

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CHAPTER ELEVEN ━━ The Story of Us

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 5.8K

❀ ━ warnings: mentions of cheating

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: never date a penn state boy (i say this from experience)

JO FEELS her body move before her mind can fully catch up, her legs shaky as she pushes herself off the bed. The room feels suffocating, suddenly too small, too loud in its silence. Asher’s phone is still in her hand, the weight of it like a lead anchor pulling her into the crushing reality she can’t seem to process. Her fingers tighten around it, her knuckles white, but her face betrays nothing. Not yet.

“Asher,” she says, her voice calm, steadier than she expects, even though it feels like there’s venom in her blood, poisoning her. “Get your shoes on.”

He’s standing near the bedroom door, mid-step. Confusion flashes across his face, his brows furrowing. “What? Why?”

Jo meets his eyes. The familiar green she’s known her whole life. But then his gaze flickers down, just for a split second, to the phone in her hand, and she sees it—the faint, fleeting flicker of something that looks like realization. Panic, maybe. Guilt.

Her chest tightens, and she feels like she might choke on the sudden wave of nausea that rises in her throat. But she doesn’t let it show.

“Just… put your shoes on,” she repeats quietly, her voice still calm, still too steady. She doesn’t trust herself to say anything else yet.

Asher hesitates, his mouth opening like he might argue. But then he closes it again, his jaw tightening. He nods, moving toward the corner of the room where his sneakers lay. He doesn’t ask any more questions, but Jo can feel his unease growing with every passing second.

She starts to walk, leaving the bedroom to go put on her slippers near the apartment door. Her grip on the phone is still so tight that her hand aches, but she doesn’t let go. Her thoughts are loud, a deafening roar in her head, but at the same time, she feels hollow. Empty.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

The words keep looping in her mind, a desperate chant she clings to even as the truth sits in her hand, undeniable. She doesn’t want to do this. She doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to see whatever’s written in his face when she says the words she knows she has to say.

She’s not a fighter. She never has been. She’s kind, and forgiving, and willing to let things slide because she hates conflict, hates the way it leaves scars on her heart and the hearts of the people she loves. But this? This is too big to let slide.

She thought she knew him. She thought he was hers.

Asher’s been her constant, her everything, for as long as she can remember. The boy next door who she used to finger paint with when they were kids. The boy who held her hand when she was anxious on the first day of middle school. The boy who kissed her for the first time in eighth grade, on one of the picnic tables at their neighborhood park.

He’s the only boy she’s ever thought about, ever wanted, ever loved. She built her future around him in her head—her dreams of getting married, of starting a life together, of building something that would last forever.

Forever.

The word feels bitter in her mouth now, a cruel joke. She can feel the cracks forming in her heart, the fissures that threaten to split her in half.

When Asher finally walks out of her bedroom, his shoes tied and on, he looks at her, his face unreadable. Jo avoids his gaze, focusing on the door instead. “Come on,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He follows her without a word, and they step out into the hallway, the soft click of the door closing behind them echoing in the stillness. They have to do this outside; Jo doesn’t want to wake up Paige.

The Jacobson girl stops a few steps from the door, turning to face Asher. She keeps her grip on his phone, her fingers trembling now despite her best efforts to stay composed. Asher stands there, his hand shoved into his pockets, his eyes darting between her face and the phone. She can see it in his posture now, the way his shoulders are tense, the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. He knows.

But he doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for her to speak first, and for a moment, she almost can’t. She stares at him, her lips parted but no sound coming out, her throat tight and dry.

She doesn’t want to do this.

But she has to.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she takes a deep breath, the sound shaky and uneven in the quiet hallway. Her voice is soft, almost fragile, when she finally speaks.

“So, her name’s Brooke?”

The moment the words leave her mouth, Jo watches as Asher’s expression crumbles. His face twists, guilt flashing so obviously across his features that she doesn’t even need to hear him confirm it. But then he does, stumbling over his words in a rush to apologize.

“Jo, I—God, I messed up. It was a mistake, okay? It—it only happened once, I swear.”

For a second, she just stares at him, her mind short-circuiting as it processes the words. Her heart feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, cracking with every beat, and yet she somehow still finds the strength to blink back the tears threatening to spill over. She gives him a look then, one that she knows has to cut deep.

“Why are you still lying?” she asks, her voice quieter now, but sharper, trembling at the edges. “I looked through your texts. You’ve been seeing her since September.”

The tears in her eyes blur her vision slightly, but she can still see the way his face falls completely at her words. His mouth opens, like he’s about to defend himself, about to deny it or say something—anything—that might patch up the gaping wound he’s just ripped open. But no words come out. Jo can tell he’s scrambling now, reaching for an explanation, a lifeline, but nothing comes.

Jo lets out a small, bitter laugh that feels foreign to her, a sound so unlike the person she usually is. Her body feels cold, her chest hollow, like everything inside her has been scooped out and left her with nothing but this raw, gnawing ache.

Her voice wavers as she speaks again, the tears finally slipping free, her composure fracturing under the weight of it all. “If you wanted to break up for college, we could’ve. You could’ve just told me that long distance would be too hard and you wanted to see other people. I would’ve—I would’ve understood.” Her voice cracks at the end, and she hates how small she sounds, how stupid she feels. She’s giving him too much credit, too much grace, but she doesn’t know how to be any other way.

“You didn’t have to cheat on me,” she continues, her voice rising a little now, her hurt spilling over into anger, “and then—then pretend like you still love me.”

The tears come faster now, hot and unrelenting, but she doesn’t wipe them away. She lets them fall, lets him see the full weight of what he’s done.

Asher steps toward her then, closing the space between them, his hands reaching out as if to comfort her. “Jo,” he says desperately. “I do love you. I love you so much. I’m so fucking in love with you, okay? I just—” he pauses, choking before continuing, “—you weren’t around, and I was missing you so much, and you’ve been so busy with basketball—”

She steps back before he can touch her, shaking her head, her voice cutting through his excuses. “—when then gives you the right to have sex with another girl? To tell her she’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?”

Her words seem to hit him like a physical blow, his face paling as he shuts up. Jo doesn’t stop, though. Her voice is sharp now, full of a fury she rarely ever allows herself to feel.

“I saw the texts,” she says again, now shoving the phone back into his hands. Her breath hitches as another sob escapes her throat. “It doesn’t really seem like you still love me when you’re talking to someone else like that.”

Jo feels the air in her lungs grow heavier. The hallway is too quiet, every sound—her shallow breaths, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead—feels deafening in the stillness between them. Asher stares at her, his lips once again parting and closing uselessly, trying to find words that might somehow undo all of this.

“Jo, please,” he says finally, his voice thin and frantic, like he’s clutching at straws. “It didn’t mean anything—she doesn’t mean anything. I was lonely, okay? I was missing you so much, Jo, so much, and I just—I made a mistake. A huge mistake. But it doesn’t change how much I love you.”

His words hit her like a stab to the chest. The sheer audacity of them leaves her feeling sick, like her body can’t keep up with the reality of what’s happening.

“Why would anyone do this to someone they love?” she asks slowly.

Asher shakes his head, stepping toward her again, but Jo takes another step back, hitting the wall. She’s never felt so trapped—trapped between the ghost of what they were and the cruelness of what they’ve become.

“It wasn’t like that,” he says, his hands gesturing wildly, desperate to make her understand. “You were always on my mind, Jo. You’re always on my mind. But you weren’t there, and I was—God, I was so fucking stupid.”

Her chest tightens, a sob clawing it’s way up her throat. “You knew I wouldn’t be there!” she says loudly. “You knew since I committed nearly two years ago! That’s why I’m saying you could’ve just broken up with me before we both went to college instead of doing—this!” She gestures to the phone in his hand, the tears still spilling freely down her cheeks, mixing with her mascara. She probably looks insane.

Asher takes another step closer, and Jo flinches without meaning to. She sees the way his face crumples at her reaction.

“Jo, I’m sorry,” he says pleadingly. “I’ll do anything—anything to make it up to you. Please, baby, I’ll never talk to her again. I’ll block her, I’ll delete her number, I’ll—”

Jo cuts him off, shaking her head violently. “It’s not about Brooke!” she cries, the name tearing through her like glass. “It’s about you! It’s about the fact that you lied to me, that you betrayed me, that you’ve been doing this for months! It’s about the fact that you’ve made me feel like I’m not even enough for you anymore.”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says weakly.

Jo lets out a noise between a laugh and a sob. “Well, you did,” she tells him firmly.

She doesn’t know when she starts crying harder, but suddenly, her body is wracked with sobs, her chest heaving as everything she’s been holding in comes pouring out. She can hardly even breathe.

And then Asher’s dropping to his knees in front of her, his hands reaching for here. “Jo, baby, please,” he begs, tears forming in his own eyes. “Please, let me make it up to you. I’ll transfer if you want me to—I’ll come here, be closer. I just—I love you. I love you so much. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose us.”

His hands are warm against hers, but she barely feels it through the numbness creeping into her limbs. She stares down at him, her vision blurred with tears, and for a moment, she thinks about all the years they spent together. When they were younger, when they were older. Every moment, every memory—they flash before her eyes like a cruel montage of everything they’ll never be again.

Jo pulls her hands away from his, her chest aching like it’s being ripped in half. Her voice is small, barely above a whisper, but it’s absolute. “No matter what, I’ll never be able to trust you again,” she says, the finality of her words settling heavily between them. “I can’t have a relationship with no trust, Ash. I love you—I’ve always loved you—but I can’t do it. I can’t.”

The words ring out and, for a moment, they stay where they are. And then Jo turns and opens the door to the apartment. Her fingers tremble against the knob as she pushes it open, but she doesn’t stop. She can feel the way Asher stands from his knees behind her, hovering a mix of desperate and disbelief radiating off him like a suffocating heat. She steps inside, her legs feeling like jelly beneath her, and she doesn’t turn back to look at him when she hears his footsteps following her.

“Jo, please,” Asher says again, his voice cracking, the way it always does when he’s on the verge of tears. “Let’s just—keep talking, okay? I’ll do whatever you want, just… don’t do this.”

But there’s nothing left to talk about. Not now. Not after everything.

Jo’s head pounds as she crosses the room, her eyes scanning for the things he’ll need to leave. His coat is slung on the back of one of the chairs, and his keys and wallet sit on the table. She grabs both, her hands shaking, and turns back to him.

“Asher,” she says, raw and unsteady, “please.” She holds out the coat and keys to him, her arm outstretched like it’s the only way she can keep any distance between them. “If you love me like you say you do, please leave. Please.”

He doesn’t take them at first. He just stands there, staring at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes that make him look younger than he is, like the boy she used to know. Her next-door neighbor, the boy who used to race her to the ice cream truck every summer. The boy who brought her flowers from his mom’s garden the first time he asked her to a school dance in eighth grade, nervously holding them out to her like they were the most precious thing he’d ever touched. The boy who kissed her on the Ferris wheel, telling her he’d never seen anything prettier than the way the lights reflected in her eyes.

Jo thought that boy was perfect.

But now, that boy is clearly gone.

“So this is really it?” Asher asks, his voice barely a whisper. He finally takes the coat and keys from her, his movements slow, almost mechanical, like he’s not fully in his body. His words hang in the air, heavy and final, and Jo feels like they have hands and they’re suffocating her.

She bites her lip hard, the metallic tang of blood sharp on her tongue. A sob claws at her throat, but she swallows it down, refusing to let it out. Because—God—she doesn’t want this to be it. She doesn’t want to end this chapter of her life, doesn’t want to say goodbye to the person who’s been by her side through everything. She thinks about all the time they’ve spent together, the endless summers of childhood spent chasing fireflies in their backyards, the countless nights they stayed up late talking about everything and nothing. She thinks about the way he used to cheer for her at every basketball game, the way his laugh uses to make her feel like the world wasn’t so big and scary.

But then she thinks about the texts. Brooke. The lies. The betrayal. The pain of knowing that the person she loved most in the world didn’t love her enough to stay faithful. And she knows—she knows—that she can’t stay with him. Not after this.

So, with a terrible, gut-wrenching finality, Jo forces herself to meet his eyes. Seafoam. She’ll never look at them the same again. “Yeah,” she tells him. “It is.”

Asher flinches like she’s just slapped him, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to say something else, like he’s going to keep fighting. But then his shoulders sag, and the fight leaves his body all at once. He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, and the sheer heartbreak in his expression nearly undoes her.

Jo takes a shaky breath and steps toward the door, her movements stiff and unnatural, like her body doesn’t belong to her anymore. She holds the door open and watches as Asher hesitates, lingering in the threshold like he’s waiting for her to change her mind.

“Um,” she starts, staring at the floor, unable to meet his eyes anymore. “I’m not gonna be back in Boston for break. I’ll be on that ski trip with my family. So, uh, when they get back, you just… you get your stuff from the house and bring mine back to them, okay?”

For a long, excruciating moment, Asher just stands there, staring at her like he’s trying to memorize every detail of her face. Then, finally, he nods. “Okay,” he says quietly.

He steps out into the hallway, and Jo closes the door behind him with trembling hands. The moment the latch clicks into place, she presses her back against the door, her knees nearly buckling. She buried her face in her hands and keys the sobs come.

PAIGE LIES in Celeste’s bed, staring at the ceiling, her body tangled in soft sheets that smell faintly of sex and Celeste’s perfume. The room is dark except for the faint orange glow of the streetlamp outside the window, cutting through the blinds and casting uneven stripes across her skin. Celeste is already asleep, her breathing slow and steady beside her, an arm draped lazily over Paige’s stomach.

The weight of the arm feels suffocating. The room feels too still, too warm, and Paige can feel the alcohol from earlier churning in her stomach. She hadn’t realized how much she drank until she laid down, the world tilting slightly when she closed her eyes. She shifts uncomfortably, trying to focus on anything but the growing nausea.

Her phone sits on the nightstand, and she reaches for it, squinting at the brightness when the screen lights up. 3:08 AM. Jo and Asher should be asleep by now, she thinks. The thought is a small relief, though she hates that it’s on her mind at all. When she’d come here earlier—straight from Ted’s—it wasn’t just for Celeste’s company. It was to avoid them. Avoid the sight of them fueled up on the couch, or worse, the sound of them behind Jo’s closed bedroom door.

But lying here now, with the alcohol making her stomach roil and Celeste’s soft breathing only amplifying the pounding in her head, Paige knows she can’t stay. She hates being sick, hates it even more when it happens in someone else’s space.

Carefully, she moves Celeste’s arm off of her, sliding out of bed with practiced quiet. She pulls on her jeans and shirt, then her coat, then slips on her sneakers and grabs her phone. By the time she’s in the hallway, she’s regretting every drink she had tonight.

The walk back to the apartment feels endless. The streets are deserted, the air sharp and cold against her flushed skin. She shoves her hands into her coat pockets, her breath visible in the air. Her head spins with every step, her stomach twisting tighter and tighter until—without much warning—she’s doubled over, throwing her guts up into a bush. It’s humiliating, even though no one’s there to see it.

But after, she feels marginally better. Her legs are still shaky, and her throat burns, but the nausea ebbs, replaced by exhaustion. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, cursing herself under her breath, and resumes the walk home.

When she gets to the apartment, it’s quiet. Thank God. She lets herself in carefully, taking care not to let the door slam, and moves toward the bathroom in the dark. She brushes her teeth quickly before going to her bedroom. There, she toes off her shoes, drops her phone onto her own nightstand, and collapses into bed. The sheets are cold, her pillow soft, and she burrows into them, hoping sleep will come quickly.

It doesn’t.

Instead, Paige ends up staring at her phone, her thumb absently scrolling through TikTok, then Instagram, then TikTok again.

It’s probably a half hour later when she hears footsteps outside her room. She doesn’t think much of it, only registers that Jo and Asher are awake. She thinks she hears the apartment door open, but she can’t really tell. She just resumes her scrolling.

Maybe another twenty minutes pass before she hears the door reopen. There are voices this time, too—Jo and Asher’s. They’re too low to make out what they’re saying, but there’s something off about the tone.

Paige feels her stomach twist again, though this time it has nothing to do with alcohol.

She tries to ignore it, forcing herself to keep scrolling, but the voices continue. Then, suddenly, the sound of the apartment door shutting—loud enough to make her flinch.

Paige sits up in bed. She stares at her closed bedroom door, debating. Curiosity—and something heavier—wins out. Slowly, cautiously, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands.

The floor is cold beneath her bare feet as she crosses to the door. She hesitates for a moment, hand on the knob, before turning it and pulling the door open. She steps into the hallway, walking slowly at first, unsure of what to expect. But as she rounds the corner, the sight in front of her makes her heart twist painfully in her chest.

Jo is pressed against the front door, her back flat against it as though it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her face is buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling with sobs that Paige can hear from a few feet away. The sound cuts through her like a knife, raw and unrelenting.

Paige’s stomach drops, dread pooling deep and cold inside her. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen Jo cry, and not even the panic attack she had before the first game of the season looked like this. The sight freezes her for a second, but then she’s moving, instinctively, her feet carrying her closer without hesitation.

“Joey,” Paige says softly, her voice a little unsteady as she steps in front of her. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

She hates seeing Jo like this, hates the helplessness it churns up in her. Jo’s supposed to sunshine and rainbows and butterflies and happiness. Seeing her like this, crumpled and sobbing, feels wrong, like the world has tilted off its axis.

Paige notices, too, that Asher is nowhere to be found, and her stomach knots tighter at the implication. There are only a few reasons why Jo would be crying like this in the middle of the night, and Paige doesn’t like any of the possibilities running through her mind.

She steps closer, only inches away from Jo. She gently reaches out to tug Jo’s hands away from her face. The brunette resists at first, her fingers curling tighter, as if she’s trying to shield herself from the world. But Paige persists, her touch gentle but firm, until Jo lets her pull them down.

She looks wrecked, utterly and completely undone. Her mascara is streaked across her cheeks, smudging into the skin where her tears have carved wet paths. Her lips are trembling, and her eyes—red-rimmed and glassy—hold a look of devastation that Paige has never seen before.

Paige’s stomach drops a little. This isn’t just a bad night. This is something worse.

“Joey,” Paige says again, her voice soft but coaxing. “Joey, talk to me. What happened?”

Jo shakes her head violently, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks. “I feel so stupid,” she chokes out.

Paige’s protective instincts kick in hard, a fierce surge of anger and worry burning in her chest. Jo is her best friend, and Paige can’t stand seeing her like this, so small and hurt and vulnerable. It makes her want to fix it, to fix everything, to hunt down whatever or whoever made Jo feel like this and give them a piece of her mind.

“You’re not stupid,” Paige says quickly, her hands moving to Jo’s face. She cups her cheeks gently, her thumbs brushing over the tears as they fall, even though it’s futile. The tears keep coming, harder and faster, and Jo’s sobs are so harsh now that Paige worries she’s going to make herself sick.

“Jo,” Paige whispers, her tone soothing, steady. “Joey, you’re not stupid. Just tell me what happened. Please.”

Jo looks at her then, and the brokenness in her expression hits Paige like a tidal wave. Jo’s breaths are short and uneven, catching in her throat as she struggles to speak. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she manages to force out a choked answer:

“He’s been cheating on me since September.”

Paige isn’t sure how to react at first. Not because she doesn’t care—no, she cares too much—but because it feels incomprehensible. Asher? Cheating? On Jo? It’s like trying to convince herself the sky isn’t blue or that the sun doesn’t rise in the east. Jo is the kind of person who radiates light, who gives more than she takes, who makes everyone around her better by simply existing. The idea that anyone—anyone, let alone Asher, who Jo has loved since they were kids—could betray her like this? Paige’s chest tightens, a painful knot forming deep inside her.

“Oh, Joey,” Paige says softly, her voice breaking. She steps forward without thinking, wrapping her arms around Jo and pulling her in close. Jo is stiff at first, her body trembling like she’s holding herself together by a thread. But then she leans into Paige, her arms coming around her back, and she crumples completely.

The sobs come harder now, racking Jo’s body as she buries her face in Paige’s shoulder. Paige can feel her shirt dampening with tears, but she doesn’t care. Not even a little. All that matters is keeping Jo held together in this moment when she clearly feels like she’s falling apart. Paige’s chin rests against Jo’s hair, and she squeezes her tighter, as if that might somehow protect her from all of this—might take away the pain.

Her mind flashes to Asher, and the anger that surges through her is immediate, white-hot, and consuming. How the fuck could he do this? Asher, who seemed to adore Jo, who, just earlier tonight, had looked at her like the world revolved around her. He’s the guy everyone thought Jo would marry, the guy Paige didn’t want to like because of her own feelings for Jo but begrudgingly respected because he seemed like he loved her. Paige’s fists clench at the thought of him, the betrayal he’s inflicted on someone so good, so perfect.

Jo pulls back just enough to speak, her voice trembling through the sobs. “I just—I don’t get it,” she chokes out. Her hands are fisted in the back of Paige’s shirt now, clutching at her like she’s a lifeline. “He never seemed like—he would do that. He was never distant or anything. I—I don’t know. It’s just—it’s been us forever. He’s—he’s literally all I know.”

Paige closes her eyes for a moment, biting back her own emotions. She knows this—of course she knows this. Jo and Asher are the couple everyone compares themselves to, the pair who grew up together, who went to prom together, who everyone thought would get married and have a picturesque life together. Paige knows this betrayal isn’t just about the cheating—it’s about the loss of something Jo has held onto her entire life.

And as much as Paige didn’t want to like Asher, she can’t deny that even tonight, when they were all together, he seemed so in love with Jo. He didn’t seem like the type to cheat. Then again, Paige thinks bitterly, a lot of them don’t.

Paige hesitates, her voice careful. “Did you…?” She doesn’t have to finish the question; Jo knows what she’s asking.

Jo nods against Paige’s shoulder, her tears warm against Paige’s skin. “Yeah,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I broke up with him.”

Paige lets out a slow breath, one she didn’t realize she was holding. She always thought if this moment ever came, she’d feel something else—relief, maybe even happiness. She thought it would mean she finally had a chance with Jo, that the door might crack open. But as Jo sobs in her arms, as her heartbreak bleeds out into the quiet hallway, Paige feels none of that.

Because Jo isn’t happy. She’s broken, and Paige would rather suffer her unrequited feelings forever than see Jo like this. All she’s ever truly wanted is for Jo to be happy, to be the kind of happy that lights up her eyes and makes her laugh the way she does when she’s teasing Paige. This? This is not that.

Paige pulls back just enough so they’re face to face. Her hands come up to Jo’s cheeks once more, cradling her face gently. Jo’s eyes are red and swollen, tears still spilling over. Paige’s thumbs brush over her cheeks, wiping away some of the tears, though they’re still coming faster than she can catch them.

“Joey,” Paige says softly, her voice low and firm, “you are the most beautiful, selfless, talented, smart person I’ve ever fucking met. You don’t deserve any of this, okay? He doesn’t deserve you. Not even close.” She shakes her head slightly, her throat tightening as she continues. “I’m so sorry, Jo.”

Jo nods slowly, her breath hitching as she tries to calm down, but the tears are still there, streaming down her face.

Eventually, Paige convinces Jo to come with her, leading the brunette to her bedroom, keeping a steady hand on the small of her back as they navigate the dark hallway. Paige can feel the exhaustion radiating off of her in waves—emotional, physical, every kind of tired there is. She figures Jo doesn’t want to go to her own room, where everything probably still smells like Asher. And Paige figures Jo doesn’t want to be alone, either. That much is obvious in the way she stays close, almost leaning into Paige as they walk.

Once inside Paige’s room, Jo hesitates by the bed, looking small in a way Paige isn’t used to seeing. Jo’s always been the kind of person who fills up a space just by being in it—confident, easygoing, happy. Now, she’s quiet and folded into herself, arms crossed protectively over her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. Paige doesn’t like it.

“Stay here for a sec, yeah?” Paige says softly, her voice careful, like she’s afraid to push Jo too far or say the wrong thing. Jo nods, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and Paige slips out of the room.

She goes to the bathroom first, grabbing some makeup wipes from the cabinet. Her mind races as she moves, filled with anger toward Asher, with concern for Jo, with guilt that a small, selfish part of her is glad to have Jo here, with her, instead of with him.

On her way back, she detours into Jo’s room just long enough to grab the emotional support stuffed animal—Bubbles. She tucks the little turtle under her arm and heads back to her room.

Jo hasn’t moved. She’s still sitting there, looking at her hands, the way her fingers twist together nervously. Paige kneels in front of her, setting Bubbles aside for now. She doesn’t say anything at first; she just takes one of the makeup wipes and gently starts to clean the streaks of mascara from Jo’s face. Jo blinks in surprise, a ghost of a smile flickering across her lips.

“I could’ve done it myself,” Jo mumbles, her voice thick and uneven.

“I know,” Paige says simply, and there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at her own lips.

It’s a quiet, intimate thing, wiping away Jo’s makeup. Paige works slowly, carefully, brushing over her skin with a tenderness she hopes Jo can feel. When she’s finished, she tosses the wipes aside into her mini trash can and hands Jo the stuffed turtle.

Jo takes Bubbles with both hands, clutching him close to her chest. There’s a tiny moment of relief in Paige’s chest when Jo actually smiles a little at the sight of him. It’s fleeting, but it’s there.

Paige climbs onto the bed beside her, hesitating for a second. The air between them feels heavy, uncertain. Jo curls up on her side, facing away from Paige, and for a moment, Paige wonders if she should leave her alone, give her space. But before she can decide, Jo’s voice breaks through the silence, shaky and fragile.

“Can you—can you just hold me?”

Paige’s heart clenches. Of course. Of course, she can. “Yeah,” she says softly, already shifting closer.

She slides in behind Jo, wrapping an arm around her waist. Her hand comes to rest gently on Jo’s stomach, fingers brushing over the fabric of her shirt in smooth, soothing patterns. Paige doesn’t think much about it; she just does what feels natural. Her face ends up close to the back of Jo’s neck, and she can feel the faint hitch in Jo’s breathing, the way it stutters each time another quiet sob escapes her.

Every time Jo shakes or cries, Paige instinctively tightens her hold, pulling her closer, letting her know she’s there. Jo doesn’t say anything else, and neither does Paige. The silence is filled with the faint rustle of the blankets, the sound of their breathing.

Paige focuses on the rise and fall of Jo’s chest, on the feeling of her heartbeat beneath her hand. It’s comforting, in a way, even though everything about the situation feels wrong. Jo deserves better than this—better than Asher, better than heartbreak. And if Paige could take it all away, if she could somehow absorb all of Jo’s pain just to see her smile again, she would.

But all she can do is hold her, keep her safe in this moment. So she does. She stays there, tracing patterns on Jo’s stomach, her own breathing falling in time with Jo’s. Eventually, Jo’s crying slows, her breaths evening out into something softer, something closer to sleep. Paige doesn’t let go.

She feels her own eyelids growing heavy, the exhaustion of the day—and mostly the night—catching up to her. She doesn’t remember exactly when she drifts off, but the last thing she’s aware of is the warmth of Jo in her arms, the quiet sound of her breathing, and the hope that maybe things will feel a little better in the morning.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wcbb #wbb #uconn #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #wcbb x reader #ncaa wbb #wlw #nobody gets me

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mariasont · 11 hours ago

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I know youre working on a fic right now but can you sometime make a fic where a new agent comes to work at the bau (the reader) and early seasons Spencer catches her interest, to which he's completely oblivious? Like just a cute little fluffy fic where two genius idiots can realise they like each other throughout their case together.

(also a lot of jokes from Morgan lol)

Reading Between the Lines - S.R

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x reader

warnings: reader just being in love with dr. reid

wc: 1.2k

The two of you were alone in the police station break room, which had become something of unofficial workspace for the team during the case. You'd been sitting there for a while, mostly pretending to read through a file while Spencer, across the table, actually read his—flipping through pages faster than should be humanly possible.

You'd been watching him out of the corner of your eye for the last ten minutes, trying (and failing) to keep your focus on your own. You couldn't help it. He was enthralling to watch. His long fingers moved smoothly over the paper, turning each page with that ridiculous speed-reading technique of his. And when he tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning the words so quickly it looked like he was barely reading at all, you were sure you'd never seen anyone more unfairly attractive in your entire life.

And you did mean unfairly in the purest sense. It was undeniably unfair—no, unnatural—for a man to possess such a perfect plethora of qualities, like Spencer Reid did.

You hated how obvious you were being. Every time Spencer glanced up at you, your face grew hot, and you had to fight the urge to duck your head like a nervous schoolgirl. It was absurd. You were a grown adult—a professional in the FBI, for gods' sake. You had no business mooning over someone this hard. But... it was Spencer. How could anyone not?

Eventually, you gave up trying to work and leaned forward on the table, resting your chin on your hand. "How do you do that?"

Spencer glanced up, blinking. "Do what?"

"Read that fast," you said, gesturing toward the file in his hands. "I mean, it's like you're just flipping through the pages for fun, but you're actually... reading them, right? You're not just pretending?"

Spencer tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smile. "No, I'm not pretending. I'm absorbing the information. It's called speed-reading."

You raised an eyebrow. "And you just... taught yourself how to do that?"

He nodded, setting the file down in front of him. "It's not as hard as it looks. Anyone can learn it with enough practice."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone," Spencer said, leaning back into his chair. "It's all about training your brain to recognize patterns in the text and absorb information in chunks rather than word by word. It's just a matter of rewiring how you process what you're reading."

You stared at him for a moment, then a grin spread across your face. "Teach me."

Spencer blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Teach you?"

"Yeah," you said, sitting up straighter. "If anyone can learn it, prove it. Teach me how to speed-read."

For a second, he just stared at you, like he wasn't sure if you were serious. But then his expression morphed into something that looked almost... excited. "Okay. I can teach you."

You tried not to look too pleased as he reached for a book sitting on the nearby counter and slid it across the table toward you. It was some dry academic text about linguistic patterns across extinct languages—typical Spencer reading material—but you figured it didn't really matter what the book was. You weren't here for the content.

"Alright," Spencer said, pulling his chair closer to yours so he could see what you were looking at. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours, and every single coherent thought you had ever had evaporated into thin air. You swallowed hard, staring at the page but unable to actually read anything. "The first thing you need to do is stop subvocalizing."

"Sub... what?" you asked, already lost.

"Subvocalizing," he repeated patiently. "It's when you say the words in your head as you're reading them. Most people do it without even realizing it, but it slows you down. If you can train yourself to read without subvocalizing, you'll process the text much faster."

You nodded slowly, though you weren't sure you entirely understood. "Okay. So... how do I stop?"

Spencer smiled. "It takes practice, but one way to start is by using your finger to guide your eyes. Like this."

He reached out and gently took your hand, guiding your index finger to the first line of the text.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. His hand was warm, touch light as he moved your finger along the page. Did he notice the way you tensed up? Did he feel how clammy your palm was? If he did, he didn’t mention it, his focus entirely on the page. Meanwhile, your focus was entirely on him.

"Try to keep your eyes moving with your finger," Spencer said. "Don't focus too much on each individual word—just let your brain take in the whole line."

Every time you inhaled, you caught the faintest hint of soap and coffee—clean, warm, him—and it was becoming impossible to think straight.

"Okay," you said softly, moving your finger along the line as he'd shown you. "Like this?"

"Exactly. Now, try to pick up the pace. Keep your eyes moving."

You tried, but your focus kept slipping—not because of the text, but because of the way Spencer was leaning so close, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he watched you. You could feel his breath, soft and even, against the side of your face, and you were suddenly very aware of the fact that this was probably the closest you'd ever been to him.

"Am I doing it right?"

"Mostly," Spencer said, his hair brushing his forehead as he leaned even closer to point at a section of the text. His long fingers hovered just above yours, and your heart stuttered at the proximity. "But try not to pause at punctuation. Just keep your eyes moving in one fluid motion."

"Okay," you said again, though honestly, you weren't sure how much you were actually absorbing. Your brain was too busy screaming Spencer Reid is touching me. Spencer Reid is this close to me.

For a few more minutes, Spencer guided you through the process, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he helped you adjust your pace. You couldn’t tell if you were actually improving or if you were just doing your best to survive the moment without completely embarrassing yourself.

"You're doing better already," he said. "It just takes time to get used to."

You smiled back at him, cheeks warm. "Thanks. You're a good teacher."

Spencer’s ears turned pink, and he glanced down, his fingers brushing idly at the edge of the book. "I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before. A good teacher, I mean."

You couldn't stop smiling.

"Maybe next time, you can teach me," he said suddenly.

You laughed. "I don’t think there’s anything I could teach you that you don’t already know, Spencer."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost teasing. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and for a second, his eyes met yours, before flicking back to the book.

Correction, you wouldn't be able to stop smiling for the next 3-5 business days.

Morgan was leaning against the hallway wall just outside the break room, holding his phone and scrolling casually, when you finally stepped out of the room.

You didn't see him at first—you were too busy floating on a cloud, practically glowing as you replayed the last few minutes with Spencer over and over in your mind. You were smiling so much your cheeks hurt, and you could still feel Spencer's hands on yours.

"Well, well, well," Morgan voice cut through your daydream, startling you so badly you almost tripped. You snapped your head toward him, your heart jumping to your throat. He was grinning like a cat who'd just caught a mouse. "What's got you all smiley? Pretty boy say something sweet, or are you just thinking about those magic hands of his?"

You felt your face burst into flames. "What? No! It's not—"

Morgan held up a hand, shaking his head as he chuckled. "Save it, girl. I know the look of a lovesick rookie when I see one. Trust me—you've got it bad."

You sputtered, desperately trying to come up with a convincing rebuttal, but Morgan was already walking away. "Better make your move before he speed-reads right past you!"

You groaned, burying your burning face in your hands as Morgan’s laughter faded down the hall. Lovesick rookie? Was it really that obvious?

Yes. Yes, it was.

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#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #reid #dr reid

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thelov3lybookworm · 3 days ago

Text

Journals (part 2)

Part 1

Summary: new realisations and hauntingly beautiful words

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 2059

Warnings: heavyyyy angst, mental health issues, depression, feeling unworthy of love, panic attack, self harm (alluded to), self hate. thats all i can think of right now, but let me know if i need to add anything

A/n: based on old poetry by @garden-of-runar 🤭i had reblogged them to my drafts on a side blog that i dont use at all, so i couldnt reblog them on my main, but i have put them in the fic, so ig that works🤷🏻‍♀️ also, if i ever write a part 3 (which i might based on feedback) azzie would be the love interest <3

ALSO MY GIRLIE IS SO TALENTED DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED I LOVE THESE POEMS 🥹

(im also tagging people who asked for a part two hope u dont mind <3)

anyways, enjoyyyy!!

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Lying on the ground, despite how it hurt her joints sometimes, was one of Y/n’s favourite pastimes. Maybe because sometimes she did not have the energy to crawl into her bed, but that was not the point.

They hate you.

The hardness of the wood panels was oddly comforting, the way the grains sometimes raised enough for her to feel them with her fingers, the soft creaking when she stepped on them. It reminded her that she was here, that she was alive. That she was getting what she deserved for being so pathetic.

The soft mattress did not give her the same level of comfort. Sure, it was warm and cozy, but did she deserve it?

No.

You deserve this.

You deserve the worst.

Y/n sniffled, lying on her side as she lifted her hand higher next to her, dragging her nails down the planks, the feeling overwhelming in itself but better than not feeling anything. She watched her fingers jerk with the motion, pale and bloodless.

She could feel her tears collecting in a pool and seeping under her cheek. She glanced at the foot of the bed in front of her.

It looks so majestic from down here.

Do people who are worse off think the same way about me?

I don’t want them to. Because I am not worth being thought of like that.

I am nothing. I am pathetic.

It became harder and harder to take in a breath from her nose, as it continued to grow clogged from all her sobbing.

It was one of her least favourite things about crying.

Pathetic.

Stop it!

You’re pathetic. Crying over nothing.

You don’t deserve anything good.

The thoughts kept echoing in her head, louder and louder. She couldn’t breathe any longer.

And it was not because of anything physical.

Her chest began to constrict, forcing her lungs to let out precious air. She tried to breathe it back in, desperately wishing to cling to any remnants of oxygen like a child clinging to its mothers skirts.

Please. Just one inhale.

Her throat tightened.

Just one.

She gasped, futilely trying to breathe one last time to breathe before she knew she would collapse, faint because of the lack of air in her body. It gave her some reprieve, and her eyes focused back to the bed.

The longer she stared at it, the more drowsy she became. Her eyelids were drooping, and she finally, finally decided that maybe letting herself submit to her body’s needs wouldn’t be too bad, if it meant that the thoughts would stop. Maybe if she gave in to the tiredness in her bones after hours of sobbing, her mind would stop being so cruel.

Maybe it would take pity on her.

Maybe.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

"We should go out tomorrow!"

Y/n smiled a little. A rare smile that only recently had begun showing on her face.

It wouldn’t be considered a real smile. But it was still there on her face. The tilt of her lips.

We. Not me. We.

They wanted her to be present too.

Cassian jumped up, looking at Y/n with a grin. "I always wanted to take Y/n out to Rita’s."

Her smile grew.

The other members talked, making plans for tomorrow. Slowly, the conversation spiralled, as it always did between them all.

Azriel leaned close to Y/n, whispering jokes in her ear that made her giggle. Rhysand sat on the same couch as Cassian, fighting like children. Mor sat next to Amren, amusement shining in her eyes as she added fuel to the fire, while Amren looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

They talked well into the night, politics, food, court gossip bleeding into one another as the time trickled by.

But the moment the conversations wandered into their future, Y/n’s smile faded. She wondered, would they want her to stay in their life?

She didn’t have to wonder long, as the words they uttered were enough to give her peace.

They talked of vacations, of parties and new traditions. Of getting married, of being with their partners. Of celebrating lives and years and months, of celebrating ends and new beginnings.

They talked, and included her.

They talked in ‘we’s’. Not in ‘me’s’.

And that was enough for her little heart to be happy.

For it to heal, for the blood to return to her face.

For her to smile, free and unbidden.

But then, time passed. And just like the sand in an hourglass trickles away, so do all good things.

As she watched, the scene changed from only housing six people in the living room, to adding three more members. And slowly, she was pushed out.

And they began talking in ‘me’s’.

Some ‘we’s’, but it never meant Y/n.

No, it meant them. Them and their partners.

It meant Feyre and Rhysand. Their new lives and baby.

It meant Cassian and Nesta. Their new mating bond and blooming love.

It meant Azriel and Elain. Their growing infatuation.

Y/n doubted the infatuation had ended, as Azriel no longer sat next to Elain at dinners. Lucien’s visits to Velaris had increased too.

But everyone’s visits to Y/n and their thoughts about her had decreased. No one seemed to remember her existence.

And she deserved it.

They chatted among themselves, and the armchair she sat on vanished from under her, leaving her standing knee deep in the freezing snow. Watching from the outside as the warm interior that had seemed so welcoming just a moment ago turned into a nightmare.

Her worst nightmare.

It left her whimpering, leaving her to curl on the cold ground.

All alone, just like she deserved.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

It was almost sunset, and finally, Rhysand had built up the determination to read the damned journal.

He walked downstairs, peering into the living room before stepping in front of it.

Mor had departed after Y/n had left, tears in her eyes. Azriel and Cassian had been sitting in the living room for the whole two hours since then, staring into space, looking haunted and horrified at the way they hadn’t realised what was going on with their friend. Amren too, sat in an armchair in the corner, looking as unbothered as ever. But Rhys saw the cracks. The shifting eyes, the too hard hold on the book she held in her lap, the downward tilt of her lips more pronounced.

"I think it’s time we read the journal."

Four sets of eyes shot up to his figure.

"Are you sure, Rhys?" Cassian mumbled, standing up uncertainly.

Rhys nodded. "It is the only option we have."

Azriel sighed, mirroring Cassian’s movements and moving closer to Rhysand.

Feyre perked up. "What is going on Rhys?"

He clenched his jaw, guilt and regret festering in his gut. He had been so busy in his newfound happiness, so wound up in enjoying every moment with his mate that he had forgotten family. He had forgotten her to the extent his mate didn’t even know what the slight tang of copper in the air meant.

"Nothing, Feyre." He mumbled, turning away.

"Elain was asking-"

"Tell her to stop asking, then." Rhysand froze at the coldness in Azriel’s voice, his eyes going wide. Azriel never used that tone of voice with anyone outside of work, let alone Feyre.

Feyre stepped back, her calves hitting the couch as she stared at her friend in shock. "Az?"

Azriel pushed past Rhysand, making his way towards his study where the journal sat, looking as frustrated and unapologetic as ever.

After a shared glance, Rhysand and Cassian followed, Amren hot on their heels.

Azriel was already seated in one of the chairs at Rhysand’s mahogany desk, his eyes fixed on the journal that lay in the middle, his jaw clenched. He seemed to be the most affected, and Rhys only had the faintest idea why.

The four of them sat in waiting until Mor finally arrived, shutting the door behind her. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she sniffled lightly as she came to stand next to Cassian.

"Rhys, do we really have to read it? It will be an invasion of privacy."

Rhys swallowed. Thought it over. "We don’t really have a choice, do we? We need to figure out the root of this. She won’t tell us if we ask, we know that. Plus, she might already be way down the path of another breakdown after what happened today."

"That is why I think that instead of sitting around on our arses," Azriel ground out, "we should go and check up on her."

Rhys raised a brow, though concern festered in his gut. "Azriel, we’ve been through this before. She will feel worse about herself, thinking she inconvenienced us."

A muscle feathered in Azriel’s jaw, but he said nothing.

And so they began reading.

Rhysand opened a random page, his breath catching at the sudden tang of copper, and began reading. As he stared at the words before speaking them aloud, he remembered seeing the exact poem in a book he recommended to Y/n over fifty years ago.

Forgotten.That is my nameThat is the path I walkIt has been so longI don’t remember what it is like to be seenAnd I spill, my tears lining the path to the woods where my body lies,Forgotten.- from GardenofRunar

Instantly, Rhysand’s blood ran cold. He leaned back, exhaling. The pages were decorated in flowers and hearts, tiny little clouds and doodles in the margins so at odds with the thoughts spilled onto them like a hauntingly beautiful scenery.

At this point, Cassian and the others had moved to peer over Rhys’s shoulder. Rhys watched as Cassan reached over to turn the page with a shaky hand, pulling it back almost instantly as if the page had burned him. There, just above the words was a small handful of doodles, and he knew the small figures resembled the inner circle before Rhys had been taken under the mountain.

The poem was more a letter than anything, except it contained so few letters but thy hit everyone with a guilt so hard it was almost like a mountain fell onto them.

So like Y/n, to say so less yet still make an impact.

I didn’t forget about you.Can you say the same for me?Don’t bother.I know the answer.-GardenOfRunar

Under the poem, were a few words.

The poet is so talented. Every poem of them I read, it makes me want to sob.Maybe because I relate to these. Maybe that’s why.

Quiet sniffles came from Mor, but Rhys turned another page. It was the first page where blood began dotting the corners, a few drops on the center of the page veining out towards the edges, as if trying to exit but being unable to.

The almost poeticness of the sight was not lost on them. The blood droplets were almost like Y/n, trying to escape a cruel mind but unable to.

My friends are living lives, and I’m trudging through a million little days,Wasting away.- GardenofRunar

A hand snaked towards the book, slamming it shut. Rhysand jumped, his eyes flying to the owner of the scarred hand that appeared.

"Enough." His voice was still, quiet, but so cold it could freeze even the summer court over. And Rhysand knew. He was blaming himself for not paying attention to Y/n.

Rhys nodded, feeling guiltier by the second.

Everyone went back to their places, sitting in silence. Contemplating.

Wondering how they had become so oblivious to the point that they couldn’t see what was right in front of them the entire time.

The regret, the sadness was heavy in the air. It was getting hard to breathe it in.

Finally, Azriel stood, grabbing the book.

Then he turned, and walked out the door without a word, his wings pulled tight against his back.

And Rhysand wondered again.

Was this just some friendly concern, some self blame, or something else entirely?

Needless to say, suspicion took root. But guilt and hate overwhelmed it once more, and the family was left to sit and roil in it.

To wonder, how could they have been so busy that they ignored such an important part of them?

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

(ps. the first part in the memories/dreams Y/n has is based off this poem

You talk in ‘we’s’ Not ‘me’s’ And it heals my heart, just a little. Puts a smile on my face, just a little. You talk about a future One with me in it And I feel the color Return to my face. Just a little. - Runar

)

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immortalmolloy · 3 hours ago

Note

Daniel was shocked and he froze for a moment. He could feel the way the boat rocked gently and hear the soft sound of waves lapping at the ship’s hull outside. The room was lit very dimly by a single lamp in the corner.

It was surprising to hear Mina say that he was a light in her life. Daniel had always seen himself as more of a black hole. Hearing Mina say how much he meant to her and how special she thought he was, it meant so much to Daniel. It made him want to be everything she needed. And it made him think maybe he didn’t always need to run to Armand when he was desperate to hear kind words and praises. Mina would assure him. He wanted to do the same for her.

He was usually good with words but this was a complicated subject that hurt him too. Daniel felt shame for things he had done too. He had been so sure back then that he knew who the monsters were. Now he doubted that. Violent memories haunted him in his sleep more often than he’d like to admit.

He was so grateful for Mina. He didn’t know how she was exactly before they had met, only knew what she had said and what he saw in her mind. He understood choices she had made. He couldn’t understand completely but he didn’t blame her for things she had done. She made hard choices. She was strong and brave. She survived and endured.

Daniel had changed a lot too since he met her. He owed her everything. She saved him again and again. He could never repay her for how she rescued him from the grave he was determined to crawl in. She had given him purpose and shown him true love that he had been searching for. She helped him to grow into the person he was meant to be.

“I can’t pretend to know it all,” Daniel said finally. “I do understand how it is to feel like the worst kind of monster, to have your past choices weighing on you suffocating you slowly, to be haunted by painful memories in your sleep. I see their faces. The monsters. The ones we hunted. Some of them deserved it-at least, I think they did. But others... I used to believe I was the hero in the story. I thought I knew who the monsters were. And now, I don't know anything. I’m always going to Lestat for reassurance. Lestat tells me all of the terrible things he’s done and that’s the only way I stop hating myself.”

Daniel sighed. “We can’t forget these things we’ve done. You don’t have to carry it alone, though. We have each other always and forever. I may not have known you so long ago but I do know you now. I know your heart and mind and soul. We were meant to find each other. You are my soulmate for all eternity. You're one of the bravest, strongest people l've ever known. You made hard choices because you thought it was the right thing to do and maybe you didn't always get it right. Maybe neither of us did. But you still deserve the world, Mina. You are amazing and you deserve love and to heal from this stuff. I’m here for you. I’ll help you.”

He kissed her forehead and held her close. "I don't know where I'd be without you. I don't even know who I'd be. You gave me purpose, Mina. A reason to fight, even when I wanted to give up. You’ve shown me love. I could never thank you enough for how you rescued me and saved me. If I’m a light in your life then you’re the whole damn sun in mine.”

“So, you want to interview vampires, so you?”

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bluemerakis · 12 hours ago

Note

that last sb fic 🫡 i owe you everything for that BUT i do have a request that's been rotting in my brain for days and i need someone as talented as u to give it a go

soldier boy x vought exec daughter!! the power play, the (healthy) age gap, forbidden desires????!!! need it, thank u, i love ur work

first off, i’m so so glad you enjoyed the fic anon! 😭 you’re making my heart incredibly full with the lovely compliment!! mwah!

secondly, that pairing is actually to die for??? wait i need it too. I GOTCHU!! thank you for trusting me with this wonderful wonderful idea, i hope i did it justice!! never stop using that amazing mind of yours to brainstorm these pairings 🩵

─ ۶ৎ ─

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ synergy ❞

part i

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x vought!exec!daughter

warnings .ᐟ cussing, porn with plot, age gap, power play, reader has daddy issues (sorry this just makes it so much hotter), slow-burn enemies to … hate-sex partners, i guess lmfao; pet names, tension thick enough to cut with a knife, soldier boy just being typically insufferable in the best way ever

synopsis ─ as the daughter of vought’s executive director, you’ve got a pivotal role to play in the upkeep of the company. that means keeping payback in check—uniforms, brands, rehearsed speeches, and keeping a clean mouth (and nose) on the leader of them all—soldier boy.

the last task seems impossible to achieve, especially when the lead supe seizes all opportunities to get beneath your skin, and your skirt, during your every interaction. it makes working with him mostly insufferable, but you can’t deny the unspoken tension between the two of you—a tension that vouches for the slither of you that craves anything other than fleeing his presence.

word count ~ 9k

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“I’m not going to sugarcoat it, sweetheart, this job’s going to be tough on you.”

You listened to your father speak from where you stood only a few inches away from his desk—hands looped tidily behind your back, chin tilted upward in poise, and expression carved from the same stone that had built this building up from the ground. Honestly, you currently felt no different than a troop standing at their superior’s attention. And yet, you knew that it’d been by design. Your father’s design.

You tried not to pay too much mind to the way his use of sweetheart pricked the hairs of your neck. It was a name your father had spent years branding as your own term of endearment, but knowing what you knew about him, and what you meant to him, the term felt more like belittlement. You hated it.

You couldn’t help but hitch your brows at his statement—a brisk act of defiance that vanished almost as quickly as it’d come. Growing up, your father had never been anything but tough on you, and it’s a scar you’d carried well into adulthood. So you would have thought that, by now, he’d have learnt to stop doubting your capabilities.

A girl can dream, right? Because at the end of the day, entering your father’s company meant that you were fresh meat, and taking on this job wasn’t so much like being tossed into the lion’s den as it was being fed directly into the jaws of this man-operated corporate. It was a suffocating environment, but no different to the air you’d grown accustomed to breathing in the artificial circumstances of your upbringing.

After all, your father had practically raised you for this job.

You watched as the man of your nightmares circuited his unkempt desk with a chilled whiskey clutched at the ready, his hair the type of unruly that could have only been styled by a stressed hand. His head was tilted down to the ground, eyes studying his every step as though your existence before him had never been fathomable to begin with. Or demanding of the sort of respect that warranted even a second of eye contact.

His free hand whisked through the air as he spelled out all sorts of gestures tinged with subtle exasperation. “You’re going to be working with Supes,” he continued, glass lifting to his lips to down an eager gulp, as though the mere term was a distasteful pill to be swallowed. You caught his jaw unclenching for the first time this evening as his tongue waltzed with the liquor, and once the sip had lost its frisk, he discarded it with a swallow and a grunt of pleasure.

The scene before you had you stifling a wry grin. Supes were no saints, your father had always disclosed that much to you—but this? Drinking at the mere mention of them? Your father could be easily rattled at times, but for the most part, he was overly talented at holding his temper together when it came to dealing with. . . alternative groups. And drinking was a vice he’d long since worked hard to wean himself off of—for the most part, at least. So, if this atypical demeanour of his was the haunting preview for the horrors you were about to endure on this job, you knew you were in for one hell of a ride.

Your father continued his disgruntled pacing to round the corner of his desk, where he took up his throne and settled into its comfort with a dramatic creak. There, in the symbolic comfort of his importance, he found it in himself to finally acquaint your eye at last. A king addressing his lesser subject.

“Most of these Supes have been around since before me—some senility modifications they’d worked into the compound V formula. Has them looking not a day over forty,” he explained sullenly, as though perturbed by the science of it all. “Regardless of those insignificancies, the knowledge of their alterations make them presumptuous, it makes them insolent, but most importantly, it makes them dangerous—a liability, if you will.”

“A company’s kryptonite,” you droned suddenly, breaking your unspoken vow of silence with words that made your father’s lips curve up in satisfaction—and why wouldn’t it? They were his words, after all, words he’d spent all your growing years imbuing into your vocabulary of his selection so that you were not unlike his shadow. A part of you wondered, out of spite and just for a fleeting second, how he’d react to you finally stepping out of it and into your own light. Into your own legacy. Maybe, this job would be exactly the way to do it—the start of something new, born of something ancient.

“Precisely,” your father hummed gleefully, studying you though a slight narrowing of his eyes that told you all you needed to know—that he was currently admiring the fruits of his labour. His life’s work. You, a fail-safe investment, should his time to bite the dust arrive abruptly. “I taught you well,” he added with a suffocating smugness.

You taught me obedience, you retorted silently. But because he was always right, you offered a faux smile of agreement. “I’ve got big shoes to fill,” you said—lacquering his ego, maybe, but simultaneous making your future favours all the more sizeable. “I can’t give anything less than my absolute best.” He taught you that, too. Repeatedly. A mantra forged with every intent to instil a festering fear of failure, rather than nurture any hopes of sure succession. A grenade he’d planted within you, one hand always on the pin, just waiting to implode all that you were at the first mistake.

Your father never could refuse another flower in his bouquet of self-importance, so he received your praise with greedy palms, utterly oblivious to the spiteful thorns furled around their metaphorical stems—thorns that you vowed would eventually come back around to nip him where it hurt.

You watched his lips quirk with a smile that felt deeply displaced—like he’d been given a brief rundown of what to do, but lacked the practice to perfect it authentically. “Your mother would be proud,” he declared suddenly.

Admittedly, those words made the air catch in your throat for a brief second—your airways thickening with some unresolved emotion that made your lungs stutter for their next breath. You blinked in rapid succession, as if flipping through the pages of the behavioural manual your father had written into your code for instances that threatened to usurp your composure. Instances like these. But there was nothing that could’ve prepared you for your emotionally-uninvested father taking a casual stroll down memory lane.

You settled for a thick swallow and a slight perking of your chin, brows kneading with a purpose meant to push forward a steadfast narrative, but was really just a show of your greatest restraint. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” you pushed out bravely—but there was a slight hitch in your tone that you hoped your father’s attuned senses hadn’t snagged.

You’d never truly known your mother—she’d walked out of your life before you’d even learnt to crawl. But despite her apparent abandonment, your father had never failed to recall her memory in warmth—when he did bring her up. So you thought, then, that she couldn’t have been all that bad—and that, maybe, if she’d stuck around, she could have saved you from his bone-chilling, mind-numbing tundra of a heart.

Your father absentmindedly twirled his partially-emptied glass at the rim, eyes hovering on you for a duration that began nudging at your unease. They were narrowed, calculating. It was the same look he wore anytime he reviewed new proposals to implement—or those to scorn and discard without a second glance. It had always been a gift of his, to be an enigma never telling of which decision he’d eventually settle on, and it made you squirm more than you’d have liked to admit.

Eventually, he uttered a simple hm, your heart lurching at the cryptic noise—he, who always voiced his verdict with the intent for the world to hear it, settling on a sound so indefinite. Then, he drew in a deep, decided breath as he craned himself forward in his throne, free hand unfurling across the expanse of his cluttered desk to pluck up some folder he’d clearly set aside for this very conversation.

Slowly, he lifted it in your direction, a silent beckon for you to shed your salute and approach him at last. You obeyed on slightly wobbly legs drawn into rigidity by a show of confidence, striding over to a cover a distance close enough to snag the file, but not close enough to be drawn into his consuming orbit. “What’s this?” You asked, eyes buckling to skim the folder’s title for an answer that would precede your father’s.

Payback. The name placed immediately amongst the ranks of your knowledge. The super-abled team of heroes that the entirety of new York had practically claimed their new religion—deserving of praise and worship and altars in the form of billboards and big screens that spanned every skyscraper in view. The gods that could, would, and should do no wrong, according to the sheep of America. But wiser men could see through the white robes. Wiser men, like yourself, knew that Payback were nothing more than wolves loitering on the horizon, discreetly thinning out the naive herd. One by one—so sparse as to go unnoticed by the masses.

So, the question begged whether the file you currently held was cluttered with information intended to inform, or blackmail designed for your shortcomings to contain them.

“Open it,” your father instructed, earning a mildly wide-eyed glance from you. He lifted his glass with a glare that looked grim, then drained the last of the whiskey that had been slowly drowning in the glass keep as he waited for you to follow through.

You did, eventually, after watching him set down his glass, but flipping open the cover was driven by greedy curiosity, rather than the need to obey his every command—as you often found yourself doing. Your palm fanned beneath the spine to support both ends of the file as your other hand began flipping through the information-heavy sleeves.

Black Noir, Crimson Countess, Gunpowder—all the ridiculous names you tried not to pay too much attention to as you flitted through the pages. You skimmed through enough of the information to deduce that you were practically holding an old-school Wikipedia on each of Payback’s members, and it was a finding that had your heart sagging an inch lower into your chest with the sheer disappointment of it all.

You didn’t doubt that your father was hounding all the good stuff for himself. You also didn’t doubt that he’d ever hand you the key to that safe willingly. He trusted you with enough to become the skeleton of his company, but not the heart, lungs and soul of it all—hoarding the deepest, darkest secrets that would send the entire organism collapsing should it ever become public knowledge.

Fair enough. You’re new on the job. And you’re not him—even though he’d spent years trying to make you enough of a splitting image. Hell, you’re not even the child he wanted. You were the exception—the lemons he’d had to utilise to create worthwhile lemonade. You supposed that this job was your own sack of lemons to turn into something worthwhile, and that your father would have to have a taste of it before deciding when you’d have access to the more exciting information.

You hadn’t bothered to page toward the end of the file, the exploration terminating a rough three quarters in, where a picture of The TNT Twins stared back at you. You couldn’t have glanced away faster to relieve the discomfort their beady stares evoked. “What am I supposed to do with this?” You asked your father bluntly.

His hands were folded together now, elbows resting promptly atop his desk. At some point during your brief reading, he’d run another hand through his hair to recollect the class he often modelled throughout the hallways of Vought’s building. He looked almost respectable again. “Research,” he said.

“Research?” You echoed. “I’ve already done my research. And there’s nothing in here that I don’t already know. I doubt—”

“Do it again,” he cut in firmly. It sent a chill down your spine. With your lips pressed into a silent, sullen line, you watched his elbows slink from the frame of his desk as he settled back into his throne. His chin perked up as though needing to re-establish his elevated status, even from where he sat below you. “If you are to be the new manager of those Supe scoundrels, you will need to know everything there is to know about them. Every minuscule detail. From their first names, to their family history, down to every last transaction they’ve ever made.”

Manager? Of Payback? You reiterated silently. And it made your cheeks burn hot. That’s the so called job your father had been making a fuss over? That’d you’d paid all the years of your life toward preparing for? It was the coldest bucket of ice water your father could’ve dumped atop your head, but it did nothing to quench and cool the fire you felt bristling within.

The file’s covers clapped together as you closed it and held it against your chest, where you heaved an exasperated breath beneath the provided cover. “So you want me to micromanage a bunch of reckless superheroes?” You asked with practiced patience—your tone cool and level despite the irritation drawing your jaw rigid. This was not the job you’d expected after all you’d endured. After all the relentless, soul-sucking training your father had subjected you to.

Your father’s gaze narrowed in on your expression with unveiled scrutiny, and your heart must’ve felt it through the stack of paper shielding it because it began to thump rapidly. “You’re perfect for the job,” he said decidedly, and it felt like a dagger had pierced your chest to still the earthquake within your heart that had been rattling you from within. “We all had to start somewhere, sweetheart. My father didn’t hand me the other rein to the company until I’d learnt how to mount the horse without a leg-up.”

You began stroking your thumb across the file’s cover in calming patterns as you held your father’s stare. “I’m capable,” you pushed out tensely. “You know I am.” I was made for more.—that’s all you’ve ever told me. So what fucked up game are you playing with me right now?

“You are,” he agreed nonchalantly, as though oblivious to the dagger he kept on plunging further and further into your heart. “And that’s why I’m not trusting just anybody to nurture the faces of this company. I’m trusting you.”

Oh, is that right? You laughed bitterly. Silently.

A long time ago, you’d made peace with the knowledge of the childhood you’d never gotten—friends, parties, terrestrial playtime, being care-free. You’d made peace with it because you hoped you’d have had the job to compensate your losses. A job worth a damn. But this? Helicopter parenting a bunch of super-abled, overgrown babies with scorching tempers? It felt like the biggest, rankest pile of stinking shit had been hurled at the door of your housed self-respect. Yet, a part of you felt anything but surprised—the part of you that shared your father’s DNA, and that knew exactly how his brain worked.

Clutching the file against your chest even tighter than before, you drew in a calming inhale, your lips settling on words of peace. “Okay,” was all you offered, knuckling under to avoid starting a war you knew you wouldn’t win. Not now, at least. Not anytime soon. But you’d show him. When the time was right, and you’d collected all the right cards from the corporate deck, you’d show your father just how much you were capable of achieving.

A satisfied hum reverberated in his chest. “Wonderful,” he said, shifting forward in his seat to whisk a hand through the city of stacked paperwork erected along his desk. “Tomorrow morning, I’ve arranged a meeting with Payback. I’ll have you introduced to the group and leave you all to get better acquainted. I expect Soldier Boy might make a show, but word has it that he’s just been plucked from another one of his benders in some city slump.”

Your father’s head shook disdainfully as he recalled the reported skirmish. “I don’t bother to hassle myself with that Supe’s shenanigans, anymore. This isn’t the first time that fool’s nearly dragged Vought’s name through the sewers with his reckless addiction,” he grumbled, glancing up at you with another file he’d plucked from some part of his desk. “As the new manager, you’ll have to keep an extra close eye on that one, sweetheart. Here,” he added, lifting the extra-reading in your direction.

You leaned forward to receive the folder, rotating it to decipher the upside-down text. Soldier Boy. You couldn’t help but scoff at the fact that he had his very own folder separate from the rest of the group. Oh, he had to be trouble, alright.

Out of curiosity, you tore your gaze away from the new addition to glance at your father. “What happened to the last manager, anyway?”

His head had buckled again to rummage through pages laden with script you couldn’t discern. “It’s logged in the last few pages of Soldier Boy’s records,” he said distractedly.

There was a lot to question about that single sentence, but you settled for the most prompting one. “Records?” You echoed with a frown.

Your father hummed confirmation. “You’ll need to log everything Soldier Boy gets up to. It’s the conditions the board settled on last time he was picked up from some party he’d turned bloody. You have to account for all hours of his day, make sure he’s rehearsed his written speeches before airings, and that he’s not floating in the skies of narcotics throughout it all. Though, the last task has proved impossible as of late. I don’t doubt he’s got an inside man supplying him. But with everything else Vought’s got going on, we can’t spare the men to hound that particular trail. As long as he keeps his nose clean while on the job,” he finished dryly, as though he knew his hope was severely misplaced.

Your frown deepened spitefully as you heeded Soldier Boy’s repute. “Why the hell is somebody like him still running this show? He clearly can’t even keep his own life together.”

Your outburst didn’t come as a surprise to your father, whose attention didn’t stray from his desk to soothe you. “No, he can’t,” he agreed. “But he’s been around long enough to warrant the hassle. Vought’s name has piggybacked off of Soldier Boy’s past—propaganda and all—for years, now. So, you try discreetly removing America’s sweetheart from the company and dealing with the outrageous consequences of the masses.” He laughed wryly.

“Besides, as insane as it might sound, we have better control over what that imbecile gets up to under this company’s roof. There’s no telling what bullshit he might spew to the streets if he was let go from his pride and joy.”

You pressed both files against your chest, eyebrow hitching thoughtfully. “Is there no way to. . . you know, neutralise him?” You asked carefully, half-expecting your father to whip you with a horrified glare. But it seemed as though your words were as natural as the next breath he took.

“We’ve tried,” he said simply, still fixated on the documents sprawled out before him. “We can’t. Not yet, at least. But they are working on a way to contain him.”

Your interest piqued greedily. This was the type of company secrets you’d hoped to get a taste of—important details. Something worth a damn. “Who’s they? And how?”

That was enough of a probe to earn his attention finally. He halted whatever document he was sorting through, eyes upturned to yours with an earnest glint. “You need not worry about that, sweetheart.” You bit down on your tongue woefully. “All I need you to do right now, is make sure that Payback is on their best behaviour. And keep Soldier Boy in check.”

The disappointment throttled your chest, making it hard to breathe and form any genuine words to acknowledge your purpose. So you watched in silence as your father averted his gaze to reach for a loose pile of documents, humming absentmindedly as he gathered them into a neat assembly. He paused to do a sweep of his desk before setting on his stationary box, where he reached to take up a stapler. He seemed to have forgotten you were here entirely.

“Is that all?” You piped up eventually.

The stapler hovered along the corner of the stacked pages as he glanced up at you briefly. “That’ll be all,” he confirmed. “Oh, and the meeting will be at eight a.m tomorrow morning,” he added.

“Right,” you murmured, trying your best to lighten the sound into something that resembled excitement, or at the very least, acceptance. “Goodnight,” you offered meekly, and with tonight’s work clutched tightly in both hands, you turned on your heels to make an exit.

You’d barely gotten into the rhyming click-clack of your departure before your father’s voice rung out across the space. “Sweetheart?”

You came to a slow halt, casting an apprehensive glance over your shoulder. “Yes, dad?”

He’d laced his fingers atop his desk, like a judge about to rule a decision. “Watch your back,” he advised, his expression softening into something that almost looked like concern. But you hadn’t thought it humanly possible of him. “Especially around Soldier Boy. He’s crude, and exploitative, and he won’t hesitate to try and sink his fangs into you.”

The corner of your lip quirked dryly. He didn’t sound like much of a challenge you weren’t already used to encountering on a day-to-day basis. “I can handle Soldier Boy,” you assured him.

His chin dipped in the slightest of nods—curt, but enough of an acknowledgement that made you yearn for another taste of his approval. You chided that voice. The voice of the little girl who’d done everything to mimic the exact footsteps her father had laid out amongst the sand. The little girl who’d rarely gotten praise for her many victories, but had been endlessly berated for her sparse failures. You silenced her.

When the time was right, when you’d worked hard enough to make something for yourself, you’d allow that voice to have a say once more. Only then, it wouldn’t voice pleas for your father’s approval, or beg for scraps of his company. It would be to acknowledge your own hard work, to raise up your own status, and to give yourself the encouragement you’d always sought from him.

You returned your father’s nod, and without lingering on him any longer, you turned and finally exited his office.

As you clattered down the winding hallways muffled by nighttime’s silence, your gaze drifted over to the looming windows in passing, noting how the sky’s starry army saluted you at intervals. You made a beeline for the elevator up ahead, which stood open in waiting, and thankfully, with nobody else inside. You slipped into the tiny, four-walled space and hit the button for your floor, watching as the doors trailed close with a rather dramatic creak. Definitely behind on maintenance. When you reached your designated floor, the elevator dinged and parted for you to step into the open, which you did hastily.

Your eyes bowed with exhaustion now. You’d need to brew a pot of coffee as soon as possible if you had any hopes of powering through your work in preparation for tomorrow. As you made your way down the hall, you heard the elevator depart behind you. Somebody must’ve pushed the summons button, and you hoped they weren’t en route toward your floor. The thought daunted you a bit, hastening your steps toward the door marking your suite. You didn’t have the energy to entertain conversation right now.

When you reached your abode, you clutched both files beneath one arm as your free hand reached into your blazer pocket, feeling out the security card that would grant you access. You plucked one out in a smooth motion between your index and middle finger, hand outstretching to hover it over the sensor. But the light declined you with a blaring red, and your brows furrowed as you brought it forward to study the details.

It was then that you noticed you’d pulled the wrong card—one that granted access to your father’s suite. You reached back into your pocket to swap it out for the only other card, and then in the distance, the elevator dinged open.

Oh, fuck me, you groaned internally.

You tossed a glance over your shoulder just in time to see who the doors had parted to reveal. The first thing you noticed was a couple, faces connected in a heated war of the lips. The woman was pressed against the back wall of the elevator, hands wrapped around the neck of a man in a uniform that would’ve looked misplaced if it hadn’t been worn inside of Vought’s building. A superhero uniform.

Your interest piqued a hundred times over, and you found yourself staring to gather more information. The man’s hands roamed the women’s waist in messy, hungry motions, tousling her clothes about the place. You squinted at the colours of his uniform, head craning forward an inch, and then instantly recoiled with a wide-eyed stare as you recognised the colours of Soldier Boy.

Just then, the woman pushed him back at the chest with an obnoxious giggle, uttering some shrill sentence that skipped the frequency of your hearing channels entirely. Soldier Boy’s laugh, however—deep and reverberating—didn’t go unnoticed. It graced your ears almost pleasantly, and you watched as he herded her out the elevator with an exploitative study of her behind.

You were immediately drawn to his striking face. You’d seen it countless times all across the city, but somehow, it didn’t do him the justice that an in-person encounter did. His hand came forward to cup the woman’s ass with a clap that echoed down the hallway, and she let out a delighted squeal then had him chuckling in success. Neither of them noticed you loitering further down the hallway.

You grimaced at the sight of Soldier Boy. Never meet your heroes—now that was a saying that was onto something. Not that Soldier Boy had ever been your hero. Still, it did help knowing just what sort of person you’d have to deal with so thoroughly. And despite knowing what you knew about him—courtesy of your father and your research—you wished this instance hadn’t been your first impression of him. You’d count your blessings, though because by the sounds of his reputation, this behaviour of his was nothing of note.

“Come on, baby,” Soldier Boy’s voice boomed through the quiet air. “Let’s get you back to the room, hopped up on some bennies, and then I’ll show ya the best night o’ fuckin’ your life, yeah?” He chuckled, hand stringing around her shoulder to guide her around a corner that plucked them both from your view. And thankfully, in a direction away from your suite.

Benzadrine and an illegal, after-hour guest? Boy, he was not up to a great start in your books. You should have pursued them both, halted them in their tracks and started your case before bleeding his ear with repercussions, but you didn’t. Instead, you pulled out the correct access card, scanned it in, and hummed contentedly as the suite parted for you to drift inside, leaving the day’s shit outside the door.

Technically, you weren’t on the job yet. So, whatever obvious mischief Soldier Boy was currently up to was anything but tonight’s problem. You had other things to tend to for tomorrow’s big day, and there, you’d meet the leader of the Supes, anyway. Good to see he was around, after all, but it was simultaneously a fact that had you clenching your jaw an inch.

You knew men like soldier boy—avoided them like the plague, usually. But this time, with a miserable job like the one you’d been stuck with, you’d have no choice but to work with him.

ミ☬彡

You’d hardly gotten sleep last night. Between sifting through the files of Payback’s history and learning the names of the important personnel you’d have to consult at least once in your life, you’d been busy. Busy was an understatement. You’d been drowning.

When the clock had struck five in the morning, you’d wrapped up the last of your reading to take a power nap until six, and then hopped straight into a much needed shower. After drying off, dressing proper and gathering the day’s documents into a case, you’d taken a moment to grab a quick bite to eat before heading to the meeting room.

For the sake of punctuality and practicality, it helped that you lived in Vought’s tower. You’d been assigned permanent residence in one of the suites tucked into the top floors, and if you’d skimmed the blueprint correctly, it was only two floors above where most of Payback was situated. Though, judging by last night’s encounter with Soldier Boy, you could deduce that he lived on the same floor as you—likely a show of his lead-Supe status. Great for him, bothersome for you.

You had to admit to yourself that living where you worked, and working where you lived was far from the ideal lifestyle, but there wasn’t much you could do to change it now. You could only endure, so endure you would. But first, a cup of coffee to kickstart your energy reserves was a must.

After a quiet elevator ride, you’d traversed the winding hallways to reach the double doors of the meeting room. When you slipped inside, you weren’t surprised to find the room completely empty. It was only a little over seven, and that gave you roughly an hour to cram in a little more reading before the rest of the crowd arrived.

You settled at one of the chairs tracing the circumference of the large, winding table. The shape was semi-circular with the middle hollowed out to allow for addressing the members as the centre of attention, and it was a position you’d find yourself in very soon.

Around you, the world drowned into non-existence as you began skimming the first of your pages, the minutes ticking by like fleeting seconds. When you checked your watch again, it read quarter to eight. You hoarded your notes back into your case, chair screeching aside as you wandered over to the corner of the room where the coffee machine idled. You began prepping enough coffee to fill the mugs of the first four people lucky enough to claim it, and sip on a hot cuppa to ease them into this morning’s meeting.

You hovered by the machine until it brewed finish, keeping your hands entertained by aimlessly rearranging the mugs and other clutter. You were feeling slightly anxious about this big day, but at the same time, thrilled. This was your first ever job, but one you knew you could handle and blossom within until something greater came along. Until you seized something greater for yourself.

You reached for the coffee pot and began filling your mug, and it was just then that you heard the doors to the meeting room slide open, loud chatter seeping into the quiet atmosphere you’d grown comfortable in. You glanced over your shoulder briefly to spot a mixture of smart, simple uniforms and more dramatic, colourful ones trailing inside—board members and Supes alike, streaming inside in unity.

You found yourself glancing away almost instantly, head dipping to the pot of coffee that you continued to pour until your mug was filled to the brim. Your heart started to beat a little faster, now, the reality of it all sinking in. But you paced a breath or two to steady your nerves before placing the pot back into the slot.

It’s okay, you’ve got this, you steadied silently. You can’t afford to make mistakes, your father’s voice chimed in, but you pushed it away with a light frown. Bringing your mug up to your lips, you took the first, hot sip, savouring the bitter taste of it before swallowing it tensely. The warmth was soothing as it slid down to your stomach, almost enough to lay off the edge entirely.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” the first gruff voice of the morning furled through the air to harass you from some distance outside of your view. The vanity saturating his tone almost made you want to ignore it entirely, but as the daughter of Vought’s Executive with a reputation to uphold, it would be best not to soil both your family’s name—and your own—on your first day on the job—even if you had to bust a tooth or two clenching back biting remarks.

So, you lowered your mug back onto the table, your head jerking with a slight breath of patience. The corners of your lips quirked up in forced duty before you turned on your heels to face the man so determined to believe his every one-liner was some hypnotising spell.

You were instantly greeted by a handsome face modelling a potent grin—perfect white teeth that must’ve been tirelessly polished by his sense of self-importance. And his eyes, so impressively green, held this tantalising glint to them that almost made you not want to look away. The one and only Soldier Boy, even more striking this up close. But you had a feeling—many feelings—that his mouth was about to open to invalidate everything physically appealing about him.

“There she is,” he said lowly—a melodic rumble that managed to instil goosebumps along the nape of your neck. “A face as pretty as expected. Tell me, sweetheart, would you mind pourin’ me a cup? Black, and hold off on the sugar—unless you’re offerin’,” he added with an animated wink.

His use of sweetheart made your stomach curl in a manner that paled in comparison to the emotions your father evoked when addressing you. Maybe because everything Soldier Boy said felt like it came with unvoiced strings attached that you’d climb into his bed come the end of the day. And you wouldn’t even get started on the commercial wink he’d perfected to the point of being laughable outside of rolling cameras.

God, he was a faux-fest of charm.

“Oh,” you laughed dryly, head slightly tilting to one side, if only to scorn Soldier Boy further. “You must be mistaken, I don’t work for you.”

Soldier Boy’s eyes narrowed an inch. Whether it was from a place of surprise that you’d talk to him this way, or that—for once—he was being met with mockery rather than admiration, you had no idea. Didn’t care.

“Excuse me?” He chuckled carefully, but his gaze was anything but calculated as he did a bold sweep of your figure. “Everybody works for me, sweetheart,” he countered, eyes finding yours in a frown. “That’s kinda the perk that comes with bein’ Vought’s pocket-fillin’, undeniably handsome pussy-magnet, and the face of this entire operation, ‘course.”

“Well,” you chuckled, but it lacked humour. “Unfortunately, I’m not one of those people. But, if you’d like a cup of coffee, I’d be more than happy to step aside and let you pour one yourself.” The furrow in the Supe’s brows deepened at your bluntness, and you offered another forced smile before turning your back on him.

You did good on your word and side-stepped an inch to accommodate him while recollecting your own mug. But instead of sliding in beside you to fulfil his caffeine craving, Soldier Boy’s gloved palm came down on the countertop, his exposed fingers tapping at the wood.

“Bold,” he remarked sultrily. “I like it.” He brought himself forward to hover over your shoulder, the contact so close that you felt his chest graze your shoulder. Your head sank back an inch with a breath of patience as you turned to give him the attention he so clearly couldn’t live without.

“Can I help you with something?” You asked pointedly, your hands coming up to cradle your mug against your chest.

A faint grin stretched his lips as he peered down at you, his eyes narrowing on your every feature like you were an object of fascination that needed to be thoroughly studied. “Apparently not,” he chuckled lightly, slipping an intentional glance at your coffee. When he tuned back to eye-level, his chin jerked a small gesture in your direction. “What’d you say your name was, again?”

“I didn’t,” you answered vaguely, bringing your coffee to your lips for a sip. Your eyes didn’t stray from his as your nose dipped past the rim to drain a mouthful, and neither did his as he studied your every move with a twitching lip. You were testing his patience, alright. It made you grin against the porcelain.

“Right,” Soldier Boy cleared his throat, hand coming up from the counter to join his other in a cross against his broad chest. “Well, I’m sure I need no introduction,” he chuckled haughtily. “So, why don’t you tell me your name, sweetheart?”

You lowered your mug with a dramatic swallow, weaving a look of confusion through your features. “Yeah, I know who you are,” you said. The Supe quirked an eyebrow and gave a slight nod that said well, of course. “You’re The Boy Soldier, right?” And just like that, the grin was wiped clean from his face.

The Supe leaned himself into your vicinity. “You fuckin’ with me?” He murmured, as if the foul mouth on him was any secret.

You tilted your head in mock. “Obviously,” you shot back. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to learn some modesty.”

Soldier Boy’s lips quirked with a scheme as he softened his glare. “Oh, yeah? You gonna teach me?” He jeered.

You held his stare levelly. “Careful,” you warned, your fingers tightening around the body of your mug.

The Supe relented an inch at that, tall frame straightening to full height as he stopped encroaching on your space. “Not really my style, sweetheart.”

“It should be. Especially around me,” you retorted, leaving the statement to dangle in front of his face as you brought your mug up for another sip.

Suddenly, Soldier Boy’s expression tackled something other than a shit-eating smirk, his charm sobering up into a look of apprehension. “The hell you on ‘bout?” He demanded in a hushed, but gruff tone. “Who are you?”

You downed the last of your coffee, turning to lower the mug onto the coffee table with a deliberate slowness that made the Supe grimace and draw his lower lip into a frustrated bite.

“Enough o’ the goddamn theatrics,” he snapped, hand coming down rather firmly onto the coffee table. A second later, he was glancing around to see if he’d drawn any attention, and you did the same, only to find that everybody was far too absorbed in their own conversation to eavesdrop yours.

Glancing back at Soldier Boy, you caught his returning eye with raised brows. “What? The entertainment industry got you sick of the suspense?” You jabbed. His jaw clenched, causing you to huff a soft breath of satisfaction.

“Who am I?” You continued more seriously. “I’m just somebody that saw you sneaking in your pick of the Soldier Boy kiss-ass litter last night. And, I heard you offering her drugs, no less. Not a great look when you’re supposed to be following some sort of rehab program, you know, as per the terms of your last. . . probation, if you will.”

The Supe’s face tensed with the knowledge of getting caught, and it made your chest brim with satisfaction, but it was short-lived as he took a step closer to size you up and glare you down. “Yeah? And what about it, huh?” He murmured. “You think anybody’s gonna believe a single world outta your mouth? Over me—the Soldier Boy?” He gave a huff of laughter, gaze averting to the side for a second before narrowing on you again. “Sweetheart, you have no idea who you’re messin’ with.”

You raked your glare across his figure, as if trying to comprehend his audacity. “And you think that you do?” You shot back, your own arms coming up in a cross of restraint.

The gesture was enough to earn the Supe’s attention with a condescending smirk and hitch of his brow, which only made it all the more pleasurable to continue.

“Have you forgotten that you have no idea who I am?” You pointed out. “Besides, do you actually think that your word means anything to any person with a functioning brain? You’ve got the entirety of Vought elbow-deep in NDAs and rampant insomnia trying to cover this company’s ass after all of your reckless stunts. So trust me when I say that your word is as valued as a toddler crying wolf.”

The Supe’s chin perked with the slightest, almost imperceptible movement, clearly reflecting on your speech while simultaneously attempting to conceal a mixture of indignation and unease—because Soldier Boy wouldn’t be caught dead quivering before anybody. If there’s one thing you could thank your father for, it was his unintentional hand in teaching you how to decipher a man’s mind.

Eventually, the Supe mustered up his remaining nerve, his lip taking on a slight quiver of some emotion you couldn’t exactly place. It looked. . . ailed, but his brows were so intent on memorising discontent. “You gonna tell me who you are, sweetheart, or are you just here to tease my dick til I give you somethin’ to show for it, hm?” He asked in a low murmur.

You squinted at the mouth on him. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out who I am—soon enough,” you told him, and the ambiguity made the Supe glance off to the side with a muffled for fuck sakes.

Just then, one of the board members—a shorter, elegantly dressed lady—politely inserted herself between the two of you with a soft-spoken greeting. Your attention flickered over to where she reached to pour herself a mug of coffee, then back to where Soldier Boy remained glaring you down—only silenced by the newcomer’s presence. A blissful silence. You took that as your opportunity to ditch his interrogation, flashing him one last grin before you turned on your heels and moved back to where you’d left your belongings at the table.

You gathered your things together and set it down at your seat, and it wasn’t long before the chatter around you died down, your father streaming in through the doors. Almost immediately, members were rushing to take up their seats. In either side of you, you were faced with a man and woman dressed smartly, who introduced themselves as part of the board. You exchanged your own name, but purposely neglected revealing your second name. That would come in due time—undoubtedly attached to some degree of judgement. But for now, you’d savour the last remaining moments of peace that came with your mystery.

“Good morning, all,” your father greeted, and the crowd sizzled with softer reciprocations. He brought himself to stand in the centre of the space, doing a quick turn to drink in all the surrounding faces, his stare stuttering on the view of you. He offered a small nod, which you reciprocated subtly, and then he was turned back to addressing the rest of the room’s occupants.

Just past him, on the opposite curve of the table, you saw Soldier Boy slink into his seat of choice. He caught your eye almost instantly, and already, you could see some degree of puzzle-piecing taking place amid his expression—especially as he gauged your seat amongst important personnel, as opposed to watching you leave the room with the other assistants.

That’s right, you chuckled internally, holding his stare boldly. I’m here to stay.

Soldier Boy was drawn rigid in his seat as he endured your visual probing, the singular, gloved hand he’d come to rest on the table subtly tapping at the wood. Eventually, he averted his gaze off to the side, like he’d grown exasperated with your attention, and you birthed a light smirk before turning your focus back to your father.

For the first half the meeting, he gave a quick rundown on Vought’s current dealings, soliciting input from some of the gathered board members on new strategies and information they may have. It was knowledge public enough for the Supes to listen in on, but they did so deploringly—as if it were a waste of their precious time. Your attention snagged onto Soldier Boy in particular, whose glare had wandered back over to you in the short time you’d spent ignoring him. Now, it seemed as though he just couldn’t neglect you, not even for a second.

You knew that his mind was likely on a rampage of nagging thoughts about who you were and just what the hell else you knew about him. And each time you caught his eye, you let nothing on, despite the mean amusement that made you want to grin boldly. Is this what having powers felt like? Yours was a lot less tangible than a Supe’s, but still real enough to have an effect—if Soldier Boy was any testament to that.

The meeting droned on for a while longer before your father was clearing his throat with the claim of an important announcement, and the crowd equipped a new sense of interest. Even the surrounding Supes seemed to perk, some even slipping you a glance, as though they expected you might finally be introduced. And you were.

Your father’s head turned toward you, his hand outstretching in a beckon as he called your name. “Please, join me,” he said.

You would’ve gladly done so without a second thought, but then he continued onto summoning another person to his side—and of course, it had to be Soldier Boy. You watched as the Supe made haste on his summons, intentionally avoiding your deploring eye as he drew up beside your father.

With a small, preparatory breath, you moved to relieve yourself from the table, the atmosphere falling silent enough to emphasise the harsh screech of your chair as you straightened up. You worked your way around the other seated members, turning the table’s corner to join Soldier Boy at your father’s other side—in the centre of it all.

When you reached the waiting pair, you tried not to directly acknowledge the tense scrutiny etched across Soldier Boy’s face as he watched you enter the bubble of importance. But in the corner of your eye, you caught the way he shifted his weight between his boots, and the slight, choked clearing of his voice. It coaxed forward a grin that tugged at your lips, but for the sake of remaining professional, you pursed them to ease it off.

Your father’s hand outstretched to receive you at your back as he ushered you beside him, head turning to address the room. “For those of you who haven’t yet met her, this is my daughter,” he began, sparing you a brief, enigmatic glance. “In fact, today marks the first day that she enters the Vought family—as the new manager of Payback.”

Soft murmurs of surprise arose from the gathered people, and you couldn’t help but do a sweep of the peering faces. Most of the board members looked faintly surprised, heads tilting together as they exchanged hushed words. But the rest of the crowd—the Supes, looked almost exhilarated, like you were a new game to be played. You knew it was likely an attempt to scare you off, but if anything, it only made you feel more determined.

Still, your attention didn’t stray to where Soldier Boy stood. But you guessed he must’ve looked a combination of every member’s shock.

Your father cleared his throat, and it was the singular sound needed to quiet the room once more. “I expect great things for this company moving forward,” he continued, and you were faced with the back of his head as he glanced over at Soldier Boy. “Let us seize this new change with vigour, and show America why we are worthy of being her face.”

All around you, the members erupted with scattered claps, but as the seconds dragged on, it became more paced and prominent. You found yourself modelling a proud smile as you gazed upon the room, feeling a new sense of importance.

Maybe, just maybe, you could work with this job.

Around you, the room lit up with chatter and the shrill voices of moving chairs as the meeting dispersed. Your father’s hand on your back drifted away as he retreated a step, earning your attention back to him—and regrettably, Soldier Boy, who was now in appreciable view of you.

The Supe’s expression was stoic as he glared at you, but you saw the muscle of his jaw flicker when you met his gaze, and the way his hands had drawn into tense fists at his side.

Your father turned to face Soldier Boy. “Ben,” he addressed him—you’d almost forgotten the Supe’s very normal name, but you’d pocket it for a time when you could best use it to your advantage.

The Supe angled his body an inch to face your father, but not without sparing you a quick, accusing glance. “Sir,” he cleared his throat thickly.

If your father noticed the silent, ricocheting tension between yourself and Soldier Boy, he didn’t show it. “You’ll find that my daughter and you are quite alike,” your father said.

You grimaced at that observation, which must’ve been potent enough to beckon to the corner of the Supe’s eye because he flashed you a look of subtle offence before modelling neutrality more.

“But I hope that in your similarities, you will find yourselves working synergistically, rather than butting heads.” Your father’s words sounded oddly optimistic—almost cheesy, but you knew that everything he was saying was an indirect warning that the Supe not stir up trouble. A naive hope.

The hands Soldier Boy had bundled at his sides released to loop around his back, chin tilting up slightly to embody the essence of his name. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered hoarsely, then added, “sir.”

“Good,” your father murmured, a satisfied look settling into his sharp features. “Now, let us formalise this new partnership with a handshake,” he decided, his attention straying over to where you waited in silence.

“Handshake?” The Supe echoed almost dumbly, earning a side-long glance from your father.

“Is there a problem, Ben?”

Soldier Boy’s frown reached you briefly before he glanced back at your father, eyes narrowing before he lifted his head determinedly. “No, sir,” he answered firmly. And then, without further command, he took initiative by releasing his formation and strolling over to where you stood.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” your father said with a quick nod, before he strayed toward the crowd of chirping board members.

Tensely, Soldier Boy drew up before you, his gloved hand outstretching into your vicinity. When you glanced him in the eye, he looked as though he were attempting to probe your mind. Your lips stretched with a smile that was meant to be polite, but that you knew came off far too smug, and you lifted your own hand to link with his.

“I look forward to working with you, Soldier Boy,” you said, your voice clear-cut and ringing through the tense air circulating between you two—connecting all that you were.

The Supe’s lips quirked into a one-sided, insincere smirk, scrutiny heavy on his brows. But he said nothing, much to your didappintment. With a soft hm, you loosened your fingers in an attempt to shake his hold and terminate the handshake, but then his grip on you tightened, stilling you in your tracks.

“I’m sure you do, sweetheart,” he finally answered, his typical, mischievous demeanour making a formidable comeback. “I ain’t gonna lie, you’ve perched yourself on one helluva dick by takin’ on this job. But, you strike me as the typa gal that loves a challenge, so I’m gonna make damn fuckin’ sure you get it,” he promised lowly, delivering one more meaningful squeeze to your palm before you found it strung up against his lips with a single, strong pull.

There, he pressed his lips to your knuckles in a chaste kiss—an action so far from expected that you’d seized into speechless confusion. The intense green of his eyes seemed to gleam brighter as he drank in your reaction to his touch, and when he withdrew his lips and lowered your hand, you found him modelling a charming grin.

You yanked your hand free of his touch, arm flying back to your side in rigidity. “You—” you attempted to chide, but your tongue trampled itself into a hot, speechless mess. And at your side, upon the knuckles Soldier Boy had branded, you felt the lingering sensation of his lips.

“Me?” The Supe entertained, head tilting almost mockingly.

You felt your cheeks simmer, but not with embarrassment—just sheer frustration. “Behave yourself, Ben,” you choked out, arms coming up in a cross.

His expression beamed with a look of pleasant surprise, and then he was humming in approval. “Say that again,” he urged, eyes narrowing devilishly. “I could get used to the sound o’ my name on those pretty lips o’ yours,” he chuckled.

Your head tilted at his toying. “Really? Even if it’s as I’m reporting last night’s little house-party bender to the board?” You retorted. Soldier Boy’s light immediately dulled at that, and you quirked your eyebrows in accomplishment. “I expected as much,” you huffed, arms unfurling back to your side. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

And with that, you turned and took your departure, leaving Soldier Boy in the stunned rear. Just when you thought you’d heard the last of his voice for today, his insistence trailed after you in one last statement.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart, I’ll be waitin’.”

──────────────────────

a/n ─ first off, sincerely sorry that i took so long to get this request out, anon!! one thing about me is that i do tend to take long with writing but literally only bc i am way too hard on myself (perfectionist tingz) and always end up changing things 10000 times until im satisfied. secondly, this dynamic is so scrumptious pls, i really enjoyed fleshing it out—anon your mind is amazing. i split this into two parts bc it became a long one (as it always does with me) and it’s already written, but i’ll be releasing it at a later stage just to edge you all 😵‍💫 not sure when yet tho as i’m driving back to college sat and i’m super busy as of now but i’ll keep yall posted. i hope you all enjoyed this first part! also my & @floralscented’s world both collided with this request so i encourage all you lovely people to go and check out her take on it as well!! i don’t think there will ever be too much of this pairing 🙂‍↕️

thank you for reading!! please show your support with likes, comments & reblogs—they are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @angelicjackles @deansbbyx @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented @deansbeer @deansbbyx @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @whisperingdaze @st4rmarley

want to become a part of the taglist for any future soldier boy works?

other works ─ the boys masterlist

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pretty-little-mind33 · 1 day ago

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I just wanted to ask if you could make headcanons about being in a relationship with Pietro (I don't remember if I already asked for that, and I'm sorry if I did, I'm not rushing you 😭😭), and another one with Sergai? It doesn't matter if it takes a while, I totally understand, and thank you for all your fics, I love them 💖💖💖

~ i hope you like this, darling 🫶 been on a tiny bit of a writers block so this headcanon list was a good thing to write! ~

• with Pietro, friends to lovers is the only way!

• he has trouble with his feelings. he has trouble understanding them because he becomes overwhelmed and so in the beginning, it's difficult.

• plus, he has trauma so loving someone else is hard for him— he doesn't like the possibility of loosing you like he lost his parents.

• so being your friend, becoming your best friend, is the first step!

• his love language is physical touch and quality time! He always has to be touching you in some way (his hand in yours, playing with your hair…) and he loves planning days out around the city with you!

• Pietro is very loving and he's also funny. he adores making you laugh and he'd do anything in his power to make you laugh when you're sad or crying or hurt (to distract you from the pain).

• once he's your boyfriend, the quality time becomes more domestic. he tries less—and not in a bad way. he's comfortable just laying around, reading or watching a show, and it's as good as planning a whole day like he used to (he would get himself worked up, the poor boy).

• when he does take you on dates, he goes all out now! He knows all your favorite things because he is observant so he'll take you to your favorite restaurant unprompted!

• Pietro's favorite way to spoil you is by doing things for you! He's very in tune with your emotions once he'd finally dating you!

• he never forgets an anniversary or a birthday, although you're worried he does because he's always spacey and all over the place 🥺 but he keeps a calendar specifically for your events, nothing else lmao.

• you and Wanda being friends is VERY important.

• he adores you and teaches you how to say things in Sokovian! he always teaches you about his culture and his traditions. it would take a while for him to open up, but once he does he doesn't hold back.

• he trusts you easily and he isn't jealous. he hates when other men flirt with you, but he is never jealous because he knows you are his and his alone!

• he is very protective over you though! like no one hurts his girl. ever.

* * *

warnings: mentions of sex

• i think the courting before the relationship would be involuntary stalker-ish 😭

• like he's obsessed with you. he can smell you everywhere! maybe he met you when he was visiting his brother in London and he hasn't stopped thinking about you and only you.

• for the first few months you don't even meet him and yet he's just there—watching. making sure you're safe.

• he never does anything weird or breach your privacy in ways that would make you hate him, he's just like your guardian angel 😏

• when he does talk to you, you're instantly intrigued. he's rugged and handsome and unlike any man you've ever met. you like him.

• your relationship starts with sex. you bring him to your apartment and have intense, weirdly passionate for someone you just met, sex.

• when you wake up, he's gone. but eventually he comes back with a pastry from a nearby shop and your relationship starts.

• Sergei is good at reading you and knowing what you're feeling without you needing to speak or ask him. he just knows.

• he visits London more than necessary to spend time with you, letting you be the second person on his phone 🥺

• he waits to tell you what he does for work. he doesn't want to scare you or make you feel unsafe.

• you are safe. you always are with him.

• once you know and you accept him for who he is, Sergei is wrapped around your pinky until you let him go. he would do anything for you.

• he has trust issues so whenever he starts an argument, it's because he was feeling a little insecure and didn't know how to bring up his feelings. his father never let him.

• he's never violent with you but he does yell in the beginning. which scares you, so he quickly learns to leave for a walk to calm down instead.

• you promise him that you aren't leaving him. he loves words of affirmation. he needs them because he hasn't heard many of them from his father.

• he's very gentle with you normally, touching you as if you are something to be worshiped. which he does. he worships you.

• his love language is gift giving. whenever he is away, he will always brings you back a present from his home in the woods. and it's always thoughtful.

• he will teach you some words in Russian and call you pet names in Russian.

• eventually, he asks you to move in with him. you're unsure because living in the woods is scary and you are afraid you'll miss your friends and family.

• Sergei doesn't force you. he tells you you don't have to decide immediately but he really wishes you will. but he's not forceful. he gives you time and he waits.

• when you decide you want to live with him eventually. and you don't regret it. Sergei is very devoted to you (he is very protective over you, duh). he also brings you back to London wherever you want, no hesitation.

#headcanons #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff headcanons #pietro maximoff x fem!reader #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff age of ultron #marvel #pietro maximoff fluff #sergei kravinoff #sergei kravinoff x fem!reader #sergei kravinoff x reader #sergei kravinoff kraven the hunter #kraven the hunter #marvel kraven the hunter #kraven the hunter x fem!reader #kraven the hunter x reader

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tethrawke · 3 days ago

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Rook was sidelined so hard, I would really love to know what on earth the live service concept was that was the birth of this mess. I have never cared about a character less. The fact that they cut out Varric's recruitment mission so we never actually SEE why Rook is so much more suited to leading than Harding doesn't help. I mean wasn't Harding the scout leader in Inquisition? It's not like she has 0 experience being in charge? But it feels like... Rook has 0 experience being in charge? I never SAW Rook being a leader before Varric handed over the reigns. And yeah. Rook on their own doesn't do anything? The companions collect the leads and tell you what to do next.

Okay so maybe Rook's job is making sure they all work together. Rook is the manager, not the SME. Fine. Except, they don't need Rook. They all get along PERFECTLY FINE WITHOUT ROOK. There's a little bit of friction with Taash/Emmrich but lbr they'd have figured this out alone or with a different companion's help. Lucanis/Davrin solve their issue alone. If Rook disappeared all of a sudden, those people would still work together just fine... And they do in the last act, literally creating a fake dagger all on their own out of NOWHERE?? Rook never had an idea like that lol. And they save Rook completely on their own too. Like they just. Don't need Rook. At all. If Rook disappeared, Harding or Neve would easily take over and people would follow them. Not to mention how Rook wasn't included in anything ever and always felt like an awkward outsider who wasn't actually invited to the party, but came because they ASSUMED they were when everyone else was talking about it, but no one wanted them to come? If you've seen the B99 episode of the gang going on a trip with Holt where they have their private fun party in the basement while the boring "boss" party no one wants to be at is happening upstairs... That's how I felt the whole game.

I will say though, world-ending odds or not, Hawke was just a much better protagonist because Hawke WAS A PROTAGONIST. The people in Hawke's life literally would never have become friends without Hawke. Some of them still hate each other by the end but endure for Hawke. Like they're all literally only in the group for/because of Hawke. And Hawke quite literally changes who they are as people and has a massive effect on their lives. The choices you make as Hawke for your friends and the city MATTER. The Veilguard choices just... Don't. The only choice that truly matters is the Emmrich one. Everything else is just a skin preference. It has no actual effect on the game or how the characters act. It's the illusion of choice and you KNOW it won't matter in the next DA, if there ever is one.

Rook as a character is just... Desperately bad, and I'm very sad about it. I mean the Inquisitor was such a bland pancake of a person as well with no real past or personality, but I ended up caring about them because of their relationship with the companions, who provided the seasoning and toppings to their bland pancake stack. I felt like they actually cared about the MC and they all had interesting, deep relationships with Inky. I just feel like... the Veilguard crew would literally not notice if Rook just said "fuck this shit" and dipped halfway through the game. I mean no one even noticed I didn't know Varric was dead? Be real 💀

What’s really jumping out at me on my second playthrough is that the writers of the first three games understood that your character was the main character. The Veilguard writers clearly thought that the main characters were their characters, the companions.

Every scene is about setting the companions up as cool or competent or sympathetic. Often, this is done at Rook’s expense. The companions get all the witty one-liners; Rook’s attempts at humor not only frequently fall flat, but are frequently called out for falling flat (even when they’re completely automatic and the player has no say in them).

The companions have all the knowledge and skills; Rook just brought them all together and gives them all pep talks so they can focus. I’m trying to edit out all of the comments where Rook is like “Um… what????” from my videos, and let me tell you, it takes WORK. There are A LOT of them. I can count on one hand the number of times when the Inquisitor or Hawke comes across as dumb, but it seems to be a built-in, unavoidable part of Rook’s character. I have not selected a single “purple” option in all of Act 1, and Rook is still coming across as the kid who tries to be the class clown to cover for the fact that he’s always confused. Rook’s role in most scenes is to say “Uhhh… what?” so that the companions look smart.

Rook is always the one offering sympathy and never the one getting it. No one actually comes to comfort you after Varric’s death. No one asks you how you’re feeling about having to lead the team now that Varric is gone. No one tries to reassure you or give you advice for dealing with the trickster god haunting your dreams. We’re told that Neve could keep Solas out of your head, but she never actually offers to do this for you. No one comforts a Shadow Dragon Rook when Minrathous is destroyed or a Grey Warden Rook when Weisshaupt is destroyed. Rook’s problems don’t matter. Only the problems of main characters matter.

Rook is a secondary character in their own story.

#veilguard critical #datv #datv spoilers

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neerons · 3 days ago

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Some of Yves Kloss’ best quotes

"He caaaaaaaaame! " (—Yves screaming about Clavis)

"You're the most common commoner I've ever seen. You have no redeeming features to speak of. Why should I accept someone like that?"

"Choosing me shows how sophisticated you are. You won't regret it." (—Yves' changing route quote)

"Y-You call that a CAKE...?" (—Yves reacting to Clavis' gift)

"If this shameless behavior goes on any longer, you’ll find out what happens if you test my patience. I suggest that you don’t." (—Yves defending Emma in front of a noblewoman that bullied her)

"ExCUSE me? What on earth are you doing hiding in my closet?!"

"Excuse me? And why not?! I’m going to tell everyone, so we can figure out how best to punish her for what she did to you! (…) Huh?! Hey, no, you’ve got it all wrong! This isn’t kindness! I just know I’d end up with the worst stomachache if something happened to you because of me!" (—Yves defending Emma)

"Why should you have to be the one to carry such a heavy burden? This is a problem between two nations. It’s not the sort of thing a simple, kind-hearted woman like yourself needs to get involved in."

"…Emma really is amazing. I could never do anything like that. I always wanted to be a bridge that could bring Obsidian and Rhodolite together… But I was despised just for being half-Obsidianite, and I accepted it all, like it was completely normal. I never did a single thing to actually improve the relationship between our countries. I didn’t even think I could. It takes courage and resolve to approach someone when you’re completely at odds with them. It’s not easy, not in the slightest. I bet it’s left Emma in tears countless times. But even so, she’s still here now, holding her head high and taking that first step towards peace. She really is… amazing. (…) She’s so beautiful it’s dazzling. (…) I’ve spent my whole life with my head down, seeing nothing but the ground at my feet. I really need to change—I need to learn from her example." (—Yves talking about Emma to Leon)

"Fhwhwh...?! Oh my god. How is my little brother this adorable?!" (—Yves talking about Licht)

"Know this: Yves Kloss loves you, and he's always thinking about you. There's not a day you're not in his thoughts."

"You do realize you're pretty, no matter what?"

"For the record? Each time you make me happy, I swear I'll make you even happier."

"H-Hey... Have you really not noticed that I, Yves Kloss, am waiting for the right moment to talk with you?"

"U-Um, Emma... Don't tell me you're... with both of them...?" (—Yves talking about Emma holding Gilbert's and Clavis' hands)

"Just the thought of being tossed into a den full of women sends a shiver up my spine..."

"Did you just say... LOVE?!" (—Yves to Licht and Leon)

"I guess you captivated me. You were always striving to be perfect, and... that's the Emma I fell in love with."

"Y-You think you can just be all cute and get away with it, huh?"

"Please don't cry, Emma. When you cry... my heart aches so badly I don't know what to do."

"I'm not a prince to be pitied. It doesn't matter if no one accepts me. The only one I need acceptance from is me. (...) It doesn't matter what other people say. What's the point, if you can't trust yourself, and believe in your own worth? Even if they trample you under their filthy, worn boots—so long as you hold your head high and believe in yourself, it'll only make you stronger."

"Okay, which of you gave Licht wine?! How many times have I told you not to?!"

"There are so many people in the world who hate me. But... I hate me more than any of them."

"Aww, Licht, don't be so down. Failure is an unavoidable part of cooking!" (—Yves reassuring a sulking Licht)

"I'm never making dessert for any of you ever again!! You're all horrible and you can eat dirt for all I care!"

"I am NOT a cat!!!"

"...I know that kindness of yours is probably a virtue, but I can't help worrying that you're going to kindness yourself to death one day."

"What? No! I didn't meow. Why on earth would I meow?!"

"You're my goddess of happiness. I... thank you for coming, Emma."

"He's such a brazen fool! Not a principled bone in his body, and he's incorrigible to boot!" (—Yves talking about Nokto)

"Listen, you didn't hear this from me, but... Licht made almost five hundred attempts before he baked an edible batch of cookies. (...) That boy really loves you a lot. So much that it gives me heartburn just thinking about it."

"I often get told that I don't have luck. But when I talk to you, I feel like my life isn't all that bad."

"I hope she comes soo... WAHH! W-Warn me when you come!"

#might update later #quotes #ikemen prince #ikeprince #yves kloss #ikemen series #ikemen ouji #ikeprince yves #cybird #otome game #dating sim #cybird otome #cybird ikemen

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hug-me-hard-so-i-dont-forget-you · 2 days ago

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Plot points I hope to see in season 8b/9

(this is long because the writers have a lot to make up for)

• Airport scene

• Eddie gives Buck his St. Christopher necklace

• Buck's coping mechanism of briefly turning into slutty Buck 1.0 after Eddie leaves. Only this time it's with guys that resemble Eddie but he doesn't notice. Maddie does. And she wishes desperately that she wasn't pregnant so she could drink

• Buck actually uses the word bisexual or bi to describe himself

• Finally getting to see Eddie's sisters. And maybe while he's in Texas he facetimes Buck and they come into frame. And in true little sister fashion, they embarrass him: "Oh, Edmundo! Is this the Buck we keep hearing about? He IS cute!"

"I never said that!"

Buck: "...you don't think I'm cute? 🥺"

• Maddie, Sofia, and Adrianna meeting and bonding over their dumbass brothers

• Everyone else finds out that Buck is in Eddie's will and they all just stand there, mouths agape cuz how THE FUCK do they not know they're in love?? Everyone else can see it!

• Buck tells literally everyone at the 118 about his feelings for Eddie because he needs advice. And Chim makes a joke like,

"He already has everyone crushing on him! Why can't someone have a crush on me for once??"

"...dude, you're my brother-in-law."

"So?? We don't have to tell Maddie!"

• Buck admits his feelings but Eddie ends up not leaving so Buck avoids him out of embarrassment like jk pranked ya!

• Buck NDE because I NEED to see Eddie lose his shit

• Or they both have a close call and later have a serious 'spousal' discussion about what would happen to Chris if they both died. And then they share a moment of comradery, trash talking Helena & Ramon and hoping they never get custody again

• Speaking of Shitty Parents 2.0 (Shitty Parents 1.0 being the Buckley's) we need more screen time hating on Helena. Ramon got multiple scenes showing how awful he is and Eddie calling him out on it. But Helena is a selfish woman that keeps trying to manipulate Eddie into giving her Chris. And even when Eddie tries to keep in contact with his son while he's in Texas she just brushes him off and doesn't try to get Chris to talk to him. All because she got her way so she doesn't care, pushing Eddie further into his pit of self-hatred. And for that she must be punished

• Eddie talking to Bobby about his Catholic guilt in relation to his sexuality. And then going to Michael for advice about the transition of believing he's straight and having a heterosexual marriage and family to where he is now. The 3 of them need to go on a fishing trip or something. They'd have it all sorted out within the weekend

• Eddie and Maddie having ANY kind of interaction on screen. The writers know that if they teamed up they'd be besties instantly and they're keeping that from us!

• Chris needing dating advice but as soon as his dad tries to help he cuts him off like: "Not from you, you're obviously gay and all of your straight relationships sunk like the Titanic. But thanks anyway. Hey Buck!"

"Wtf? His relationships weren't great either!"

• Eddie having more discussions with Hot Priest™️ about his guilt and he just smiles fondly at Eddie, "I don't know about you, but my god doesn't judge. Not when someone lives their truth. I think you're more afraid of your family's judgement. If I were you, I'd go back and think of every time I thought God was judging me and consider the possibility that I was putting Him in place of my parental figures." and Eddie just blue screens for many minutes as Hot Priest™️ patiently waits for him to catch up as if he hadn't just changed his entire fucking life

• A scene where either Hot Priest™️ or Bobby or Buck asks him: "Would you judge Christopher if he questioned his sexuality?" "What? No." "Would you tell him to go to confessional or try to pray it away?" "Of course not!" "Would you ever discourage him to be anything less than who he truly is? Or stop him from doing something that makes him happy?" "No!" "Then why do it to yourself? Why set that example? Even if it turns out your parents or Abuela aren't comfortable with you exploring your sexuality, you can always do better than them. Break the cycle for the one person who matters most to you. Be happy, be yourself, be what you want to be, not what others expect from you. And I know you, you won't do it for you. So do it for Christopher. Show him that it's okay, great even, to be you."

• Josh getting all giddy while talking to Eddie like he did when Buck asked for gay dating advice

• Eddie talking to Hen and Karen about how they coped with their foster kids leaving. Like, how do wake up every morning to a quieter house and empty bedrooms, knowing the breakfast table is going to be lonely? They exchange bittersweet looks and hug him

I will accept no less than 80% of this becoming canon. Thank you and good night.

#911 #buddie #911 abc #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 show #911 season 8 #911 season 8b #911 season 9 #christopher diaz #bobby nash #hen wilson #karen wilson

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winchestersisterimaginessss · 3 days ago

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Request: hellooo! could you please write one where dean and sam are having their usual arguments but the sister is so sick of their shit, tried to tell them to get a grip and they come to their senses. but then flash forward the boys are ACTUALLY fighting, like throwing punches, and she gets caught by one of them? thanks, love your work!! <3

A/N: Hiiiiii!!! Thank you so much. I love this request and I hope I wrote it in a way you were imagining. If not, send me another request! As always requests are open. You can request anything you want, even if it’s something I’ve already written. Thanks everyone!!

Sam and Dean Winchester X Sister!Reader

I stood at the edge of the living room, eyes fixed on the familiar scene unfolding in front of me. Dean’s voice was as sharp as ever, cutting through the thick air of tension. The words were bitter, like venom spilling out of his mouth, each sentence more loaded than the last.

“Sam, you don’t get it. We don’t have the luxury of time. People are dying out there!”

I watched Sam, his jaw clenched, his posture rigid with barely contained fury. He leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the table between them. “You’re acting like we’re invincible, Dean! Like we don’t need a plan—like we can’t think through this!”

The frustration in Sam’s voice echoed in my chest like a drumbeat. But the thing that had finally snapped my restraint wasn’t their words—it was the way their anger was bleeding into everything. Every argument. Every conversation. It was relentless, a storm that never seemed to stop. I had been trying to hold onto whatever semblance of peace I could, but today… today I couldn’t take it anymore.

I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, that familiar surge of adrenaline clawing up my spine as I paced around the room, eyes darting from one brother to the other. My hands trembled by my sides, but it wasn’t just from the anger. It was the heartbreak—the exhaustion.

It had been happening for weeks. Every day, every single fight felt like it was tearing us apart. The same stupid arguments. The same stubbornness. And it wasn’t even about the monsters anymore. It was about us. The Winchesters. Our family.

And I was sick of it.

“Enough.” My voice cut through their bickering like a knife. The room froze in an instant.

Dean’s eyes snapped to me, that familiar scowl on his face as he straightened up from where he was leaning against the kitchen counter. “Y/N, don’t—”

“No,” I interrupted, my voice shaking, but this time with raw emotion. “No more. I can’t do this anymore. You two are tearing me apart.” I stepped forward, my chest tight with the weight of what I was about to say. “Every time you fight, it’s hurting everyone around you. Do you even see that? Do you realize what it’s doing to me?”

Dean’s expression faltered for a split second, but it was gone just as quickly, his jaw setting again, like a wall coming down. Sam, too, was silent, his eyes fixed on me, but I could see the flicker of guilt in his gaze.

I felt the tears pricking behind my eyes, threatening to spill over. “I’m your sister, goddamn it. And every time you fight, it feels like I’m invisible. Like I’m just the collateral damage. It’s not just your war anymore, okay? It’s all of ours. But I’m the one stuck in the middle, cleaning up the mess. And I can’t… I can’t do it anymore.”

My voice cracked with the last words, the weight of the admission crashing over me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been holding in until it all came pouring out. The years of trying to keep things together. The endless struggles. But this—this constant fighting, the endless cycle of hate and misunderstanding—was the last straw.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, I turned and stormed out of the room, unable to look at either of them. I couldn’t. I needed to get away. The walls were closing in. I ran to my room and I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing through the hallway. The cool, dim light of my room offered no comfort. I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in my hands. The tears I had been fighting for so long finally broke free, each one a painful reminder of how far we’d fallen.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been lying there, the muffled voices of my brothers drifting from the living room, distant and eventually fading into silence. For a moment, I allowed myself to hope they’d finally come to their senses. The tension in the air lifted, and I let out a shaky sigh of relief. I rolled over, searching for something to occupy my mind, anything to fill the quiet space between the cracks of everything left unsaid.

It felt peaceful—finally.

And then it didn’t.

A thud. A grunt. A crash. The unmistakable sounds of a fight.

My heart dropped. I knew what it was. It wasn’t the first time.

I shot out of bed, adrenaline surging through me. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms as I sprinted down the hallway. Every step felt like it was dragging me deeper into the chaos that had consumed our family. I didn’t care if I was still raw from the argument. I didn’t care if my own heart was shattered.

I pushed through the door, eyes wide, breath ragged. Dean and Sam were on the floor, fists flying, faces twisted in rage.

"Stop!" I screamed, my voice hoarse and desperate.

But they didn’t stop. They didn’t even look up. Sam’s fist connect with Dean’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. And then Dean retaliated, throwing his own punch, and for a split second, I watched in horror as they both swung at each other, neither one holding back.

“No! Stop! Please, stop!” My voice cracked as I rushed forward, desperate to break it up, but I wasn’t fast enough.

They continued to swing, and this time one of their fists caught me by accident. The world around me seemed to slow down in that moment. The knuckles collided with the side of my face, and everything went black for an instant. I felt my body hit the floor with a sickening thud, the sharp pain in my head drowning out everything else.

Blood filled my mouth, and I could taste the metallic tang of it. I gasped for air, but it felt like the room was spinning. I tried to get up, but my legs wouldn’t hold me. My body was too heavy, too overwhelmed with pain.

Tears stung my eyes as I lay on the floor, blood dripping from my lips. I couldn’t believe it—couldn’t understand how we’d gotten to this point. How we—we—had let things get so bad.

“Y/N!” Dean’s voice shattered through the haze. He dropped down next to me, panic overtaking his features. “Shit… kid, don’t move. Don’t move, okay? You’re gonna need stitches.”

But I couldn’t hear him. My mind was clouded, my vision fading. I choked back another sob, my hands instinctively reaching up to touch the fresh wound on my face. The pain was blinding. I felt myself shaking violently, my body not able to handle the weight of it all—the physical pain, the emotional pain, the betrayal of it all.

“Why?” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. I turned my head to look at them, but my vision was swimming with tears. “Why do you keep doing this? You’re brothers. You’re supposed to protect each other. Look at me! Look at what you’ve done to me!”

Dean looked as if he had been slapped, his face pale and guilt-ridden, his lips trembling with words he couldn’t form. Sam, who had been hovering in the background, now moved forward slowly, his hands trembling as he knelt beside me.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Sam said quietly, his voice cracked with emotion. He reached for my hand, but I yanked it away.

“I don’t want your apology!” I screamed through the blood in my mouth, the words raw and painful. “I don’t want anything from you right now. I just… I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Sam looked like he was about to say something, but I was already staggering to my feet, my vision still blurry, my head spinning.

“No, you’re not helping!” I shouted, my voice breaking. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix myself.” And with that, I rushed toward the bathroom, my legs unsteady beneath me, my heart pounding with each step.

I slammed the door behind me, locking it before either of them could follow. I couldn’t let them fix it. Not yet. Not when they were still at war with each other. I had to do it myself.

I grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the supplies. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I wasn’t sure I could even see straight through the tears and dizziness that clouded my vision, but I couldn’t stop. I had to fix it. I had to fix myself.

I dug the needle from the kit, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold onto it. not even registering the pain as I pressed it into my skin. I was too dizzy to see straight, too lost in my pain to think clearly. The needle jabbed into my skin, but the agony of it was nothing compared to the emotional ache. My hands were shaking uncontrollably now, the stitches coming out uneven and jagged. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t. I couldn’t see the wound, couldn’t tell where I was supposed to stitch, but I pushed through the agony anyway, my body wracked with sobs. Every breath felt like it was going to tear me apart.

“Y/N, open the door,” I heard Dean’s voice from the other side, pleading. “Please. Please, we’re so sorry.”

“I don’t care!” I screamed through the door, the words strangled by tears. “You should’ve cared before! You should’ve seen what this was doing to me! To all of us!” You whimpered before slammed your hand down on the bathroom sink. “Our fucking family!”

The sobs wracked my body, my chest tightening with every breath. The blood dripped steadily from my lip, staining my shirt and the bathroom counter. I felt myself getting weaker by the second.

“We’re so sorry. Please let us help,” Sam’s voice came through the door, soft, desperate. “Let us help you, bug.” His voice was quiet, gentle, and broken.

“I don’t want your help!” I sobbed, my voice breaking. “I wanted you to stop fighting! I wanted you to care about me. About us.”

But the pain was too much. The dizziness too overwhelming. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I still fought, pressing the needle into my skin.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Both of them rushed in, their faces stricken with horror at the sight of me, hunched over the sink, blood staining the bathroom floor. Dean moved toward me, but I pulled away, backing into the corner.

“I told you,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice ragged with exhaustion, “I don’t want your help.” The words felt like sandpaper scraping against my throat. Maybe I was scared. Scared of how much this had gotten out of control. Scared of how much I’d let it tear me apart.

Dean’s expression twisted in anguish, and for a moment, I saw it. The guilt. The understanding that this was bigger than a typical fight. That I wasn’t just angry—I was devastated.

He dropped to his knees in front of me, the movement quick, but careful. His eyes locked on mine, full of regret, the weight of it pressing down on us both. He reached for me slowly, his hand hovering near my face. "We didn’t mean for it to get this bad, Y/N. We just…" He trailed off, swallowing hard as if the words were too difficult to say. "We didn’t know how to stop."

I felt the tears coming again, but this time, it was different. They weren’t angry, not fiery and sharp like before. This was something quieter, deeper. The rage had burned itself out, leaving only aching sorrow in its wake.

“I know,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a broken breath, “But… you can’t fix it with more pain.” My chest tightened with each word, the weight of everything pressing down on me like a storm I couldn’t outrun.

Sam’s face crumpled at my words, and I saw his jaw tighten as he stepped forward, his eyes darting from my blood-streaked face to the needle still clenched tightly in my hand. His hands shook as he reached for it, and when his fingers brushed against mine, I flinched, my body wracked with a fresh wave of pain.

“Y/N, please.” His voice broke through my haze of pain, gentle but firm. "Let me do it.”

I felt the sting of the needle being pried from my hand. For a moment, I wanted to pull it back, to insist I could finish it myself, but then I saw Sam’s face. The look of terror in his eyes. He knew me. He knew I didn’t do this. I didn’t stitch myself up—they always did that for me. Always. The realization hit him hard, the understanding that I had reached a point where I couldn’t rely on them, not even when things got this bad. And it was that look of pain in his eyes, that unspoken hurt, that made everything feel even worse.

Sam grimaced when he saw the uneven, jagged stitches I’d attempted—some parts too tight, others barely holding together. The pain from them was unbearable, but it wasn’t the physical pain that tore at me. It was the fact that I had been forced to do this alone. That I couldn’t trust them to see the full extent of what I was feeling.

He exhaled sharply and immediately set to work, pulling the needle through my skin with slow, meticulous care. My body tensed in response, and I couldn’t help but whimper as the needle pierced me again. The pain was excruciating, a deep, fiery throb that seemed to echo in every bone, every muscle.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Sam murmured, his voice so soothing it felt like the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’ve got you.” But the words didn’t make the pain go away.

I felt every movement of the needle, every tug of the thread, and the sheer agony of it made my whole body quake. It was like he was stitching up my heart with every pull, each stitch a reminder of everything that had gone wrong. The tears kept coming, hot and bitter, spilling down my cheeks without my permission.

Dean moved in closer, his hand brushing my hair out of my face, and I could feel the weight of his gaze on me. His fingers were gentle as they touched me—like he was scared I might shatter under his touch. I was shattering though, all around the edges.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean murmured, his voice low and raw, barely audible above the pounding in my head. “We never should’ve let it get this far. I didn’t see what we were doing to you, Y/N. We didn’t see how bad it was.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the last shred of control I had left. The pain from the stitches was bad—so bad—but what hurt more was hearing the pain in his voice. Dean wasn’t supposed to sound like this. He was supposed to be the strong one, the one who fixed things. But now? Now, he was just as broken as I was.

“It’s not just the fights,” I whispered between sobs, my voice tight with the effort of speaking through the agony. “It’s everything. It’s how we’ve been falling apart for so long, and you didn’t even see it.”

Sam’s hands were steady, but his expression was pained, and I could see the way his jaw clenched as he worked, each stitch a slow promise that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere. But it didn’t stop the pain. The physical pain, the emotional pain. It didn’t stop me from feeling like I was drowning in it.

Dean leaned closer, his breath soft against my ear. “We’re here now, Y/N. We’re gonna fix it. We’re gonna fix us.”

I could feel his words, but I wasn’t sure if I could believe them. I wasn’t sure if any of us could ever fix what was broken. Not completely.

But Sam’s careful hands were still stitching, and Dean was still here, his hand resting on my shoulder now, providing the smallest bit of comfort as I cried. The pain from the stitches was blinding, but somehow, through it, I could hear them. They were here. They were trying.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Sam said again, his voice breaking. He was almost finished now, his hands trembling slightly as he worked the last stitch into place. “We didn’t see how much we were hurting you. But we will fix this. I swear. You’re not alone in this.”

The last stitch pulled tight, and the pain that followed was sharp, but brief. I let out a sob, my body trembling from the aftermath of it. Sam gently pressed a bandage to the wound, his hands now much more careful, but still steady.

Dean’s voice came again, quieter now, more vulnerable. “We see it now, kid. Everything is better when we’re in this together. We’re a team and we have to stay that way.”

And that—just that—felt like it was enough, for now.

Later, I sat on the couch, the bandage tight across my side. Sam was beside me, and Dean was sitting on the other side, his hand resting on the back of the couch as if to remind me he was there. We weren’t talking much. There was nothing really to say. Not yet. But somehow, the silence didn’t feel as suffocating as it used to. It was a quiet that was filled with understanding—the beginning of healing.

I leaned back into the couch, my head resting on the cushion. I wasn’t fixed. We weren’t fixed. But we were trying. And that was enough for tonight.

We were family. Even if we had to rebuild, piece by piece. We would make it through this. Together.

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spoilerssweetie13 · 5 hours ago

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Hi, I've been meaning to reply to this. I just haven’t found the time to sit down and write a whole essay, hehehe. I'll start off by saying I definitely get where you're coming from, but here's just my two cents on everything:

The Doctor has, at one point, been President of Gallifrey, and given how Time Lords are, I don't they would allow someone "less clever" than them to lead them. The Timeless Child isn't supposed to make the Doctor special. If anything, it makes them a victim of abuse dissected like lab rat by their own adoptive mother over who knows how lifetimes. The Timeless Child does not negate their choices. Instead, I feel adds to them. They are alien even to this universe but chose to save it time and time again. In a sense, if they hadn't been kidnapped the DW universe would have died a billion times over, isn't that beautifully fucked up in its own way?

Davros once asked Twelfth why he ran from Gallifrey, and under this new context of the Timeless Child, you realize, "Oh shit that's what he was running from." That's what they are all always running from. I also saw another post on here that said that the Time Lords "granted" Eleventh more regenerations to cover their own tracks, and that makes so much sense. The Time Lords don't do anything unless it benefits them. When you see the whole show under the lens of Timeless Child, all the pieces start to fall into place. It's definitely a different viewing experience. It becomes so much darker, and I think that's part of the appeal of the Timeless Child for me.

The Doctor did always feel like the adopted child of the family; Timeless Child just confirms it. But they will always be the Doctor, because the Doctor is the name that they chose for themselves, their empathy and and love for humanity has nothing to do with where they come from, and that was true even when we thought they were from Gallifrey. It's all about their choices, and they will always choose to be the Doctor sorting out fair play throughout the universe, no matter their origins.

Ever since I watched the Fugitive Doctor episode, every time someone new would pop up on screen, I would go is he the Doctor, is she the Doctor, [ominously whispers] are we all the Doctor? (Joking, but seriously, the paranoia did set in!) To me, Timeless Child isn't taking the Everyman-ness or Everywoman-ness away but adds to it by saying literally anyone and everyone can be the Doctor. You don't have to be born on Gallifrey to be the Doctor; hell, you don't even have to be from the DW universe, so we could all very well be the Doctor, lol.

Extended lore says Time Lords used Looms to procreate so I don't know why the Doctor wouldn't know who the Susan's parents are, unless it hasn't happened yet because of timey-wimey stuff [shrugs] probably will never happen now because of the retcon. :( Marrying a werewolf is crazy but it's the Doctor, so I'm not even surprised.

It's funny that I don't like the Bi-genration for the same reason that you do like it. That it's a one-off and will never happen again. To me, it feels too convenient compared to the Timeless Child. Love it, hate it, want to purge it from your memory, the Timeless Child will always be a part of the show's history, it's essentially a infinite money glitch, a way for the show to go on forever. See, what really gets me is that Fourteenth will just drop dead at one point, and Fifteenth will just get all his memories and be like, "I'm healed now." That feels too convenient. To me, that's messing with the established rules just as much as Timeless Child. If we're talking about closure Fourteenth and Donna should've gone back to The Library and Fourteenth should've used his "resemblance" to Tenth to his advantage to confuse the Vashta Nerada and somehow save River without time collapsing in on itself (but that's just the Doctor/River shipper in me speaking). To me, Donna just getting her memories was closure enough.

RTD said he didn't want to make a mockery of drag by putting David Tennant in Jodie's Whittaker outfit. Mind you, her outfit was specially designed so anyone can wear it. What's so feminine about trousers, a shirt and a coat? It seems to me that it was just done in bad faith.

Bigeneration is just as lore-changing as the Timeless Child. And yet no one shits on it because their precious RTD wrote it. If Chibnall did something like this, y'all would have your pitchforks at the ready. The double standards in this fandom, I swear. RTD is allowed to retcon Doctor Who, but heavens forbid Chibnall even try.

The Doctor is no longer even a parent because of him. David Tennant is a good actor, but I'm tired of people pretending like he's the face of Doctor Who. The whole point of the show is that the Doctor has different faces, and we should love them all—not regress backwards.

We deserved to see the Fourteenth Doctor in Thirteenth's clothes, and not for everything she is to burn up and die. The Fifteenth Doctor deserved his own regeneration scene like every other Doctor, without Fourteenth randomly sticking around because of RTD's inability to let go of the characters he wrote.

At least the Timeless Child added something more to the Doctor's story. Bigeneration took something away: the emotional impact of the Doctor's regeneration - having to say goodbye.

#don't even get me started on duplication of the TARDIS we would be here for days #Chibnall's endings could've been better I agree #but he was also the only writer that made a 6-parter not feel boring to me #the flux #usually with even with 2-parters I'm just like you could've finished this in one episode #the only 2 parter that I can sit through is Silence In the Library/Forest of the Dead #that just might be because of River though #what can i say #I have a bias #i think i put “to me” in the beginning of basically every sentence to make clear that this is just my opinion #lol #it's not meant to invalidate your feelings #doctor who #time lords #davros #twelfth doctor #eleventh doctor #timeless child #the doctor #thirteenth doctor #fugitive doctor #susan foreman #bigeneration #fourteenth doctor #fifteenth doctor #donna noble #river song #doctorriver #dw

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4doras · 22 hours ago

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DOCTOR! DOCTOR! ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

how could a star player who never makes a mistake keep getting hurt? ⊹♡

basketballer!gunwook x studentnurse!reader

genre. fluff, mentions of getting hurt

wc. 1.4k

a/n. doctor doctor is stuck in my head and i’ve been wanting to make a gunwook fic, so it’s perfect timing ^_^

everyone knew park gunwook — gunwook, the star player of the school’s basketball team, gunwook, the guy who never missed a shot, gunwook, who wouldn’t miss a game for the world. he loved basketball, and everyone loved him, everyone except you.

you didn’t hate him per se, but you wouldn’t seem to find the hype around him. of course, you could agree if people spoke about his looks, but his personality? he wasn’t anything special.

more under the cut!

gunwook was flawless on the court with his precision and skill. no one could ever remember a time when he made a mistake, but lately, something odd had started. ever since you became the nurse at the clinic, gunwook had been getting injured more than usual. it was as if every time he played, he’d somehow end up with a bruise or a twisted ankle, always finding his way to you to get treated.

you couldn’t understand why he; who was so perfect, kept making these mistakes on the court. due to your slight dislike of him, you tried to keep your distance, but with each injury, you ended up seeing him more. and though you didn’t want to admit it, a small part of you wondered if it was more than just bad luck.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑

“y/n?” a voice echoed through your silent office, “could you bring your kit and come to the court? gunwook got hit in the head.” you recognised the boy as one of gunwook’s friends, another basketball player. “alright, i’ll be right there.” you kept your composure light and smiley, but you couldn’t think of a way how gunwook, someone who was also known to have good agility, could’ve been hit in the head hard enough to need someone to care for him.

you weren’t in any rush to go over, not like the other players were, but when you noticed him rubbing his head, you figured that you might as well check, turning your slow walk into a paced jog.

as you made your way over, you noticed his friends were acting a bit… strange. they weren’t laughing or making jokes, but there was a weird energy between them — glances exchanged, suppressed smiles, like they were all in on something. gunwook wasn’t in much pain, just a bit shaken, but his friends were acting like everything was perfectly normal, almost too normal, considering the situation. you couldn’t put your finger on it, but the way they behaved around gunwook left you feeling a little suspicious. they weren't concerned, not in the way you'd expect after an impact like that, making you wonder if they were up to something.

you crouched by him, holding him up so he’d sit up properly, had he been laying down flat before. “does it hurt here?” you gently put pressure on his forehead, unsure of where he got hit. “a little,” his voice carried a hint of discomfort, “it’s kinda like… here.” he took your hand off of his forehead, bringing it to the side of his head. “tell me when it hurts.” you gradually applied more and more pressure on the area, promptly hearing a wince. “i think you’ll be okay, just be careful. follow me, i’ll get you some ice.” you got back up, extending your hand toward him, offering him help to get back on his feet.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑

he sat in front of you, waiting for whatever help you could give. once you looked at gunwook closer, you noticed a few scratches on his hands and a small cut on his forehead. it wasn’t serious, but you still reached for some ointment and a plaster to tend to the wounds. carefully applying it to his forehead, you found herself realizing gunwook looked a lot cuter up close than you ever really paid attention to before. his features were soft, and even with the small scrapes, there was something about him that made him seem a bit more attractive than she’d expected. you quickly pushed the thought aside, focusing on helping him rather than letting her mind wander.

you couldn’t be thinking like this — about gunwook, or anything else that made your heart flutter a little, but it was hard. it didn’t make sense. you knew he wouldn’t like you back, and that was fine. you didn't think less of yourself, but the truth was clear: there were so many other girls that were prettier and ‘more his type’ who thought of him the same way too. you had no reason to dwell on these feelings, especially when it wouldn’t lead anywhere. you couldn’t let herself get caught up in something pointless.

“focus, y/n. don’t daydream, your patient is hurt!” he whined, playing a small pout on his lips. “i’m not… i’m just a bit tired.” you hoped your lie was strategic enough, but acting wasn’t your major. he could see straight through you. “hm,” he cooed, “tired of what?” gunwook tilted his head to the side in mild confusion, the corner of his lips curled up into a playful smile as he looked at you. it was almost as if he knew that you weren’t telling the truth and was waiting for you to explain. “tired of you always coming here. i thought you were the best player, how come you keep ending up hurt?”

gunwook couldn’t help but giggle, seeing how clueless you were. you had no idea how obvious his feelings were. it was like a secret game to him, watching you so unaware of how much he liked you, despite him constantly creating a reason to find you.

gunwook knew exactly what he was doing when he’d fake an injury during basketball practice. it wasn’t that he actually got hurt, but he’d always manage to ‘slip’ or ‘twist’ something just enough to need attention. but the real reason? he loved having your attention on him. he’d sit there, trying to hide his grin, pretending to be in pain just to have you close. it wasn’t that he wanted to get hurt, but the way you cared for him made his heart race, and the excuse to see you — even for just a moment — was worth it every time.

“you’re seriously blind, huh?” he folded his arms, an irritating smirk on his lips. “i like you, silly. i’ve only been getting hurt because i wanna see you, and it wasn’t even that big of an issue… to me, at least.” gunwook couldn’t help but smile, his eyes lit up with a quiet confidence, as if the words he just said were exactly what he’d been waiting to say for a long time.

“what?” you couldn’t find the right words. you wanted to say something, anything, but the words just wouldn’t come out. every time you opened your mouth, it felt like they got stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled. the more he came to your office, it became more obvious to you that you liked him. you knew that much — maybe more than you even realized; but trying to put it into words felt impossible. it wasn’t that you were unsure of your feelings, it was just that every time you looked at him, all you could think about was how much you wanted him to know, but not knowing how to say it.

“i’m not joking, y/n. why do you think i’d keep coming here for something so small, like a cut? i could take care of that at home. i come here because i like you, because i want to see you.” gunwook looked at you, his eyes held an honesty that was impossible to miss, as if everything he was feeling was laid bare in that quiet, unwavering gaze.

“please, give me a chance, y/n.” you couldn’t say no to him, his eyes were basically kneeling in front of you, pleading for you to say yes. “you’re so desperate, it really doesn’t fit your look.” you giggled. you couldn’t believe the park gunwook was on his knees for you. “is that a no?” he said, in a much, much sadder voice. “i didn’t say it was.” you couldn’t help but laugh at his face. “i like you too, gunwook. but you better stop getting hurt for me.” you crossed your arms, pretending to look annoyed, but the playful smirk tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“i promise i’ll stop,” he put his pinky out, “and i’ll win every game for you.” his smile grew bigger. you locked your pinky with his, and pressed your thumbs together. “you better.”

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numberonetacostan · 3 days ago

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TACO'S TIRADE ANALYSIS

OKAY! It is time for the requested analysis of Taco’s Tirade. This is my first time doing a big analysis of like, anything, so I’m very sorry if this is the worst take on the song of all time or if everything I’m saying is obvious!! Can anyone tell i'm nervous about posting this lol. I have a lot of thoughts about Taco and her Tirade. I love it so much. Feel free to imagine me gesturing wildly with tears in my eyes as you read this. We’ll go in sections based on the lyrics and visuals :) Lyrics will be inside brackets, then commentary will be below! Please enjoy!! <3

Tw: slight discussion of suicidal ideation

[Any moment now...

Are you sure this is what you want?

(Scoff) Oh spare me your spin, you tablet tabloid. If you want to psychoanalyze someone, don't look at me.]

Alright, so we immediately see Taco still in a very emotional state. Mepad asking if she’s sure she wants to interfere with the challenge immediately provokes her, and starts her off on her entire tirade. Because he asked if she was sure. She immediately insults him and moves to change the subject and get his attention off of herself and her own mental well-being. She’s very in-denial of her own emotions and emotional pain in this song, as we’ll see going forward, and remains quite defensive for a lot of the song.

[Look at them! It's so pathetic,

How they run to fetch their sticks.

Sure, call me polemic, unsympathetic,

At least I know other tricks!]

We start here with her, as I stated, changing the subject and shifting the view onto the contestants figuratively and somewhat literally, as they’re all seen picking up the sticks for the challenge, although she still remains the main focus of the shot. We move to her dancing around Mepad, who takes up the center of the shot, but Taco is still the focus here!! She’s moved from deflecting conversation to the contestants to, in a way, defending herself, despite Mepad not having insinuated anything yet. Taco is calling herself polemic and unsympathetic here, not only because she thinks that of herself, what with her abysmal self-esteem that we see more of later in the song, but because she thinks that’s what Mepad thinks of her. Not only do her only other two friends ever hate her (I wouldn’t go that far for Mic, but that’s definitely what Taco thinks), but the rest of the season 1 cast don’t seem to think too highly of her either, yeah? Mephone certainly isn’t happy to see her soon after the song ends, and season 2 contestants like Mic and Suitcase have been shown to be wary of her before they’ve even met her. (She doesn’t know about the season 3 cast so they don’t really matter here.) The point being, Mepad is Mephone’s right hand (leg?) man, and Taco doesn’t know about their argument, so she’s pretty reasonably assuming that Mepad dislikes her just as much as everyone else does. So, she’s saying what she thinks he’s thinking about her before he can!! Forgive me for not knowing the technical name for it, but this is an actual way of deflecting criticism!! I’ll use an example. Say you made a drawing of a person, a little stick guy, but the proportions are off. One of their legs are way bigger than another, but you still want to post it anyway. To keep people from telling you that one leg is bigger than another, you might say “here’s my stick dude!! One leg is bigger than another but I’m too lazy to fix it.” By stating the potential criticism before anyone else can, it makes others MUCH less likely to comment on it themselves!! And that’s what I believe Taco is doing here!!! I hope I explained that well enough. She then goes on defending herself, self-justifying by saying she at least “knows other tricks.” I read this as her doing things outside the game, and it’s limits. That could be her acknowledging how she doesn’t play by the rules of the competition like they do, but I see it as a note of the hypocrisy/lying to herself we see from Taco in the song. And!! In the transition to the next verse, she has her eyes closed!! Which happens everytime we travel in and out of that purple-y space! We are seeing Taco’s inner image here people!!!!!

[Look at me and all you'll see is the debris of some defective outcast,

A frenetic, antithetic (if poetic) little iconoclast,]

Here we have Taco insulting herself more! Yay! She’s getting more emotional as we get into the song, and she becomes less and less able to keep her usually sturdy walls up. She’s just lost Mic, and as I’ll go over later in the analysis, is expecting she will be permanently dead relatively soon. Of course she’s having a lot of trouble keeping it together! You know how sometimes, if you’re trying not to cry and someone asks if you’re okay, it makes you burst into tears? It’s like that! Mepad asked if she was sure, and the dam began to break. So, the descriptors she uses tell us a lot about her view of herself!!! Debris. Broken remains of what was. That’s pretty accurate to how Taco is feeling right now. She’s drowning in debris, really! The debris of her old, broken friendships, the debris of her master plan to win season 1, and it’s to the point where she sees herself as broken and incomplete as well. She believes she’s broken!!! And that leads us right into her calling herself defective. Imperfect or faulty. She’s very separated from everyone else, yeah? Everyone else (to her knowledge) lives in the hotel. Everyone else is part of the group. Everyone else has people who care about them. Everyone else happily plays by the rules of the game. After everything, compared to everyone else? No wonder she sees herself as incapable of changing, she believes there’s something just, deeply wrong with her as a being. If everyone else can do this and have this, she has to be the problem. And almost right after she started putting forth that effort to get Mic to trust her, focusing on someone other than herself, Mic left her. Rightfully so, but please it is so important to think of it from Taco’s perspective rather than Mic’s in this analysis. Taco was trying to give Mic what she thought she wanted (recognition), trying to be a good friend, and it immediately lost her the most important person in her life. She’s been watching for years, she sees everyone else making strong connections, but she can’t do it when she tries. And before that, it’s her plan failing. Like Brian said in a stream, it was inconceivable to her that her plan would fail. Yet it did. And after a long enough time alone out in the woods, there isn’t anyone left to blame for that but herself. She was the reason her plan had failed, and she’d lost everything. Of course she’d see herself as defective. Outcast is pretty obvious, because she checks all of those boxes. Lives hidden, alone, and very much away from everyone else. She is very very much not part of the group anymore.

Frenetic!! Fast, wild, and uncontrolled. Frankly, something you’d be more likely to describe Taco’s season 1 persona with, yeah? It’s quite different from how Taco usually tries to present herself, being cunning and calculating around others. But of course, the further we get into the song, the more honest Taco unintentionally can get about how she sees herself. She had her whole plan for season 1 down, but it was in the end where she lost control over the situation in which she lost control of herself in which she lost everything. It was in the ship, where something she didn’t and realistically couldn’t have planned for happens that she once again lost control of the situation and thus control of herself, and used violence despite Mic’s plea not to, in which she lost everything again. Of course she’d see herself as wild and uncontrollable, because moments in which she was are standout moments of her life! Not to mention again, how she’s the contestant who tried to steal the prize and cheated in season 2. For better or for worse, she’s much less controlled by the rules of the game than the other contestants. Just another thing that separates her from the group, yeah? Antithetic!!!! In direct opposition to something. And the following word as well, iconoclast, an attacker of a beloved institution or beliefs. She’s against the game that everyone else plays again and again, something that really matters a lot to them, but we see in the show and especially in the finale that the game isn’t good for them. As much as it’s not always for quite the right reason and exactly how she ends up going about it, she has a strong point about the game itself and what it can do to all of them. But she still sees herself as the villain. Despite her genuine, and correct, belief that ending the game will make things better for everyone, she still sees herself as the villain!! And it’s an image of herself that she’s had for a long time, and that she can’t shake after everything, because she doesn’t believe she can be anything else. And I did not forget how she mentions herself as being “poetic!” Whether that’s her believing in “karmic justice” or whatever and that she got what was coming with her, or believing her role as a season 1 finalist who’s come back out of the shadows to try and end season 2, it is one of the few neutral adjectives she uses for herself in the song. It might even be her previous popularity and persona she’s referencing here, that antitheticism and iconoclasm being how she went from a silly, well-loved character to a serious, well. She’s still loved out of canon but none of the people she knows like her at all. She’s the antithesis of what she used to be, and her coming out of the act destroyed the beloved image of who she had pretended to be.

As for the visuals here, how the scene fades back into her and Mepad is so important! She falls off of a cliff into darkness!! A very clear visual representation of how she sees things having gone. After her fight over the suitcase with OJ in the s1 finale, she kept falling and falling and falling, deeper down into the dark hole she’s dug herself, until she’s landed right where she is as she’s singing. Not only that, but this visual is another excellent representation of how she sees things as over for her. How she sees herself as incapable of changing, starting over, or getting better at all. Think about the cliff we know of on the island. Now think about who actually fell off that cliff at the end of season 1. Think about what happened to them. They all DIED!!! And she is picturing herself falling off this cliff!! I doubt this was intended to be a sign of suicidal ideation for her, since ii does have a younger target demographic (ex. Justy said in a stream that OJ and Paper sleeping in the same bed would be a bit too mature), but it can definitely be read that way. Seeing herself as “dead” in a way revolves around that disbelief in self-improvement she has, she thinks it’s too late for her in the same way it’s too late to save someone who’s died!!! And if anyone is questioning whether the scene is just a visual effect or if it’s definitely Taco’s inner picture-y thing, please note her closed eyes during the transition from her falling from the cliff to standing with Mepad!! She is picturing these visuals as she sings!!

[But I won't live in the past.

(Spoken) I almost won this game once, you know. But!]

So we all agree that Taco is totally living in the past, right? She’s saying she’s moved on, she’s telling Mepad and herself that the past doesn’t matter and that she doesn’t care about it, and then immediately she mentions how she almost won before. She has not healed at all, and is not over a single thing that happened!!! She is doing so awful I love her <3. She longs for everything she’s lost constantly, because she’s lost everything!!!!!

[History is rearranged just to credit those who win the glory,

So reality is changed in the edit when they spin the story,]

So!!! Interestingly enough, I think that these lines are quite a bit about the disparities between OJ and Taco!! So, Taco had a whole strategy going into season 1 that got her into the finals, and had it not been for Bow, she would have won! She’d planned meticulously, and in the s1 finale is shown to have great physical capabilities, at least to the point to which she was able to get way ahead of OJ. And, while this may be by great bias towards Taco speaking at least in part, OJ… did not go to such lengths. Don’t get me wrong though, this is definitely a thing. It’s brought up in the show that he wasn’t a huge player in the game! Multiple times!!! S1E15 “The Tile Divide,” after OJ wins immunity with help from Paper Mephone4 says “OJ wins! Wow, that hasn’t happened for a while.” And in S1EP16 “The Penultimate Poll,” Pickle says “-even though [OJ] barely actually won any challenges.” Yet after all is said and done, Taco is outcasted, has nothing, and is disliked by pretty much everyone, and OJ is hailed as the “King of Inanimate Insanity”, is rich, and becomes the de facto group leader with his hotel. The way the narrative has been spun does certainly glorify OJ beyond his actual performance in the competition. And with OJ having his massive ego problems, I don’t doubt that he definitely let that get to his head and contributed to that narrative himself.

And in this shot we have Taco looking down at the hotel from the forest, the same way she’s looking down on everyone participating in the game and how she’s been watching Mic (and presumably Pickle) from the outside. Only now, she’s even further away from them.

[And we choose, to feel this pain,]

Taco denying her emotions again!!!! She likes to be in control, and she can not control her feelings nor keep pushing them down as she has been, so she’s onto deny deny deny!! She is in a lot of pain, and she knows it, so she deflects by saying she’s choosing to feel the pain of her losses. She’s keeping up her act, her defense, by desperately holding on and pretending she has control over these feelings!! I’m certain she’s tried to control them!! To justify herself, replace loneliness with anger, but it hasn’t worked!!! And her defensiveness is reflected in the visuals as well, her putting her hand up to keep a distance between her and Mepad, her still stubbornly keeping up those walls and forcing him away as he looks concerned for her.

[And we lose, more than we gain…]

OH BOY TIME TO LOSE MORE THAN WE GAIN. I use this phrase daily. I'm serious. A pretty obvious reference to Mic having said she gained nothing, and also an acknowledgement that their partnership truly meant something to Taco and is still greatly affecting her. Which is obvious to the audience, but not only is Mepad learning things about Taco and her issues through the song, but we really see Taco starting to fall apart, accidentally implying the feelings that she’s so desperate to keep down!! She’s like a trauma volcano <3. Anyways, Taco had gained a lot when she’d met Mic, even if it took her quite some time to realise, and by the time she did she’d lost it all, again. AS FOR THE VISUALS we once again move into Taco’s head!! The transitions here for the beginning and end of this short sequence have her with her eyes closed!! She’s walking, and hard stops when she sees Pickle and the time travel portal. You see her little feet slide to a stop on her heels! She leans away from him, leans towards him just a tad, and immediately turns and walks away, only to see Mic. She hard stops when she sees Mic too, though it’s less extreme than it was for Pickle. And when she does this, she reaches a hand out towards Mic. It’s for a few reasons I think. Holding it out to try and keep that hurt away, protect her from her thoughts of missing Mic and how much she must hate her, fully reaching out because she misses Mic dearly and that pain is so fresh, reaching out to the person she’s been so close to, closer than anyone before. Another part of it, I think, is how her conflicts with both Pickle and Mic went. With Pickle, Taco was the one who insulted him, claimed they were never friends, and cut things off. Thus, she hard stops when she sees him, only leans a bit closer to him, before turning around and walking away. With Mic, Taco was the one who was left this time. Mic cut things off with her. So she’s left reaching out to Mic, as Mic’s image leaves the screen, and Taco collapses onto her knees where she is. Taco’s left on the ground, squeezing her eyes closed and clutching her head as the darkness in the background, the darkness in Taco’s head closes in on her, until she closes her eyes and jumps straight back into her villain act, the song speeding up with her as she keeps trying to get away from all of her feelings!!! My queen with awful coping skills <3.

[But I will break this cycle,

Of mistakes, unlike all,

Of these snakes whom I call to condemn,]

So! We see Taco hard cutting from her guilt and sadness, straight into her evil plan. Right back into her villain front as she realises she’s begun to open up and get emotional!!! So she’s explaining her plan to Mepad, and projects her own self-hatred and experiences very hard onto the contestants. She’s upset about what happened between her and Mic and sees the game as at fault for what happened as she’s trying to justify things to herself, and push down the guilt she feels about their split. Heck, I’d say she’s probably blaming the game for what happened between her and Pickle right now, even if that one is more on her. And she sees the final four as complacent in what the game does, with them all continuing even though none of them are even enjoying themselves anymore. Most of them haven’t been enjoying themselves for a while now, but they still stay in line and play, as they’re programmed to. This is a bit off track, but it’s important to keep in mind that at this point, Taco has been acting more outside of her programming for longer than any of the other contestants. She was never in whatever sort of waiting-mode they end up in inside the hotel, and she’s cared less and less about the rules of the game as time has gone on. Her plot in the first season was done fully inside the rules of the game, but we see her having broken out of those constraints in season 2, with her encouraging Mic to straight up attack other contestants, which is implied by Taco to be against the rules. And she keeps interfering against those same rules of the competition. Like Marsh breaking the rules by leaving the show’s parameters, Taco explicitly goes against what is meant to happen in the game. And here she is at the peak of that, having gone from breaking the rules of the game to wanting to break the game, the cycle of mistakes, entirely. Her calling the remaining contestants “snakes” of all things specifically is interesting as well, since I’m sure plenty of the season 1 cast would use that to describe Taco. Part of it is her projecting, but another part of it is her actually seeing her own mistakes in the remaining contestants. Keeping secrets from each other (Knife), never properly talking out interpersonal issues (Suitcase & Baseball), and plain loneliness (Lightbulb). And she’s condemning them for their complacency in all of it, for their actions, most certainly in part with her efforts to ignore her own feelings and as well to call out how the game changes people and makes them act.

[If I can't win the prize,

I'll play this last reprisal,

Just to bring their lies all to an end.

-Ack!]

The first line here is more of Taco playing up her villain act. She mentions later on in the episode, while she’s being more honest since it’s surrounding Mic territory, to the final four that she doesn’t care about the money anymore. And I really believe she doesn’t! She’s broken out of that programming after having connected with Mic. She was one of the contestants, if not the contestant, made to be most dedicated to getting that money, so of course she mentions it as she’s still desperately keeping up her front!!! But she says in the very next line that this is her “last reprisal,” she clearly doesn’t intend to interfere or interact with the game again, much less try to swoop in and steal the million. And the last reprisal line is very important!!!! Notice how in the visuals, Taco lets herself fall out of a tree as she says this and upon landing she’s hurt by her injury. There is symbolism here guys!!!!!!! She is letting herself fall here. In her eyes, she doesn’t have anything left to fight for anymore. She’s lost the people important to her, she’s lost any goals she’d had driving her forward, and she hates herself!! She knows she’s injured, and that her injury could very well be lethal, as we see later in the episode, but she’s doing nothing to minimize the risk to herself. She’s not going to sit away and let herself feel and process, she’s going to burn the game down and die with it!!!! This, my friends, is called passive suicidal ideation and self-destructive behavior!!!!! And her facade starts to falter again and she mentions bringing their lies to an end!! Because she is lying to herself, and she herself is not ready to stop holding on to her lies, either to herself or to others in her persona. Bringing the game and all the lies tangled up in it to an end means she would finally have to face everything, and just thinking about that is enough to wipe the villainous grin off her face. But she’s still stubbornly going through with her plot, because she isn’t truly expecting she’ll have to face it, again because she is fully expecting to die permanently in the near future!!!!

[You need regeneration.

Unfortunately, I don't have much faith in that process.

Of course not.

Why "of course not?".

You believe yourself to be incapable of starting over, in more ways than one. I do not know who you lost, but is it not possible to get them back?]

MEPAD TIME!!!! Okay, here we have Mepad (rip king you would have loved the storyboards of your own death) urging Taco to heal!!! He’s looking out for her physical well-being, he can tell that she’s in pain and that her injury is quite dangerous, that being especially obvious the way he emphasises “need” in the line. And he is implying that she needs emotional healing as well!! He starts his Therapad-ing in his next line!! <3 He is very clearly worried about her, a lot of his presence in the first half of the song is just him looking at Taco with big concerned eyes!!!

And Taco has zero faith in the recovery process, between her, as Mepad helpfully says, believing herself to be incapable of starting over in more ways than one, her believing no one would want her to be recovered, her having a hunch of Mephone’s reluctance to revive her, or her own inability to see much of a future for herself, she does not believe she can come back!!! Angst!!!!! She is hurting so bad I love her <3

And Mepad is an empathy king!! And is probably the least biased against her out of everyone on the island!! And he can see beneath her crumbling exterior!!!! So her self-loathing and regret and everything she’s trying to push down is obvious to him. Of course she doesn’t believe she can be revived. And we see even Taco is surprised and even a bit miffed by this!!! Aside from Mic to a lesser extent, Mepad is the only person who can really see through her facade. Mic did try, and saw that Taco was hiding things, don’t get me wrong, but Taco was much more stable at that point and shut Mic’s attempts to see underneath her image down much harder than she is able to do during the song.

And Mepad plainly spells out what she’s feeling. This is so important to why she opens up to him more in the next verse. Not only can she not hide her emotions from him, because he already knows, but having it spelled out like that means she can’t keep hiding it from herself either. She can’t ignore her feelings when they’re being clearly stated back to her. So all that she’s been pushing down comes springing right back up in the next verse!!!! She has to physically turn away from him and cross her arms in a final attempt to keep herself closed off, keep anyone from looking in, but after everything she just can’t do it anymore.

["Clear the slate, start again",

Are you hearing how preposterous that sounds?

How do you not comprehend that for someone with my MONSTROUS BACKGROUND,

the whole slate has fallen apart!]

Oh my god guys Taco is being honest about her feelings it’s happening guys it’s happening!!!!! She’s turned away from Mepad for the first two lines, but as she really opens up to him, she turns back around, and gets louder along with the music. And we have Taco be like, the most emotionally open we see her!!! She’s putting Mepad’s rather succinct evaluation of her feelings into her own words. She doesn’t just think she can’t change or have a new start, she finds the notion preposterous!!! Forgiveness is inconceivable to her!!! Inconceivable!!! I can’t emphasize enough that this is the first time Taco has ever emotionally opened up to anyone ever and it is her telling Mepad that she is evil, unable to change, and will never be forgiven. We really get a feel for how everything has been weighing down on her for years, and how everything has built up to a point that she really can’t take it anymore!! But she doesn’t believe there’s any chance of a happy ending for her. Not only the whole slate, but her entire life has fallen apart!! She has lost everything and is fully confident she will never get anything back!!!

[Taco, that is not true.

There are other ways to-

It's too late-

It's not too late,

For me to restart!]

Mepad coming in trying to help <3 Notice how he comes in while she’s still holding the previous note!! He is immediately refuting her idea that she’s irredeemable!! He does the same to refute her when she says it’s too late!!! He is very concerned for her and trying to convince her that it’s not too late for her. He’s trying to tell her there are other options, that she’s not so far gone, but this sort of ends up backfiring, since not only does she not listen to him when he says these things but his interjection ends up snapping her out of the state of emotional vulnerability, and she pulls her facade right back up. Taco saying it’s too late for her kind of breaks my heart honestly, I love it when my blorbo is in pain don’t get me wrong but ow, my taco it’s gonna be okay I love you. She really sees no redemption or even future for herself, and at her lowest she’s finally expressed that to someone!!! Which is a very important step to healing!!!! She accidentally started the healing process by talking about her issues. I mean, she backpedals immediately, but still!!!! Great job Taco <3 And at the end of this line we head into Mepad’s face!! Because there’s a shift from Taco’s feelings to her pushing him away, literally and figuratively, after that moment of vulnerability!! The audience is going with Mepad, at the moment, chasing after Taco!!!

[But it's not I, its they,

Who deign to play this game, so,

Cruel and inhumane, base and uncouth,]

AND HERE COMES TACO WITH THE IMMEDIATE SUBJECT CHANGE!! She just did her first ever emotional vulnerability, and as per her usual strategy with her emotions she’s hard changing the subject!!! In this case, back to the final four and the game!!! She’s deflecting back on to both of them in quick succession trying to get a topic that isn’t her to stick! She is quite literally walking away from the topic in the visuals too!! She’s trying to get away from Mepad, who is trying to keep them on the subject of Taco’s feelings, looks back at him angrily when he keeps talking about it, and then is even more angry when he keeps going, before storming away from him again!!!

[Let us talk about it when your,

head is not so clouded. You're no,

menace, Taco, how did they hurt you?

Please think this through]

Mepad is trying to get her to go back to that emotional vulnerability!!! He wants to help her, he wants to talk through her issues with her rather than watching her self-destruct!!! I think this is where the idea that running the Truth or Flare challenge will help her comes from, too. He can tell she’s vulnerable, despite how hard she’s trying not to be, and she is talking things out, in a way, during ToF!! In a healthy way, no, but it’s Taco so we need to take what we can get. As he says, he’d rather do it when Taco has calmed down, taken a moment to not bury her feelings and even gets recovered, maybe. And here we get to a very important line!! Mepad asks her how they hurt her!!!! I genuinely don’t think Taco’s been asked this, yeah? Her whole schtick is supposed to be that she is the villain, she hurts people, not how she’s been hurt herself! And dare I say, me, the biggest Taco apologist and forehead kisser you ever did see, they have hurt her. She’s seen every other person who’s hurt the others be let into the hotel and accepted into the group, yeah? Balloon was accepted, after quite a bit of effort on his part. No one really seemed to care that Knife had killed Marsh for fun, Taco mentioning it in episode 13 as they’re arguing. Nickel and Taco are relatively similar in personality, but Nickel seemed to have relatively free reign to asshole all he wanted until Suitcase snapped at him, and even then it was just Suitcase who was angry with him. But not her. She hasn’t apologized to Pickle in person, at this point, but she had sent letters. She’d at least tried to contact him, and while he was well within his rights to ignore her, I can’t really blame her for not wanting to go inside the hotel either. Not to mention, Taco has been watching them all very closely, at least for the duration of the second season and likely after the first as well, for her to have found out about the second season and to have begun scheming so quickly. So every time they’ve spoken about her, every insult and awkward silence after someone mentions her name, she’s heard. That’s got to hurt!! Taco is very much not perfect and I don’t really blame the others for not reaching out to her given she hadn’t decided to make a change yet, but it also can’t be easy to make a change for the better when you are homeless in the woods!! Mic and Mepad’s willingness to help her is what really convinced her change would be good and possible, she hadn’t had anyone else reach out to her before, and to be fair, she folds pretty damn quickly in the grand scheme of things. Mic showed her she was likable as a person, and Mepad showed her she was redeemable, and with that support she is doing her best now!!! Anyways. Uh. There’s still one more line!! Mepad is pleading with Taco not to make things worse for herself, because taking over the challenge and such is only going to make them think she hasn’t changed at all and feed into the persona he knows is a sham in shambles at this point! Talking it out with him would be a much better way to do this!!! But alas, she’s dead set.

[I think they're too afraid to,

Bear the bed they've made,

Can't bring themselves to face the awful truth.]

TACO & THE AWFUL TRUTH that she’s projecting. Yeah Taco is the one who is afraid to actually face her mistakes, the people she’d hurt. Though, she probably sees her isolation as doing so, yeah? She’s hurt people, so she has to be alone as punishment, even though that doesn’t give anyone closure. However! As for the awful truth, yeah, Taco really is one of the only ones who’s looked the competition in the eyes for everything it is and spat on it. She’s motivated by a lot of complicated feelings she tries not to feel, but she sees the game for what it is, and how it hurts the contestants involved!! And the final four are yet to take that look, until she gets everything laid out in front of them!!

[Feeling double-crossed is part of,

Dealing with a loss, yes, but the,

Healing is a process, that's the truth]

FEELING DOUBLE-CROSSED this line is also important because!! Taco does feel betrayed by Mic!! She feels guilty and blames herself for what happened, yes, but she still does feel that sting of betrayal, since Mic left her, yeah? Oh her part, she’d finally accepted Mic as her first true friend, someone who liked her for who she was and she liked being around, and almost immediately Mic left her. A lot of that is on Taco, don’t get me wrong, but from Taco’s end she still doesn’t even fully understand why Mic was mad at her!! She thinks it was all because of her getting violent, not because she didn’t listen to Mic. My low empathy queen is still struggling to fully grasp Mic’s motivations, her first friend that she could act “normal” around, so of course she’d feel betrayed! Taco is dealing with a loss!!!!!!!!! And she is NOT healing!! She is trying to push it down like always, but it’s become too much for her!!! And Mepad is telling her that healing is a process because it’s so much for her at the moment!! He’s trying to communicate that she’s going to feel better eventually, that she needs help and time to do so, instead of rushing into another scheme!!! He’s telling her the truth, that healing is possible!!! But as Taco rejects his pleas for her to reconsider and grabs him, we shift back into reality. Taco is unconvinced, and they’re more or less at square one, with Taco’s mask for the rest of the world securely back in place.

Everyone look at this shot RIGHT NOW I’m going to explode. All these cracks come from the ii logo that Taco stomped on, yeah? And those cracks in the game spread, and create the cracks in her. She has been broken by the game!!! Look at her face! Does she look whole and happy to you? I didn’t think so. And here we have Taco close to the camera, looking out towards the viewer, to illustrate how although she’s separate from the game, more of a spectator than the player anymore, she’s still trapped inside the competition that’s broken her!! And we have Mepad in the background, further away with his position as an assistant!! The cracks are all around him rather than through him, because he’s not being hurt by the game!! He’s not a competitor!! But the game is crumbling everything around him. He’s watched everything, just like Taco has!! Every betrayal, every fight this season, Mepad has been watching. And the more he’s been seeing, the more he’s been feeling, and the more he’s been able to see how the game tears people apart and breaks them, just like it’s broken Taco.

[So I'm turning up the heat to "sauté",

I've a beef to get grilled,

But I fully guarantee that today all the beans that get spilled,

Won't be mine, no I'm fine,

Shhhh...

Now it's time…]

Guys I think Taco might not be fine. She’s shoved her facade right up and has closed herself back off, moving to continue with her plot. She’s going to grill the final four and 100% not get upset or feel any feelings, nope. Of course this is not what happened, and from Taco’s facial expression when she claims to be fine she has a hunch it’s not going to be so easy. She knows and has acknowledged to herself that she is not okay, which is a big step, but she still stuck in her ways in terms of ignoring it in favor of playing the role she’s been designated. Her mask is cracked, her confidence is transparent, but she’s still acting. Mepad is still trying to help her here, but she physically silences him. Not literally, per say, as turning him invisible wouldn’t stop him from talking, but she shushes him and he gets the memo. The window to convince her to stop has closed, and she’s going forth with her plan regardless of how well she is.

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!!!! <3 I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!! I REALLY HOPE THIS DIDN’T SUCK. IT TOOK A WHILE TO WRITE SO IF IT SUCKS THAT SUCKS FOR ME. HOPEFULLY I DIDN’T MISS TOO MUCH. THROW TOMATOES AT ME IF I DID (i will be sad). GIVE ME COOKIES IF NOT (joy inducers).

#inanimate insanity #ii taco #taco ii #ii mepad #mepad ii #fuck it #tacopad #tw suicidal ideation #loomy's analysis #loomy's metas #loomy's tired after this it was 12 pages #mic ii #ii mic #pickle ii #ii pickle #ii 15 #taco's tirade

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