#and if reading that made you angry or defensive you might want to think about WHY
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If you reread the Dance portion of Fire and Blood after spending near any amount of time reading about how Empress Matilda was written about â not about Matilda herself, not the history, but specifically the historiography about how chroniclers and historians constructed narratives around Matilda â the story, Rhaenyra's story, becomes a lot less "ambiguous."
GRRM doesn't just know history, he knows historiography. He knew what he was doing. And it's a shame, and a little troubling, that so many people â including the writers of HotD â don't see it.
#fire and blood#asoiaf#defending rhaenyra out of principle#it's sus how so many people seem determined to commit to uncharitable interpretations#when that was THE WHOLE POINT#that how you interpret Rhaenyra says far more about you than it does about her#and if reading that made you angry or defensive you might want to think about WHY#rhaenyra targaryen#team black#because 'team green' is an invention to drive engagement#hotd critical#hotd sexism#anti team green#hotd
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đ đ
đđđđ đđđđ đđđđ.. | đđđđ đđđđđđđđ
he might have just discovered another side of you and to be honest.. it turned him on
warnings(17+). smut, meandom!sunghoon, unprotected sex, name calling (bitch), creampie, backshots, dumbification
your best friend had just found your secret blog on tumblr where you wrote about all of the sexual desires youâve had for him.
you had thought that you made the blog so discreetly, faking your own identity and who you were writing about. you had thought. nevertheless, sunghoon managed to find out that the blog belonged to you.
and it was unhinged; you wrote about how you would imagine him leaving wet kisses all over your aching body while heâs balls deep in you. or how you couldnât even stare at him without thinking about fucking him.
how soaking wet your panties would be every time he would come over to chill. or how when youâd watch a movie with him, you would spend the whole time thinking of dirty scenarios: shower sex, angry sex, make up sex, floor sex, wall sex, pool sex, sex, sex, sex.
and you documented it all.. because why not? you wanted all your girlies who interacted with you to know how you felt about that man. you had no shame because of course he would never find the blog.
but damn, were you wrong.
it made your blood run cold when your âsecretâ username slipped past his lips. all the air in your lungs were stolen from that simple sentence.
âso thatâs not you?â he cocked his head with that stupid knowâit-all look on his face.
how.. when..?
âi read the stuff you wrote about me and itâsâŚâ he paused, trying to find the right word, âwild.â
âit wasnât even about you.â you argued, trying to act as nonchalant as fucking possible. it wasnât working. sunghoon could see right through you.
âso the S guy you write about isnât me?â he questioned.
well.. in your defense you were one-hundred percent sure that he or anyone else wouldnât figure out it was about sunghoon just by the first letter of his name.
âyou have a really big ego. what if i was talking about sunoo?â you interrogated, trying to flee from the scene but he took a step forward, firmly gripping your arm.
âdâyou really think iâm dumb?â he furrowed his eyebrows and licked his lips as he spoke, âhm?â
âi-i said it wasnât about you.â you said again. his grip on your arm had your stomach churning in arousal. your heart was racing, and you were certain that he could feel your pulse through your arm.
sunghoon tsked at your lie, âcool.â
maybe it was manifestation, or just pure luck. but that same arm was yanked behind you as sunghoon plunged his hips into you, splitting you open on his thick cock.
he cooed at your cute attempts at trying to squirm away from his staggering thrusts. ânone of thatâ quit trying to run from it..â sunghoon grunted, voice trembling from how soft your walls were around his cock, âyou was talking all that on your blog and canât even take it? tsk.â
you hummed at his word, spit pooling in your mouth from being fucked so good that you couldnât even remember to swallow anymore. âmâ s.. sorry, fffuck!â you squealed, but it didnât stop his harsh thrusts.
he pushed your head into the mattress, treating your aching body like his personal fleshlight, âyouâre such a dirty bitch. made to be fucked, huh?â sunghoon groaned at how wet you were and the sounds your cunt made. it was so filthy and only got him throbbing more and more inside of you.
he shoved two slender fingers into your mouth, sliding them down your throat as drool spilled down your chin, fingers digging into the mattress beneath you. you remembered writing about how much youâd love for this to happen. and it happened.
clenching hard around him, sunghoon pulled his fingers from your throat and wiped your own salvia across your face. ânasty girl.â he grunted, breathless.
you delivered a guttural scream when he smacked your ass, repeatedly. your thighs quivered as you tried to escape the pain, only to be forced still by his large hands. âc-canât, i canât! please..â you wined, screaming into the bedsheets.
âthis is what you wanted, right?â sunghoon teased, referring back to your blog, âyou greedy bitch, stay still and take this dick.â
youâre sooo full of dick that you canât breathe properly. you were certain that you were taking all of him, but you can feel him sinking deeper and deeper into you as time passed. âi-i love your cock.. h-hoonie. sâ good, l-let me cum.â you whined.
âshiiit, go ahead.â
it took a long, hasty few seconds before you were convulsing around him and coming hard, harder than youâve ever came in your life; everything cut to white noise and clear liquid spilled out of your cunt as his hips shuttered against you.
âthatâs right.. keep squirting that filthy pussy for me.â sunghoon moaned. then he pulsed inside of you and shot his thick, sticky load into your cunt, painting your walls with his fluids.
it was like every muscle in your body had stopped working, body falling limp onto the bed. sunghoon stilled above you, pulling out to watch his cum flood and drip out of you.
ânext time when you lend me your laptop, close your damn tabs Y/N.â
#hottestvirginwrites#smut#kpop smut#enhypen hard hours#enhypen hard thoughts#enhypen smut#sunghoon hard thoughts#sunghoon hard hours#sunghoon x reader#sunghoon smut#sunghoon
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apologies
â§.* gojo, geto, nanami, toji, choso, sukuna, yuji, megumi, noritoshi, ino, inumaki, yuta
notes: a somewhat happier resolution and part two of arguments! thank you for reading <3
â§.* check out the fun facts after the attachments for background info about their fights and a look inside my brain hehe!
my masterlist
Š vorfreudevortex | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or otherwise share my work.
satoru cried in his office when he realized that he blamed you for something that wasn't your fault.
suguru's coworker sat on his lap as part of a weird inside joke everyone else at the school has between the two. he has no idea why he was so defensive to you and he truly wasn't cheating. he was so angry that you would believe he cheated that he started calling you out for the first thing he could think of, wearing revealing tops in public. satoru had to call you 8 times before you picked up and let him explain it to you. he's forcing her to transfer to kyoto so she never has the chance to hurt your relationship again (remember that suguru never left and became a teacher alongside satoru in my aus). the pictures sent to the reader leave out how suguru uncomfortably asked her to get off of him shortly after, since they were around other sorcerers and teachers (as politely as he could).
kento came home with so many flowers for you and he still feels awful.
toji's dumbass freaked tf out when you took home your clothes from his place. he was out drinking and gambling and didn't want to tell you. your relationship is rocky for a while but he hasn't gambled since.
choso is still learning communication skills and cried when he realized that he was being mean to you over nothing.
sukuna is a terrible texter and does NOT communicate his feelings well. this is him being vulnerable af with you because he really does love you and has no idea why he was grabbing another girl's ass at the bar. he tried to chase you down after you threw a drink on him, slapped and yelled at him, and ran out.
yuji completely panicked when a curse attacked him out of nowhere when he was out with you. you can't see them and you were so confused and scared that you couldn't move. he just cares about you so much and couldn't stand the fact that you could've died. he made megumi listen to him cry about how mean he was to you for like 3 straight hours.
megumi has no idea how to deal with his emotions and has never been in a relationship before so he literally thought you guys were broken up LMAO. he's trying really hard for you.
in my au toge can speak, just not direct commands, so he still rarely talks unless necessary. i thought it would be nice to have the reader understand that all of his communication skills are terrible and help him work on them.
noritoshi has a terrible outlook on love and relationships from his upbringing so it took him a minute to understand how awful his words were. he truly does love you and wants to marry you. he lowkey constantly thinks about cutting off the kamo clan so they can't control his life anymore.
ino literally cried to nanami after your argument. he's so used to putting jujutsu responsibilities before his own life and feelings, and struggles with having to take care of something that can't be fixed with his power or strength. nanami also called you and apologized for meddling in your relationship, he realized it was inappropriate but he just really cares about you and ino and wants the best for both of you.
yuta literally didn't even realize how insane and controlling he was being until you called him out. after he took you home, he latched onto you with his head crammed in your lap because he was so upset thinking that you might leave him. he swears to himself that he will kill himself before he treats you like that again, and he never does it again.
i don't like when big argument smaus end with "no biggie i forgive you! <3" so i tried to make sure that the reader either made sure they know they fucked up big time, apologized and talked to them face-to-face, they'd never do it again, or you wouldn't forgive them so easily, etc.
sorry this was so long! but i love knowing the background info and author's thoughts for smaus since they can be kind of limiting in content! i think i'll add background info and fun facts after all my future smaus for those who are interested. as always thank you so much for reading âĄ
#jjk x reader#jjk angst#jjk#jjk smau#jjk texts#jujutsu kaisen#jjk satoru#satoru gojo#gojo satoru#jjk suguru#suguru geto#geto suguru#jjk nanami#nanami kento#kento nanami#jjk toji#toji fushiguro#jjk choso#choso kamo#jjk sukuna#sukuna#jjk yuji#yuji itadori#itadori yuji#jjk megumi#megumi fushiguro#jjk noritoshi#noritoshi kamo#jjk ino#takuma ino
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Hi lovely!
Can you please do one where Hotch and Reader are in a fight and it gets heated and he maybe raises his hand just because heâs shouting and she flinches?
He would be prepared to FIGHT whoever made his honey feel that way đŁď¸đŁď¸
đ
for you my sweetheart. fem, 1k
cw implied past domestic violenceÂ
âIt was right,â you're saying, on the defensive, your voice molten, âit was the thing to do!âÂ
âIt wasn't.â Hotch closes the door. âIt wasn't the right thing to do, it wasn't even close.âÂ
You realise, under everything, that he's right, but you couldn't help yourself, you had to try and save the day, had to swerve the SUV. Plus, he's done it himself, and you both know that. âIf Monikie got out of that exit we never would've seen her again.âÂ
âThere were roadblocks on the Iâ46, and I don't think I have to tell you that you could've gotten a lot of people seriously hurtââÂ
âYou've done worse,â you deny.
His expression, broadly furious, narrows into something sharper, âAnd that is my decision to make, but you report to me.âÂ
âYou can't seriously want to act like a boss now,â you say.Â
The room isn't overly large, and so you stand close to one another with no need for shouting, but your voices begin to overlap. Hotch is so angry. It isn't like him to yell at you, his voice strained.Â
âYou can't truly think that the decision you made today was the right one. You need to calm down, and you need to listen to me when I tell you that this was the wrong move. We'll talk about it more tomorrow.âÂ
âYou're shrugging me off?â You could laugh. âYou can't be serious. Every member of this team has done the same, or worseââÂ
âBut they're not you!â His voice peeks, his hand jolting out in front of his chest, flat-palmed in incredulity.Â
You're really quite close to each other.Â
It's not his fault.Â
You step back, desperate to be away from the movement, the hand, because it doesn't register as his hand, only there's a chair behind you and a table behind that and you bump into the plastic with a creak and screech. You're righting yourself as quickly as you're tripping but Hotch is already moving away. Three steps that feel like a gorge.Â
Your heartbeat soars.Â
âAre you okay?â he asks quietly.Â
âOf course.â You breathe out funny. It's not his fault, but there's something wired in your brain now, and it knows that the first strike isn't the last. Your hand shakes as you brush at an itch under your eyes.Â
âI'm not mad,â he says.Â
âYou sounded pretty mad."
âI've changed my mind.â He gives you a long hard look, and then he moves to the office door to open it before returning to his initial position. He's given you an exit route. âI'm not going to hurt you,â he says.Â
You put your hands on your hips and bend at the waist, breathing out hard. âFuck, I know that."
âYou thought I might.âÂ
âSo profile me,â you say, panicking still, face hot and itchy all over. âTell me why.âÂ
âSomeone's hit you before. Enough to anticipate the second blow.âÂ
âBut you knew that already, didn't you?âÂ
Your ears get cloudy like there's water in them and you can't stand the feeling of Hotch's gaze on the back of your head. You force yourself into a standing position and try to ignore what happened.Â
âYou're unfairly angry with me,â you say.Â
Hotch just shakes his head at you.Â
âIt's⌠It's not a big deal,â you say, quieter. He already knew because of course he did, every member of the team gets checked. You have records, and he's in a position of power unlike most, he could've read them like the morning paper.Â
âWhy would you say that?âÂ
âI can still do my job.âÂ
âI wasn't going to suggest you couldn't.âÂ
Then why⌠why is he looking at you like that? You're humiliated enough, and his gaze is so⌠so soft. So sorry. Tears gather warm behind your eyes and your chest aches like you've been holding your breath. You frown, eyebrows lifting at the starts, not knowing if you should beg him to forget the whole thing or finally give in.Â
âCome here,â he says gently. Completely optional, his fingertips twitching but stationery at his side.Â
You stare resolutely at your shoes.Â
âI'm sorry I scared you, it wasn't my intention. I can imagine how it feels. I'm not mad, honey,â he says. His voice drops to a murmur, âCome here,â he pleads.Â
You take a clumsy handful of steps and he meets you in the middle, arms going carefully over your shoulders. You'd feel condescended by it if it weren't shockingly nice to be considered in such a way, or if the solid mass of his arms around you didn't soothe. You feel protected rather than boxed in, held, and not restrained.Â
His hand slides open down the length of your back.
âI'm sorry I scared you,â he repeats, for your ears alone.Â
âIt's not like it was really you that scared me.âÂ
The memory scared you. The flinch was instinctive, less to do with Hotch and more to do with the connection between a moving hand and stinging pain.Â
He hangs his head by your ear until his nose touches your shoulder, and for a few seconds, it's just you and him together, no fighting, and no fast-approaching hands.Â
âYou didn't scare me,â you mumble, hiding your face in his shoulder instead, forcing him to stand tall.Â
Incoming footsteps cut your embrace short, but he doesn't pull away too swiftly. His hands grave the lengths of your arms, and he gives you a long, loaded look. Before you can calibrate the action to the man, he's chucking you under the chin, a stroke of his index knuckle, a promise of more to say.Â
He catches Morgan before he can enter the room and directs him back out. âTake a minute,â he advises you.Â
You sit in a chair and do as he's offered. Memory is a tricky thing.Â
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotchner x y/n#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner blurb#aaron hotchner drabble#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotchner fanfic#aaron hotchner fanfiction#hotch x reader#hotch#hotch x you#hotch blurb#hotch drabble
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Thoughts on Mars placementsÂ
!! everything is based purely on my experiences with signs, written with no other purpose than to share my observations and be unserious.
Aries mars. Practical jokes lovers, gentle touch haters. Hit u while laughing. Love the banter, sometimes a lil too much. Go for it (whatever it is) fiercely and without a single backthought. Explosive in conflict, but in a sense of crying screaming throwing up banging against the wall.Â
Taurus mars. Life could be on Mars but they still be going on and on about that one thing. Sudden outbursts of anger. It might seem out of the blue but theyâve probably been brooding some hurt for a long time. They just hoped itâd go away⌠naturally. Also surprisingly horny.Â
Gemini mars. Mind fuckers. That one guy defending polygamy ÂŤas a conceptÂť rather too enthusiastically. Can talk their way out of hell with one leg already in the hottest boiling cauldron. I suppose itâs a placement most people will find charming at some point (says a lot about societyâŚ).Â
Cancer mars. Rumors are true, the sky is blue, and they are manipulative. Watching anybody else display vulnerability is the same as watching a childrenâs play to them. Ur rawest and most disturbing moment? To a cancer mars its a chill Tuesday morning. Humanization of a silent treatment.Â
Leo mars. Youâd gather that its serious by the sheer scale of their reaction but I promise its not. 9 times out of 10 will cause a huge scene and won't be able to remember it 2 days after. Very defensive. Won't put themselves out there if theyâre not guaranteed a 10-minute standing ovation.Â
Virgo mars. They believe that they make sense but usually they don't. Theyâre calculating but itâs like they do it backwards resulting in some of the most unhinged decisions made. Want to be praised for⌠um⌠existing as they are. Kind of a menace in conflict.Â
Libra mars. If u think it's hard for you to wait for them to make up their mind imagine how they feel. Itâs similar to watching a plant move without a time-lapse. Cry when theyâre angry. Go with the flow not because theyâre chill but more cause it's easier for them.Â
Scorpio mars. They ARE vengeance and I'm scared. Slash 3 tires after one fight mars. Not the person youâd try to make jokingly jealous. For further information read the lyrics to⌠really any Taylor Swift song.Â
Sagittarius mars. Don't think before they do and think after theyâve done smth only if u make them. The kind of people that will try everything once just to know how it feels (and then present that to everyone as if theyâve found god by bungee jumping one time). Very easy to dare. Also are always checking someone out.Â
Capricorn mars. Blood is cold, the heart is beating twice per minute. ISNâT IT lonely on top of the world fellas??? If u get them to like u your love language better not be words of affirmation. Instead of arguing chances are high they disappear for a while or just go into a rock regime.Â
Aquarius mars. Are only attracted to intellectuals so naturally in a room full of sweet gentle people will go for the most narcissistic motherfucker out there. Theyâre sorta very patient but I feel maybe it's just them dissociating⌠Ponder a lot before making a move.Â
Pisces mars. I'm afraid no one knows whats going on there. It's like theyâre never actually present. Therefore often times can have a delayed reaction to smth, which people might read as passive aggression. Very sentimental, will write u a song or a poem on a second date. Also low LOW energy.Â
#astro notes#astro observations#natal chart#mars placements#aries mars#taurus mars#gemini mars#cancer mars#leo mars#virgo mars#libra mars#scorpio mars#sagittarius mars#capricorn mars#aquarius mars#pisces mars#zodiac signs
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hi, if you're okay with writing for him, wanderer x reader hcs? (it can be short and brief!!) /nf
The Archivist and The Stubborn Scholar
TW: Not proofread and the punctuations on this might be kinda yikes (tried my best tho), this particular big boy is 1,7k words big (very short and super brief (â´âĄ`â))
Hope you like this, my first ever nonnie! (I wanna frame you like a first dollar)
I feel like the Wanderer is kind of a tough nut to crack because his trauma wall is 100 inches thick.
At the beginning, heâs really just huffing and puffing and being a total jerk to you (and everyone else). To be honest, youâre just trying your best to tough it out and not cuss him out every chance you get.
Technically, he isnât a permanent student of the Vahumana; he only comes in to borrow research papers he needs for his own paper and then heâs off again. So, there's no reason for you to see him all that much.
But aside from being a student, youâre also the Akedemiyaâs archivist, so you do meet him fairly often. Not that you enjoyed his prickly presence at first. It was quite the nuisance, if anything.
Every time he comes in to borrow something, it feels like heâs purposefully trying to get a rise out of you.
Heâs also frustratingly accurate in pressing your buttons; like he knows exactly what makes you tick and explode.
You want to chop his head off.
Luckily for him, youâre closer to Celestia than he is because your patience for him is on par with that of a saint.
âI need a paper on Tatarasuna, but I want it as recent as possible. The closer to âyesterdayâ it is published, the better.â
Looking away from your own paper, you looked at him like he grew five heads, each wearing a big âol hat. To your defense, youâre only four beats off.
âLook, I know youâre an honored guest of the Archon and only recently started joining in on this research writing business, but youâve got to learn how we do things here,â you huffed as you searched for a written guideline you have not needed for a while now.
Pulling the paper out of your bag, you pointed and explained the graphic drawn on it.
âFirst, you go and find out which collection of research papers you need and ask me politely if we have it here in the archives. Then, I tell you if we have it or not before asking if you want it copied and if you need more assistanceââ
âOkay, fine. I want Tatarasuna papers and assistance.â
âPlease let me finish.â
âWhyâd you stop talking if you werenât finished?â
âYou interrupted me?!â
Thatâs basically how an average conversation with him goes.
But as time goes on, the hate turns into dislike and then into pretend hate and finally into secret like.
At the start of his research, the visits are few and far between, but as the research starts getting heavier, his visits get more frequent too.
He also likes to work on the tables right outside the archival building for âquicker access to papers.â
This is not for the public, but he also kind of maybe perhaps secretly likes looking at the archivist.
He just likes looking at you when youâre confused about why the journal youâre reading is spewing lies. He also likes looking at you when you huff at your paper because the wording is all messed up.
Yeah, his sadistic tendencies were not wiped away when he pulled his stunt on the Irminsul. You canât win them all, I guess.
Anyway, itâs all totally because he likes seeing you suffer. Youâre on top of his âpain in the assâ list, after all!
Not because you look adorable when you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion.
Definitely not because he knows you didnât get enough sleep last night (he heard your friend chastise you about it) and you made a bunch of mistake on your paper.
He DEFINITELY DOES NOT find your tired eyes and sleepy yawns cute (like a very angry cat he DOES NOT want to take care of).
But really, he actually believes in this reasoning. He simply thinks it's schadenfreude.
Manâs smart when scheming but dumb bum when anything else.
He does not catch on to his feelings all that quick. In fact, it took him embarrassingly long.
He had to do a lot of soul searching and experience a ton of jealousy to finally realize that maybe he likes you more than he hates you.
Or rather, he likes you more than he originally allowed himself to like you.
Oh no! Itâs the consequences of having a heart because a heart isnât an object but the accumulation of interactions that build the psyche and emotion! Darn, life lesson! (Wanderer, probably)
The Wanderer decided that heâs going to work on his paper in the archive building today. Heâs not in the mood to sit in some shitty cafe and listen to incessant chatter.
Wow, he wished he had chosen the cafe instead.
âHey! Who told you, you can just take a paper out of the archive and waltz your merry way home? Give that back. Right now!â
âI thought we were friends,â Kaveh mumbled in faux hurt as he stretched his hands out to return the paper to you.
âArchivist first. Friend second,â you huffed out, snatching the scroll of paper out of his hands.
The blond proceeded to clutch his chest and make a scene.
Sometimes you wish you werenât such good friends with the man. At least then, heâd act civil.
Meanwhile, the Wanderer was watching all this from the front row seat; absolutely soaked with friendly-banter-that-he-misunderstood-as-lovey-dovey-affection. Your interaction with Kaveh spilled over into the splash zone of his seat in the archival building and he hated it.
In his mind, he came up with the conclusion that the heat in his heart is coming from a place of annoyance.
Why are you so loud at 7 in the fucking morning?
Why is the blond one also so loud at 7 in the fucking morning?
Why are you even entertaining guests this early in the morning? Didnât you refuse him any service when he came this early a few weeks ago?
Why is this guy any special?
Somewhere much deeper in his mind, he thought differently.
I thought you were only grumpy with me.
You said âfriendâ to him, right?
Why does that ease me slightly?
But you treat me like that too⌠Am I a âfriendâ as well?
Why does that hurt even more?
After that moment, his visits get less frequent. When he does visit, though, he keeps things brief and⌠polite?
You even tried to start up a banter; mentioning something you know (on a normal day) would get his veins popping and kick-start a back-and-forth and then some.
To no avail, he stayed silent and just looked mildly inconvenienced.
This confused you to Celestia and back and then to Celestia again and then back again.
Heâs honestly not too sure why he distanced himself from you in the first place.
But hindsight is 20/20 because after a much-needed self-evaluation session (by âselfâ I mean himself and Nahida) he knows itâs because he doesnât want a fourth addition to his list of major betrayals.
Not that heâll actually agree with that statement out loud. But inside, he gets it.
Of course, this understanding is between his own person. You, unfortunately, were completely out of the loop.
You thought you had somehow pissed him off beyond forgiveness or crossed some kind of line.
At one point, you thought that the banter was, in a very weird way, flirting.
But maybe you got it wrong. What if he never saw you as a friend at all, let alone someone he might like.
You decided that if a relationship(?) friendship(?) has to die, then itâs going out with a bang.
*(bang = mutual understanding on what went wrong and peacefully going back to being strangers).
So, you visited him one day. Out of work hours too (mmmm how bold).
The knock on his door broke the puppet out of his cluttered thoughts; thoughts of a certain archivist he misses. Grunting as he stood, he closed the book he pretended to read in favor of opening the door.
âWho is it?â
He opened the door just as the âintruderâ reached to knock on the door again. He doesnât know why you thought that knocking needed that much force but heâs certain itâs way too much.
Anger poked at him as he yelled, âThatâs going to bruise, idiot.â
It wonât.
âIâm sorry, okay?â
âYou should be! That hurts.â
It did not.
âNot about that! Iâm sorry for whatever happened between you and me to make you hate meâŚâ
The fuck?
âYou donât have to forgive me or anything. I get that you have some sort of past to make you that way and I probably overstepped somewhere but⌠I thought we were friends. I thought if you were to revert back to us being enemies again, at least youâd tell me whyâŚâ
The Fuck?
âIs it because you know I like you? If thatâs the case, youâre not fully wrong but I can just throw that away because I know youâre probably not looking for something like that and thatâs probably the bit where I overstepped and you know Iâm not even fully invested in it so really I can just stop!â
The FUCK?
So much for mutual understanding. With how things are going, itâs more of an individual understanding.
You got way too nervous and now things are spilling left and right and heâs not even saying anything?! Heâs just staring at you like you grew five heads, each wearing a big ol' hat. You took a breath to continue your long-winded mess of a rant when he clutched your shoulders.
âStop for a second, will you, motor-mouth.â
You clammed up right away, tears leaking out of your eyes.
âListen, Iâm not going to ever say this again but I like you too. Itâs shit and I hate feeling it because⌠because Iâve never felt before, okay? So, stop talking all that crap about throwing important things away, it's pissing me off.â
You fully started sobbing now. He panicked and pulled you in for a very awkward, very stiff, but very loving hug. Snot got on his robe and cape as you cried your emotions out on him.
He found he didnât quite mind. He could use less snot, sure, but he was glad you cared this much over him. He's never had anyone worry over him, let alone to the point of crying.
Soon, tears prickled his eyes but it's alright because relief found his heart.
By the way, he did say it again. He said it 1,000 times before your eventual marriage and 5,000 more times but with âloveâ as a substitute for âlikeâ.
What a liar.
a.n. My first ever request and Iâm so incredibly chill about it (lies I jumped and screamed slightly). Anyway, Iâm not sure what youâd like to see so I made this about how you came to be the wanderer's partner. Send in another one if you want something more specific (Iâll literally smile and break my cheek muscles if you do).
#cattlemon's musing#Wanderer x reader#Scaramouche x reader#Scaramouche fluff#Scara fluff#Wanderer x you#Scara x you#Genshin fluff#Genshin x reader#Genshin x you#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact#genshin impact x you#genshin impact fluff#genshin impact fanfic#Wanderer fluff#Genshin hcs#genshin impact hcs#scara hcs#wanderer hcs#I originally wanted to title this one like a research paper but idk if we will find it funny or I will find it funny
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act 2 raph/tav dream smut (kinda), jealous devil, mind games(?)đ¤ˇââď¸
Read on AO3
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Tav bit her cheek. Fought to stand still.
Donât squirm, he likes it when they squirm.
This was Astarionâs moment. She was supposed to shut up and act supportive while he took the risk, pressing the devil on their tail for information about his terrible scars. She was trying. But that devil kept staring at her, even as he answered questions, posed some of his own, played with words as he was wont to do, saying much without actually saying anything at all. No one else seemed to notice, not even Astarion. It made Tav think she might be imagining it, that she was crazy. The shadows in this terrible godless place made her crazy. The tadpole eating at her brain made her crazy.
Except she could feel those dark, deceptive doe eyes on her, almost like the ardent caress of an angry lover. The little smirk pulling at the left side of Raphaelâs pretty mouth also gave him away, but only to someone who paid attention. She was paying attention. Tav didnât understand, didnât know what he wanted. All of it just seemed different. He was different. Agitated, maybe, like a moody panther waiting to strike, orâŚsomething. If he were in his real form, Tav bet his tail would be thrashing. Whatever it was left Tav feeling strange, on edge â as if her nerves werenât already pulled taut. It wasnât fear that gripped her, though. Warm fingers of anticipation danced along her spine instead.
Anticipation for what?
That sensation didnât ease even after Astarion made his deal and the devil returned to Hell. It curdled thick in her gut, buzzed in the back of her mind. The friends â Karlach in particular â peppered Astarion with demands to know what he was thinking, how stupid it was to make any kind of agreement with a devil. Before long the discussion turned into a spat, the tieflingâs fiery temper and the vampireâs sharp defensive sarcasm clashing. Gale stepped in to diffuse. Tav was too distracted to get involved.
âYou alright?â Wyll stepped aside and asked her quietly.
âIâm fine.â Tav shook her head. Smiled reassuringly. âItâs just this place, you know?â
âMm. I understand. Feels like thereâs eyes on you around every corner.â
You got that right.
Tavâs feet were heavy as lead as she climbed Last Lightâs staircase. Karlach and Astarion were still squabbling. She left them to argue, exhaustion luring her into a soft bed with musty sheets tucked away in a room on the second floor. Her pack dropped to the ground. She pulled her boots off and collapsed backwards, staring at the ceiling. After a month sleeping on the ground, the ancient mattress felt like heaven. Before she drifted off, she heard Jaheira scolding her companions, threatening to throw them out on their asses if they didn't stop acting like children, but the sounds were far away, as if she were hearing them from a great distance. She thought of Raphael, his smouldering stare, chocolate brown irises flecked with orange peeling away the layers of her soul.
A devil shouldnât have such pretty eyesâŚ
Tav was in an empty field, a clearing surrounded by impenetrable woods that bled fog and shadow. A swollen yellow moon hung low in the pitch-black canvas of sky. She was cold. Looking down, she saw her feet were bare; realised her entire body was bare. She knew she was dreaming, but she felt alert, aware in a way she normally didnât experience when she dreamed.
She also knew she wasnât alone. Something was in that forest, skirting the treeline. Watching her. She was nervous. Intrigued.
âWhoâs there?â She called out. Her voice echoed, swallowed up by the darkness. No answer. âCome out! I know youâre there!â
âLittle mouseâŚâ
Tav spun around. That raspy, heated whisper came from somewhere behind. She knew that voice.
âRaphael?â
He chuckled. Deep, rich. This time she couldnât tell from which direction. The sound carried everywhere.
âShow yourself, devil,â Tav snapped. âIâm not afraid of you.â
âArenât you?â Orange eyes blinked lazily in the dark. Tav could hear the smile in his words.
âNo. This is just a dream. You canât hurt me.â
âJust a dream? HmmâŚâ
The devil stepped into the clearing. Into the moonlight. He wore his true skin, shirtless, his broad chest spattered with dark hair. His huge leathery wings flexed. His serpent-like tail swayed to and fro. He dipped his head, peering at Tav through thick lashes, his crown of mighty horns. Hungrily consuming her visage with his gaze. Perhaps she should have been self-conscious, mortified that this awful creature was seeing her naked, but it wasnât really happening. And truth be told...she didnât mind. She liked Raphael, found him attractive. She could admit that in her own dreams, this deep little secret. No one else would ever know.
âWhat do you want?â Tav said. Crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She could be bold here. She wasnât ashamed of her body. In fact she liked the way his hungry stare made her feel, and it didnât escape her that her dream was presenting the devil in a near-identical way to the amorous encounter sheâd had with Astarion at the tiefling party.
âSuch an interesting questionâŚâ Raphael hummed. He sauntered closer. Circled her. âWhat do you want, little mouse? Love? Companionship? Or is it merelyâŚattention you seek? Surely you could have asked for it from a better source. I doubt the little vamplingâs cold, sticky hands did much to truly ignite your passionsâŚâ
âWhat would you know about igniting passions? AhâŚâ Tavâs waspish response melted into a breathy sigh when the devil loomed behind her, putting one huge warm paw on her soft belly. She let him. The heat of his touch was maddening. All her tiny hairs stood on end. The points of his cambion claws rested gently against her skin. Just a reminder.
âPlenty,â he promised, speaking right into her ear. She shuddered. At some point heâd lost his trousers, because she felt his hot, hard cock pressing against her back. Its size was intimidating. Promising. Its shape strange, ribbed. Raphael nuzzled her jaw. His other hand cupped her chin, turned her head the way he wanted. She gasped when his forked tongue licked over the faded bite marks on her neck. âThe vampireâs stink is all over you. I smelled it as soon as you entered the inn. Do you enjoy the hurt, when he bites you? Do you enjoy feeling him drain your lifeblood with every pathetic, mewling gulp?â
âMaybe,â Tav breathed, allowing him to cup and knead her breast. Arched her back when he pinched her nipple, made it pebbled and puffy. âAre you jealous, devil?â
âYouâd like that, wouldnât you? Needy little harlot that you are,â Raphael murmured. He caressed the length of her body from her chin to her navel, claws leaving thin, shallow welts spotted with tiny beads of blood in their wake. His long thick fingers teased her patch of pubic hair. âBut you know as well as I do, Astarion wonât satisfy you forever. A vampireâs bite isnât the only way to dance with death soâŚerotically.â He settled the tip of his own fangs into the hollow of her throat. Fire danced around the fingers he held so near her clit, fat and flush with blood and desperate for touch. The flames licked, not burning â not yet â but tempting.
Tav sucked in a harsh breath, arousal scrunching her toes in the grass. She desired dark, dangerous men. Men whoâd unrepentantly hurt her and then put her back together in their own image. Astarion was perhaps one of those things, but Raphael⌠She felt the satisfied upwards curl of his lips against her skin, as if heâd read her mind. He wedged his thigh between hers, forced her to spread her legs. His hot, rough skin against her flushed cunt felt incredible. Sheâd left a smear on him, no doubt. His leaking prick squashed between their bodies had him sighing when she writhed into it. She felt its infernal ridges and barbs, whined thinking about them inside her. It would hurt so good.
âYesâŚI suppose youâll have your fun for now, sweet pet. Let him bite you. Revel in your little deaths. And when you tire of him, when you realise he canât fulfil your every desperate needâŚâ The devil at last slid his fingers between her mons, rubbed and squeezed her clit, pressed at her soaked, ravenous entrance. Tav moaned, rolled her hips, chasing pleasure Raphael only teased her with. He moved his hand away far too soon, held his fingers coated in her slick in front of her face. Showed her the evidence of her twisted fantasy. âThatâs when youâll come to me. But will I be merciful? Will I sate your desires? Or will I have you beg on hands and knees for me? Beg until you can speak no longer, until your arousal renders you near-senseless? HmmâŚI wonderâŚwhich would you prefer?â Tav wasnât given chance to answer. Raphael stuffed his fingers into her mouth. The musky, tart taste of her own cunt and smoky infernal magic flooded her senses. Greedily she sucked those fingers clean, feasting on the breathless groan he released.
âFilthy thing,â he hissed, derisive and debauched, pinching her tongue until she squealed. He smeared her lips with her spit, gripped her throat, claws on her pulse point. âThe vampling has no idea, does he? Such a shame.â
âThen fuck me yourself, you pompous asshole,â Tav snarled in frustration. Raphael laughed, low and husky.
âOh, no. Not yet. Youâve things to do. Choices to make. Iâm simplyâŚletting you know what else might be on offer, you see. Giving you something to think about.â The devil nudged the bulbous head of his cock along the divots of her spine, marking her with his cum. His tail snaked around her calf, the tip slowly climbing up her leg like it had a mind of its own. âAnd you will think about it, wonât you?â
âRaphaelâŚâ
âTime to wake up, my dear,â he purred, the moment his tailâs tip pushed itself into her cunt.
Tav jerked awake. Blinked deliriously as the world swam into focus. Her clothes clung to her body, drenched with sweat. Her cunt was slick and aching, a throbbing coil of arousal heavy in her womb. She couldnât tell how long sheâd been sleeping. Someone was snoring in a bed nearby. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, clenched her thighs together. Her body burned where the devil had touched her. Stinging pain on her belly made her lift up her damp shirt. She stared in sheer disbelief at five neat lines of red scratches.
What the fuck sort of dream was that?
-x-
Within the private walls of the devilâs study, the lewd sounds of skin rubbing against skin and heavy breathing filled the stifled air. He sat at his desk with his legs spread, teeth bared, tugging on his fat cock and full balls where heâd freed them from his trousers. His fist couldnât compare to the tight, wet heat of his mouseâs little cunt, of course, but it would have to do for now. He thought of the way she responded, her body so pliant and her moans so sweet. He thought of how sheâd wake up slick and confused and desperate. He thought of how, even if she fucked the vampire again, sheâd think about him whether she liked it or not. He exhaled long and hard through his nose as he climaxed, face twisted with satisfaction. Spurts of cum shot over his knuckles, dribbled through his fingers, dripped onto the floor. He sat and basked, his twitching dick softening in his messy hand.
Soon, little mouse. Soon.
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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 38
Part 1 Part 37
Steve keeps acting like heâs perfectly fine. Like he didnât have part of his shoulder carved off. Like heâs not suffering through an hour of glorified torture masquerading as physical therapy every day, trying to build his muscle back up. Like the doctor hadnât told him he might still never get back to shooting hoops and swimming laps with the precision he used to. Like his ribs arenât still broken, and he doesnât still have trouble standing, or wake up screaming, clutching at his throat. Like he doesnât rub the back of his head sometimes and stare into the middle distance with lost eyes. And itâs pissing Eddie off.
Especially now, as he walks beside Wayne, pushing Steveâs wheelchair down the hall toward the elevator. This in and of itself was a feat. First, Steve had argued that he didnât need a wheelchair, then heâd argued he didnât need help pushing it. Eddie let Steve flounder for a few minutes, trying to make his useless arm wheel him forward, angry tears springing from his eyes before he acquiesces.
The latest rub is the worst: Steve wants to go home. As if Eddie doesnât remember the look on Steveâs face when he said he wanted to go to Eddieâs trailer. As if Eddie doesnât remember the way Steveâs voice broke when he called the trailer home.
âThe doctor said somebody needs to keep an eye on ya,â Wayne says reasonably. âEither we do it, or you can stay with Joyce. She offered to put you up.â
Steve scoffs. âMy parentsââ
âArenât home!â Eddie snaps, pushing Steve into the elevator and pushing the down button on the elevator with enough force that his finger hurts.
Steve sits up straighter in his chair, reading for a fight. Wayne doesnât let him. âIf youâre staying at that house, then so are we,â he says, implacable. âUntil your parents are there to watch you.â Left unsaid, is that no one had heard from them. That Steve hadnât asked about them at all.
Steve slumps down in a position that must be hell on his cracked ribs, sighing. âFine,â he says, like it hurts. âIâll stay in the trailer.â
It feels like a knife twist. Eddie wants to shake Steve and remind him heâd called it home.
Itâs quick after that. Steve signs himself out at the front desk, tucking the physical therapy schedule theyâd made for him into the pocket of the sweatpants Wayne had scavenged from Eddieâs drawers for Steve to wear home.
Wayne and Eddie work together to help lever Steve into the passenger seat of Eddieâs van. Wayne slides into the driverâs seat without asking, so Eddie grumbles his way into the back.
Steveâs quiet when Wayne pulls up front, quiet while they help him in, quiet when heâs settled onto the couch.
Heâs looking around his surroundings just like he had the first time â like heâs amazed people live like this. That first time, heâd wanted to snarl, make sure Harrington knew that there was nothing wrong with this life heâd created with his Uncle. Now, he just thinks of Steveâs empty house, the hospitalâs unanswered phone calls to his parents, and feels unbearably sad.
Wayne puts on a basketball game that Eddie doesnât even complain about, and settles himself at Steveâs side.
Steve falls asleep halfway through the game, head falling on Eddieâs shoulder, warm puffs of air hitting the bare skin of his neck.
Wayne huffs, and Eddie looks up at him, already glaring defensively. âWhat?â he demands, quiet enough not to disturb Steve.
Wayne raises his hands placatingly, even as he smiles smugly over at Eddie. âI didnât say anything.â
They all sleep in the living room that night. Itâs cozy and warm, especially after Wayne drapes a blanket over them both.
It should feel weird, settling this closely to Steve, now that theyâre not depending on each other to survive. Now that theyâre back in the real world. But Eddie feels like heâll fall apart if Steveâs not in sight, so maybe heâs not out of the woods after all.
It's peaceful.
It stays peaceful until the next day when itâs time for Steveâs physical therapy appointment.
âI can take myself,â he says. âI have a car.â
Heâs not meeting Eddieâs eyes. Eddie takes a few deep breaths. He knows snapping wonât help anything, but he wants to smack Steve until this is easier. He justâ he doesnât get this. Canât figure out what the problem is.
âIt would take just as long to drive you to your car as it would to just drive you,â Eddie says, cleaning up their half-assed breakfast of toast a cereal off the table. He doesnât look back at Steve, wants to play this cool and nonchalant, and he just knows one look at the obstinate tilt of Steveâs chin will send him swinging.Â
âI can walk,â he says, even though he really really canât.
Eddie slams a dish into the sink. Heâs almost surprised the bowl doesnât shatter upon impact. He scrubs it, back to where Steve is stewing in silence.
He needs to figure this out. Why Steve is being so difficult, about staying here, about Eddie feeding him and driving him. He does the hardest thing he can think of, and asks, âwhy donât you want me to take you to your appointment?â
He doesnât turn around, just keeps scrubbing the dishes like this is a casual conversation over breakfast. Because it should be.
The silence drags him down, lasts long enough that Eddie doesnât think Steve will answer at all.
âYou shouldnât have to,â Steve says.
Eddie thinks back â big house no parents â and wonders how long itâs been since someone did something for Steve without strings. He turns around, settles back into his seat and stares at Steve until he raises his eyes from the table.
Choosing his words carefully, he says, âI want to go with you,â Eddie says. âYou saved my lifeâ"
âButââ Eddie holds up a hand, and Steve stops, brows furrowed.
âYou saved my life,â he repeats, meeting Steveâs eyes. âIâm gonna help you whether you like it or not.â
Itâs not quite the whole truth, but Eddieâs not sure how to touch the way it feels like worms are writhing in his stomach when Steveâs out of his sight. How his shoulders only really relax when he knows exactly where Steve and Will both are.
Eddie bites his tongue on the too much of it all.
âFine,â Steve says, still sullen, but he lets Eddie lead him to the van and drive him to his appointment.
It looks painful. Eddie holds his crossed ankles, to stop himself from leaping up and wrenching Steve away from the doctorâs ministrations.
By the end, Steve looks like he just got done with a basketball game, sweat dripping down his forehead, pits stained. If Eddie squints, he can almost see the uncomplicated jock of days past as they limp out of the hospital.
âYou wanna go see Baby Byers?â Eddie asks.
âPlease,â Steve says, slumping into the passenger seat like the princess he is.
Eddie drives, turning his music up loud enough to rattle their teeth just to see Steve smile.
Part 39
#steddie upsidedown au#steddie fic#eddie munson#steve harrington#my fic#woke up late today augh. sorry if that one person didn't get to read this before class đ
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Ding - Round 4
Read Ding here | ~4.7k words
Warnings: angst, fluff
From me: Sorry for the delay. Honestly, might be for the best. I know this is a little shorter but I think it will help spread out some of the plot points I have planned for parts 5 and part 6. I think it might be a little rush but I promise hope it will be worth it.
Summary: Cupcake wants a proper date. Harry wants a Cupcake for dessert.
Harry was fresh out of college when he took out a loan and bought the gym. It was a steal, an investment, and exactly what he wanted to do. He didnât have a lot of staffâin fact, Harry taught a lot of classes, cleaned the showers and toilets as much as possible. He got Niall and Louis to help as well. Once he was settled a little more, he got his college roommate, Mitch and his girlfriend Sarah to help as well. His own little family. Niall managed it most of the time and while he still liked to teach classes and train with Louis, he hired a few more staff members (and honestly? Even though he hired a few custodians, he didnât mind cleaning the bathroom every now and again). His family was his life and he tried to maintain a proper balance which required a certain number of employees.
But adding in the sweet girl that dinged his car threw him for a bit of a loop. A good loop.
Louis was insistent he focus more on his training. Any time not spent teaching classes or going over the paperwork in his office was spent training for his big fight. He was going to be boxing a guy from a few towns over; someone also undefeated. It was being publicized as their own stateâs match of the century. Harry didnât care truthfully about it. He just wanted to remain undefeated. Harry was competitive and he would rather never box again than lose his undefeated record. The added bonus of Driven getting more publicity wasnât a bad part of the deal either.
Truthfully, the part where he might win $100,000 was also a bigger influence on him than he was willing to let on. The fame of the fight had sponsors and publicity, and more good stuff for him than he wanted to believe he could have.
Harry wanted to give his niece a substantial chunk of money to kickstart her college fund. But even still, he would have plenty to give her and then he would consider, finally, purchasing a houseâwhich seemed silly because he nearly lived at Driven and if he wasnât at Driven, he was at his mumâs...or Gemmaâs with the baby.
But that pretty girl with an apron and sprinkles had him thinking about all kinds of future things. Like a house with a fence. A garden that they could have picnics in during the summer with a dog that needed to be walked two times a day but didnât mind lounging with them among the flowers while they read. A massive kitchen where she would bake cupcakes for their little ones when they had birthday parties andâ
No, he just wanted to win.
Maybe if he had lost at some point in his career he would have felt differently. But the â0â in the loss column made him cocky. He was good, and he knew it. Harry was smiling at his phone, a picture of his sweet niece smiling for the camera while he went over the bills for the current month. There was a knock right outside his office.
âHey,â Niall smirked. âYour class is about to begin.â Harry was dreading it. They had chatted a lot more and gotten a lot closer than they previously were, but the class made him irrationally angry. Maybe it was the space and just knowing why she was there, that had him so grumpy. âThought you would want to see her,â Niall murmured when he didnât respond and also looked like someone pissed in his cereal.
He sighed, putting the bills into a folder for later. He thought about taking them home and dealing with them while he watched a show before bed. Since heâd been teaching her self-defense moves, he found himself riled and angrier than normalâespecially after her class. It made it difficult to focus on bills and his calendar when she was there feeling unsafe. âCourse I want tâsee her,â he mumbled.
Harry stepped out of his office and headed to the room with Louis. She and Louis stood close together speaking quietly, like two old friends. She was smiling brightly, looking adorable as ever. Her T-shirt was bright blue. It said A Pinch of Sprinkles across the back and was littered with sprinkles like rain over the design. Louis caught Harryâs eye and then tilted his head toward him. She turned to face him. It was like a reflex and her smile was so bright, Harry couldnât help but feel better than he did when Niall alerted him about the class. He felt all the anxiety and frustration leave his body and he headed over to her.
âHey, Cupcake,â he put a hand on her arm gently giving it a friendly squeeze. âHow was your day?â He asked.
She smiled in return. âGood, relaxing. I went to visit my dad.â
He thought so. He may or may not have spent his lunch hour being creepy and noted that her car wasnât in the parking lot near A Pinch of Sprinkles. Nor was it there when he drove by in the morning on his way to the gym...and if he ran his four-mile cardio workout outside rather than on the treadmill to see her car still wasnât there right around the four oâclock shift change then who would really know?
âSânice,â he smiled. âHow is he?â He asked.
She hesitated ever so slightly that if Harry wasnât so focused on her, he might not have noticed. But before he could ask more about it, she simply nodded. âGood,â she offered. Harry needed to remember to circle back to that when they were alone. He wanted to know more about her family and why she seemed so guarded at times.
Which reminded him of what he really wanted to talk to her about. âHey, Cupcake, would you want toââ
âAlright, letâs get started everybody!â
Harry was looking forward to âaccidentallyâ punching Louis tomorrow during his training session. He sighed. âStay a minute after class?â Harry asked and headed toward the front of the room.
âSince this is the second to last class, we always offer to have a bit of a celebratory send off the final class if you are interested,â Louis said knowingly. Harry was looking at the floor, then picked the lint off his pants. The grumpiness he felt with Niall returned rapidly. There seemed to be a long pause while the group decided if they wanted to celebrate next week. âOh, thank God, love,â Louis sighed causing everyone to laugh. âYou donât want Harry or I baking for the masses.â
âI can make cupcakes,â she promised with a giggle.
Harry looked up realizing she was offering her kindness to a bunch of strangers, bonded through their own traumas and the need to feel empowered because of it. His lips curled into a smile. Even though he was still a bit frustrated. It was kind of her to offer. He wasnât surprised. Someone that worked with sugar that much had to be sweet.
âCan you make the chocolate chip ones?â Someone asked.
âThe blueberry lemon ones are my favorite, itâs a shame theyâre a summer flavor.â
âI can...â she laughed lightly, and Harry felt so warmed by the sound; all the frustration he felt melting off him. âI can make a list before we leave.â
Harry truly thought there was no one sweeter.
It killed him she was in this class learning to protect herself. Especially now that he knew why. But as mad as it made him, he was so happy to see her. Having her in the class was just more time he got to look at her and note how beautiful she was. Her strength, her resilience, all these qualities he instantly admired as he got to know her more and more. That first night where she dented Clay seemed like ages ago, not months. He was wound around her finger, and he didnât care.
They went through the moves they learned the weeks prior and discussed more scenarios. Harry had Louis help her more when she needed it. Frankly, it was too hard for him to do it without getting irrationally angry. âYou want tâmake sure youâre continuing tâpractice these moves even after the lessons end,â Harry told the group as their time was ending for the night.
âSo, we should be fighting our significant others over the dishes?â Someone called from the back of the room. It caused everyone to laugh once more, and Harry chuckled.
âNo, not what I would suggest,â he snickered and even though there were at least fifteen other people in the room, Harry could pick out her giggle among everyone elseâs.
âWeâve discussed a lot of reflexive moves and how a lot of the fight back instincts that take over donât always help you get away,â Louis continued. Harryâs face returned to its neutral position. Although if she was asked, it was one of the sourest expressions she saw on him. But she was intently listening to Louis repeat the spiel once more. âRemember thatâs your goal: to get away and find help as quickly as you can and as safely as you can.â
Harry didnât dare look at her.
*
She stood next to Sarahâs desk taking down orders for their celebration the next week. It was a long list. Harry wasnât a baker nor the owner of a bakery, but he knew that if they came to her store, it would have cost a pretty penny to sell all that was listed on her slip of paper.
âI can pay for it,â Harry offered coming to stand in front of her.
âOh God, no. Donât you dare,â she smiled and shook her head. âYouâve made all of us feel so safe and so empowered. Itâs the least I can doâbesides, itâs almost blueberry lemon season so I need to practice anyway,â her shrug was casual as she crossed out different parts of her list and added tallies to the other parts. âMaeve and I can handle it. I usually end up giving the leftovers to a homeless shelter anyway, or the nearby nursing home.â
Harry wondered if she was magic. Made of flour and sugar herself that was dipped into all her treats at that bakery and decorated with a pinch of sprinkles. There was simply no one as sweet as her. He was certain.
She watched as Harryâs eyes softened around the edges as she spoke. It felt warm and nice to look at Harry so intensely. He was so handsome and so kind to her. No one had made her feel so safe in ages. Not even Louis who propped her hands and feet into their proper positions and told her how to execute a stomp to someoneâs instep.
âCupcake, do you want toââ
âIâm sorry, Harry, one second,â she held her hand up toward him and turned her attention to a girl from their class. âDid you say Jack?â She asked.
Harry tilted his head curiously but watched as the recognition on the girlâs face blinked in surprise. âUh...yeah?â She held her phone out to show a picture. Harry watched as her whole body stiffened and she glanced away. âWhy?â
She bit the inside of her lip. âLook, I donât want to prevent you from having a nice time, but he tried to force me back to his place. I would feel horribly guilty if I didnât tell you. Maybe it was just a me thing. But I think I would like to know ahead of time. Heâs why Iâm here, taking lessons,â she looked at her pleadingly. âOne girl to another,â she offered. âThatâs all I want to say. Iâll mind my business now.â
The girl looked back and forth at her then the phone curiously. Her friend was silent.
Harry was shaking again. His hands clenched into fists. He saw the picture of him. He tried to place him in her bakery the other day and couldnât identify where he was. Harry stalked off toward the back room without another word to her or the other ladies.
His focus was on making his way for the punching bag as quickly as he could to release the stress and anger he felt. He didnât get to hear the rest of the conversation, nor did he want to. He hoped that girl took her advice and didnât go out with him. It would serve that sorry excuse for a man right, and of course, most importantly, keep her safe. Harry would lose his mind if he found out he hurt someone else the way he hurt his sweet sprinkle girl.
His breath was a series of uneven pants. Not the regulated breathing he practiced while he trained with Louis. His emotions and frustrations clouded his head taking over instinctively. When he finally ran out of breath with one final punch he stopped, held the punching bag, and rested his forehead against it trying to relax his breathing.
Softly, she cleared her throat. Harry blinked, his eyes opened and turned to the sound. âSorry,â she whispered. He steadied the swaying bag and looked at her, his eyes intense and as focused on her as ever. âI know you...â she sighed. âI had to tell her.â
He nodded. âI know.â
She paused awkwardly standing in the doorway. âIâm okay,â she offered. âActually... Iâve learned at least five ways to incapacitate you to get to the front and tell Sarah to call 911,â she smiled weakly hoping it would make him smile.
It didnât.
Biting the inside of her lip, she felt a wave of anxiety come over her. He was too mad right now. She should have just left. âDo you want the raspberry filled?â He continued to stare at her. Unspeaking, unmoving. Her heart felt sad that he didnât want to talk to her any longer. âUm... okay... I guess... Iâll see you around, then, Harry.â
It felt like he was holding his breath until that moment and then released it as if all the air in his lungs had been there since the day, he met her and whooshed out of him for a good thirty seconds. âCupcake,â he murmured running a hand over his face. She turned back, stood far away from him as she could without being in the other room. âIâve been trying tâask you on a date all nightâwell, for days really. And... sâjusâ not the right timeânever the right time. We keep getting pulled into other conversations. Or training or your timers for cookies. Then mâmad or mâtired orââ
âYes,â she whispered.
Harry stopped speaking. This time he thought he had stopped breathing altogether. âYes, what?â He asked.
âI would love to go on a date with you,â she answered. Her cheeks were pinkâhe could see how flushed she was by the concept.
âYou would?â
âIâm glad youâve been doing the repeating lately,â she smiled.
âAre you sure, Cupcake?â He ignored her joke. âI donât want to make you uncomfortable; and I know Iâve been a lot... Plus your lastââ
She closed the space between the two of them and pressed her lips to his cheek. He tasted like salt from the sweat that poured over him throughout the day. He was in desperate need of a shower. âI would really like to go out with you, Harry,â she repeated softly. âWhenever you want.â
Harry swore his heart skipped a beat. âYeah?â
She nodded, still smiling. âI would really like that,â she promised. Harry sighed with relief.
âTomorrow? Iâd like to take you tâdinner,â he offered.
She nodded. âI would also like that,â it was the happiest she ever felt in her whole life.
The guilt of it was overwhelming.
âGood night, kitten,â he cooed softly.
âNight, Harry,â she headed for the door again. Harry watched, smiling after her as she turned in the doorway. She leaned against it, her hand pressed to the frame, and she tilted her head against it. âYouâre going to kiss me, right? After our proper date?â
Her smile was so pretty, Harry felt light-headed. âI hope so, Cupcake.â
*
Harry did kiss her.
In fact, he kissed her so much they didnât even have dinner at the restaurant. He could hardly stand how pretty she looked he couldnât leave her doorway when she opened it. She had spent the better part of an hour fixing her hair into a perfect style rather than the stringy, rainy mess he saw the day he met her. Or the way her hair was almost always up and out of her face to deal with baked goods. She put on extra makeup too. She felt beautifulâbut Harryâs reaction made her feel... gorgeous.
He put a hand over his heart and smiled, stepping back a pace to take in how beautiful she looked. She laughed at his dramatics. âWow,â he tapped his hand over his heart. âI thought yâwere beautiful with the apron and sprinkles.â She laughed; her pretty cheeks turned pink. He put his hand against the top of the doorframe and leaned in toward her. Â âMânot going tâmake it through dinner, Cupcake,â he shook his head. âCan I kiss you now?â His eyes were soft.
âNow?â She whispered back.
He nodded his eyes focused on her lips. âRepeating again?â
âWhat about dinner?â
âIâll take yâafter.â
Honestly, she didnât think there would be an after if they didnât go now. Harry looked unbelievably good. He wore a pair of dress pants and she had only ever seen him in sweats and shorts. Those did things to her heart that she didnât know the dress pants would do. His button down was tucked into his pants, and he looked like he was ready for an interview. He was so handsome.
âIâm pretty hungry now,â she told him, her eyes dancing flirtatiously.
âMe too,â he answered and leaned closer. His forehead rested against hers. She could feel the exhale of his breath against her skin. âMay I kiss you, Cupcake?â He asked. She nodded breathlessly. He shook his head. Rested a hand on her waist and pulled her closer to him. âYou have tâsay it, kitten,â he encouraged softly. âMânot messing around with this,â he assured her. âIâll give yâanything yâwant, but yâhave tâsay it,â his voice was so gravelly and low she felt it in every inch of her nervous system. She shivered involuntarily and nodded again.
âPlease kiss me,â she whispered so quietly he barely heard her.
But he did hear her. Harry would give her anything she wanted so he pressed his mouth over hers, and it felt like he was supposed to kiss her. The way her lips felt against his, the exhale of her breath against his skin. It all felt so perfect. His hands rested on her hips, and he tugged her closer to him, so she pressed snuggly against his body. Her hands came up to the sides of his neck, her fingertips curling to the back of his head and sliding into his hair.
âYour hair is so soft,â she whispered when they broke apart for air. Harry chuckled and kissed her again, his lips slotting between hers and he brought an arm around her back leaning toward her, so she tilted back just so slightly. âCan we go inside?â She whispered.
âDo you want me inside?â He asked against her lips.
She nodded quickly. âVery much.â Harry didnât break from her lips to push her inside the doorway. She slipped out of her shoes; shoes Harry didnât even get to look at because he was so distracted by how much he wanted to kiss her he couldnât take in the rest of her and how pretty she looked. He took a moment now to note her dress, all black with some buttons and a tie sinched around her waist. It fell to just below her knee but left room through the slit for him to see part of her thigh.
She was stunning.
âGod, Cupcake, youâre so beautiful,â he murmured went back to kissing her. His hands roamed over her waist making her insides turn to mush wherever he touched her. She shivered again letting her tongue run over his lower lip as he kissed her. He groaned into her mouth. Her hands held onto his belt loops, tugging him closer to her. She could feel the way their kiss was affecting him. It made her want more to feel his arousal.
âCan I...?â She swallowed pulling from his lips and her hand started for the front of his pants.
âOh fuck,â he croaked.
âI...â she looked at him nervously. He made consent sound so sexy but she felt stupid for asking.
âYes,â he nodded firmly. âWhatever yâwant, Cupcake, mâall yours.â
For whatever reason she thought of Niall saying how Harry was whipped for her when they hardly knew each other. He called Harry her boyfriend and now she wanted to take his belt off and rip his pants off.
Was it too fast? She didnât let Jack take her home and she knew him about as much as she knew Harry at the time. Was she overreacting? How could he ruin this moment even though...? How comeâ
âCupcake?â Harry asked quickly. âYâokay there, sweetheart?â He asked softly. She blinked in surprise, realizing she spaced out as her thoughts reeled. Harry was holding her face gently. âDâyou want to stop?â His pants were unzipped and unbuttonedâshe didnât even realize she had done that. Her fingers tucked into his beltloops once more, ready to pull them down further. The Calvin Klein band poked out from his shirt and the shift of his pants falling lower on his hips. Harry was staring at her nervously. Her gaze was blank as she looked back at him; as if she was unsure of her own actions. âKitten?â he repeated and removed his hands from her face. He tugged her fingers loose of his loops. âCan yâtalk tâme please?â He asked, separating them a bit more. He pulled his pants back up, zipped and buttoned them. âYouâre making me nervous, Cupcake...â he trailed off eyeing her uncertainly.
Her heart felt sad for him. He was so gentle, so nice, so careful. He steered her to the couch, putting space between the two of them. The only part of him that touched her was his knee bumping into hers. âSorry,â she whispered, finally.
Relief rushed through him at the sound of her voice. âThereâs nothing tâapologize for, Cupcake,â he promised reassuringly.
âBut youâreââ Her eyes looked at the bulge against the zipper of his pants. He shrugged.
âSânot important.â
She disagreed strongly. That bulge nearly made her mouth water but as much as she needed her brain to focus on it, her mind had other ideas. âI just... need a minute,â she leaned back against the sofa and sighed. She stared at the ceiling, her hands covering her face. Harry was hot. He was so kind. His lips tasted like sunflower oilâperhaps it was his chapstick. He smelled so good and looked so good. It was unfair that someone from nearly a month ago could continue to ruin her date.
âYou can have all the time in the world, Cupcake,â he continued to assure her so soothingly, it made her heart melt. âDid I do somethingââ
âNo,â she shook her head and looked him straight in the eye. âYou didnât do anything,â she promised.
He sighed with relief and leaned back beside her and smiled. âGood,â he draped an arm along behind her head across the back of the couch and kissed her temple. âTake your time, Cupcake. Mânot going anywhere.â
She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat trying to break her esophagus open wide. âHe ruined it,â she whispered.
âRuined what, sweetheart?â Harryâs voice was so soft. Like the way it felt to snuggle in bed on Christmas Eve when she was little. It was so comforting. It made her feel safe. She sniffled and turned her face away from where Harry was.
âOur first date.â
âNo, he didnât,â his voice was still soft, but the tone was firm. He was certain when she very much wasnât.
âBut I want toââ
âI know, Cupcake.â
âDonât you want to?â
âDo I want tâhave sex with the most beautiful woman Iâve ever met before we go to dinner?â He asked bluntly. âNo, sounds like a terrible waste of mâtime.â
She blushed, closed her eyes; still turned away from him. âI donât know who this most âbeautiful womanâ is youâre talking about. I just see a snively baby.â
He snorted. Gently he coaxed her to turn her around and look at him again. His expression was still gentle, and she was sure he wanted to be mad. She wondered what kind of self-control that took. Maybe it was the Oxytocin covering for him.
âShow me,â he murmured.
âShow you?â She repeated.
Harry smiled. âPractice.â
âPractice whatâoh. Oh,â she looked at him in confusion. âYou want me to practice my self-defense moves?â
âI like when yârepeat me,â his eyes were warm, smiley on their own.
âIâm wearing a dress.â
âLook, I could say mâdying tâknow whatâs under your dress if that will make yâfeel better.â
âHarry!â
He pushed off the sofa and moved the coffee table toward the side of the room. He grabbed her hands pulling her up, so she was standing in front of him.
âWell, tâbe really honest, Cupcake. Youâre not going tâhave much say in the matter of what youâre wearing if yâneed tâuse the moves,â he reminded her gently, he cupped the side of her face and looked into her eyes as if his life depended on it. She gulped in response. He was so intense. It made her forget every one of the moves she was supposed to practice. âCâmon, itâll make you feel better...and me, honestly.â
âYou?â She questioned.
He didnât even comment that she repeated him. âWant tâknow youâre safe, Cupcake,â he skimmed his thumb along her cheek. âAlways.â She grabbed his hand against her cheek and smiled at him.
Then swiftly she pulled his arm behind his back and twisted it up. He chuckled peering at her over his shoulder. âGood. Again.â
*
After a while of practicing her moves, Harry ordered pizza. He took his jacket off and described a series of moves she could try that she hadnât learned in the class. She took them seriously; the little pucker of her brow made her so adorableâHarry wanted to kiss her.
âLet me make brownies,â she offered heading to the kitchen and mixed the ingredients within minutes of opening her cabinets. It took maybe ten minutes and soon her place smelled like brownies. Once the pizza was delivered, she pulled out seltzers that Maeve left behind after a girlsâ night in. She put on a reality show about baking that she watched two years ago when she was sick with the flu. âThe cake challenge is my favorite part,â she told him.
Harry had his arm around her, her body slumped into his embrace, and she snuggled deeply against him. He was so happy to be curled up on the couch with her. It was like they had watched TV together for their whole lives. Had been spending date nights in for twenty years. It made him unbelievably at ease.
Eventually, without realizing, they fell asleep on the sofa. Harry woke up with a slight strain in his neck that he was certain Louis would be pissed about, but the sight of her sleeping beside him made him smile. He scooped her into his arms and carried her toward the bedroom. âAre you kidnapping me?â She yawned.
He chuckled, kissed her temple. âNo, Cupcake. Putting you on the bed. Want you tâbe comfortable. Iâll go back on the sofa.â
âYou donât want to sleep with me?â She pouted.
He chuckled. âI do,â he promised. âDo you want me to sleep with you?â
She nodded. âDo you have to work tomorrow?â
âNo,â he shrugged. âDo you?â
She shook her head. âDo you want to stay here?â
âAlways, Cupcake. Always.â
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âI donât need you.â
âYou donât, but we do.â
Leah Williamson x Georgia Stanway x Reader
2.8k, I went overboard lol but this was fun to write. Enjoy!
Warnings: mentions of blood and knives. Euros 2022 Final where youâre hurt and the two of them struggle to keep you alive. It gets dark so read at your own risk!
Lionesses v. Germany, Euro 2022 Final. The changing room is tense, all the girls quiet and getting into game mode. Youâre in your cubby, listening to a playlist Georgia insisted would get you into the right headspace before a game. Leah sits across from you, leg bouncing and face in a deep frown. Georgia is messing about with Alessia, giggling about some video they saw on Instagram. Everyone has their own way of getting into their headspaces and you find yourself making eye contact with the best captain in the world. Your headphones come off and you walk up to her, eyes softening when you see the fear in her eyes that she so desperately tries to get rid of.
âCome with me for a minute.â You tell her, reaching for her arm.
âI canât, the game starts in 20 minutes!â Leah loudly whispers but follows you, being dragged into the showers for a little chat.
Georgia had been watching this interaction, excusing herself and following behind Leah quietly. She knew that Leah would be stressed and knew that only you could calm her. She was met with a Leah that was almost in tears and you cradling her head against your chest in the furthest shower stall there was. She sighed softly, heart breaking for Leah. She quietly came towards you, hands wrapping around you both with kisses to both of your foreheads.
âHow we doing, Lee?â Georgia asks quietly, hand slowly moving lower to rub her back as you kissed Leah softly and pushed her baby hairs out of her face.
âI feel like my hearts gonna give out. Fuck I canât catch my breath. What if we lose? What if we just fucking throw this game away and fuck up and itâs all my fault? I really donât know what Sarina was thinking, picking me as captain. Someone else deserves this arm band, I might just-â
She was cut off by half the team in the showers looking at her and hearing her ramble. She was so in her head that she didnât notice that Georgia had taken your spot and you went and called the rest of the girls still in the changing rooms into the shower to comfort their captain. Tears stained her cheeks and Georgia did her best to wipe them away. You were beside her again, holding her hand and rubbing her forearm.
âNo one would have been able to bring us this far, Lee. Everyone on this team knows youâre the only one who deserves to wear that arm band.â Lucy spoke up, all the girls nodding in agreement.
âYouâre the best part of all of us, Leah. Come on, weâve got a trophy to win alright? Save some of those tears for after will ya? Donât waste them!â Ella yelled, all the girls cheering their captain on as she finally had a smile on her face. It was the most beautiful smile both you and Georgia had ever seen and you wanted to keep it on her face for as long as possible.
Kick-off
The game was going alright. Germany had maintained good defense over the first half, nearly scoring but Mary Earps was a force to be reckoned with. The second half saw Tooney thrust the Lionesses into the lead with a beautiful chip over the keeper. Germany doubled down and equalized ten minutes after, the wear and tear of the tournament finally showing as the Lionesses let that one slip. Of course, it had to be Chloe Kelly who sent in the winning goal, doing a well-earned shirtless celebration as the final whistle was blown two minutes later. You all piled on top of her, celebrations rampant as the Wembley stadium erupted with the same shouts of celebrations.
You didnât see him coming. You didnât see the glint of a 4-inch blade drawn from his back pocket. Security too busy holding out other fans from spilling onto the pitch. He made a beeline for you, eyes dark and angry. He grabbed you by the shoulder and before you knew it, the knife stabbed into the right side of your abdomen. The sheer shock of it all sent you to the ground hunched over, hand pressed to your side as he pulled the knife out and disappeared into the crowd.
Leah notices first. Her eyes looked all over for you till she heard yells from the crowd of your name. A little puddle of red alarmed her as she suddenly saw you laying on the grass in a pool of your own blood.
âY/N!â she yelled. Crouching down beside you, holding your wound. âFUCKING CALL THE MEDICS!â was what registered next. Georgia suddenly appeared beside you; hand pressed over Leahâs as they both tried to stop the bleeding. The crowd was so silent you could hear a straw drop.
âYouâre going to be okay, darling. I need you to stay awake for me, sweet. Keep looking at me baby, shh shh itâs okay. Weâre getting you help.â Georgia spoke but she sounded so far away. Your eyes closed for a second before Leah slapped your face gently and your eyes opened again. She was crying, Georgia was too. âStay with me, love. I love you so much,â was the last thing you heard before you couldnât fight the urge to sleep any longer. Â
That beeping noise was immensely irritating. Beep, beep, beep. Why were there so many tubes and shit tangled around me? Itâs a little chilly in here, would it kill you to turn the heat on? I mean seriously, these tubes are a nightmare. Your thoughts are interrupted by a pair of blue eyes that would make anyone look twice. Leahâs eyes. You could pick them out in a crowd. So blue and so full of emotion you could read her like an open book. What was she doing here?
âY/N/N, welcome back my darling.â Leah says, her voice still distant but clear.
âSheâs awake? Donât lie to me Leah, itâs not funny.â A second voice enters the room. Itâs familiar too, accent thick with worry. Georgiaâs dark brown eyes show themselves as they both hover over you. Itâs nice, theyâre doing you a favor by blocking out those pesky bright lights.
There are suddenly more people in the room than youâd like, poking and prodding at you. Hands that you do not want touching you thankfully do their work fast and efficiently. They switch out your oxygen mask for tubes and give you another pillow and your sad hospital lunch. Theyâve left the room in 20 minutes, the two girls whom you want near you finally able to settle on either side of your bed away from prying eyes.
âYou scared us half to death, Y/N.â Leah says with a sad voice you never want her to use again. Tears well up in Georgiaâs eyes and they both hold your hand that is resting on your stomach.
âWhat happened? I-I canât remember it that well, itâs all so hazy.â You say with a sore throat. Georgia is quick to give you some water, holding the straw for you to sip. You drink for a while, thankful for the cold liquid soothing your parched throat.
Leahâs eyes are uncertain, doubtful if she wants to make you relive yesterday morning. The stabbing had sent you into a deep sleep, thankfully only for a day. The ambulance that brought you here was at the pitch within two minutes of the call to 999. The two girls never left your side, Georgia following you into the ambulance as Leah was driven right behind the ambulance by Alessia and the rest of the girls. The win was forgotten, every single one of them only had you on their minds. Leah was a mess in the car, shaking like a leaf as Alessia sped after the ambulance. Tooney and Lucy held her, keeping her calm and reassuring her that youâd be alright. She believed them, telling herself over and over on the quick ride to the hospital that youâd be okay.
Georgia kept it together in the ambulance, one of the loves of her life holding on as much as she could. It was so hard to look at you in the stretcher, beautiful face pale and sickly. Her hands and shirt were covered in your blood, the paramedics managing to stuff your wound with gauze and the bleeding was controlled. She knew youâd be okay, her heart hoping Leah knew that too. She held onto your hand tightly, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you fell in and out of consciousness. She recognized the white Mercedes weaving through traffic, hazards on and following the speeding ambulance. She told you that the girls were right behind us and that Leah was right there with them. She told you to hold on, she told you they didnât know if theyâd be able to live without you. You heard her, wanting so much to hold her and tell her that you loved her and that you would be okay but, everything hurt and you were too numb to move.
The doctors worked swiftly on your wounds, the knife barely missing your diaphragm and nicking your large intestine. You had lost too much blood and flatlined once, the doctors quick to pounce on your chest and resuscitate you. You were fighting, you knew people relied on you too much for you to give in. The five-hour surgery was a success and soon you were being wheeled into a private room as the doctors told the entire team occupying the waiting room the relieving news. There wasnât a dry face anywhere, tears of joys pouring out at the news of you making it through the hardest part of this long journey. Leah and Georgia rushed to the room they now knew you were in, the rest of the girls hanging back knowing you only needed them.
The sight of all those annoying tubes broke their hearts. You looked so tired and used, fresh tears falling down their faces. Both girls silently moved to one side each, hands reaching for your cold ones as you slept peacefully. Soon the repetitive beeps of the machines lulled them to sleep, thankful that you were alive and here with them.
Lucy walked in with Alessia and Kiera. They smiled softly at the sight of the three of you sleeping. They gently woke Leah and Georgia, having brought food and a change of clothes for them. The doctors updated them on your condition, Kiera shooting a quick text to the group chat to ease their worries. Leah shot up, eyes red with fatigue and a stiff neck. She reached for Kiera, hugging her tight and thanking her for the food and clothes. Alessia gently helped Georgia wake up, guiding both of them to the table in your room to have some food. They found it hard to swallow anything but tried, knowing they needed to. Alessia and Lucy watched over you as they ate, Less softly brushing your hair out of your face as Lucy rubbed your forearm softly.
Kiera had to force the pair out of the room to change, dragging them away to the showers to force them to take one, their hands still slightly caked with your blood. They showered together, helping one another to clean up which made them feel better to have familiar hands do the work. They couldnât do it for themselves but theyâd be damned if they didnât take care of the other before themselves. Leah held Georgiaâs face in her hands and Georgia stared at her as her hands held her wrists, gaze holding the same tear-filled eyes she had despite standing under the rain shower. They kissed hard, kisses full of too many emotions for them to express any other way. âSheâll be okay, Gee. Sheâs a fighter, she is.â Leah said softly, willing her heart to believe her own words. Georgia could only nod, muttering a soft âI know,â before leaning in to kiss Leah again. They held each other under the warm water, Kiera having left to give them both a minute.
They walk back into your room looking fresher than before. Hair both damp and wearing clean clothes. They both needed that shower and intimate time with each other, it soothed worries that they did not know how to voice; so glad that their relationship was strong and deep enough that they did not need to use words to express their feelings. âAny changes?â Georgia asks, moving to the couch to snuggle with Alessia as Leah returned to your side. âNo Gee, sheâs still asleep.â Lucy told her, hand lacing into Leahâs as they both sat with you. Kiera walked in 10 minutes later with steaming cups of coffee and a few more Lionesses. They all hung around, speaking to each other and taking turns watching you. You made noises a few times, shifting in your deep drug-induced sleep which made Leah and Georgiaâs hearts leap out of their chests as you merely went back under.
âIâm sorry I scared you girls.â You say after listening to Leah and Georgia fill you in. âIâm okay now, you two look exhausted.â
âDonât be sorry darling, nothing compared to the day youâve had, love. They say you can go home tomorrow now that youâre awake, hm?â Leah tells you, eyes happier than youâve seen in the past two days. Georgia begins to open up your lunch, gently pushing the table over to you to eat. âThe girls went over to the house and set up the guest room for us. That way you donât need to worry about the stairs. Lotteâs got Marlo too so he isnât a bother for a bit. I think Less and Tooney drove my car over too so we can go home tomorrow, howâs that sound?â Georgia tells you, grimacing at the sickly-looking hospital food.
âBetter than that looks, thatâs for sure.â You quip, a look of disgust on your face.
This makes Leah laugh, leaning forward and kissing your forehead then whispering âThereâs my girl.â
//
The first week back home was unlike anything you have experienced before. The pain was unbearable and the nightmares were something you didnât wish on your worst enemy. You couldnât remember your attackers face, but the news refreshed your memory when he was caught just four days after the attack. Cameras from the stadium managed to pick him up leaving the stadium after and they found his car abandoned before he was arrested and convicted. The three of you felt relief wash over you, knowing he was gone from your lives for a long time. You naively thought the nightmares would stop since you were really just worrying about him finding you but they somehow got worse. Leah and Georgia could barely keep you asleep for an hour before you had another one, shaking and sweating with shouts of their names. It frustrated you and broke their hearts into a billion pieces each. Both of them wanted to take your pain away and it physically hurt them to see you suffering.
One night you had another nightmare but somehow didnât stir the two girls sleeping on either side of you. You carefully crawled out of bed, grabbing a fluffy blanket around your shoulders and walking out to the living room. You sat on the couch, mind racing faster than you liked. You began to rock back and forth, knees pulled to your chest. You couldnât catch your breath, head spinning as the memories flash before your eyes.
Strong arms suddenly wrap around you, another pair grabbing your crying face. âY/N, look at me!â Leah said loudly. A wave of anger came over you, pushing both of them away and standing; hot, frustrated tears flowing down your cheeks. âLeave me alone! Why the fuck are you always meddling? I donât need you to coddle me! I am capable of taking care of myself! Iâm not fucking helpless like you think! Just because you donât have pain or just because you can fucking sleep doesnât mean you need to pretend to want to help me! I DONâT NEED YOU!â you yell, voice hoarse by the fourth statement you make. Youâve fallen to your knees, Georgia catching you just in time before you crumple to the ground. They both hold you, your frustration let out in huge waves. You cried for half an hour, hearing both of them repeating the same thought you had in the operating room that kept you fighting âYou may think you donât need us baby but we do. We were both a mess when you got hurt, I donât think either of us would have survived if it wasnât for you. You hold us together baby, we love you to bits for it, youâre our special girl.â
It made you cry more, their words sinking into your head. You were wrong, you did need them. You needed them more than ever and they werenât going anywhere.
#woso soccer#woso imagine#lionesses#leahwilliamson x reader#georgia stanway x reader#leah williamson#georgia stanway#georgia stanway imagine#leah williamson imagine#euros2022#angst#woso x reader#woso fanfics
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Surprise Pt. 2 | Soap x Reader
Summary: The boys are slowly settling into your apartment, looking for the terrorist group theyâre hunting down, while memories begin resurfacing for Simon.
Word Count: ~ 3.8k
Warnings: Mentions of death, toxic relationship, toxic family, abusive dad, panic attack/ptsd episodes, guns, violence, prob terribly inaccurate to anything military (Iâm trying my hardest okđ)
A/N: this part is mainly for worldbuilding, Iâm alr working on part 3 but felt like yâall might want a little update, lmk what you want to see, hope you enjoy<3
Requests are open!
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It was safe to say that Ghost and Price had a long conversation that night.
âHow much does she know?â
The captain had asked, hat hanging over his head before he picked it off between two fingers, setting it on the bedside table in a guest room. The two available rooms were split with Gaz and Price in one, and Ghost and Soap in the other.
Simon thought for a solid moment. He hadnât told you anything, other than he was going to the military. Heâd stayed over at your place maybe once before, years earlier, and all heâd told you was that he had a mission, an important one, something he couldnât tell you about. To keep you safe.
It wasnât a lie. At first, youâd been angry that he wouldnât tell you, but something mustâve clicked at 15 because that was when you stopped questioning it altogether. Then again, at that point, heâd rarely texted you or called you at all. It had been years since physical words were exchanged at this point.
He felt bad about it, but with the last words exchanged between the two of youâŚit made regret and grief flare up in him all over again.
~
You were pacing. Back and forth, and he wouldnât be surprised if you burnt a trail in the carpet with how frenzied you looked. Shock, grief, anger, and pure disbelief mixed all into one, your body language reflecting as much.
He hadnât even taken his mask off yet, leaning against the wall behind him in the home his mother had grown up in. The home heâd grown up in. A home youâd visited before, only because of the court-deemed custody that your father somehow got.
âYou didnât come to the funeral.â
His harsh voice finally rang out, and your pacing stopped. You turned to look at him, defensiveness automatically rendering itself in your expression. Always so easy to read. If only you were like that now.
âI couldnât make it in time. You know that, Simon.â
You said, and his temper flared. Every single lesson heâd had drilled into him in his military-deemed anger management classes went out of the window at that. At how you defended yourself, even when he knew you couldâve made it on time for that funeral. Or at least he thought you couldâve.
âReally? Or did you know about this, huh?â
He accused, anger building in his tone as he pushed off the wall, stalking closer to you, now pacing in his own slower, more predatory manner. Your eyes widened at his accusation.
âYou think I was plotting to kill your mum? The fuck is wrong with you?â
Simon knew it was outrageous, there was no way in hell you wouldâve done it. Not when youâd known her, even if only for a little bit. But GhostâŚ.Ghost had been betrayed too many times. He was desperate for any answer, any way to get rid of you so he didnât have to deal with any reminder of his mother, or Tommy, or his little nephew that had been so painfully young.
Maybe you didnât understand, but if he made himself believe thisâŚthen you wouldnât be around him anymore, and he wouldnât have to worry about anyone killing you like they had everyone else around him.
âWhat about Tommy? Or Joseph? Didnât make it to theirs either, did you.â
âSimon, I came as soon as I could, you know that. I was in that camp for a month, there was nothing I could-â
âThatâs convenient, isnât it.â
He said drily, stalking closer, hand moving to the hilt of his gun. You didnât notice, probably because you had no military training or anything of the sort. If he wanted to kill you right now, make you disappear, he could. Easily, too. He could already think of how heâd do it, the silencer on his gun covering the sound as he would shoot you, once in the head, twice in the heart, then he would take you down into the sewers, and youâd disappear-
âYouâre fucking crazy.â
Your voice, slightly scared now, and your body language showing just how intimidated and panicked you were, was wobbly at best. Tears welled in your eyes as you opened the door to leave out of the front, your car, a black jeep you werenât old enough to drive yet, but did anyway thanks to the fake ID youâd made, parked in the rocky driveway.
He snatched your arm up, yanking you back into the room as he pressed you against the wall heâd previously been leaning on. He leaned close, breath coming through the fabric of his baklava and speaking softly, like the old Simon would, to you in your ear.
âI wouldnât blame you, you know.â He began.
âHe was your dad, he was all you had, wasnât he? Maybe you were jealous, or angry about what happened to him. What I did to him.â
He almost whispered to you, as if it was some forbidden knowledge. Your small body was stiff against the wall, unconsciously leaning away from him. You were terrified. He could feel it.
âYouâre insane. Completely fuckinâ insane.â
You said, trying to squirm away, and he let you gain an inch of room, only to force you another inch against the wall. One more and your breathing would be strained if you could breathe at that.
âIâll let you off, but if I find out you had anything to do with this, with herâŚâ
He didnât get to finish the rest before you struggled free, and you made it to your car quicker than ever before, and drove off, not caring about any speed limits or anything.
~
âSimon? You here?â
Priceâs voice snapped him out of whatever trance heâd been in, and he gave a little grunt in response. Shaking himself out of it, he tried to remember what the captainâs question had been. Something about what you knew.
âThe bare minimum.â
âGood. She seems like a good kid, keep her outta this.â
Simon didnât mention the fact that you had already faced minor charges multiple times, some for breaking and entering or assault and battery, most of which were dismissed by a judge he suspected was paid off. Or the fact that youâd used a fake ID for your car for multiple years. He would know, considering heâd asked Gaz to find you multiple times. You werenât an easy one to find, almost as if youâd tried to wipe yourself off the grid before turning back on it.
You werenât a good kid by any means, but by your age, heâd probably been killing people already, so he supposed there were worse things to be doing.
âRoger that.â
Price gave a small nod of confirmation, clapping him on the shoulder as he went to walk to the room that he was sharing with Gaz.
âGet some rest, Simon. Weâll get directions from Laswell tomorrow. Donât stress over it.â
Despite himself, Simon gave a little nod.
If only he was stressing over things as simple as terrorists and covert warfare.
~
Soap, surprisingly enough, woke up first. It was around 5:30 AM when he did, and Simon was still fast asleep on the bed beside him.
âScuse me, Lt.â
He mumbled while sliding out of the bed, and walking to where he thought the kitchen probably was, and after wandering around, he found one small dim light on in the general kitchen area. You were standing in the kitchen, wrapping some sort of spandex-looking bandage material around your left knee. The type to help support it, in the case of an injury.
You were wearing a pair of blank shorts that didnât go nearly far enough down your thighs, and what looked like an old jersey, with a faded number â14â on it. Your right knee had a knee pad on, your left knee pad laying on the table. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was braided.
You both just stared at each other for a minute, before he grinned and obnoxiously whistled.
âLookinâ good, lass. Where ya headed?â
He asked, already watching the gears turn in your head as you tried to decode his thick accent. Surprisingly, it didnât take you nearly as long as he thought it would. Usually, new people had to take a few seconds, but you responded almost immediately.
âPractice.â
You replied bluntly, either not a morning person, or just not a talker. By the blank look on your face, he was just assuming you were also a heartless bastard like Ghost. But even Simon Riley had his tells, and he was sure you did too.
âWhat the hellâve they got you practicing for at 5 in the morninâ?â He asked, and you looked at him for a moment, as if trying to see if what heâd said was a joke. As if he was stupid. He was not stupid.
âVolleyball. Iâm on the team. Got a scholarship.â
His brows raised at that. Another blunt answer. You really were Simonâs sister, werenât you? And to get a scholarship in volleyballâŚhe hadnât even known youâd gone to a private school, let alone the fact that you played sports.
I mean, sure, heâd sort of assumed you might based on your muscular thighs and arms he was entranced by, or the sheer unmoving look you always had, barely changing. Volleyball girls always had nice asses though, and you werenât an exception, that was for sure.
You were either telepathic or had seen him staring because, with a simple snap of your fingers, he had flinched out of his daze.
âEyes up here, MacTavish.â
You said in a mildly annoyed tone, and he gave you a slightly pouty look.
âCanât blame me for looking at it when itâs right there, now can you?â
You had only given him another annoyed glance, before slinging a bag over your shoulder and walking out. He didnât fail to notice the way you checked the peephole before walking out. Or how your eyes darted to the windows consistently, or the nearest available exit.
He didnât blame you, living alone as a girl in this end of town, you had to be cautious.
~
They had been at this all day.
Laswell had radioed them in earlier, probably around noon after theyâd raided your pantry, which only really had bread in various forms in it. Your fridge wasnât much better, only cheap lunch meats, lettuce, tomatoes, and a few miscellaneous vegetables and fruits.
Since then, theyâd been on the hunt for any suspicious characters, any sign of the terrorist group that had gotten away. It had taken a bit of travel, but a few miles out, theyâd passed a van, white, with four burly shadowy figures in the darkened windows. Windows too dark to even be legal.
âArmed men, four of âem, cap.â
Soap had said, and Price had only given a nod, taking a U-turn to trail the vehicle. It wasnât every day you would see any military men driving in a white van with tinted windows.
It had only escalated from there.
The van had stopped near an old alleyway with no people around, failing to notice T141, who were now all trailing on foot. Theyâd left the car behind with Gaz, despite his protests. They needed someone able to drive, and Soap was needed to disable any possible bombs. They were dealing with terrorists here.
Slowly crawling up the building to the right of the alleyway, Ghost let his gun peek down into it through some crumbling brick on the sides of the roofâs edge.
âWe droppinâ emâ?â
He asked quietly over the radio, and Price, on the building roof opposite of him, replied.
âNot yet. If we can get one alive, weâll want âim for interrogation. Three of âem on my count.â
Soap, to the left of Ghost, nodded mainly to himself, his gun focusing on the man closest to a trash can, Price on the man to the right of him, and Ghost to the man leading the other two. The fourth was lingering behind a bit, examining the surroundings. Paranoid.
âGaz, start bringing in our exfil.â
âGot it, Captain.â
âOn your mark, Sergeant.â
With that, the first relatively silent shot went off, and two more followed until all that was left was the one man, who immediately took cover and jumped through the open window of the nearly abandoned building Price was on the roof of.
âShit. Get him.â
Priceâs voice cursed over the radio, and Gaz driving the car came into view only moments later, as Ghost and Soap hopped down from the roof of the building, taking the same route as the escaped terrorist through the building, and clearing it one floor at a time.
Hours later, it felt like theyâd searched the whole damn city and come up with absolutely nothing. Whoever theyâd missed had disappeared completely, and possibly contacted outside forces of their presence. They had to be careful with this.
âWe headinâ back?â Soap asked, and Price replied.
âAffirmative. Iâll let Laswell know what happened.â
And so they headed back to the apartment, only to find you completely not there. Gaz got there first, gun still in hand as he cleared the apartment. Just in case.
âClear.â He radioed over,
The rest of the boys filed in after that, taking the time to take showers, in the hope that you wouldnât notice their bloodstained clothes. It was only after they had all changed into casual clothes that Soap remembered about you.
âAnyone know where the girl is?â
Gaz seemed to stir at that, immediately on his feet, when Ghost pushed him back down into the chair he was sitting in at the dinner table.
âSheâs at school, lads.â His rough voice spoke, and Gaz and Soap both made an âohhhhâ sound at the answer. It was obvious, but they hadnât gone to school inâŚa long time, and you were almost an adult now, so they tended to forget about that.
âWhere does she go?â Price asked, taking a sip of his cup of water. Ghost shrugged.
âSome private school, said she got a scholarship for volleyball or somethinâ,â Soap added, and Ghost shot a tiny glare at him. The fact that a random Scottish man knew more about you than Simon Riley, your technical brother, wasnât making him too happy. Soap only gave him a cheeky grin in return.
âYou seem to know an awful lot about her, Soap.â
Kyle then spoke up, carefully eying Simon and Johnnie. Even as Simon huffed out of his nose, taking a sip of water. His lips were chapped, Gaz noticed. Soap gave a little shrug, a smirk pulling at his lips.
âJust curious about âer is all. We are living in her house, after all.â He answered, and Price stood up, mumbling something about a smoke break while walking across the kitchen to reach the balcony, where he smoked. The first time heâd tried to smoke inside, youâd grabbed it straight from his fingers, and thrown it into the sink before running cold water over it.
It took him a minute to realize that had only been yesterday night.
The week went by quickly, and the boys slowly got used to your schedule. More like they just started fitting into the routine you had, really. Having four random military men inside of your house wasnât easy, especially when they kept leaving the toilet seat up in the bathroom in the hallway.
âCouldnât just put the seat down, could they..â
You mumbled to yourself late into the night, slamming the seat down as hard as you could without breaking it. Every time they left it up, you made sure to put it down hard, making enough noise to wake them up. Distantly, you couldâve sworn you heard Johnnyâs laughter from the room he was in with Simon, before a low âShut it.â and a âRoger that, Lt.â was faintly audible.
You had practice almost every night, even some on weekends, which made sense considering you were the team captain for the junior varsity of your school. Once you became a Senior next year, youâd probably get team captain of the full varsity team. A big responsibility, but one you seemed to enjoy, even when some days you would come home, lock yourself in your room, and fall straight asleep without eating anything.
Where they went every day, you never asked. Didnât want to.
One night, Price walked into the kitchen, where you kept a washer and dryer for the clothes as well, tucked into the room where it wasnât easily noticed, and saw you pouring hydrogen peroxide on some bloodstains in their clothes. It was strong, stronger than anything you could legally get from a pharmacy, he could tell that much.
Your eyes both met, and you didnât waver from his stare, and he didnât from yours.
âYou arenât going to ask questions?â He asked, voice a deep rumble. Your eyes shifted away at that, back to the clothes. As if hiding whatever gleamed within them, the knowledge you had, or what youâd seen. What you knew they did every day.
âBetter for all of us if I donât.â
Youâd replied simply, voice still relatively neutral, the barest amount of a British accent lingering even when youâd spent so many years in America. You almost mumbled it, as if used to speaking quietly. Based on the small fragments he knew of Simonâs past, and his father, one that you both shared, he wasnât surprised. It would be a hard habit to break.
Whatever had kept you from interacting much with Price mustâve changed after that night, because you showed up more after that. It was late at night, and you looked beat, but he could still see the gears working behind your eyes.
âWhat is it?â He asked as you walked over to where he was sitting in the bed he and Gaz shared, and sat down next to him on it, showing him a notebook. He recognized what was on it, a court of some sort, a net in the middle, and a rotation of numbers, with all the enemy patterns and numbers on the other side of the net.
âHelp.â
You stated simply, and he nodded before you explained to him the basics of volleyball. He only really knew the frequently adjusted rules heâd seen on the Olympics sometimes, so it was a lot of explaining, but after that, the both of you were straight to work on finding a rotation and pattern that would work to beat the team that youâd lost to twice this season.
âIf 28 is your hitter, why not move them back row, to move in for the kill?â
âIt would leave our defenses entirely open. A tip could lose the point and serve, and when we got the serve back, 14 would be serving. She doesnât do well with serving under pressure. 28 needs to stay front row as long as possible to block.â
âGot it, so..â
He would admit, you were not stupid, and that was for sure. You knew everyone on your teamâs strengths and weaknesses and used them to your advantage. It was almost like looking at a younger, female version of himself. Always taking charge, always thinking ahead.
And JohnnyâŚhe was obnoxious.
Always flirting with you in any way he could, making random jokes just to hear your tiny laugh or the snort you usually made instead. He couldnât help it, even when the rest of the guys were getting sick of hearing him.
But, he had his uses, too.
When the remote would break down? Donât worry, he only took it entirely apart, replaced and tweaked it so it would work, and put it all back together with his nails as a screwdriver.
When you were in an especially foul mood? His terrible jokes came in handy, not because you were laughing at them, but at how stupid he looked telling these jokes, chest puffed out like a proud bird when he saw you snort or your lips twitch, even though he didnât know whether you were laughing with him or at him.
Johnny was smarter than you originally thought, as well. Had incredibly complicated math homework, and giving you a serious headache? Somehow, the bastard knew exactly how to do it.
âHow do you know that equation.â
âItâs simple, really, I use it all the time for me explosives. Reminds me of the time I and the Lt planted them all over, you shouldâve seen-â
âOn topic, Johnny.â
âRight, sorry.â
But living with military men did have downsides, more obvious than them leaving the toilet seat up, forgetting to do the dishes when it was their day or the same for laundry, or messing up the guest beds. (Though Gaz never forgot about his responsibilities, even taking the time to make you dinner when you would get home late with what little ingredients you had.)
You were a quiet person, and Gaz had noticed it first. How you rolled on your feet, careful not to make noise, not even noticing how you were doing it. Or the way that unless you were slamming the toilet seat down for the umpteenth time, you took extra care in placing things down gently, not dropping them. It was an odd contrast with your blunt, slightly harsh demeanor that reminded him of Simon.
But it had been Gaz that made you fully remember what these men had gone through when you had been scared shitless because of Soap purposefully sneaking up behind you and scaring you, and accidentally letting out a small scream that was more like a yell. Instinct had kicked in, muscle memory as well, and before his mind even knew whose scream it was, his body was moving.
Heâd tackled Soap straight to the floor, hands around his throat.
âThe fuck, Kyle-â Johnny had choked out, and it had been Price whoâd snatched Gaz up, restraining his hands against his back while you watched in slight sympathy.
It had taken him only a few seconds to calm back down and figure out what the hell was happening, at which he sighed, giving Soap a regretful look.
âSorry, donât know what got into me.â He mumbled, and Johnny only stood up, brushing his knees off, and patted Kyle softly on the back.
âDonât. I get it.â The Scotsman said, before walking out. When he glanced at you, it was the empathy for him that Kyle found most odd. The fact that you seemed to understand.
It was only weeks later that he understood why you could empathize with him over his actions.
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#writers on tumblr#cod mwii#ghost cod#writing community#cod modern warfare#cod mw2#cod#john soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#gaz#john price#captain price#simon ghost riley#soap x reader#soap call of duty#johnny x reader
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A pointless, overly long, barely edited review of White Fragility
Well that book sucked.
The end I guess.
OK honestly the process of reading White Fragility was incredibly draining, I started out annoyed, then became amused and fascinated by Robin DiAngeloâs peculiar definition of âIndividualismâ, then got annoyed and angry again, then just⌠drained. Itâs an exhausting book.
As I try to put my feelings out there Iâm having trouble linking them together coherently but this book is just so exhausting that the idea of editing this and doing several passes is just draining to think about. So here are some scattered thoughts:
Before anything else, itâs just not well written or edited
White Fragility is very repetitive, ambling, and just kind of⌠not very well arranged in general. Itâs clear that the book desperately needed a proper editor, or maybe it didnât, since it became incredibly successful despite everything wrong with it. Hereâs an example Iâve already mentioned.Â
Towards the end of the first part of the book, DiAngelo puts together a list of a âcommon set of racial patternsâ that are âthe foundation of white fragilityâ and one of the bullets on that list reads,
âWanting to jump over the hard, personal work and get to âsolutionsââ
Not once, anywhere in the preceding 111 pages or the succeeding 128 is the idea expanded on in any way whatsoever.
And itâs a truly baffling statement if you donât expand on it. Why are solutions somehow opposed to âhard, personal workâ? Is hard, personal work not part of a solution to some problem? If not why are we doing it?
The whole book has a similarly sloppy vibe; thereâs very little factual information inside and what ideas there are are explained very badly.
A Christian apology for non-Christians
The more I read of White Fragility the more it seemed to me to have in common with badly written Christian apologia.
First off, modern, right-wing American Christian religious material often contains a sort of confusion that anybody could respond badly to the Gospels. After all, the good news of Jesusâ sacrifice and resurrection is both obviously factually true AND self-evidently good news, but somehow when you go out and preach the gospels, non-believers will often act with derision or anger.
And there is a certain kind of Christian who will respond to that anger, not by considering that there might be factual or moral objections to the gospel, but by essentially asking, âWhat kind of bizarre psychological condition would cause somebody to get angry about something that is obviously true and obviously good?â
This is an ongoing thread in DiAngeloâs writing, starting with the introduction,
âIn the early days of my work as what was then termed a diversity trainer, I was taken aback by how angry and defensive so many white people became at the suggestion that they were connected to racism in any wayâŚ
âI couldnât understand their resentment or disinterest in learning more about such a complex social dynamic as racism. These reactions were especially perplexing when there were few or no people of color in their workplace, and they had the opportunity to learn from my cofacilitators(sic) of color. I assumed that in these circumstances, an educational workshop on racism would be appreciated. After all, didnât the lack of diversity indicate a problem or at least suggest some perspectives were missing?â
Well gosh, why wouldnât these people be excited to hear about all the things theyâve been doing wrong? Truly a mystery.
Secondly, most of the arguments DiAngelo makes are made very sloppily, and are only really convincing if you have already been well-convinced. To demonstrate this I would essentially have to just quote the whole book to you, but for an example see the bit above about wanting to jump over hard personal work. You and I have spent too much time in the fever swamp, we can guess what she means from cultural context, but she never explains it.
Third, as others have pointed out white supremacy in this book takes on the qualities of sin in Christian theology. All of us white people, simply by virtue of growing up in a white supremacist society, are racist. This isnât really proven so much as assumed.Â
You might assume that in Christian circles the fact that everybody is a sinner might level out hierarchies. After all, the Pastor is as much a sinner as you are.
But in many cases there is this kind of passive-aggressive jiujitsu. Oh, sure, the pastor sinned, but why should we criticize him when all men are sinners? Arenât you failing to practice the virtue of forgiveness?Â
Oh, whatâs that, you did something bad? Well thatâs a different story. It sounds like you havenât been really giving yourself over to God. Maybe we havenât been doing enough to help stop you from sinning. You should talk to the pastor and really think about where youâve been going wrong, and of course we would just be enabling you if we didnât call you out publicly, itâs an opportunity for growth on your part, and of course if you disagree with how we think you should atone, that's just further evidence of your sinfulness.
Anyway, speaking of passive-aggression:
The Passive-Aggressive style in Woke Politics
Robin DiAngelo comes off as one of the most passive-aggressive people I have ever read. And also, ironically, one of the most clueless people I have ever seen when it comes to the most basic aspects of ordinary human psychology.
Here, have some examples:
âI am typically received well when speaking in general termsâfor example, âYour requirement that applicants have an advanced degree rather than equivalent experience is automatically disqualifying some of the applicants that could bring the perspectives and experiences you say you are looking for.â Yet when I point out a concrete moment in the room in which someoneâs racism is manifesting itself, white fragility erupts.â
Oh, what, seriously? When you say, âWe all need to try harder to improve at thisâ people agree, but when you go, âEspecially you Gregâ Greg somehow becomes defensive? Crazy!
âFor example, in a conversation about racism, when white people say that they work in a diverse environment or that they have people of color in their family, they are giving me their evidence that they are not racist. If this is their evidence, how are they defining racism?â
I mean⌠Literally the same way you do? DiAngelo talks extensively about how white people donât understand racism because we often have very few interracial friendships or relationships. Like a lot. Like itâs one of the major themes of the book and, in her mind, one of the major sources of white fragility.
I mean, imagine you are talking to someone, and you go, âSee, hereâs the thing that people who have never been to Cleveland donât understandâ they might respond with âOh, actually I was born in Cleveland and spent the first twenty years of my life thereâ and their reasons for doing so are so incredibly obvious and natural that itâs kind of hard to even articulate them. Like⌠yeah of course if you tell a room that they donât understand racism because of their shallow relationships with people of color, fucking of course the people who have deep relationships with people of color are going to bring it up!
âWhite people are receptive to my presentation as long as it remains abstract. The moment I name some racially problematic dynamic or action happening in the room in the momentâfor example, âSharon, may I give you some feedback? While I understand it wasnât intentional, your response to Jasonâs story invalidates his experience as a black manâ--white fragility erupts. Sharon defensively explains that she was misunderstood and then angrily withdraws, while others run in to defend her by re-explaining âwhat she really meant.ââ
Sharon, let me stop you right there. Can I just take a moment to completely ignore the substance of what you just said, while pointing out that you are objectively annoying to the people around you?
âWhen another police shooting of an unarmed black man occurred, my workplace called for an informal lunch gathering of people who wanted to connect and find support. Just before the gathering, a woman of color pulled me aside and told me she wanted to attend but she was âin no mood for white womenâs tears todayâ I assured her that I would handle it. As the meeting started, I told my fellow white participants that if they felt moved to tears, they should please leave the room. I would go with them for support, but I asked that they not cry in the mixed group. After the discussion, I spent the next hour explaining to a very outraged white woman why she was asked not to cry in the presence of people of color.â
Hi, thanks for coming to our meeting where we coworkers can support each other and connect. Before we start, I just want to tell Donna, Tammy, Jim and Bob that your coworkers donât really want to support you too much, so if you need support please go somewhere else and get it from people other than your coworkers.
Look, I get it, that black lady finds the idea of comforting some distraught white woman in the aftermath of a black man being shot absurd. Maybe donât handle that in the most ham-handed way imaginable though?
I want you to reimagine some of these scenarios as though they were addressing a less politically fraught issue than racism. In order to do that, we need something with the following qualities:
It is often unintentional;
The people who do it are often unaware that they are doing it;
It is genuinely difficult for others to live with and should probably be corrected because of that;
There is a social stigma to it so people feel embarrassed when called out for it.
I think having really bad body odor is the perfect analogue. But can you fucking imagine some of these if thatâs what we were talking about?
Imagine somebody saying, âWhen I say that proper hygiene is important as a way to respect your fellow employees, I get broad agreement, but when I publicly point out that a particular person has bad BO and many of their coworkers have complained, instead of being grateful for the feedback, they often get angry or defensiveâ
That person would be a monster!
The dirty secret of Robin DiAngelo and her ilk is that as much as they talk about âsystemic racismâ they really think of racism primarily as an interpersonal problem.
Hereâs another quote, âThe dominant paradigm of racism as discrete, individual, intentional, and malicious acts makes it unlikely that whites will acknowledge any of our actions as racism.â
I mean⌠All the examples I just cited above involve DiAngelo calling out discrete, individual, intentional acts. I guess sometimes the discrete, individual, intentional acts are non-malicious.
Thatâs the kind of central hypocrisy and profoundly passive-aggressive style of this kind of discourse. You call out a specific person for a specific act in a very public way, and then, if they get defensive, you can talk about how sad it is that when you told them that the specific thing that they personally did was bad, they didnât realize you were just talking about systemic racism and itâs awfully silly that they are getting so defensive when all you are talking about is systemic problems, not individual faults.
DiAngelo often talks about how whites need to be less sensitive because we are not in any danger, but, like, most of the concrete problems she addresses arenât dangerous to black people either.
Which brings me to the last section,
What is the goddamned point of all this?
DiAngelo constantly talks about the absence of cross-racial relationships between blacks and whites, but never really addresses the question of why the hell a black person would want to be friends with a white person. Honestly it sounds like it sucks; weâre all racist. Frankly I donât see what we bring to the table other than an endless parade of microaggressions and neuroses that could just be avoided altogether by sticking to making friends with your fellow minorities.
A couple of people responding to my blog have called the book racist against whites but thatâs not quite right, thereâs also this bizarre sort of⌠Apologizing for how much better off we are then everybody else. Itâs taken as basically a given that black people all wish they had the position that we do, but we just donât let them and theyâll never get it unless we shape up and learn to give it to them.
Thereâs a tremendous amount of guilt but itâs combined with a massive self-absorption. I donât think Iâm exaggerating when I say that for DiAngelo, the entire world revolves around whites and our conception of ourselves. And I mean that literally:
â...[W]hite supremacy is circulated globally. This powerful ideology promotes the idea of whiteness as the ideal of humanity well beyond the WestâŚ
âIn his book The Racial Contract, Charles W. Mills argues that the racial contract is a tacit and sometimes explicit agreement among members of the peoples of Europe to assert, promote, and maintain the ideal of white supremacy in relation to all other people of the world. This agreement is an intentional and integral characteristic of the social contract, underwriting all other social contracts.â
Like⌠All of them? Like relations between China and the Democratic Republic of Congo are underwritten by the belief in white supremacy? White supremacy is in fact integral to the politcal relationship between those two countries?
One of the things I wondered when reading the book was why on earth DiAngelo gets paid so much money to consult. In her telling there are two forces, a white supremacist overclass dedicated to ignoring and minimizing evidence of systemic racism and a minority underclass which is nearly helpless in the face of white supremacy. Which of these groups is paying her five figure speaking fees?
Anyway to continue that quote,Â
âMills describes white supremacy as âthe unnamed politcal system that has made the world what is is today.ââ
I mean⌠I feel like it has a name. Itâs named white supremacy. Robin DiAngelo wrote a best-selling book about it that people only bought because they already agree about it existing and being really, really important.
Hey, so, how does Tammy from HR crying about the police shooting a black teenager maintain a global white hegemony that undergirds literally all other social forces?
One thing, at least, that made me glad that I finished the book was seeing DiAngelo state overtly something that I feel has been implicit on much American thinking about race lately:
âWhen white people ask me what to do about racism and white fragility, the first thing I ask is, âWhat has enabled you to be a full, educated, professional adult and not know what to do about racism?â...â
Uh⌠Youâre asking me how I graduated college without knowing how to upend a massive collusion between every nation in Europe that undergirds all of global politics and economics?
I mean I didnât actually graduate, maybe âOverturning the entire global paradigm 101â was one of the classes I didnât get around to.
âIf we take that question seriously and map out all the ways we have come to not know what to do, we will have our guide before us. For example, if my answer is that I was not educated about racism, I know that I will have to get educated. If my answer is that I do not know people of color, I will need to build relationships. If it is because there are no people of color in my environment, I will need to get out of my comfort zone and change my environment, addressing racism is not without effortâŚâ
Hey, yeah, but what about the part where I make minimum wage and probably canât even overthrow Luxemburg, let alone all of Europe?
âNext, I say, âDo whatever it takes for you to internalize the above assumptionsâ I believe that if we white people were truly coming from these assumptions, not only would our interpersonal relationships change, but so would our institutions. Our institutions would change because we would see to it that they would.â
This is exactly what I have been saying seems to be the dominant belief in America today. If we just teach Sharon from accounting to stop talking over her black co-workers, if Sharon internalizes exactly the right ideas about white supremacy from exactly the right corporate consultants, eventually, once we get our heads straight, there will be a kind of spontaneous eruption of will which will end racism forever.
From talking to more right-wing acquaintances I have come to the belief that many of them essentially agree with that premise. That racism sort of emerges as a kind of spontaneous emanation of wrong-think, and once we have used social pressure and the threat of being fired to get everybody to say the correct things about racism, racism will vanish.
And so the debate in America is no longer about policy; we donât believe in a racial policy. The debate is about how we ought to talk about racism, with the parties disagreeing on what kind of talk will ultimately cause racism to disappear.
Do we solve police shootings by hiring a diversity consultant to tell the employees of our tech firm about white fragility, or should we hire a different consultant to teach them about color-blindness and treating people as equals?
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This might be a little unorganized and is definitely an unpopular opinion in this community, but I'm going to say it anyway. Feel free to unfollow. I wasn't going to post about it, but honestly I am so upset for George in this situation. I want to preface that I am a 28 year old female so maybe my thinking is a little different due to that.
The more I read about people's reactions to the George situation the more angry I feel. George was being accused of sexual assault, and the consensus is "he fucked up and should have asked for consent."
My bold take is that I have little sympathy for Caiti. She is a woman who regrets flirting with George, which she has the right to. But her story really made it seem like George randomly started touching her inappropriately, forced her to drink more when she was already drunk, purposely preyed on her because she was 18, and followed her out of the room to the elevator.
None of these things happened. She was drunk beforehand and her friends that she went to Dreams room with wanted to play drinking games. George didn't randomly start touching her. They were sitting together on the couch playing a game with the rest of the group and mutually decided to start cuddling. Caiti got up multiple times and would always come back and cuddle with George. Over the hour of cuddling they were flirting with each other, playfighting etc. When cuddling George started with his hands on her hips above her clothes, and then after he assumed she was comfortable with what he was doing, given the previous signals of her laughing, smiling, and coming back to cuddle with him then he placed his hands on her waist under her clothes. He said he would slowly move them up after awhile. She didn't show any signs of being uncomfortable. She could have pushed his hand away or told him she was uncomfortable with that, but she didn't. She could of left if she felt uncomfortable or sat somewhere else, but she didn't. She also didn't have to walk with George to the elevator, but she did. She didn't have to keep in contact with him afterwards but again she did. It's no wonder why George was understandably confused, and assumed everyone had had a fun night that night, and was blindsided by these accusations. George said that he made a joke about the elevator being broken, but saw when she wasn't open to getting in the elevator with her then he backed off.
Her friends also knowingly put her this situation. They left her unattended while she was drunk in the hotel room with Dream and George and whoever else was left. Going to a drinking social at 18 is a risky situation in the first place, this is why in college I avoided frat parties because I knew what could potentially happen if I went.
George literally did not do anything wrong, and people are painting him as a monster. Now that Caiti did this stream he has lost a lot of his fanbase and friends for no reason, because God forbid you support George. If you support George you must hate woman, because he's evil. Like people have said this could have all been handled privately. Just simple communication like "hey I actually regret what happened at Vidcon, and I didn't actually like that you were cuddling me looking back" or something along those lines. If George is a decent person which it seems like he is he would say okay and apologize most likely, and they could have not had this nasty drama for no reason.
I believe there is non-verbal consent, and most people in that type of situation would rely on that more than verbal consent. They test things like George was doing and slowly progress things. He could have asked if she was okay with it, but she was showing all the signs over the 3 hours that she was. He's not making you stay if you get uncomfortable. Where non-verbal consent doesn't work is if George would have groped her after a half our of flirting. That would absolutely be wrong, and need to be apologized for.
George was defensive in his video because he needed to be. After being accused of all these things you didn't do, and Caiti leaving out details you would be defensive to. She made him out to look really bad. She blew the situation way out of proportion and George has to suffer due to this. I really think that George didn't need to post the extra apology tweet, that the livestream would of been enough to show that he had no malicious intentions and was sorry that Caiti felt strongly about what had happened.
The whole support victims things in this situation makes me upset as well. There were no victims because there was no sexual assault. Yet if you don't say I 100% support the victim then suddenly your evil and hate woman. Without there being a victim it seems dumb to put that but if you don't then you're follower count also takes a hit as a content creator. George didn't fuck up, he acted in a way most men would, and probably even in a more gentleman like way to be honest.
It also upset me as someone who has experienced very real sexual assault. The guy was 25 and I was 18. I didn't want anything sexual/romantic with him because I could see the age gap, and told him that. He invited me to his apartment which I thought would be innocent because I presented my boundaries, but then he started taking off my clothes and telling me I was okay with it over and over until I believed him and let it happen, while feeling really uncomfortable. My body language did not show any interest, just confusion. I remember answering "I don't know" when he asked for consent to touch me, but he would just keep asking until I said okay. He purposely preyed on the younger women because he knew they were easier to coerce and more vulnerable. Looking back I didn't really knew where I stood on hook up culture. He convinced me he could teach me a few things that I could use with my sexual partners in the future. Luckily it never progressed to him taking my virginity. He bragged about how many girls he had slept with, and how many he had took their virginity. I would have been just a number to him. I am so much more than just a number. (he did a lot of other sexual things with me after coercing me into saying okay. Stuff I can detail if you care to know. I remember saying out loud that I was glad that I still had my virginity and I'm glad he didn't take it afterall. Not purposely leaving out, but it was way more than Caiti had experienced with George. For my situation there was a high likelihood it would happen again to another girl like me, and I remember wanting to warn them. It's different because my attacker did have malicious intents even though he disguised it as me consenting.) Being in the mindset I am now I would have never let any of it happen, but I am much more in tune with my thoughts and opinions on things. I would have noticed all the red flags and I would have never put myself in a 1 on 1 situation with an older guy like that or any guy unless I were dating them.
Outside the fandom I've noticed that a lot of people agree with me in this. It's just within the fandom that people are of this support the victim mindset, even when said victim turns out to not have been a victim of anything. I don't know if it's different with younger people that you have to ask for verbal consent for everything, but it just seems dumb. Everyone was also drunk and not thinking straight so sober minded Georgenotfound would have probably asked for consent before he moved his hands up. It's hard to know. I think other content creators probably do agree with me, but they aren't able to have their own opinions, which to me seems gross and fake. We can't genuinely know how content creators feel on certain issues because if were to tell what they truly thought and it wasn't the majority consensus then they risk their viewership which is also twisted.
#georgenotfound#gnf#rambling#SA#my thoughts#I feel like I'm insane for thinking this due to this fandoms standards#my experience
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Sorry, I know you donât really like people bringing up Jason but Iâm very curious. I read Straight on Till Morning several times before really joining Tumblr and I was surprised by how much you seem to dislike him compared to how nicely he was written in said fic. Is it cuz itâs a future fic so he can be more chilled out than in current comics or something?
Feel free to ignore me if you want. Curiosity does not owe me answers.
no worries, i don't mind polite questions! :P
so there's two things. a) sotm was written when the only real comics i'd read were sb94, yj98, tt03, batgirl (2000), and nightwing '96 (iirc - i might be forgetting one or two but the point is, when i was pretty new to comics). at this point wfa had tricked me into thinking jason actually had a consistent character arc that i simply hadn't read yet, and i assumed it would be weird to write a fic where dick, tim, and cass were all around as kon's friends + damian was there being jon's friend in the background, but jason didn't get mentioned, so i worked him in bc i thought that was like. gonna be weird if i didn't, even tho i didn't know what he was doing in postcrisis yet. i mostly just wanted to write about kon and did not yet have the strong "actually i do not care for 99% of post-rebirth comics" feelings i have today. if i were to do the sotm rewrite in my mind, jason would actually still be in his villain to antivillain era because that's my actual favorite era of him. i think it's fun when he's hanging around being like... a vengeful ghost who's just determined to make his problems Everyone's Problem. i'm not really interested in soft angsty daddy's boy jtodd or whatever sdkjfh and that seems to be the most popular version of him i see. it's either soft angsty daddy's boy jason or it's power fantasy cop-adjacent jason who has never done anything wrong in his life and is completely valid in every decision he's ever made. neither of these interests me.
which brings me to b) it's not so much that i dislike jason todd as a character so much as that his fans are so fucking annoying to me. that chapter of sotm? multiple people in the comments were there ONLY to talk about jason, even though the fic is literally about kon and not about jason and he just happens to appear for PART of one scene that chapter. it made me get sick of hearing about him. like theres soooo many jason todd fics out there can you go read those. i want to talk about kon! and i've had people bring him up on my completely unrelated fics too like he doesn't even get MENTIONED like one fic is about clark kon and tim, and someone was in the comments like "omg i bet clark was thinking about jason here" and i was so ... dude. read the room. or the fic even. it is not about him.
but even more than the way a lot of jason fans have this apparently compulsive need to make him the main character of the entire universe, i really can't stand how many of them i've seen spout literal straight up copaganda and/or defense of the death penalty. like they will bend over backwards so hard to defend why he was right to put 8 heads in a duffel bag or why it's morally correct to kill rapists that they start spewing right-wing talking points. and the constant need to make him the perfect imperfect victim ("he's angry and loud unlike GOOD victims--") and all of that just... it really turns me off of 99% of fan content about him that i've seen. it makes me genuinely kind of uncomfortable. like if you think there's a category of criminal that it's okay to execute (without a trial, even) i want nothing to do with you. can you guys just say it's sexy when a man is covered in blood after murdering a room full of people without having to be like "and he was right to do it too!!" because i promise he was not. and if you SAY any of this people will come up with a whole thing about how you must hate victims and/or poor people or some shit. its... really something.
all of that being said - i think there are interesting things you COULD do with his character. i think he can be a fascinating character! with stories worth telling! the family tragedy, the horror story, the vengeful ghost! but at this point with how rancid i find his fanbase i just really only want to see jason takes from people i know will not start spewing copaganda at me + people who i know appreciate tim kicking him in the balls (bc he kicked dick in the balls and tim is a bitch).
anyways. bring back tentatodd 2k25 who's with me
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The next day. It finally stopped to rain and we got rewarded with a double rainbow! The Boys spent the rest of the day before inside, learning and doing their homework. Divided in two groups, to keep Kiyoshi away from Jack. And Vlad and Jeb thought I'd be better to keep their distance to Jack too, until they could ask Noxee what this strange attraction towards him means.
Vlad and Jeb are training outside. Keeping an eye on Kiyoshi, who is far, far away again. They are so cute. Fighting like baby cats ^^' Maybe Vlad is going easy on Jeb, who just had his first fight in their last lesson :3
Saiwa, Ji Ho and Jack went down to the dungeons, to the Defense against the Dark Arts classroom. Training Ji Ho, who missed their first lesson. The majority of the poisonous arrows are still flying in Jack's direction Ăś.Ă' (They might still be under the command of Ms Coombes ^^') Jack wonders what this lightning stroke might have done to him. He's sure the weird attraction, Vlad, Jeb (and Kiyoshi) feel towards him, has to do with this accident. And Ji Ho got overwhelmed by his feelings. He's so angry! He never felt so angry before. There had been lots of ocassions in his life that would have really deserved the anger he feels now. But his feelings had been buried, so nothing had ever hit him this hard. He's angry, jealous, upset, sad... - that Vlad feels attracted to Jack! And he even knows how silly this is. But he can't help it. It fell over him like a fishernet with lead weights, pinning him impotent to the sea bed - at the mercy of his feelings. Sure, he could take a sip of Noxee's potion to get rid of these feelings, but he decided to endure them. Even the bad ones. All his feelings are a part of him now. And he'd missed them for so long. So he's channeling his frustration into the punching bag, not even noticing an arrow sticking in his arm...
Sai is reading out loud again from their school books for the others. Also dodging the arrows.
Back at the Duelling Grounds, Vlad and Jeb are still training. Jack and Jeb are the physically strongest of all of them, but Vlad, with his vampiric powers, is not to be underestimated. Plus, he has more fighting experience than Jeb. Jeb is doing surprisingly well, though...
... until they heard someone approching. It's Greg! They'd all been hoping Noxee would come back so they could discuss Jack's strange attraction on them and, of course, to bring them some good news about Jack and Kiyoshi's mateship... Jeb got distracted and Vlad was able to put him to the ground.
Greg: "Good to see you improved. So, how is he doing?" Jeb really hoped to talk to Noxee about this. Jack made it very clear he doesn't want Greg to know. Greg is staring at him with his piercing orange eyes and Jeb doesn't know what to say: "Oh - uhm. So Jack..." Greg: "Not Jack! Kiyoshi." (Greg and Kiyoshi seem to have a surprisingly strong bond...) Vlad decided to redeem poor Jeb: "Still unaltered, I fear."
They called up the others and met in the Conference Hall. And finally Greg spilled the good news! Jack and Kiyoshi are 'allowed' to be, according to Ms Coombes, mates, just mates or whatever! Yay! They must have weighed the advantages of Jack helping Kiyoshi rooting in the here and now again over Jack's bad influence on him o.o
But the joy was only short-lived. Greg immediately hopped to the next topic. Greg: "You have something to tell me?" Jack: "No!?"
Greg: "Did you really think you could keep this from me?" Omg! Of course Greg would sense that something is weird! Does he really know Jeb, Vlad and probably Kiyoshi (Jack isn't really convinced of that, since Kiyoshi is a diety now) feel attracted to him? How embarrassing! Jack just wants to hide somewhere!
Jack: "I'm not going to have a discussion about this with you." Greg: "Fine. I'll call Stefan. Meet him at the beach so you don't further stir the others. Get this solved!" Jack: "Yes, Sir." TMI: After Greg rescued baby Jack from the Lab, he brought him to 'Uncle' Stefan, a close friend, where Jack grew up.
Oh, how can I try to explain? 'Cause when I do he turns away again It's always been the same, same old story From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away I know I have to go
All the times that I've cried Keepin' all the things I knew inside It's hard but it's harder to ignore it If they were right I'd agree But it's them they know, not me Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away I know I have to go
Cat Stevens - Father and Son
From the Beginning đą Underwater Love đąÂ Latest
Current Chapter: 'Here comes the Sun' from the beginning âśď¸ here Last Chapter: 'Who killed Jack?' from the beginning âśď¸ here
đ Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 23-28
#Here comes the sun#underwater love#vlad tepesz#jack callahan#vladimir tepesz#giga byte#skully#jack hates greg#woo ji ho#jeb harris#kiyoshi ito#axl the axolotl#goats#verdantis magical realm#Jack's blanket#brindleton bay#logan#sims 4 story#sims 4#simblr#ts4#simlit#sims story#the sims 4#ts4 story#sims 4 vanilla
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Clegan Olympics AU - "Pour Toujours"
Masterpost Read on AO3 - Sous Le Ciel de Paris
Author's note: This will be the last chapter of the main story, but it's longer than the others :). I will add an epilogue when I can get around to it, and I might continue doing drabbles when I have the time because I love them so much. For now, thank you so much to everyone who has read and supported this little AU throughout this Olympic season. It's been a lot of fun, and I hope you've fallen in love with these versions of the characters as much as I have.
Let's get on with some much needed damage control!
---
Believe it or not, John knows he fucked up. And he knows he fucked up bad.Â
So he doesnât really expect anyone to pick up when he calls Marge the day after the equestrian team was scheduled to land back stateside. He called Gale twice last night and got no answer. He knows he deserves that.Â
He also knows he deserves the irritated âWhat do you wantâ when Marge answers her phone, but heâs shocked to hear someoneâs voice on the other end of the line at all.Â
âI fucked up,â he stammers out.Â
She laughs mirthlessly. âOh you figured that out did you?â
He tries desperately to explain what happened even though he knows it sounds weak. Even though he knows it doesnât even begin to make up for the heartbreak he caused Gale. The heartbreak he caused himself. He tries to explain the way things ended in Paris, that he panicked, that he couldnât think or breathe, that he felt paralyzed by the way everything crashed down around him and he was out of energy to hold it up. He tries to tell her, âIt wasnât just Gale. I wasnât talking to anyone, Marge.â
Thatâs when she stops him, and he doesnât know if itâs because sheâs fed up with him and his stupidity or because those were the words that made her believe him. He knows the equestrians continued hanging out with the gymnasts long after he left. Heâs glad for that, really. Heâs happy that this ragtag bunch of Olympians found a lasting friendship with each other that would survive with or without him. He is. But he also wonders if they talked about him. He wonders what they said.
He wonders if he was simply the villain in this story, or if anyone came to his defense. He doesnât know which possibility hurts more.Â
âIâm not the one you need to apologize to,â she tells him. Sheâs angry, but he hears sympathy in her voice, and that gives him the smallest bit of hope for fixing the mess he left in his wake.Â
âHe wonât answer me.â Texts. Calls. Nothing.Â
âI know.â
Bucky nods and bites at his lip nervously. Of course Gale tells Marge about it. She probably knows every single thing that happened. Sheâs probably the one that had to pick up the pieces, listen to Gale wonder whether or not he should keep trying or simply let Bucky go.Â
âCan you tell me where to find him?â
âYou did to him exactly what he told you he was afraid of,â she accuses, instead of answering him. The frustration rises in her voice once again, and Bucky knows all he can do is sit there and hear it. Heâll take the blows, because theyâre entirely his to take. He knows he deserves worse.Â
âYou let him get close to you,â Marge admonishes him. âYou let him love you. God, John, he was so in love with you. Then when things got a little hard, you asked him for sex one more time and then you fucking left. You left, just like he was so worried you would, and you told him youâd call. But you didnât. You just fucking disappeared. Do you know what that did to him?â
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. Because he knows. He knows. And it breaks his heart to think of Gale hurting and confused and blindsided like that. It breaks his heart to know he caused it. âIâm sorry,â he whispers, but it comes out so quiet he doesnât know if she hears him.Â
âHe was sitting there, wondering what he did wrong, John. Wondering why he wasnât good enough. Not understanding why you left. Not understanding if any of it was fucking real.â Marge scoffs. âI saw you together. Even I thought you would be good for him. And then you fucked it all up in the blink of an eye.â
âI know,â Bucky says, stronger this time. He wonders if Marge can hear the way his voice is thick with regret, tight with pain, the way it shakes because he wants nothing more than to put the pieces back together like they were before he blew it all up in their faces. âI hate myself for it, Marge. I never meant to hurt him, I was just so⌠fuck. I⌠I love him, Marge. You have to believe me. I love him.â
âThen why did you do it?â
Why?
That question rings in Buckyâs ears, resounding through his empty apartment like a ghost knocking on his walls. Why did he do it?
Why?
He sighs and puts his head in his hand, because heâs trying to work through it himself. Heâs been trying to work through it ever since he left, and he keeps coming up short because thereâs just so much. Too much to put together into any coherent explanation. Too much to sort through in his anxious angry brain. And none of it is an excuse and yet all of it is a reason.Â
He opens his mouth to speak, to try to explain, but before he can, Marge cuts him off. âDonât answer that.â She sounds as defeated as he does, sad and angry and hurt. Tired. He wonders how much damage control sheâs had to run in the last week. It makes him feel sick. âIâm so pissed at you,â she all but growls. âBut I understand, too.â
Understand?
How can she understand when he barely does?
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut against tears that are threatening to break free. He has never in his life been a crying type, but heâs barely been sleeping. Heâs eating like shit, his knee is killing him with every move he makes, and his anxiety is at a peak. He misses Gale so much, and heâs filled with so much regret that it threatens to tear him in half, and he thinks that might be better than sitting here in this depressed sludge of his mind for one more moment.
He takes a deep breath in a pathetic attempt to control the nervous energy coursing through him. He glances at the medal boxes just sitting on his kitchen table. He hasnât figured out where to display them, yet, so they sit there and taunt him with the globally celebrated feats that he might never be capable of again. Sure, they called him the greatest male gymnast of all time. But if he goes out now, like this, heâll be nothing but a washed up has-been who stood on top of the world stage for one golden moment.Â
Beside one of the boxes is a photograph â a legitimate, printed photograph. The one of him and Gale on that last good night before his rings final, when they sat cuddled together on his bed in the Village with their friends gathered in celebration. They each have a medal around their necks, Galeâs arm wrapped around him, holding him close. They look so happy. Bucky doesnât think heâs ever been that happy in his entire life.Â
Curt, in dramatic fashion, had the photo printed when he came home after closing, and he left it here for Bucky to stare at, in hopes it would remind him of what he needed to do.Â
It worked.
âWhere can I find him?â Bucky asks again. He presses his fingers to his lips and sniffs quietly, hoping she canât hear it. âPlease, Marge. I need to find him.â
Marge hesitates for a long moment, and Bucky fully expects her to hang up on him. He wouldnât blame her. But then she sighs. He can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes, gathering all her mental strength. âIâm going to help you for one reason and one reason only,â she states. âHe has never been as happy as he was with you. So Iâll give you one chance to get your head out of your goddamn ass.â
She gives him an address that he scrambles to write down, not even giving him a chance to repeat it back, like sheâs decided that if he didnât bother to listen carefully enough the first time then heâs not worth the trouble after all. Heâs about to thank her profusely when she says, âCome today or not at all.â And she hangs up.Â
He calls Curt immediately.
Curtis Biddick is the only person that Bucky has interacted with since coming home other than their coach and their team doctor. And thatâs because Curt didnât give him a choice. Because Curt knows heâs a goddamn self-destructive idiot that needs to be defused every hour on the hour so he doesnât implode his own life. He stayed in Paris through closing, even though he did offer to go home with Bucky (to which Bucky said âfuck noâ because he was not about to take this time away from his best friend).Â
Curt texted and called him every day all the way from France, reminding him to eat or ice or heat or drink water. He sent him random shit to try to make him laugh, asked how he was doing, if heâd checked in with his therapist (to which he said no and Curt forced him to schedule an appointment right there and then). And if Bucky didnât answer his calls, heâd call their coach to see if Bucky was in the gym. If he was, heâd insist on talking to him, and if he wasnât heâd tell their coach to drop by Buckyâs apartment.
Bucky doesnât think he deserves that kind of concern either, and he told Curt as much. But Curt looked like he wanted to slap him in the face through their facetime call, and he told Bucky that he may be stupid, but he still deserves someone to care about him.
His therapist says the same thing.Â
Bucky canât really comprehend that. He doesnât see where in this equation he deserves any kindness.Â
Even so, Curt was the one to confront Bucky about what he did to Gale. He was the one to tell him how much it destroyed the young equestrian, leaving him adrift and despondent. âHe wasnât the same the rest of the week,â he said. âTried to hide it I think, but Benny said he was a wreck every night. Had to be dragged outta the room some days. Lost interest in a lotta things that he was used to doinâ with you, literally anything in the Village.âÂ
Curt was the one to emphasize the fact that everyone else was there to pick up the pieces of Buckyâs mess when he couldnât be bothered. And he was the one to yell and rage at Bucky and tell him he was being ridiculous and selfish and flat out stupid. When he arrived home, the first thing he did was stop by Buckyâs apartment, thrust that photograph at him, and say, âJohn Clarence Egan, quit the goddamn pouting and call your boyfriend right fucking now.âÂ
So Bucky did. He called Gale right there while Curt watched. Gale just didnât pick up.Â
And why would he? Why should he? After days of nothing, in what world would Gale be won over by a single phone call? Bucky may not really know what to do about this whole love thing, but he knows it doesnât come cheap.Â
So now, even though he doesnât owe Bucky a thing and Bucky probably owes him his life in exchange, Curt agrees to drop everything and drive Bucky the hour and a half to the address Marge gave him since the doctor wouldn't clear him to drive. âYou donât deserve me,â Curt tells him when he shows up at Buckyâs door for about the fifth time in two days. Bucky wholeheartedly agrees, and then Curt pulls him into a tight hug, and Bucky thinks maybe things will be okay.Â
He keeps zoning out on the way there, thinking about all of it. The event finals, the sprain, the doctor telling him he might be done. He thinks about Galeâs face when Bucky said he was leaving, the way it fell even as he tried not to show how much those words hurt. He thinks about Gale trying to make light of the situation, and Bucky just⌠didnât. He thinks about Gale texting him with less and less frequency because Bucky couldnât dig himself out of his hole. The guilt hangs over him like a storm cloud.Â
He thinks about Gale, and their time together in Paris, like a montage in a romance movie set to sappy music. Meeting him on the plane, seeing that beautiful blonde haired angel glance over at him so shyly. He thinks about the way they fell into each otherâs lives like they were always meant to be there, like they were made for one another. He thinks about nights spent walking together under the beautiful Paris sky. Taking silly pictures and videos everywhere they went. Standing with his arms wrapped around Gale on top of the Eiffel Tower, looking out over a city of lights.Â
He thinks about Galeâs arms around him, the feeling of his soft hair rubbing against his cheek when he buried his face in Buckyâs neck. He thinks about the sound of Galeâs heartbeat as they lay together in bed, little moments where nothing mattered but the two of them. He thinks about Galeâs little half smiles, and the times he let himself laugh so freely because of something stupid Bucky said. He thinks about the way heâd look at Bucky like he was an amusing puzzle he had to figure out, but also like he was the most beautiful thing heâd ever set eyes on.
He thinks about Gale until it makes him want to cry again, because what on Earth has he done?
âYou were right, Curt,â he says out of nowhere when theyâre about 15 minutes out. âI think I made the biggest mistake of my life.âÂ
Curt reaches over to pat his knee. He tells him that all they can do is try.Â
Bucky knows that none of it can justify what he did, but he was a complete mess after event finals.Â
âItâs time to start thinking about what comes next, John,â the doctor told him that day in Paris, after he won gold on rings. He won gold, and in the same breath he fucked up his knee again. He was told his career might be over. Again.
âWhat do you mean?â he asked, even though he knew full well what she meant and it made him feel physically sick, the world tilting off-kilter around him, the ground simply falling out from beneath his feet.
âWe have to see what the damage is, but we have to prepare for the possibility that your knee may never be strong enough to be competitive again. Iâm sorry, John.â
Bucky felt like he was wading through quicksand after that, a ticking time bomb strapped to his back, weighing him down, counting down the seconds until self-destruction, except he didnât know when that would be. He was getting kicked out of the Village anyways, since his events were over. The doctor told him he needed an MRI when he got back to the states, and he couldnât stand waiting for it. He couldnât stand the idea of trying to keep up with the energy of Paris when he couldnât even walk and this possibility of an end was looming over him everywhere he went.Â
He felt hollow.
Broken.
Scared.
He doesnât like to feel scared. He doesnât like to feel broken. He needed that MRI asap because he thought it was the only thing that could stop making him feel those things.Â
Looking around the Village that day, he saw all the athletes celebrating and walking and running and biking and laughing⌠and he was stumbling his way back to his building alone, on crutches, trying not to fall apart. His swollen knee throbbed with every hobbled step.Â
Who is he, if he isnât a gymnast? Whatâs left for him to do?
The pain made him feel sick and the anxiety made him feel sick and the world swirling around him with the bright colors of the Paris Olympics made him feel sick. And then there was Gale. He wanted to see Gale, needed to see Gale. But his brain was all fucked at that point and he couldnât think straight and he was so damn angry at everything.
At life. At the sport. At the doctors. At these other gymnasts and athletes who didnât have to face a premature end to their careers for the second time. But mostly, he was angry at himself. He hated himself more than anything else.
What is he worth, if heâs not a gymnast? To the world? To other people?
To Gale?
So many people before only wanted him for his body or for his fame. So they could say they slept with World Champion gymnast John Egan, or that they went out with an Olympic medalist, like it gave them bragging rights to fuck an athlete that they didnât actually bother to get to know. Like he was nothing more than a name and a piece of ass with a sweet smile and a few medals on his wall.Â
He went along with it for a while. And over time, he started to believe that maybe that was all he was worth after all. Maybe he didnât get that happy ending. Maybe he was married to his sport and everything else had to be secondary. Maybe he wasnât worth getting to know. Maybe he didnât deserve someone good, someone who loved him for him.Â
Maybe he deserved all the bullshit he got.Â
But thatâs the thing: he knows Gale isnât like that. He knows what Gale gave him was real and whole and for all the right reasons. He knows Gale cared about him in a way that no one else ever did. He knows it in his bones, better than heâs known anything in his entire life. Gale is the absolute antithesis of everything and everyone that spent years tearing Bucky down, and for the first time in Buckyâs life, he actually felt like he might get a happy ending after all.Â
But after finals, Bucky was so lost in his own twisted mind, his own past, his own pain, that it didnât matter what, rationally, he knew to be true.
As far as he could tell, if he wasnât a gymnast, he wasnât anything.Â
It broke his heart to tell Gale he was leaving. It broke his heart to say goodbye. He had to walk away as fast as he could so Gale wouldnât see him cry, hear the quiet sob that wrenched its way out of his chest. Because he didnât want to leave. It was the last thing he wanted. But heâd already decided he had to.
When he made it home, he went to the gym once a day to see the kids there, talk to his coach, and check in with the doctor. Other than those few hours, he didnât talk to a single person. He went quiet, just slipped away into the darkness. All his friends were still in Paris, living it up without him anyway. He answered Curtâs texts when he could stand the guilt, picked up the phone because he knew Curt would just send their coach to bang on his door if he didnât.Â
He stared at his phone every time he got a message from Gale, and he couldnât bring himself to answer.Â
And even now, he doesnât know why. Everything just hurt too damn much and nothing made sense and maybe, somewhere, he really, legitimately thought Gale would be better off without him. He thought he didnât deserve someone as beautiful and lovely as Gale Cleven. Because the truth is, not calling Gale hurt more than calling him would have, but maybe he deserved the hurt.Â
He stayed alone in his apartment for most of the day every day. Itâs a walk-up â not exactly easy to get in and out of on crutches. He ordered takeout for dinner every night because he couldnât be bothered to cook and didnât want to deal with the hassle of going out, and he didnât eat much other than that. Mostly, he moped around, agonizing over his past and his future and debating over whether or not he should call Gale or if heâd fucked it up too bad at that point. All he wanted was to fall asleep in Galeâs arms, but he knew he didnât deserve it.Â
He slept a lot anyways, avoiding the life that tried to continue on around him.Â
He got drunk one night as he watched the Olympics on TV and scrolled social media. Looking at all the posts about his re-injury and all the posts about his disappearance. All the posts wondering what happened and all the posts agonizing over a suspected âCleganâ breakup. He woke up sick the next morning. Didnât do that again because, if nothing else, he refused to dip back into the way he went off the rails after losing his sister.
His sister. Who would be so disappointed in him, if she could see what had transpired in the last several days. His sister, whose death he still blames himself for. The only person other than Curt who ever knew how to ground him. Who made him so afraid of losing people he loved, so afraid that the people he loved would leave.
He also knows sheâd smack him and tell him to get his act together.Â
The day of closing ceremonies, he got his MRI results back. A full MCL tear. Getting that news helped Bucky to think clearly for the first time since he came home. It provided perspective on the situation, gave him something solid to wrap his head around after days of everything floating about as a âwhat if, what then.â
An MCL tear. Of the outcomes that were possible, this one is among the most manageable. The team doctor remains concerned that his knee may never be stable enough to compete. But she also told him that, if he lets his knee heal and sticks with a strict recovery regimen, itâs possible heâll come back as strong as ever. Not guaranteed, but possible.Â
Having that news gave him something to focus on, something to hope for. It helped get his feet back on solid ground, shoved breath back into his lungs. It finally slowed the way his head had been spinning like a nausea-inducing carnival ride ever since he left Paris.
During closing ceremonies, he pulled out the Team USA outfit and put it on â that badass racing jacket that heâd really been looking forward to wearing as he walked with Gale and his friends into the Stade de France. He took a picture of himself in it to post on social media, saying he may be at home, but heâs still celebrating his country with pride. He even managed to watch the ceremony on TV, and he saw his friends walk out into the stadium in the exact same outfit. His whole team was there â Curt, Croz, Alex, Brady â along with Benny, Marge⌠and Gale.Â
He froze, leaning forward to get a better look at the screen, when he saw Gale walk out, the camera focused right on him. He looked like an angel as he smiled and laughed, his hair messily styled and his eyes bright. That racing jacket fit him perfectly, and Bucky knew they wouldâve been the hottest couple in that whole stadium if heâd stayed.Â
He wishes heâd stayed.Â
The whole world fell in love with Gale Cleven this summer, but not a single person fell as hard as Bucky did.Â
Bucky thought about texting Gale, telling him he looked great and he was glad to see him having fun. But then he realized how long it had been, how long heâd spent not texting because he couldnât get his shit together. And he realized that Gale looked legitimately happy out there without him, and maybe it was better for Bucky just to⌠not. Better for everyone to move on.
And then Curt came home and absolutely fumed at him over his stupidity. He told Bucky that Gale was heartbroken, that even though he made the best of the ceremony, he wanted nothing more than for Bucky to text. That he wanted nothing more than to make sure he was okay. That as much as he was hurt, he was so goddamn worried, too. And that bit of information made Bucky shatter again.
He fucked it all up, and he is painfully aware of all of it. He regrets every second. Not that any of it is an excuse. But thatâs what happened.
âBucky?âÂ
Bucky realizes that Curt is saying his name, and he blinks and shakes his head, trying to snap out of it. He realizes that heâs sitting in the passenger seat of Curtâs car, gripping his good knee so tightly with his fingers that his knuckles are bright white. He looks at Curt.
âWeâre here,â Curt says. He motions forward, through the windshield, and Bucky follows his gaze.Â
Theyâre parked in front of a massive horse barn with a sign out front that reads Harding Eventing. Underneath, in smaller lettering, it says A U.S. Equestrian Facility. Lush green fields stretch out across the Earth on all sides, lined with black wooden double fences. To their left is another barn structure with windows lining the walls from end to end. The doors are wide open to reveal an indoor arena, a few horses and riders working inside. Beyond that is a perfectly maintained outdoor arena, enclosed by a low white fence with a blue judgeâs box at the far end. Behind where theyâve parked the car, thereâs a cross country course that stretches out further than Bucky can see.
The farm is buzzing with activity, horses being ridden around the grounds or walked in and out of the barn, grounds staff doing maintenance work on fences or gardens, people shuttling equipment inside from the trailers that had yet to be fully unpacked after arriving home from the airport yesterday. Bucky spots Kenny, carrying a covered dressage saddle inside that he presumes is Galeâs.Â
Bucky opens the passenger side door and steps out onto the gravel driveway, taking it all in with a deep breath that smells like hay and sweet grain. Curt comes around from the other side and hands him his crutches.
âJohn Egan,â a vaguely familiar â and very displeased â voice calls. âThe heartbreaker.â
Bucky looks up in time to see Neil Harding sauntering over to them from the indoor ring, a scowl on his face. Bucky tries to hold his head high and stand up straight, but the crutches make it difficult. He doesnât smile in greeting, because heâs sure Chick knows everything.
He would be right. âGive me one reason I shouldnât kick you off my property right now,â Chick says. He stops in front of Bucky, standing tall with his arms crossed over his chest in a way Bucky canât. It makes Bucky feel small for once in his life. Chick glances at his brace and crutches, but thereâs not a lick of sympathy on his face. Not that he was expecting any.Â
âMarge told me to come,â he replies.
Chick works his jaw as he stares at him, then glances at Curt. âGaleâs not here. Youâre gonna have to wait.â
Bucky frowns. âWhere is he?â
Chick motions to the woods beyond the edge of the farm property. âSomewhere out there. Been gone all morning.â He narrows his eyes at Bucky, his voice pitching low. âThatâs what he does, you know. When heâs upset.âÂ
Bucky nods, because Gale told him that before. Told him that when he canât stand the world anymore, when everything hurts too much, he takes his horse, and he goes out into the wild unknown. Just like he did as a kid growing up in the mountains. Just him and his horse and the Earth beneath their feet. No worries. No pain. Just the breath in his lungs and the sounds of the woods.
Heâs been out there all day because of Bucky.
âHow long has he been gone?â
Harding checks his watch. Itâs 1pm. âAbout five hours now.â
Oh. âDo you know when heâll be back?â
Harding shakes his head and shrugs. âNever know with him. You can ask Marge. She might have an idea.â He points into the barn and watches as Bucky and Curt make their way towards it. âJohn?â He says. Bucky turns back around, resting his weight on one crutch. âIâll let him decide, because I know how much he loved you. But know that if I had it my way, you wouldnât step foot on this property again.â
Bucky nods tersely, meeting Chickâs gaze. Heâll fight for Gale as much as he can, but in the end, if Gale doesnât want him, heâll go. No matter how much it hurts.Â
He turns to go into the barn.Â
Marge is standing against the door of one of the stalls in the middle of the long aisleway, chatting with someone on the other side. She looks up when she hears the tell-tale clomping of Buckyâs crutches on the rubber-matted floor, and she walks down the aisle to meet them halfway. She offers him a weak smile, and he feels relieved to have someone here not acting like they hate him, even though he wouldnât blame her if she did.Â
âHey, Marge!â Curt says excitedly, walking up behind Bucky. âLong time no see.â As in, a couple days.Â
Marge smiles a bit brighter at Curt and pulls him in for a hug. Then she glances over at Bucky, and she sighs, rolling her eyes. âCome here,â she says. He swallows and frowns, looking at her skeptically, but she holds her arms out, waiting, and he hops forward. Awkwardly, he wraps one arm around her while trying not to hit her with the crutch. She doesnât seem to care, though. She hugs him tight and whispers in his ear, âIâm pissed at you. But are you doing okay?â
âCould be better,â he whispers back, and she rubs his upper back comfortingly before letting him go.Â
When she steps away, Bucky realizes that Benny has stepped out of the stall sheâd been standing next to, and heâs watching Marge hug him with distaste. Bucky nods to him. âBenny.â
Benny glares back, looking like he wants to say something but he doesnât know what. Or like he wants to generally stab John in the neck. Who can really say. Instead, he looks at Curt. âHey! Whatâs up, man?â
I deserve that, Bucky thinks.
Marge takes pity on him, though and pulls him aside so Benny and Curt can talk. âGaleâs been out all day,â she tells him. âBrooding.â
âI know,â Bucky says quietly. âChick told me.â Then a terrifying thought pops into his head. âHow do you know if heâs safe?â
For half a second, the entire planet is going up in flames around him. If he loses one more person he loves because he was caught up in his own shitâŚ
Marge puts a hand on his shoulder, though, seeing his panic. She pulls out her phone and opens an app, waving it at Bucky. âWe have a ride tracker. We turn it on when one of us goes out on the trails. It tells me his location, and it senses if he falls or something so I can get him help.â
âHas that ever happened?â Bucky asks nervously.Â
âOnce,â Marge shrugs. âHe was fine, though. Fell off into the creek and broke a rib.â That⌠doesnât make Bucky feel better. Marge points to Galeâs location on the app. âHeâs heading home. Iâd say 30 minutes, an hour at most, if he doesnât decide to wander off somewhere else.â
â
Marge is kind enough to show Bucky around the immediate farm area â the barn and the indoor and outdoor arenas where they train and host the occasional event or dressage show. She even takes him into the tack room. âBasically that whole corner is Galeâs,â she says, motioning to a collection of saddle and bridle racks bolted into the wall in three-high columns. Thereâs two dressage saddles, two jump saddles, and even a western saddle. One of the racks sits empty, awaiting Galeâs return. Next to a cabinet full of saddle pads, polo wraps, and support boots, thereâs an assortment of ribbons hanging on the wall, ranging in color and size, many of them pretty blue first places.Â
âWhoa.â Bucky looks around, eyes wide at the amount of no doubt expensive equipment, meticulously organized and near spotless. âI didnât know he had all this.â
âNot that you deserve to know,â Marge says behind him. âBut Chick took Gale in when we were in college. Gave him a place to live in exchange for farm work. Horses to learn on. Prospects to train. Everything he could need to succeed. We all ride here, but the place belongs to the two of them.â
Bucky runs a hand across one of the dressage saddles, which he recognizes from that day Gale rode for him. âIâm glad he has someone like that.â A father figure. Someone to learn from and go to for help, someone who can show him the way after he spent so long fearing his own father and having to figure this life out on his own. No wonder Chick looked like he wanted Buckyâs head on a pike.Â
As he looks at all of the ribbons on the wall, Bucky notices that, stuck to the cabinet of saddle pads and wraps beside him, thereâs a number of photographs. All of them include Gale and one horse or another. One picture, newly taped up in the middle, is from Paris: Gale, Whiskey⌠and John. Together. Gale has a medal around his neck, and heâs laughing as Whiskey tries to play with it and Bucky kisses him on the cheek. It was taken by Kenny right after Gale's final jumping round.Â
Bucky lightly rubs a thumb over the photo, and Marge watches him, but she doesnât say a word about it. Galeâs only been back for a day. And yet he chose to stick this up there, where he can see it every time he gets his tack. Even after what Bucky did to him.Â
Bucky feels so guilty, and at the same time, he feels butterflies in his stomach.Â
When he steps back again, Marge starts to ask if he wants to see the beginning of the cross-country course, but then she looks at his crutches and thinks better of it. She asks if he needs to sit, but he says no even though his knee is killing him.Â
So instead she takes him to Whiskeyâs stall, which is marked with a brass plate engraved with the name âHundred Proof.â Thereâs two pretty Olympic ribbons hanging on the outer wall along with a framed photo of Gale and Whiskey in front of Versailles. Someone, presumably Marge, taped two cut-out paper Olympic medals beside the ribbons, since Galeâs actual medals are no doubt being kept somewhere safe.Â
The mare seems to recognize Bucky, the only other living thing here that doesnât hate his guts right now, and heâs grateful for it. She stretches her head through the open top half of her stall door and nuzzles his arm, making him laugh and apologize for not bringing muffins this time.Â
âGale didnât take her out with him?â he asks.
Marge shakes her head. âThey all get a couple weeks off after the games. And Gale never takes her out in the woods for too long anyway. He wishes he could, but he canât risk her getting hurt out there.â
Bucky tries to reach his hand up to scratch the mareâs nose without losing his balance on the crutches. When itâs just a bit too precarious, he carefully leans one of his crutches against the wall so he has free motion with one arm. Whiskey bumps his shoulder, as if to say, What the fuck did you do?
Bucky smiles sadly and closes his eyes as he pets the side of her face. âIâm sorry, girl,â he whispers. âIâm so sorry.â He thinks about Gale, and the way he always goes to the horses when heâs upset. The way he tells them everything.
He wonders how much Whiskey knows, how much heâs told her, how many tears have been cried into that soft mane because of him. Or was Bucky not worth Galeâs tears?
Everyone keeps saying Gale was heartbroken when he left. Is that true?
Marge lets him stand there for a good while, just petting this horse that he at one point hoped would be a permanent fixture in his life. Gale once told him that horses are the best therapy, that they can absorb everything youâre feeling and just leech the pain away by their presence alone. It does make Bucky feel better, even as he feels the guilt enveloping him. Iâm sorry, he thinks, over and over and over.
Then Marge tells him, âHeâs back.â
They leave Whiskeyâs stall and walk back out to the front of the barn, where sure enough, Bucky can see a horse and rider coming up the path from the woods beyond the outdoor ring. At first glance, he wouldnât have known it was Gale, but as they come closer, a silhouette becoming real, he realizes he knows the set of those shoulders, the motion of those hips as the horse walks towards them.
Gale isnât on a massive warmblood decked out in English tack. And heâs not dressed in the riding clothes Bucky is used to seeing him in â the tight riding pants and polo shirt cinched with a belt. Shiny black tall boots and a sleek Charles Owen helmet. Instead, heâs on a smaller gray horse in western tack with a saddle bag strapped to the back of the saddle, a water bottle jammed into the front pocket. Heâs dressed in faded jeans, brown cowboy boots, and a white t-shirt that clings to his sweaty upper body. AÂ black cowboy hat hides his face in shadow.
In any other circumstance, Bucky would be absolutely drooling over this look.
Even through the shadow, though, he can see the way Galeâs eyes narrow, the way he hesitates when he sees him standing there with Marge. He can see the moment the surprise shifts to anger. When he hops down off the horse and pulls the reins over her head, Bucky waves awkwardly anyways.Â
Gale looks at Marge. âYou couldâve asked.â
She crosses her arms defensively. âYou disappeared for the entire morning. He called.â
He looks at Bucky. âYou called her?â
Bucky nods and opens his mouth to say something, but Gale puts a hand up to stop him. âI donât wanna hear it, John.â
Bucky feels the little bit of hope that had been holding his heart together crack apart again. âGale, I-â
âJohn, please.â
He hears the pain in Galeâs voice, and it kills him. He stands there, watching as this man heâs in love with walks right on past without a second glance, leading the little gray horse towards the barn. âWait, can youâŚâ But Gale wonât hear it, just keeps on walking.Â
âGale, please.â
Nothing.Â
âI love you!â Bucky blurts out into the peaceful quiet of the farm, because if nothing else, he at least needs to speak that into the world. Gale stops, the mare halting beside him. Bucky goes on. âI love you so fucking much, Gale. And I-â
Gale takes his hat off and whips around. His face is angrier than Buckyâs ever seen in the few weeks theyâve known each other, and he points the hat at Bucky. âDonât say that, John,â he warns. The mare jumps a bit beside him at the sudden motion, and the few people nearby try to act like theyâre not watching them. Watching this train wreck, wondering whatâs about to happen. âYou donât get to come here and say that to me. You donât.â
âGale,â Marge says calmly, stepping towards him.Â
Gale turns on her, still full of anger. But something in his expression fades into pure hurt. âWhy did you let him come here?â
Marge reaches out and pushes away the hat that heâs pointing at her, and Bucky watches him deflate the littlest bit. Gale takes a deep breath as he puts the hat back on his head, and he puts his hand on the mareâs shoulder. He mutters an apology to her and strokes her neck, calming her down.
âCause youâre both idiots,â Marge tells him. She looks at Bucky when she says it, too. âYouâre both being stupid. I know he hurt you, Gale. Iâm mad as hell at him for it. But he was hurting, too, and you know that.â
Bucky⌠didnât expect that. At all.
âHe left,â Gale says quietly. He wonât look at Bucky. He wonât even look at Marge. He looks only at his horse.
Marge puts a hand on his shoulder. âHe came back.â
âHe threw me out like a piece of trash. Like he never gave a damn about me at all.â
Bucky might actually cry right now. He takes a deep breath and swallows against the lump in his throat to keep it from happening.
âI think you should hear him out,â Marge suggests. âPlease?â
Gale glances back over at Bucky, who shuffles his feet and winces when he trips on a piece of gravel, sending a burst of pain through his knee that heâs momentarily worried will cause the tears to fall. Galeâs mouth does a weird thing where it kind of wants to smile at Buckyâs clumsiness, but he wonât let it, forcing it to frown instead. âFine. Itâll have to wait until I get Lucy taken care of, though.â
Bucky nods hurriedly. âThatâs fine,â he insists, cringing at the way his voice goes all high and desperate.
Gale nods once, turns on his heel, and starts heading for the barn again. Bucky scrambles to follow, tripping over the gravel on his crutches, and if Gale notices, he just keeps right on going without so much as looking over his shoulder to see if Buckyâs okay. Marge reaches out to steady him instead. âIâm gonna go meet Benny and Curt in the ring.â She points to the outdoor, where Benny is walking around in a circle on a horse that Bucky doesnât recognize, chatting with Curt, who stands in the middle. âDonât⌠say anything stupid.â
Bucky holds back a scoff. Heâs the king of saying something stupid.
By the time he finally manages to hobble into the barn, Gale already has the gray mare, Lucy, hooked up to the cross-ties in the wash stall at the end of the aisle, bridle replaced with a leather halter. Heâs heaving the saddle onto a saddle rack attached to the wall outside the wash stall. The saddle bags lay in a pile on the floor beneath it, empty water bottle discarded and tipped over on the rubber matting. Â
Bucky leans against the wall, peering into the wide open wash stall with its temperature-controlled hose, overhead heating lamp, and cabinets full of supplies. These horses really are living in luxury. He looks at Gale again, taking in this rugged western cowboy version of him. âDidnât know you still rode western, too.â
âMmm,â Gale nods as he runs his hands all over Lucyâs body, checking for anything abnormal. âMore comfortable for long rides.â
âYou really just⌠go out there for hours at a time?â
âYep.â
âDonât you need food? Water?â
Gale motions to the saddle bags. âSnacks. Horse treats. Water. First aid. We take a lot of breaks, too. Wade in the creek to cool off.â
Bucky stares at Galeâs hat, which is admittedly a really great look on him. âShouldnât you wear a helmet?â
Gale doesnât so much as glance at him. âYou donât get to lecture me about safety.â
He walks around Lucy to grab the hose and adjust the water temperature. He sprays his hand first, waiting for it to get cold enough in this summer heat. Then he aims the stream of water at the mare, washing off the sweat and the dirt from the trails. He ignores Bucky as he does so, working his way down one side from Lucyâs neck to her back to her hind end. Then he moves to the other side to do the same. Bucky watches his every move.
âSo, whoâs this?â He asks.
Gale finally glances over at him, if only for a second, and it makes Buckyâs breath catch when those pretty eyes meet his. âHer name is Lucy. Lucy In The Sky. Sheâs an off-track thoroughbred. Little side project for me.â
âSide project?â
Gale frowns, like Bucky is a pesky fly that wonât leave him alone. He really doesnât want to be dealing with him right now, but he doesnât have a good reason not to answer questions about the horse, at least. He sighs as he wets a rag and starts using it to wipe the sweat off Lucyâs face, which she wholeheartedly protests against by throwing her head up higher in the air. He shushes her and gently guides her nose back down as he wipes around her ears. âShe came through a local rescue after she came off the track last year. Iâm entering her in the Thoroughbred Makeover in October. A competition for retraining retired racehorses. Weâre doing eventing, but sheâs been good with western tack, too. Been taking advantage of that I guess.âÂ
Before Bucky can say anything, he goes on. And thatâs okay. Buckyâs heart feels light when he sees the way Gale smiles a little bit, playfully rubbing at Lucyâs nose the same way he does with Whiskey. âSheâll never be Olympic level. Sheâs already seven years old and needs too much work. But sheâs a good girl. Sound mind. Adaptable. Thatâs why I take her on the trails. Sheâll go far for the right person.â
âNot you?â Bucky asks.Â
Gale shrugs. âWeâll see. Thinking of selling her. A lot of the makeover horses are trained to sell. But I donât know if I can bring myself to.â Not after Apollo, goes unsaid.Â
Bucky holds tight to the sound of Galeâs voice, feeling calm and safe just listening to him talk even though he knows, if he doesnât manage to make this right, it might be the last time he ever hears that beautiful sound. They continue in silence after that, Gale using a sweat scraper to get all the excess water off the mare while Bucky stands there and bites his tongue. Finally, unable to hold it in anymore, he sighs and says, âGale, I-â
âNot yet,â Gale cuts him off.
Bucky nods and bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to bounce or twitch with the anxiety running through him.
Itâs another ten minutes before Gale so much as speaks to him. Kenny comes by and asks if Gale wants him to take Lucy to her stall, but he shakes his head. âCan you get Whiskey ready for the farrier?â he asks instead. Kenny nods. Then he waves awkwardly to Bucky, who awkwardly waves back, and he slips away without making eye contact. Because apparently everyone here knows that something bad happened last week in Paris.Â
Gale walks Lucy back to her stall without another word, and Bucky follows. Itâs the stall next to Whiskeyâs, where Kenny is picking the other horseâs hooves out, and the two mares nuzzle each other as Lucy walks past. Once inside Lucyâs stall, Gale grabs some colorful bell boots that he straps over her hooves to protect her shoes, then sprays her all over with the bottle of fly spray hanging on the door.Â
With one final scratch on the forehead, Gale tells Lucy to be good, closes the door, and he walks away again, putting a hand out to signal that Bucky should wait. He comes back a minute later with Lucyâs saddle and a small bucket of water. After he sets the bucket on the floor, he smoothly flips up another saddle rack by Lucyâs stall and slides the saddle onto it. A western saddle is a whole different beast from the English saddles Bucky saw in Paris. Bigger and more ornate, with patterns carved and stitched into the smooth leather.Â
Gale looks at Bucky as he points to the tack box in front of the stall. âCan you open that up and grab the saddle soap sitting in the tray?â
Bucky nods, glad to be helpful, and does as heâs asked. When he opens the box, thereâs a small tray laying across the top filled with various treats, grooming supplies, clippers, and whatever else Bucky canât identify. Beneath it is all sorts of equipment. Lead ropes, a folded saddle pad, rolled up polo wraps, a grooming kit, a collection of various medical supplies for both horse and rider, a helmet. It takes a second to locate the little jar of saddle soap in the tray, but he does. He hands it to Gale, who unscrews the lid to reveal a small sponge, which he dunks in the water bucket before rubbing it around in the soap. He sets to work scrubbing the saddle.
âI threw some jolly ranchers in there this morning,â he says. âYou can give them each one if theyâre not melted.â
Bucky canât hide his amusement, not that Galeâs looking at him. Muffins. Sour patch kids. Now jolly ranchers. Gale adds, âWhiskey likes green. Lucy likes red.â Because of course they have favorite flavors.Â
Gale reaches a hand towards him, making a grabbing motion. Bucky rolls his eyes. âColor?â
âBlue.â
Bucky searches for the candy in the tray, picking out the correct colors and unwrapping them. He drops the blue one in Galeâs waiting hand. Both mares stick their heads out of their stalls when they hear the crinkling, and Bucky smiles as they pluck them out of his palm, lips twitching. First Lucy, then Whiskey, who shoves him in the shoulder again after sheâs done. Kenny chastises her as he clips a lead rope to her halter. Bucky thinks he sees Gale smile the littlest bit, too.Â
The groom opens the stall door and leads Whiskey out, down the aisle to the other end of the barn, and Bucky just stands there quietly on his crutches, watching Gale work. After a minute, Gale pauses, shifting the candy to one side of his mouth and biting down until it breaks in half. He looks back up at Bucky and motions to the box in exasperation. âYou can sit down, Bucky. I know youâre in pain. I can see it all over your face.â
Bucky doesnât know if he should smile or frown, but he nods. He closes the box and sits down, sighing in relief now that he can get the crutches out from under his arms and rest his legs â one in pain because itâs ruined, the other in pain from compensating.
He thinks about the fact that Gale just called him âBucky,â not âJohn.â He wonders if that means anything.
Theyâre silent for a while again before Gale says, âI trusted you, John.â He doesnât look up from the saddle, but his hand slows down as he says it, like admitting that fact takes up too much bandwidth in his brain.
âI-â
âNo.â Gale puts a hand up. He scrubs at the saddle hard with the other, making soapy water dribble down across the leather. âIâm gonna talk this time. And youâre gonna listen.â
Bucky nods, shutting his mouth.
âI trusted you. I donât take that lightly. I told you I wasnât a fling kinda guy. I told you I didnât just wanna mess around. I told you everything, John. Maybe I was naive to do that. But I⌠I thought we had something. I thoughtâŚâ he shakes his head, and the hand holding the sponge drops away from the saddle. He lets the sponge fall into the bucket of water as he stands up straight again, hands on his hips. He takes the cowboy hat off his head and sets it on the box next to Bucky, and he wipes his arm across his sweaty forehead.Â
He looks Bucky in the eye. âYou said you were in love with me on national television. And then you left. You fuckinâ ghosted me. Do you know how much that hurt?â
âI know,â John says, his voice rushed and tight, panic rising up in him again as heâs faced with the very real possibility that he broke this beyond repair.
âYou ended up being exactly who I wanted to avoid,â Gale says sadly, and that⌠that is a knife to the heart.
Bucky shakes his head, biting his lip as he takes a quivering breath. He reaches a hand out before he thinks better of it, and it drops lamely back into his lap. âNo,â he says. âNo. Iâm not. At least, I swear I donât want to be. Buck, Iâm so sorry. I canât tell you how⌠God, it was the biggest mistake of my life, leaving you that way. I knew it when I left, but I felt like I had to. I have felt awful every single day, butâŚâ
He runs a hand over his face, frustrated at the way his eyes feel wet again and his face feels hot. He looks at Gale desperately, and Gale stares back, waiting. So Bucky takes a deep breath, and he tells him everything.
He tells him about the doctor in Paris. About the potential for his career to be over. He tells him everything that was going through his mind then, the fear and the worry and the dread and the self-hatred. Self-deprecating words pounding around in his brain, screaming at him that everything was over. He tells him about going home, feeling sick with anger and regret, and the misery he felt every time he so much as thought about Paris or the Olympics. He tells him how he ghosted everyone, hiding away in his apartment. He tells Gale how he thought about him every single day, wondering if he should call or if it was too late. He tells him about Curt finally trying to talk some sense into him.
He tells him how much all of it hurt, and he couldnât process any of it anymore. Couldnât hold himself up. Couldnât live under the expectations and the pity of a sport so focused on John Egan and his comeback. He couldnât cope with the fear of losing Gale, along with everything and everyone else, so he pushed him away instead.Â
âIâm not⌠the most emotionally well-rounded,â he admits meekly at the end. âI⌠I blew it all up, huh? Thatâs what I do, Gale. I self-destruct. Ask Curt, heâs been dealinâ with me for years.â
Some of the fight has gone out of Galeâs stance in the time it took for Bucky to beg and plead and sort through all the fucked up emotions heâs been feeling in the last week. Bucky feels like heâs been talking for hours; he doesnât know how long itâs actually been. A good ten minutes at least. âI wanted to be there for you,â Gale says. âI loved you.â
Bucky nods and rubs a hand over his face. He tries not to get stuck on the word âloved,â past tense. Not present. âI know. Now. I couldnât really understand that before.â
âI was a wreck after you left.â
Bucky looks up at that, and he feels a wave of emotions crash into him when he sees the pained expression on Galeâs face. Pity and sadness and betrayal. But also love.
âThe others held me up. I tried to have a good time, and I did. But I⌠I was a mess. Couldnât think straight. Marge and Benny probably had to pull me up off the ground a few times. Whiskey probably got sick of me cryinâ on her.â Gale looks embarrassed to admit it, and it pains Bucky to hear it. But heâs glad that Gale is telling him, in a way. âAnd even then,â Gale chuckles, shaking his head as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. âEven then, I just kept worryinâ about you. Hopinâ you were okay. All alone here.â
Regret sinks deeper into Buckyâs chest. He knows he shouldâve called. Shouldâve at least told Gale he was alright.
Except he wasnât. Neither of them were.Â
Because the moment they met, they became parts of a whole. And Bucky went and ripped them apart in a way that would never let them be whole on their own again.
Bucky scoots over on the tack box, dragging his crutches around to lean them against the wall of the stall beside him. Gale hesitates, but he grabs his hat, puts it back on, and sits down. Their shoulders press together. They can hear each otherâs breathing. Uncertain. They both stare at the floor below, avoiding eye contact again. âI really, really didnât mean to hurt you,â Bucky says quietly.
âYou told me you didnât know how to do this,â Gale recalls. âRelationships.â
âThatâs not an excuse,â Bucky insists. He never thought it was an excuse, even when he couldnât get his head on straight.Â
âNo,â Gale agrees. âBut you have to learn somehow.â
Bucky glances over at Galeâs knee, where his hand is resting, palm up, waiting. He looks up at Galeâs face â the way heâs biting nervously at his lower lip like heâs the one that needs forgiving â then back at his hand. Carefully, Bucky twines their fingers together, and he closes his eyes in pure, unfiltered relief at the feeling of Gale.
âI donât deserve your forgiveness,â he thinks aloud.Â
Gale shrugs. âThatâs not for you to decide.â Then he admits, âI missed you at closing. We all did. Even other athletes kept askinâ me about you.â
âLooked like you were having fun.â All the athletes seemed psyched for the celebrations at the end of the Games, decked out in their closing ceremony uniforms, many of them wearing their medals. All the countries were hanging out and having their picture-perfect moment together in the Stade de France, celebrating each other with breathtaking musical and dance performances to wow the world. It was a whole massive party over there, Paris style. Bucky is still disappointed that he made himself miss it, but he isnât sure if being there would have been better or not.
Would Gale and his friends and the magic of Paris have pulled him out of his little mental storm cloud? If heâd stayed?
Gale shrugs. âIt was fun. We had a great time.â Then he looks at Bucky, and Bucky looks back. Blue on blue. âI still wished you were there every second.â
âI wished I was, too.â
Gale swallows and nods, letting that sit. Then he motions to Buckyâs screwed up knee with his free hand. âWhatâs the verdict?â
âMCL tear.â Bucky presses lightly on the joint, feeling the sharp twinge of pain. âShouldnât need surgery this time.â He sees the question in Galeâs eyes when he says that, and he smiles weakly, but it doesnât hold. âIf Iâm lucky, and if I behave myself, itâll probably heal well enough to keep competing. Big ifs, but Iâm gonna give it all Iâve got.â
âGive it enough time to heal this time,â Gale advises.Â
Bucky nods. âI plan to. Iâve got four years this time instead of one.â
Gale hesitates, flicking his eyes away, then back to Bucky, away again. âI want you in LA with me,â he finally says. âWeâve both got more medals to win.â
Buckyâs heart swells, and he smiles, for real this time. âI want that, too.â
When Galeâs eyes find his once more, he squeezes Buckyâs hand. âCan you say it again?âÂ
Bucky furrows his brow. âSay what?â
âThatâŚâ Gale bites his lip. âThat youâŚâ
Buckyâs smile goes crooked in that cute, dorky way that Gale first fell in love with. He reaches his free hand up to take Galeâs hat off his head, so he can see those perfect blue eyes. Then he strokes back the strands of sweaty hair stuck to Galeâs forehead, and he rubs his thumb across his jaw. âGale Cleven,â he says, taking a deep breath. âI love you. I love you so much. Je tâaime pour toujours.â
Gale quirks an eyebrow, surprised at the french. âPour toujours? Thatâs a long time.â
Bucky squeezes his hand. âI will love you for as long as you let me. If youâll take me back.âÂ
Galeâs eyes flutter closed, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. When he opens his eyes again, Bucky knows for certain that everything is going to be okay. Galeâs fingers play with the soft curls behind his ear, and he looks at him like no one has ever looked at Bucky before â with deep, dedicated love. âFor forever?â he asks.Â
Bucky nods. âPour toujours,â he repeats. His pronunciation is a bit off, even though Gale can tell he spent a long time practicing, and that makes Gale smile.
âEver the drama queen,â he teases.
âI mean it, doll,â Bucky insists. He leans in and kisses Gale gently, softly. With love and care. A promise. Everything that the kiss before he left Paris wasnât. When he pulls away, he says, âMeeting you on that plane was the best thing that ever happened to me.â
Gale rests his forehead against Buckyâs, then he untangles their fingers and stands up. Bucky watches, worried for a moment, but Gale extends his hand towards him. Bucky takes it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Gale steadies him, making sure his knee is okay, and then he closes any remaining distance between them. He wraps his arms around Bucky, nuzzling against his neck like the shape of it was made just for him. Buckyâs hands instinctively move down to hold Galeâs waist, like they belong there. And they both just rest against each other, holding each other up. Putting each other back together, right in the middle of one of US Equestrianâs greatest training barns.
The summer heat is suffocating, and it smells like hay and grain. Gale is sweaty against him. Birds chirp in the overhead rafters. Lucy is stretching her head out as far as she can over her stall door in an attempt to nuzzle at Buckyâs hair, and she knocks his crutches over in the process, momentarily scaring them all. Bucky can hear voices and the clip-clop of hooves as Curt, Benny, and his horse walk back into the barn. But he and Gale stay right where they are, and Bucky wouldnât have it any other way.
âI love you, too,â Gale whispers against Buckyâs shoulder. âIâm still mad at you, just so you know. But I love you so much it hurts.â
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and buries his nose in Galeâs soft hair. âIt doesnât have to hurt anymore. Iâm here. Iâm not leaving. I promise.âÂ
He wants to stand here and hang on tight forever.Â
Pour toujours.
And for the first time, he really, fully believes that forever with Gale Cleven is exactly what he wants. Not only that, but itâs something he deserves. Itâs something they both deserve. And itâs something that they can have, if they choose.
Paris was only their beginning. This, right here, is the start of their future.
#I love them so much#Bucky is an idiot but he's trying#best friend of the year award goes to Curt#Marge is a close second#Whiskey is a queen#bet you didn't expect it to be resolved this fast#but this was always meant to be more lighthearted#than to the moon and back#love you guys#hope you've enjoyed this little au#clegan olympics au#clegan#mota#masters of the air#john egan#gale cleven#buck x bucky#clegan fic#bucky egan#buck cleven#mota fic
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