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bamboozledbird · 5 months ago

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IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU // Chapter 1 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski, Reader (You) Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.8k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), descriptions of burning, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. For years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because you feel like something halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter.

You can’t wash the smell of hospital out of clothes, not really. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Scott’s new-found abilities and the murky world they’ve been dragged into is making it pretty damn hard to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real and old family skeletons rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is how long will they want to? Chapter Summary: After your annual interrogation with Sheriff Stilinski, you meet his son who turns out to be very handy with jumper cables and incoherent babbling.

A/N: Does this look familiar? It should lmao. I gave into the peer pressure. All the messages and requests were too powerful. Here is a reader version of my ofc season 1 fic. Obviously some things have been removed to get rid of specific names/descriptions, so you want to read the full thing you can read the og version and check me out on ao3 (dork_knight)! For the sake of not clogging tags, I'll probably just do my reader version on tumblr and the full oc lore version on ao3 from now on. xx

Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

Before your mother’s death, you would have picked fire. Every single time.

You never liked the cold; never really had to get used to it growing up in central California—but the crux of your argument, the twisted logic behind it all, was that most burn victims died from suffocation before they felt the flames. A small mercy, really, in the face of unspeakable tragedy.

In the end, however, statistics were just numbers, your mother didn't die from smoke inhalation, and there was no mercy in burying a parent before you were old enough to have children of your own. Nothing ever ended poetically off the page. Death was just death, and it was always ugly. Someone should really tell that to Robert Frost, you mused, biting at a raw hangnail.

The medical examiner said the actual cause of death was pulmonary edema; at least, that was his best guess based on the state of the body. He didn’t say that she felt everything, her skin peeling back into her flesh, her flesh liquefying into fuel, her joints flexing into contorted pleas until the fire incinerated her last nerve ending. He didn’t have to; you connected those dots all on your own. You’d been twelve at the time, not an imbecile.

“I’m sorry to drag you through this all again.”

You flitted your eyes away from the flickering lightbulb above Sheriff Stilinski’s head and met his gaze; it was nauseatingly sympathetic. Your responding shrug was a small, little thing—more like a twitch in practice, “Not your fault.”

Your yearly visits to Sheriff Stilinski’s office were solely your father’s doing, even if no one wanted to admit it to your face. Most mayors would use their political power to get their child out of a police station, not into it, but perhaps he stopped being your dad somewhere between the funeral and now.

“If you could start—”

“From the beginning,” you smoothed your thumb in small circles over the armrest of your chair, attentively tracing patterns into the polished wood, “I know.” This was, after all, the fourth anniversary of your first interrogation. You’d become somewhat of an expert at being a useless witness. You picked at your uneven cuticles before continuing, “Mom put me to bed around 10:00—which was kind of late for a school night, honestly, but she let me stay up to finish another chapter anyway.” The right corner of your mouth twitched for a brief moment, “Nancy Drew: Password to Larkspur Lane. I told her that forcing someone to go to sleep in the middle of a mystery was specifically forbidden in Geneva Protocol II.” Your mom had been far too indulgent of your lip on most occasions, but that night she didn’t smile at your snarky aside. She let you finish the chapter because she was too tired to argue; you could tell. At the time, you saw it as a victory. Now, it kept you up at night, the drooping lines of your mother’s mouth spilling over the pages of whatever book you were trying to read.

You bit down on your tongue when a stray splinter snagged against the soft pad of your thumb, “Dad was out of town, so it was just the two of us. Mom always put me to bed when Dad was gone; said it was the only way she could get to sleep. Had to make sure my window was locked.” You paused for a long moment: everything went dark after this. Your mother kissed the top of your head, murmured, ‘Love you,’ turned out the light, and then that was it. You woke up in the hospital, and your mom was dead.

A bead of sweat dripped onto your top lip. The air in the Beacon Hills police station was, without fail, sticky with heat and body odor—and it wasn’t just the oppressive Californian sun. Even in the winter, a person could choke on the stifling warmth. Idly, you wondered if it was a matter of interrogatory tactics or budgetary constraints.

“And then,” Sheriff Stilinski prompted gently, though you both knew how the story went from here. You had told it to him and a dozen other officials at least a hundred times in the last four years.

You bit down on your thumbnail and winced when your teeth snagged on the tender nail bed, “And then nothing. I opened my eyes, and a nurse said that you found me on the front lawn.”

“You don’t remember how you got outside?”

You shook your head, staring past the Sheriff's shoulder. Large pieces of dust floated through the air, highlighted by the slivers of light trickling through the blinds. Suddenly, you had a newfound appreciation for the lack of fans in the room.

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “You don’t remember saying it was an angel?”

Blinking slowly, you looked at the grim line of the Sheriff’s mouth and gripped your knees tightly, digging your fingers into fragile skin until your wrist cracked, “I should, right? I was twelve. I should remember something—that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what my dad thinks.” Your eyelids fluttered to a tight close, and your voice went so quiet you could barely be heard over the hum of the copier outside the door, “He thinks it was me. That’s why he makes you question me every year.” Copper flooded your mouth as the soft lining of your cheek split under the brunt of your teeth, “He thinks you’ll finally figure out how I did it.”

You were scared to open your eyes as the silence stretched between the two of you. You’d danced around the subject before, hinted and spun around the heart of it, but you’d never truly discussed how it looked from the outside. Sheriff Stilinski had been kind enough to give you a few different excuses over the years: trauma, head injury, oxygen deprivation, just plain ol’ grief—but whatever caused your temporary amnesia wasn’t so conveniently explained. In fact, currently, you had no explanation at all. When you finally peeked through your lashes, clumped together with frustrated tears, you couldn’t quite figure out what expression the Sheriff was making. He leaned back in his desk chair and frowned, “I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“He does,” you cut him off. Your eyes went flinty, irises darkening to something far more ashen with the resolve of your anger. You never had any trouble reading your father’s face; the disgust was thinly-veiled between the flickers of fear.

Sheriff Stilinksi leaned forward so that you had no choice but to look him in the eyes. They were kind—more tired than usual, but still kind. They always were. That was one thing you remembered from that day, waking up in the hospital to Sheriff Stilinski’s kind, watery blue eyes, just before the entire world fell apart. His voice was gentle, but firm, when he finally spoke, “I don’t.”

You nodded numbly and pulled at a fraying string on the hem of your denim skirt until the thread snapped.

“I mean it, kid. They couldn’t identify the source of the fire. They couldn’t even find an origin point; no twelve-year-old could pull that off.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Could anyone?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s brow furrowed, and his mouth screwed up into a crooked line, like he was chewing on his words and deciding if he should swallow them or spit them out. “I wish I had all the answers for you. I really do. Not knowing, it’s worse than any truth.”

You blinked up at him for a moment, once again taken aback by his raw sincerity, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to have the answers; he was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. There was one failure in his muggy office, and it wasn’t the Sheriff. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Not your fault.”

He looked like he wanted to argue the point, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the phone on his desk. “I have to take this, but if you remember something, or if you just need to talk—”

“My dad spends a small fortune on a psychiatrist and a behavioral therapist for that,” you stood up quickly, shouldering your bag. You forced the corners of your mouth into a small smile, tight at the edges like a sheet that had been stretched too thin, “But thank you. For everything.”

The Sheriff’s gaze darted to a framed photo on his desk. You had seen it before, on one of your many visits to his office. It was of a boy—his son, you assumed—he looked like he was around five or six at the time. He was grinning, wide enough to show off his missing incisors, and his fingers and wrist were stained cotton-candy blue from a melting popsicle. You must’ve been that happy once, right? In the beginning, everyone was unencumbered by the weight of imminent mortality. Maybe that’s what Sheriff Stilinski was thinking, too. He looked away from the photo and gave you a small smile, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You gave a half-hearted wave before wrapping your fingers around the strap of your backpack and walking to the parking lot.

Outside, the sky was grim, a mocking reflection of the dour expression on your face. The spite in your eyes hardened when big, fat raindrops splattered against the apples of your cheeks. For a moment, you just stood there, glaring at the rain and cursing the cosmos for their utterly unamusing sense of humor.

A jeep pulled into the parking lot, and the squealing engine startled you back into reality. The search for your car keys was, of course, a considerable endeavor. Nothing could be easy. Not here. Not today. Not ever, you thought. A bit melodramatic maybe, but the weather was certainly ripe for a bit of self-pity.

You stacked your textbooks and binders onto the hood of your sedan, haphazardly throwing your jacket on top of the pile to protect your painstakingly penned Kafka essay from the rain. By the time your fingertips brushed against the cool metal of your car keys, your hair was damp and curling at the ends.

The momentary relief was short-lived when you pressed the unlock button five times and the accompanying beep didn’t sound, not even once. For an absurdly long minute, all you could do was rest your forehead against the driver’s side window, breathing heavily until condensation gathered next to your mouth and the drizzle speckled dots onto the sleeves of your thin cotton shirt.

“If you’re trying to charge the battery through osmosis, it’d probably be more effective to smash your head against the hood.”

You jumped, and then flinched again when your keys clattered against the ground. You caught a glimpse of the phantom speaker in the side-view mirror; bizarrely, he looked just as surprised as you felt. You turned around, trepidatiously—objects may be closer than they appear n’all—and tried to swallow your rapidly rising heart.

“Sorry,” the boy pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down and had the decency to look contrite, “big mouth.” He rubbed a hand over his chapped lips. “It’s a real problem. It’s so big, actually, that my foot just slides right in there like…all the time,” he gestured animatedly with a flat hand, a quick sliding motion, like a fish through water.

You blinked at him, slowly, and bent down to reach for your keys, “Might wanna see someone about that. Sounds unsanitary.”

“Eh, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” he said, eyes widening into horrified round circles the second he stopped talking. A faint flush creeped up his neck to his ears, and your heart dropped back into your chest. Slashers and ax murderers didn’t blush. Probably. You hadn’t ever met one, but it seemed like sound logic.

“Choking hazard,” you hummed, leaning back against your car. Your fingers traced a small dent in the door, the cause long forgotten, “It’s definitely still a choking hazard.”

The boy grinned before fixing his expression into something on the cusp of severity, “I’m about 95.7% sure that anything bigger than a fist is completely mouth-safe.” He held up his fist and nodded sharply, “Make that 98.3% sure.”

“98.3?” your brow arched.

“Maybe even 98.9.”

The buzz of a lamp post hummed above your heads as you stared at each other with little smirks until the quiet made you sink your teeth into your bottom lip and big-mouth drum his fingers against his forearm.

“So,” his sneakers squeaked against the slick asphalt as he shifted his weight, “you need a jump?”

You pursed your lips and ran your eyes over the front of your car, “I might give osmosis another shot. 30 seconds is hardly a fair trial.”

“Of course,” he hummed, “you gotta be fair.”

“We are in front of a police station.”

“Well,” he scratched his cheek, “it’s not a courthouse.”

“Technicality.” You were slightly horrified when you finally noticed that you were smiling. The sensation felt like it had escaped straight out of the uncanny valley and latched onto your face like a parasite in need of a host. It only took two weeks for muscles to atrophy; years must have completely decimated the fibers in your cheeks. “I guess I could use a jump. If your offer was an offer and not a hypothetical.”

“Smart choice.” The boy rapped his knuckles against the hood of your car and said, “Steel’s probably pretty low on the permeability scale.”

“As opposed to a skull.”

He snorted and then nodded towards the large lump of books and papers covered by your freshly dampened jean jacket, “You should probably move your stuff. Y’know, ‘cause of the very un-permeable battery.”

“There’s that,” you sighed and started stuffing your things back into your backpack, shaking it violently until your notebook finally slid past your chemistry textbook, “and flunking English isn’t high on my list of things to do this weekend.”

His gaze flickered back and forth, rapidly cataloging every corner and crevice of your face. You tilted your head, brows pinched, and stared back at him with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. His eyes, you noticed, became a peculiar shade of brown in the yellow glow of the setting sun and the fluorescent light of the lamppost. More like honey, you realized, more like honey than irises. Something finally clicked behind them. "You,” he pointed aggressively, “you go to Beacon Hills.”

You pushed his finger away from your face with your own, “Safe bet, considering there’s exactly one option for the next 2,000 square miles.”

“You’re kind of a smartass, you know that,” he muttered. He struggled with the trunk of the jeep parked next to your car, cursing under his breath until he finally wrenched it open with an almost guttural grunt.

Your lips parted briefly, and then you grinned drolly. It was refreshing, not being treated like some fragile little creature who would buckle in the knees—or possibly set something on fire—at the slightest confrontation. “Kind of?”

“Total.” He nodded decisively before sticking his head and torso into the depths of his trunk. “Completely, entirely, and wholly a smartass.” There were various clanging sounds until he re-emerged with a pair of jumper cables, “Never noticed that in class. You don’t really…say anything.”

You bit back the snark poised on the tip of your tongue. When people looked at you, the only thing they saw was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. You were the daughter of the woman who burned to death on Cedar Street; your mom died, and you were there. It seemed like that was all you would ever be in Beacon Hills.

In the grand scheme of things, it was better to be no one.

High school had been your chance to slip into social obscurity—more kids, more drama, less discussion of homicide by arson—so you took it, wholeheartedly. You kept to the corners of classrooms, away from extracurriculars, and your mouth resolutely shut.

“I try to exclusively bring the smart and leave the ass at home,” you finally replied.

The boy’s eyes drifted downwards for a moment, and his voice did a funny, squeaky thing when he said, “I should give that a go sometime.”

“10/10 would recommend. No one bugs you—and teachers never throw erasers at your face.”

“So you do remember me,” he grinned a little and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before unlatching the jeep’s hood and propping it open.

Slanting your head, you watched his profile. There were moles scattered across his cheek and neck, and his angular jaw clenched as he struggled with the knotted cords in his willowy fingers. “Vaguely,” you said faintly. It was coming back to you in pieces. That was life after twelve for you: bits and pieces. Everything was made up of the disquieting moments when you surfaced from the haze and into the present. It should’ve felt like a lungful of air, but it didn’t. It always felt like choking.

He wiped his grease-smudged hand on his jeans and then extended it towards you, “Stiles.”

You took his hand, despite the strange formality, and shook it—mainly because of the black streaks staining his pants. “Y/N.”

His fingers twitched a few times when he connected the clamp to the coordinating battery terminal, and your eyes widened. You held your breath in your sternum until you registered that he hadn’t been electrocuted. He was just naturally tweaky, you concluded. It was either that, or he had jumped one-too-many engines in the last 24 hours…unless it was hidden option C, and he was actually tweaking. Unlikely, given he was on his way into a building teeming with cops, but far stranger things had happened in Beacon Hills.

You sighed a little as you listened to the rain patter against the asphalt and the roof of your car, rubbing your palms over your arms until the goosebumps prickling along your biceps receded into your skin. Stiles looked back at you again, and his mouth wormed its way into a little frown. His head disappeared into his trunk, and after a moment a lumpy maroon mass hurtled towards your face. You caught it before it could smack into your nose, and you clutched at the soft material until you realized that the projectile missile was actually just a sweatshirt.

Stiles was staring at you when you looked up from your hands. A small, unsure…something squirmed over his face, and you felt a little stupid, just standing there, hoodie limp in your arms. It happened a lot—more than it should after so many years. The invisible quicksand materialized in the strangest, most insignificant moments. You blinked, completely brainless, at simple questions, stared aimlessly into your closet until your second alarm startled you into snatching the first shirt you came across—clasped at a stranger’s hoodie until the rainwater pooled on your lashes dripped into your eyes.

Robotically, you thrust your arms through the sleeves and tugged it over your head, “Thanks.” The sweet scent of grass clung to the fabric, and there was something earthier underneath it, something like evergreen. You smiled slightly, combing your baby hairs behind your ears, “I guess I forgive you for attempting to blind me in the process.”

Stiles’s shoulders unwound as he scoffed, “That was an excellent throw. First-line material, honestly.”

You looked at him and tilted your head, eyebrows crawling towards your hairline, and Stiles sighed loudly, “Okay, so I’m not an ‘athlete’ or whatever—but I’m working on it. You’ll see—you’ll all see.”

You hummed softly, unconvinced but grateful enough to not comment further. Another bout of silence fell between you, but it wasn’t so restless this time—even after Stiles torpedoed his body through his passenger seat. He fought with his keys for a while until the correct one slid into the ignition.

The jeep’s engine hummed pleasantly in the background as you let out a soft sigh, dropping your head back against your car window. The rain had stopped somewhere between trying to unlock your car and now, but you couldn’t quite recall when. The chill wasn’t so bad, you realized, without your foul mood casting a shadow over your head.

Stiles landed back on his feet and leaned against the jeep. You could feel his gaze on you again. A tickling sensation trailed down your spine as you fiddled with your keychain. You took a step backwards and bit your bottom lip, “I should probably try start my car…y’know, before you throw something else at my face.’”

He nodded, taking a step towards his jeep, “Solid plan. A tire iron was next.”

You slid into your car and stared at the steering wheel, forgetting to laugh at his joke. You wrapped your fingers around 10 and 2 and silently called upon every deity you’d ever heard of to end your suffering. Stiles seemed nice enough, but you seriously doubted your smalltalk capabilities were up-to ‘ride home’ standards. Perhaps, you should revisit your resounding dedication to atheism, you thought, as the engine sputtered in protest a few times and then came back to life.

Stiles flashed two thumbs up through the window. The smile on his face was positively goofy, but his dismount from the jeep was somehow even goofier. He stumbled over his large feet a few times before regaining stability. You bit back a smile when he shot you another thumbs up, this time through the dash as he removed the jumper cables from your car’s battery.

He wiped his hands off on his jeans again; at this point, you were convinced that they were beyond saving, but Stiles didn’t seem concerned. He tapped against your window before stepping around the open door, “You should probably let it run for a while. Take the scenic route home; enjoy all the Beacon Hills hotspots open past 8:00 pm on a weeknight. I personally recommend the Rite Aid or Walmart.”

You snorted, “Maybe I’ll swing by the Preserve. I hear the woods are especially beautiful in the foreboding darkness.”

“Don’t.” Serious was an odd look on Stiles’s face. You decided that you much preferred the goofy grin. “Don’t go anywhere near the Preserve. It’s officially cordoned off—totally locked down, quarantine-zone-central. Something about flesh-eating, parasitic plant life.”

“As completely real and unobtrusive as that sounds,” you drawled, “don’t worry about it. Literally every single person in town knows about the body they found in the woods.” It was bound to happen, small town and all—and ‘woman dies in deadly animal attack’ was the most interesting thing that had happened in Beacon Hills since the intersection got a Target two years ago. “I’ve seen every installment of Friday the 13th and The Blair Witch Project. If I’m going to be murdered, I refuse to also be humiliated by a cliché C.O.D.”

The manic expression on his face softened to a relieved smile and then again to a little smirk, “So what’s a certified fresh murder, then? Not that I doubt the depths of human depravity, but I think society killed off originality a few centuries ago.”

You thought back to a house fire with no origin, accelerant, or discernible cause. Apparently, not. “You know what they say,” you sighed, “life finds a way.”

Stiles tilted his head, “And death.”

“And death,” you agreed, staring at a small chip in your windshield. The cracks had just begun to spiderweb out from the pit.

Stiles looked like he wanted to say something, and he looked so much like the Sheriff with his face twisted around thoughtful contemplation that you couldn’t believe it had taken you this long to make the connection. The boy in the photo had grown up. How unfortunate for him. Stiles swallowed whatever it was that was lingering on his tongue and shut your door. He leaned his elbow against the window frame and cocked his hand in a stiff little wave, “Seeya at school. I’ll bring something fun for target practice—maybe grapes. You like grapes? Don’t answer that—I’ll surprise you.”

You put your car in drive once Stiles was safely a few feet from the wheels and gave him a dry smile, “The anticipation is killing me.”

What a scary place to be, you thought as you watched Stiles disappear in your rearview mirror. Anticipation. Hope. Life. You were chronically good at surviving; cockroached your way out of every horrible thing life squashed you with. Lately, all you could do was cling to your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin, until you were barely more than roadkill. A walking carcass was a far cry from living, but death would not stop for you, so you stopped looking for him. You kept treading water, took your pills, stopped existing—you were a lot like Schrödinger’s cat that way: too stubborn to live, too stubborn to die. You didn’t know what to do if someone unsealed the box and forced you to choose. That was the trouble with possibility; it required far too much uncertainty.

Your dad’s SUV was parked in the garage when you finally pulled into your circle driveway. It was a rare sight; your dead battery had disrupted your usual routine. You were supposed to be safely tucked away in your room after an early dinner—take-out usually, sometimes a quesadilla if you were feeling exceptionally inspired—by the time your dad got home from work. It was dysfunctional in every sense of the word, but it was the only way you could function in the same space.

He used to stare at you from the other end of the dinner table: not eating, not speaking. The only way you knew he was alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest. After a while, he moved dinner to his office. ‘Working dinner,’ he’d say in passing, ‘budgets are due.’ Eventually, he stopped coming home altogether. It was better that way, you thought. You loved each other better from afar, where the power of nostalgia could cloud all the present unpleasantries. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you now. You wondered, and you desperately didn’t want to find out.

You shouldered your backpack and made sure your car lights were off twice before quietly creeping into the mudroom. You could hear the buzz of the microwave as you toed off your sneakers and tried to discern the smell emanating from the kitchen. Something with garlic and tomato. Bona Vita, probably. Your dad loved their al pomodoro.

You tried to make yourself as small as possible as you skulked into the kitchen, shoulders hunched to your ears and grip tight around the strap of your backpack. Your dad’s back was to you; you could see the wrinkles in his collar from where he tugged at it when he was agitated. He stopped stirring his pasta once you reached the island.

“Did…” your dad trailed off for a moment, still facing the kitchen counter, “did everything go alright with the Sheriff?”

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see you, “I guess.”

“It’s just,” he rubbed at his jaw and looked down towards the oven, “it’s almost eight. I was wondering…worrying.”

He still wasn’t looking at you. You stared at the back of his head and sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. Look at me. Your brows pinched, and your back molars ground together. Look at me.

“I called him. Sheriff Stilinski. He said that you didn’t speak for long.”

“Didn’t have anything new to say,” you shoved your hands into hoodie pockets, realizing belatedly that you forgot to give Stiles his sweatshirt back. Another problem for another time.

“That’s not what I—” your dad grasped the lip of the counter and hung his head like it suddenly weighed too much for his spine, “I was wondering what happened to you.”

“Oh,” you shifted your weight onto your other foot, “dead battery. I think it was the door light.”

Your dad nodded a little, “Do you need someone to pick up your car?”

“Got a jump from a friend.” Not a friend, not really, but you supposed it was the closest you’d come to one in the last four years. That was just a little too sad to say out loud.

“Good.” He nodded again, “Good.”

You nodded because it seemed like the only thing to do and slipped towards the hallway. You’d taken no less than five steps out of the kitchen when your dad said, “You could call me. Next time, you could call me.”

Maybe. Maybe you could if he would look at you.

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therealvinelle · 3 months ago

Note

Why does Edward use his "old fashiodness" as a reason not to have sex before marriage bc people in the 1900s totally fucked

Yes they did, they also did other things they weren't supposed to.

Sex outside of marriage and promiscuity has been stigmatised since marriage was invented, and remains so in many cultures in the world today. Anthropologically, marriage has been a tool for men to own women and ensure heirs, and for women to be provided for (And for this reason is tied to the concept of property).

It is only recently in the West that this changed (and even then promiscuity remains a looked down upon trait), and that change is closely related to the financial liberation of women: if Elizabeth Bennet can find herself gainful employment and earn as much as any man, there is no need for her to be married and Mrs. Bennet doesn't mind not having any sons. Likewise, women can't leave relationships if they'll be out on the streets: the steep rise in divorce rates in the 20th century was a direct result of women's financial independence.

Edward lived in a world where women were not financially independent, and if a woman had a child outside of wedlock, both her and the child would live in shame. It's not even long ago, when my great-grandmother was little there was a girl staying at her aunt's house who was pregnant and who lived there, cooped up in a single room until she had the baby, so the people where she ordinarily lived wouldn't find out she'd been pregnant. This was in the 1920's. There were also women's houses (I don't know what you would call them in English) were pregnant unmarried women would come to live until they'd had their children, at which point they returned to wherever they'd come from and the children were adopted out. This meant their lives didn't have to be ruined. My grandmother remembers such houses being prolific even in her childhood, and that was in the 1950's.

The men were not looked well upon either, because if you don't marry the woman it usually means you were already married, or you simply didn't want to take on responsibility: either way you thought a woman getting pregnant, losing social standing and prospects and endangering her health (childbirth mortality rates only began dropping in the West around the 1930's) because you wanted to get rocks off was an acceptable quid pro quo. It's not a good look. (However, the father is not the one stuck with the nine month pregnancy and human child, so a child outside of marriage still had worse consequences for the mother.)

Edward having a deep rooted refusal to sleep with Bella without marrying her first isn't something I'll fault him for, especially not when Bella immediately got pregnant, proving that these things do happen when you least want them to. If I lived a hundred years I imagine there would be deep rooted notions my much younger peers would consider archaic that remained with me as well. Maybe I will be saying "Well when I was young, we kept our cats indoors!" while people just stare because there are no cars on the streets and the birds all died, let the damn cat enjoy the grass. Or "Well, in my day I took one shower each day! And sometimes- I took two! All of it in drinking water, hahaha!" will be a wasteful and shocking statement that appalls and embarrasses the children.

Culture and norms change when society changes, is what I'm saying. This can be for the worse and for the better (and I'm always slightly terrified when people assume that the world will continue to change for the better through some natural default. We in the Western World have been on a positive trajectory in terms of civil rights for the past century, that is great, but societies have made progress before and seen that progress be lost), in terms of women's sexual freedom it has been for the better since Edward's time.

Financial independence, abortion, and tireless feminists fighting for social change are what we have to thank for marriage no longer being socially required for women who wish to be sexually active, and even then I have to wonder - say the next United States election is won by a certain someone who seems uninterested in preserving the democrat process in the country, and the House and Senate majority is Republican. Abortion rights would not be strengthened in that scenario, but more likely further gutted, and recovering them would be very difficult if the concerns about the Republican candidate's antidemocratic alignments should be correct. You could also start getting worried about things like sexual education. Say ten, fifteen, twenty years go by. How do you imagine that's going to change the reality of young women who have sex outside of wedlock and got pregnant, and now can't abort the child? And what ripple effects do you think this might have?

To put it this way, looking at a different civil rights issue - I'm young, I'm under 30, yet I remember growing up barely knowing what "gay" was, just that it was a schoolyard insult (where the insult worked because the boy being bullied also didn't know what "gay" was, and tentatively said "... yes?" when asked if he was gay), and now schools draw rainbows and participate in Pride. Culture has changed tremendously, it's a very happy change, but I won't presume gay rights have come to stay and can't be taken away (just look to what's happened in Poland), nor will I presume these changes can't happen quicker than one would expect. I similarly will not presume women's rights are iron clad.

And should things go very awry, then men like Edward who don't have sex with women unless there's a wedding ring in place will be the good eggs.

In other words I'm very "But why were they different?" about things that were different about the past.

(Also I do not want to fearmonger. So, to be clear: I don't think The Handmaiden is becoming reality in the States tomorrow if the Republican side wins the US Election, I don't think we're all being shipped off to the gulags. I do however think that the belief civil rights gains are ironclad and a done deal is a terrifyingly naive one, and betrays historical and contemporary ignorance. Society will change, that's inevitable, and complacency risks that chance being for the worse.)

#twilight #twilight renaissance #edward cullen #the one and only time i accidentally argue edward is good for women's rights... hurts #history #civil rights

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trustmypoison · 12 days ago

Text

LMLY - Act One

Choi Y/N hasn’t seen her long lost best friend Yoon Jeonghan in four years and doesn’t even recognize at first him when paramedics roll him into the OR after a motorcycle accident during her shift. She kind of expects to go back being total strangers as soon as he’s discharged, but Seungcheol has something to say about that when he asks them to be Best Man and Maid of Honor for his wedding.

You can find the masterlist here.

LMLY is the sequel to Calico. You don’t need to read Calico to follow along with most of this story, but it will make things more enjoyable if you do.

Genres: fluff; angst; smut; best friends to strangers to lovers; wedding au

Pairing: Jeonghan x female reader

TW/CW: MDNI, contains explicit smut, some tough family dynamics such as divorce, a lot of marriage and wedding talk, mentions of having children, mentions of depression, mentions of manipulative relationships, quite a few details about accidents and subsequent medical procedures and issues.

A/N: I am not in the medical field, so please forgive any inaccuracies included in this story.

Word count: 13.6k

This is a repost of a previous fic I did. It was one of the first fics that I ever posted on here and I wish I had made some different choices aesthetically. The content will be the same, it will just be a little prettier and more readable.

“Be honest. Would you tell me if you were practicing witchcraft?”

Y/N stared blankly at Joshua. “I think you’d know since we’ve lived together for 7 years. Have you ever caught me working on a spell at 3am or drawing pentagrams on our floors?”

Joshua’s eyes narrowed across the break room table. “You’re starting to sound an awful lot like someone that knows something about witchcraft.”

“And this is starting to feel like another witch hunt. This isn’t The Crucible, Joshua,” Y/N exhaled loudly. “Why are you accusing me this time?”

“The curse of threes!” Joshua cried. A tired nurse grumbled from one of the break room couches and Joshua mumbled a ‘sorry’. “My date last night was terrible!” He adopted a whisper yell.

Y/N hummed. “What was it this time?”

Joshua huffed, “Well, for starters she was late, which is whatever. Things happen. But then she was rude to the waitress the whole time. You know I can’t stand that after waiting tables as long as I did. And then she chewed with her mouth open the whole time and straight up slurped her drink.” Y/N mumbled a sympathetic, ‘gross’, which had Joshua yelling again. “I know! Disgusting.”

“I’m sorry, but I fail to see what I have to do with that, Shua,” Y/N rolled her eyes, taking a bite of salad. The two of them often ate lunch together when they were on the same shift. It’s what they would do back home in their apartment where they’ve been roommates for years. Conveniently, they’re on the same shift tonight and popped into the cafeteria for something to eat in between patients.

Joshua is an emergency room physician with a shiny new license as of this year. Y/N is still a resident training under Dr. Hwang, one of the most renowned surgeons in the country. It’s sheer luck that Y/N got that placement three years ago, and Dr. Hwang is kind of a hard ass, but he’s hands down the best to learn from.

“You’ve cursed us,” Joshua insists. “Only Mingyu has survived past the third date and it’s all your fault.”

“No, no! This is karma at work. And Mingyu shouldn’t have made it past date number two but Harin is just too sweet of a person to tell him that,” Y/N reminded, wagging a finger. Joshua scoffs, reaching out to grab it.

“We’ve said we’re sorry for nearly a decade. When will it be enough?”

Joshua is referring to the time that he and a number of other guys tried to ruin Y/N’s life. Y/N had been quite the prolific serial dater back in college and it had hurt enough mens’ feelings to make them seek revenge. Even years later, they still experienced what they unaffectionately called the ‘curse of threes’ and blame her entirely for it. Y/N didn’t take it seriously and believed it was just one big case of confirmation bias. They were seeing what they wanted to see because they still had a guilty conscious.

“It seems that the universe says no, it hasn’t been enough,” Y/N teased. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I think they’ve finally forgotten about setting us up though.”

This lightens Joshua’s mood and he laughs. “Yeah, it’s a record. Five whole months of no blind dates.”

Their friends had got it into their head years ago that she and Joshua would make a good pair. They got along on most things and when they didn’t they bickered like an old married couple. Their friends had tried numerous times over the years to set them up, but it hadn’t gone anywhere and it probably wouldn’t.

“When are you going to get back out there? It’s been years since you’ve been on a date that you weren’t forced to go on or that wasn’t with me. Or both,” Joshua asked.

“Joshua, you know I’m too busy. I’m not really interested in adding anything to my plate.”

Joshua rolls his eyes because he’s heard that excuse before. He’s about to snap back when both of their pagers go off. Abandoning their lunches, they hustle out of the break room.

The charge nurse met them in the hallway. “What is it?” Joshua asked calmly, though they’re both tense and waiting.

“Motorcycle accident. No helmet apparently. Paramedics suspect internal bleeding. ETA about two minutes,” the nurse says quickly. She’s experienced and Y/N can tell. You don’t react this nonchalantly if you haven’t seen this sort of thing everyday for years.

“Has anyone called Dr. Hwang yet?” Y/N asked. As a resident, she was limited in what she could do without him present, and he was on call tonight while she was here.

“Yep. He’s on his way but he said you can assist Dr. Hong until he gets here,” the nurse said.

The doors to the ER fly open and paramedics are rushing a gurney in. Things move fast from that point. There’s some blood, and the paramedics are talking about rapid heart rate and low blood pressure. Y/N follows Joshua into the OR immediately because it’s looking like that’s where they’ll need to be shortly anyway and there’s more room and equipment to handle the complications that may come up until then.

“Do we have an ID yet?” One of the nurses asks.

“A Yoon Jeonghan, according to the ID in his pocket,” one of the paramedics answers.

Joshua and Y/N both freeze. Y/N is staring at the patient now. How could she not recognize her childhood best friend through a little blood? “Y/N,” Joshua snaps. “Lock in and think about this later. I need your help.”

Y/N follows every instruction that Joshua gives her including starting CPR at one point. Her hands ache by the time a heartbeat comes back and she doesn’t have time to think about any of it right now. She’s relieved that Joshua is so cool under pressure because she’s doing everything she can to quell a panic attack that’s crawling up her throat.

“Internal bleeding is a definite,” Joshua says when the heart rate is somewhat steady again. Y/N looks at him blankly. “The bleeding around the eyes, nose, and ears. Skin is clammy. Abdomen is swelling. I think you and Hwang are going to have to go in and check it out.” Now Joshua has turned to a nurse to document his findings. “Internal bleeding likely. Looks like a broken wrist. Bad case of road rash. Concussion and whiplash are likely. After surgery, I want a fully body X-ray and MRI to make sure there’s nothing we’re missing.”

Y/N finds herself speaking before she can help it. “No contrast dye. He has an allergy.”

“Good to know,” Joshua said, gesturing to the nurse to write it down.

Dr. Hwang arrives and Y/N thinks her heart might beat out of her chest as she scrubs in. She’d like to think she’s usually cool under pressure, but this isn’t just anyone on the table tonight. Dr. Hwang is all business, talking fast as he gets started right away. They’re performing a thoracotomy, which is a fancy way of saying they need to check for internal bleeding around the lungs or heart, usually caused by broken ribs. And Jeonghan certainly has a few.

Dr. Hwang makes the first cut and Y/N has to suck back tears. She’s on autopilot as Dr. Hwang lets her take over after he finds the source of the bleeding. She carefully closes the source, praying she’s doing it right because her hands want to shake so badly. Somewhere in the back of her mind, logic tells her that Dr. Hwang wouldn’t wait a single second to correct her if she was doing something wrong. He must assume it’s nerves and he’s not totally wrong.

Then she’s stitching Jeonghan’s chest up and moving on to set his broken wrist while a couple nurses treat the road rash and lacerations that scatter his body. He’s surprisingly stable and Dr. Hwang and Joshua both comment on it. His heart rate is still elevated but his blood pressure as come up a little.

When Y/N finally steps out of the OR, she’s in a daze. She barely hears Dr. Hwang congratulate her as he passes by, patting her on the back. Not the way she expected to spend her night. She never thought she’d be saving her childhood best friend’s life.

Jeonghan wakes up to sunlight and it confuses him. Last he was aware, it was the middle of the night. What confuses him more is the way his body aches before he even moves. He can’t help but groan at the intensity of it. His sight is blurry, but he can make out an unfamiliar white tiled ceiling. His whole body screams as he lifts his head to look around. A hospital room?

He needs an explanation fast because he’s starting to panic. He hates hospitals. He presses the call button laying next to him half a dozen times and it feels like it takes an eternity for someone to come in. It’s a smiling nurse in blue scrubs. “Good to see you’re awake, Mr. Yoon.”

Normally, he’d try to be friendly, but he wants out of here pronto. “What happened? Why am I here and when can I go home?”

His throat is bone dry when he talks and she must be able to tell because she’s quickly holding a cup of water with a straw to his mouth. “You were in a motorcycle accident last night. I’m not sure how long you’ll be here for, but the doctors and surgeons were optimistic. Your surgery went surprisingly well given your injuries.”

He doesn’t feel like it went surprisingly well. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck, which… okay, not far from the truth, from the sounds of it. “When can I see a doctor? I’d like to leave today.”

The nurse looks sympathetic but shakes her head firmly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Yoon. That’s probably unlikely. But I’ll let your doctors know you’re up and ready to chat. How would you rate your pain from 1-10?”

He wants to say 12, but it’ll keep him here longer for them to poke and prod him, so he bites his tongue and says 6. The nurse pats his hand. “I’ll bring you some pain medication.” He must doze off again, because he wakes up to the nurse hooking up his IV. She’s on her way out when she passes by someone else and that someone surprises him in the worst way.

“I think you owe me a drink, Yoon Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan wants to groan. “Joshua? Didn’t realize you worked here now.”

Joshua is smiling ear to ear, wearing a pristine white coat with a stethoscope around his neck and everything. He’s the textbook image of a young doctor just out of med school. “Been here for years in one way or another, but I’m officially an ER doctor as of earlier this year.” Jeonghan knew that, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. He hated Joshua and he was pretty sure Joshua knew it.

“So, what’s the damage?” Jeonghan says, trying to keep it light. The morphine is kicking in and Jeonghan can sort of think again, but they’ll have to talk fast before it doesn’t too much.

Joshua whistled, flipping a page on his clipboard. “Not as bad as it could be. The big one is broken ribs causing internal bleeding in a lung. Broken wrist, concussion, whiplash, a serious case of road rash, and some nice cuts and bruises.”

“Not as bad as it could be, huh?” Jeonghan says dryly. “When can I leave?”

“We want to keep you for a few days at least to monitor any potential complications. Surgeons’ orders. Internal bleeding is a fickle thing. Sometimes it’s obvious like it was last night, but sometimes it’s pretty sneaky and we don’t want to send you home until we’re sure there’s nothing else. Plus, your pain is going to be worse over the next few days and we can help manage it here.” Joshua’s tone leaves little room for argument so Jeonghan sighs.

“I guess I owe the surgeon a drink too, huh?”

Joshua laughs but there’s something weird about it that makes Jeonghan raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do. Y/N worked hard on that. I saw it myself.”

Jeonghan’s heart skips a beat and he hates that Joshua can hear it on the monitor. “Y/N? What are you talking about?”

Joshua raises an eyebrow in entertainment. “She’s a general surgery resident here and was working last night. She helped stitch you back up inside and out.” Jeonghan cursed, flopping back onto the pillow and he’d punch Joshua if he could reach him because he’s laughing now. “Even Dr. Hwang was impressed with her work, which is saying something. You’re lucky to call her your best friend. Anyway, I’ll come back around later to check on you, but call if you need anything.”

Jeonghan covered his face, groaning. Could she even be called a best friend if they hadn’t talked in years?

Y/N wanted to do anything and everything besides go upstairs and see Jeonghan in the ICU. She was still feeling pretty raw about last night but she couldn’t exactly tell Dr. Hwang that when he waved her towards the elevator. It’s standard procedure to brief the patient about their surgery when they’re awake. She knows this and has done it hundreds of times now, but she just wanted any excuse to not walk into room 205.

Jeonghan is propped up in bed as he watches TV. Supposedly he’s been awake since about 10am and he looks incredibly alert at 4pm. He also looks like he’s not totally surprised to see her. Y/N wonders if Joshua had mentioned her when he visited earlier.

“Mr. Yoon, I’m Dr. Hwang and this is my resident, Dr. Choi. How are you feeling?”

“Could be worse, probably,” Jeonghan says lightly and Y/N has to resist the urge to slap him. He’s always had a habit of avoiding taking things seriously, and laying in the hospital bed after emergency surgery last night classifies as a time to be serious.

Nevertheless, Dr. Hwang appreciates the humor and laughs. He always likes the patients that can crack a joke because most of the job is pretty doom and gloom. “That’s good to hear. Well, I know Dr. Hong has already stopped by to see you. But we did your surgery last night when you came in and we wanted to give you a rundown of what happened and what’s happening next. You had some pretty severe internal bleeding in one of your lungs so we had to perform a thoracotomy, which means we had to open up the chest cavity to find the source of the bleeding and stop it. It was touch and go for a while but I’m very impressed with how quickly you stabilized. That being said, we want to keep you for a bit for observation and do a few more tests to make sure there’s nothing sneaky happening before we send you home.”

Jeonghan sighed. “I’d love to get out of here but I guess I’ll take your word for it.”

Again, Dr. Hwang must find him funny. “I don’t have a pretty medical degree for nothing. But it was actually Dr. Choi that made the decision. She’s got the steadiest hands of any resident I’ve ever trained, but she’d like to check your stitches and rebandage you while she’s here.” Y/N is so surprised by both the compliment and unplanned bandage check that she doesn’t react much when Dr. Hwang dismisses himself as his pager goes off. That leaves Y/N alone with Jeonghan and her temper is flaring fast.

She approaches the bed, ignoring Jeonghan when he calls her name questioningly. The clipboard in Y/N’s hand slams down on the foot of the bed. “Yoon Jeonghan, what the fuck were you thinking? Speeding on a motorcycle with no helmet? Do you realize how bad that could have been?!”

Jeonghan’s eyes are wide. “Y/N, I can explain…” She knows she’s never yelled at him like this, but this moment feels appropriate because it’s the first time she’s ever had a good reason to.

“Can you explain how my heart nearly fell out of my ass when I realized it was you on the operating table? Or how I had to do CPR to keep you alive for nearly ten minutes? Do you have any idea how scared I was? And don’t even get me started on the surgery. I never ever wanted to see your lungs and heart.” Y/N is biting back tears because it would be entirely unprofessional to cry right now. But she’s known Jeonghan since she was in diapers and she’s probably going to have nightmares for a long time about last night.

“Y/N, I’m okay, both Joshua and Dr. Hwang said so…” Jeonghan tries to soothe but it doesn’t have much of an effect. Y/N is too worked up now.

“Do you realize you could have been decapitated? Or had a traumatic brain injury? Or a spinal cord injury? Do you realize how lucky you are to even be alive and alert right now? And I had the absolute displeasure of calling your mother at 5am to tell her where you were. That poor woman was hyperventilating.”

“You called my parents?” Jeonghan asked.

“Of course I did,” Y/N hissed. “I called Seungcheol and Sora too.”

“What?! Why would you call Sora? I don’t want to see her,” Jeonghan’s breathing catches in an unnatural way and it gives Y/N pause.

“Why don’t you want to see your girlfriend of 5 years?”

“She’s not my girlfriend anymore,” Jeonghan snapped but there’s something weak about it. “If she shows up, turn her away.”

“Okay…” Y/N drawls out. “We can come back to that. Now answer me, why the fuck were you riding without a helmet? Or speeding?”

“I was in a hurry,” Jeonghan mumbled.

Y/N runs a hand down her face. “That’s such a piss poor excuse, Jeonghan. I’m so mad at you I can’t even look at you.”

“Then don’t! You haven’t in four years,” Jeonghan snapped. The heart monitor was beeping faster.

“I haven’t? What about you? The phone works both ways,” Y/N bit. She was about to say something else when she notices beads of sweat beginning to drip down his forehead. He was starting to become pale. “Hold on, how are you feeling right now?” He scoffs angrily and Y/N is in front of him in seconds, reaching out to him. “Talk to me, Hannie.”

He doesn’t. Or he can’t. His breathing is catching. Y/N moves quickly, pulling up open his gown to see that the gauze is soaking through with bright red. She presses the call button and starts yelling.

This time, Dr. Hwang doesn’t let her help when they roll Jeonghan into the OR. She’s too busy standing outside of the elevator looking down at blood smeared hands to really fight him on it. Dr. Hwang had warned her early on that sometimes these kinds of moments would catch you off guard and it was best to hand it over to someone that could act quickly and with a clear mind.

She washes her hands a few times, scrubbing underneath her nails to try to get rid of the red. Then she sits in the break room. A couple hours later, that’s where Dr. Hwang finds her. His smile is surprisingly kind for being such a hard ass. “How are you doing, kid?”

“Okay. How’s Jeonghan?”

“I think he’ll be okay. We must have missed another spot in his lungs. It was microscopic really, so it was a slow bleeder. I did a few good once-overs while I was in there to make sure there weren’t others.” Y/N sighs in relief at his words. “You did a good job, kid. You noticed the signs and reacted quickly. Don’t take this too hard. I’ve been practicing for nearly 20 years and I missed that spot too.”

“I kind of wish you’d go back to being a hard ass. I’m not sure how to take your compliments,” Y/N chortles, but it’s weak. This is the man that has yelled in her face in the OR and snatched tools out of her hand when he’s not pleased with how she’s doing something. He’s called her all kinds of names and told her to not bother coming back tomorrow in the heat of the moment. The compliments warm her if only because they’re so rare from him.

“No, you deserve the compliment today. I’ll be a hard ass again tomorrow,” Dr. Hwang adopts a teasing tone. “Anyway, I came to find you because someone claiming to be your brother is here. Says he’s also here for Jeonghan… you should have told me you knew him.”

“Would it have mattered?” Y/N asks, though she already knows the answer. It makes you less objective if you know the patient personally.

“You know it would,” Dr. Hwang admonished, finally sitting down next to her. “How do you know him?”

Y/N bit her lip. “We grew up together. We were best friends for most of our lives until we drifted a few years ago. I didn’t even recognize him until the paramedics said his name. It felt like it was too late to back out then because Joshua needed the help.”

Dr. Hwang hums. “I get it. But say something next time. I wouldn’t have asked you to assist on the first surgery if I’d known that. Now go see your brother and then go home. You’ve been here too long.”

Y/N finds Seungcheol sitting in the ICU waiting room. He pops up out of his chair as soon as he spots her. “What the hell happened?”

Y/N feels so worn out by now so she sits down and he joins her again. “He was in a motorcycle accident. Speeding without a helmet.”

Seungcheol curses under his breath. He looks afraid, much like Y/N has been feeling for nearly 24 hours. “How is he?”

“The worst of his injuries was internal bleeding. We patched him up last night but it seems like we missed a spot because we had to roll him back into surgery earlier this afternoon. Sounds like he’ll be okay though.”

“We?” Seungcheol is wide eyed. “You helped with his surgeries?”

“The first one. Dr. Hwang made me sit out on the second one.”

“Jesus… Y/N, are you okay?”

That’s not a question you get asked here often. You’re expected to be poised and put together the whole time. Responding calmly and rationally is an absolute job requirement and you deal with everything else off the clock. So she blinks away tears because she doesn’t want to react this way in front of any of her colleagues who might pass by. “Yeah. He’s okay, so I’m okay. What took you so long to get here? I called earlier this morning.”

Seungcheol huffs. “New secretary. She didn’t tell me until about an hour ago that you’d called and left a message. I’ve been in meetings all day with my phone off so I missed your calls and texts there. Who else have you called?”

Y/N sighed. “I called his mother, but his parents are in Japan so they haven’t been able to make it back yet. And I called Sora… but Jeonghan said he didn’t want to see her. Any idea what that’s about?”

Seungcheol doesn’t look surprised. “Oh yeah. They broke up last week. Very messy, especially since they lived together.”

“Oh.”

Now Seungcheol looked surprised. “He didn’t tell you that when you spoke to him? Or has he been asleep most of the day?”

“No, he was alert most of the day, but… we argued, so he wasn’t very forthcoming with information.”

“Argued?” Seungcheol breathed, concern pinching his face. “That doesn’t happen often.”

He’s right. It’s never happened. In 30 years of knowing each other, today was the first fight they’d ever had. There had been a time or two that things were awkward and they had to talk it out, but they’d never argued. The memory of it makes Y/N’s chest ache.

“How long have you been here?” Seungcheol asked.

“I don’t know, since midnight last night?”

Seungcheol stood. “Are you free to go? I’ll drive you home and come back.”

There’s something firm in his eyes and Y/N knows she can’t argue. If she does, Dr. Hwang or Joshua will order her an uber and send her home anyway. So she goes to the locker room and gathers her things. Seungcheol lets her enjoy the silence during the car ride and promises to call her if anything comes up with Jeonghan.

She falls asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow but she dreams of seeing blood on her hands. It’s one of those dreams where you wake up and try to clear your mind, but when you go back to sleep you’re right where you left off again. Eventually, she gives up and watches TV.

Jeonghan is pissed. Has been since he woke up in the hospital bed again. He’s hooked up to a few more machines now and the nurses are still refusing to let him leave. They’re also refusing to give him anything to eat quite yet and he’s the hungriest he thinks he’s ever been.

All of that would piss him off, but Seungcheol’s lecture starts as soon as he opens his eyes and he wants to go back to sleep immediately. But his morphine has worn off and the nurse hasn’t come back yet with more.

“I cannot believe you would do something like that. That’s so dangerous, man. What were you thinking?”

Jeonghan’s eyes narrow at his friend. “I was thinking,” he snaps, “that I was in a hurry and I forgot my helmet.”

“That’s stupid, Han,” Seungcheol admonishes and he knows he’s right. But Jeonghan is stubborn and pissed to still be here. “You call someone else for a ride, or at the very least go the speed limit. You should have seen Y/N’s face. This wrecked her.”

Jeonghan scoffs. “Sure it did. Haven’t seen her or spoken to her in 4 years and the first thing she does is hang it over my head that she saved my life.”

“And maybe she should. Imagine if roles were reversed and she needed your help after she did something reckless,” Seungcheol seethes. Jeonghan doesn’t have much to say to that because thinking about roles being reversed makes his chest hurt more than it already does. Seungcheol sighs. “Okay, lecture over for now. How are you feeling?”

“Not great. But I’d like to get out of here ASAP. You know I hate hospitals.”

“Well it sounds like you better get comfy for a few more days. I heard they have to keep you for observation, especially after they found the second spot of internal bleeding,” Seungcheol smarts.

“Wish I could eat something. I’m starving,” Jeonghan all but whined.

“Yeah, but you won’t be able to keep anything down if you’re taking pain medication. Better to wait.”

Jeonghan hated how logical that was because his stomach growled for the third time since he’d woken up. He stared back at the TV which is playing some kind of sitcom reruns. “So you spoke to Y/N?” He asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, I drove her home earlier. She’d been here since midnight last night, approaching 24 hours,” Seungcheol says and Jeonghan’s chest twinges again. He knows she works some weird, long hours due to the nature of her job, but he hates that he was the cause of it this time. “Han, she said that you guys fought. Has that ever happened before?”

Jeonghan frowns. Now that she’s not here, he feels guilty for how he snapped at her. She was upset because she was concerned, and he threw the distance between them in her face. And then there was the panic on her face that he could sort of make out as his vision faded. “No, never. It sucked.”

“Did you say something you regret?” Seungcheol asked carefully. He knew they weren’t close anymore like they used to be but he wasn’t sure how to navigate any animosity between the two people closest to him. It was totally unheard of.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan mumbles. “She said she was so mad she couldn’t look at me, and I told her not to because she hadn’t in 4 years anyway. She said that the phone worked both ways or something, but I don’t remember much after that.”

“I don’t get you two,” Seungcheol said simply. Jeonghan gives him a confused look and Seungcheol continues. “You guys have been inseparable since we were babies. I always kind of felt like the third wheel with you guys because you were always so close. And then we graduate and Y/N goes to med school and neither of you can make time for each other anymore after being glued to each others’ side for 25 years? I don’t get it.”

“What’s there to get? The phone calls and texts slowed and then stopped completely. We both bailed on too many plans,” Jeonghan says sadly. He feels like he’s getting a bit of a headache. Joshua had said that might happen because of his concussion. “I don’t know what else there is to say.”

“Well, you guys are going to have to get over it soon.”

Jeonghan gave him a look. “Why? Because she saved my life, you think we’ll start using the phone again?”

Seungcheol looks a little bit like the Cheshire Cat. “No. Because we have a wedding to plan.”

Jeonghan gasped even though it hurt a ton. “She said yes?”

Seungcheol laughs. “Yeah, a few days ago. Byeol wanted to do a formal announcement so I couldn’t say anything quite yet. But it goes without saying you’ll be the best man and Y/N will be the maid of honor. So you guys better figure this out.”

Jeonghan can’t think about spending that much time with Y/N because he has no idea how he feels about it right now. Instead he smiles. “I’m happy for you, Cheol. I told you she’d say yes.”

“You were right. I’m sorry I doubted you,” Seungcheol laughed again. After a beat of silence, Seungcheol pursed his lips awkwardly. “You and Y/N will work it out, won’t you? I’m not trying to guilt trip you, especially since you’re laying in a hospital bed right now. But it would mean a lot to both Byeol and I if you two were involved and could be civil.”

“Yeah, Cheol. Of course, we will.” Jeonghan hopes it’s not an empty promise.

A couple days later, Y/N finds herself outside of room 205 again. She hesitates to knock. Dr. Hwang and Joshua both say that Jeonghan is stable but she feels guilty for their argument and how it might have added stress for him. She knows the internal bleeding would do what internal bleeding does, but she feels like she made it all worse by blowing up at him. But she couldn’t tell Dr. Hwang that when he asked her to cover some of his rounds.

After a deep breath, she knocks and enters. A nurse is helping Jeonghan get back in bed after what looks like a sponge bath. “Dr. Choi, I was just about to go looking for someone. He has some symptoms that he’d like to discuss,” the nurse says before excusing herself.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Y/N asks professionally. After the emotional conversation a couple days ago, she’s determined to maintain composure.

Jeonghan frowns. “I’ve had a headache for days now, nausea, and I’m disoriented a lot of the time even when I’m laying down.”

Y/N nods. “Could be the concussion or pain medication, or a little of both. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rank each symptom?”

“Headache is a 7, nausea is a 9, and disorientation is a 5.”

Y/N wants to laugh. He’s answering these questions like a pro, and she wonders if it’s because she’s demanded straight forward answers like this from him his whole life, particularly when he’s been sick. A lot of patients want to tell a story before they ever give a number. “What’s your pain level? We might try a different pain medication.”

He hums and she can tell he wants to shrug but he resists because it will probably hurt. “A 4?”

“That’s an improvement. Let’s try some NSAIDs today instead of morphine and see how you do. Can I take a look at a few things?” She asks, stepping up to the bedside. Jeonghan lets her shine a light in his eyes and put a stethoscope to his back to listen to his lungs. He doesn’t have a fever when she pushes his hair back and runs a thermometer across his forehead. She looks at the monitor by the bedside and is pleased with the heart rate and blood pressure. “Mind if I check the bandage?”

Jeonghan lays back and lets her pull his gown apart at the top. The bandage is pristine and white and she can’t help but sigh in relief. The stitches look okay too when she peels the bandage away. “Looks good.”

“Why do you look so nervous?” Jeonghan teased. The lightheartedness of it makes her lips turn up at the corners as she tapes the bandage down again and closes his gown.

“You almost died on me again the other day, so forgive me if I’m relieved to not see any blood today.” She does her best to match his lighthearted tone, but she can still picture what he looked like that night he was rolled in on a gurney and what he looked like the other day when blood was soaking the bandage.

Jeonghan’s smile dips a little. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll try not to do it again.” Y/N has to laugh a bit at this.

“You better try not to. Good news is, if your test results keep coming back the way they are right now, you should be able to go home in two or three days. We think you’re probably out of the woods as far as internal bleeding goes.”

“And when can I eat?”

The question makes her laugh again. “I’ll talk to Joshua and Dr. Hwang and see if we can get you something. It’ll be bland but it’ll be better than nothing, I promise.”

“I don’t even care anymore if it’s bland. I’ve been starving for days.”

They’re laughing when the door flies open and a woman runs in. “Jeonghan, I came as soon as I could! Are you okay?”

Jeonghan’s not laughing now. His eyes level with Y/N’s and they’re hard. “I thought I told you not to let her in.” Sora has pushed Y/N out of the way now, leaning over the edge of the bed, reaching for Jeonghan. Despite the pain he’s probably in, Jeonghan is leaning away from her, wincing as he pushes her back. “Stop it, Sora. Why are you here?”

Sora sputters. “Because you were in an accident. Someone called me.”

“Days ago. I’ve been here for days, Sora. Besides, I don’t want you here. Leave.”

“Oh come on, Hannie,” Sora scoffs. “It was just a stupid fight. We can work it out like we always do.”

“No thanks. I want you out of my apartment by the time they release me, so you should go take care of that,” Jeonghan insists. Then he turns to Y/N. “Can you get her out of here? And make sure she can’t come back in?”

Sora’s just now realized who’s in the room with them and her face drops into a sneer immediately. “Oh, absolutely not. Call another doctor right now.”

Y/N isn’t surprised by the animosity. Sora has never really been her biggest fan, not even back in college when Y/N was her big in the sorority. Y/N tries to stay even and professional. “No can do. I’m part of his care team. Now he’s asked you to leave, so I’ll walk you out.”

It takes a few glances between Y/N and Jeonghan before Sora seems to realize she’s not winning today. She scoffs and stomps out of the room and Y/N follows, thinking she kind of resembles a child throwing a temper tantrum. Y/N closes the door to Jeonghan’s room behind them and Sora wheels in her immediately. “How dare you? You try to ruin everything, don’t you?”

Y/N struggles to stay relaxed but her arms cross over her chest uncomfortably. “By ruining everything, do you mean stitching him back up and saving his life?”

“I was so glad to be rid of you, but here you are worming your way in again,” Sora yells. “You haven’t changed at all since college. Still taking whoever you want, including my boyfriend.”

“Sora, I don’t know what’s happened between you two, but I know I had nothing to do with it because I haven’t spoken to him in years until a few days ago when he was brought in. Whatever happened between you two is none of my business. But you showing up when he doesn’t want you here is.”

Y/N sees a security guard barreling down the hall after hearing Sora’s yelling. Fits of anger aren’t unusual here, but security responds quickly to it. He pulls Sora away by the waist just as she starts to lunge. She watches as the security guard gets Sora into the elevator, before going over to the phone at the nurses station. She’s dialing the front desk when Joshua approaches looking concerned.

“Are you okay? What was that about?”

“I’m fine, angry ex-girlfriend apparently,” Y/N mumbles. She ignores Joshua’s question of ‘ex?’ Because the receptionist downstairs has answered. “This is Dr. Choi. Please do not allow Lee Sora back in to see Yoon Jeonghan, room 205. He says she’s not welcome.” Once she gets confirmation, she hangs up.

Joshua is still looking very concerned. “Since when are they exes? They’ve been together for years.”

Y/N shrugged. “I wish I could tell you. Anyway, I think we should switch Jeonghan to NSAIDs and let him eat something.”

Slowly, Joshua nods. “Okay, I believe you. I’ll get it started, but we’re talking about this later. You’re having quite the week.”

Y/N looks at the clock as Joshua walks away. 10 more hours of her shift to go.

Y/N and Seungcheol sit at Jeonghan’s dining room table. This is her first time being here in his apartment. Seungcheol says he’s lived here for a few years now, but they didn’t exactly do a tour of the place today. Jeonghan came home from the hospital and it was a chore to get him settled in. Jeonghan’s parents had visited briefly the other day but Y/N hadn’t been surprised to find out that they didn’t stick around. He’d never been terribly close with them, particularly after he went to college. Once his parents saw that he was very much alive and heard that Y/N and Seungcheol were going to be around, they said they had some things to attend to back home.

So Seungcheol had taken the day off to bring him home and get him settled and he’d asked for Y/N’s assistance since she had the day off as well. It felt weird in so many ways. The first was to have all three of them back together. In some ways, they went back to how they’d always been, but there was a tinge of awkwardness when Y/N didn’t know what was happening lately with Jeonghan or vice versa. Seungcheol had done is best to smooth it over.

And it felt really awkward to sit in Jeonghan’s sleek, expensive apartment that she’d never been to. She’d noticed that Sora had indeed moved out. There were big gaps throughout the apartment that implied she’d emptied everything that was hers, and maybe even some that weren’t too. The missing gaming console was the least of Jeonghan’s worries right now though.

Seungcheol and Y/N are eating together and catching up. Y/N might talk to her brother regularly, but they don’t get to see much of each other. She’s still surprised when Seungcheol drops a bomb.

“What do you mean, you’re getting married?!” It comes out as more of a screech and Seungcheol shushes her. Jeonghan had gone right to bed when they got here and it seemed he needed the rest.

“I mean, I proposed last week and Byeol said yes,” Seungcheol looked giddy.

“Last week?!” Y/N whisper yells. “Where was my phone call? Do you have a picture of the ring?” He seemed to anticipate that question, because he’s shoving his phone across the table. Y/N gasps. “How did you pick out something like this? Your taste is abysmal sometimes but this is so cool.”

Seungcheol scoffs, snatching back his phone. “My taste is not abysmal. Besides, Jeonghan helped. He’s got an eye for that sort of thing apparently.”

Y/N pouted. “Seriously, Cheol, why didn’t you tell me? I thought we agreed on no secrets.”

Seungcheol gives her a sympathetic look. “It’s not like that, I promise. Byeol just wanted to prepare a formal announcement. Given what’s been going on with you and Jeonghan lately, she let me tell you guys now.”

“But I didn’t even know you’d been ring shopping,” Y/N whined. “I would have loved to help.”

Seungcheol hesitates for a beat. “Jeonghan had already offered and I didn’t know if you two would want to run into each other… not that it matters considering what I’m about to ask.” Y/N raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Naturally, we want you and Jeonghan to be maid of honor and best man. I know that might be a lot to ask, given how you guys have been lately.”

“Of course, I’d love to be maid of honor!” Y/N cries out, hand on her chest.

“Okay, no tears please,” Seungcheol tries to soothe. “But are you sure? That means spending a lot of time with Jeonghan. I’m not sure where you guys stand right now…”

Y/N huffs. “I don’t know either, but I feel pretty confident that neither of us would jeopardize something as important as this. We both love you and Byeol too much to do that.”

“Good,” Seungcheol looks kind of smug. “That’s what Jeonghan said too.”

Y/N suppresses her surprise. “Oh, you’ve already talked to him about it?”

“Yeah, at the hospital. Look, I love you both and I understand things can change over time, but I wish it could be like it was before. Maybe this is a good opportunity to fix things.” Seungcheol sounds like he’s kind of pleading and it makes Y/N frown.

“I’m not even sure what’s broken. But, Cheol, you don’t have to worry about it. We’ll make sure to get along,” Y/N promises.

“Okay. And you’re sure you don’t mind helping him out over the next few weeks?”

Y/N shrugged. “Of course not. I’m used to the weird hours anyway. Just come relieve me so I can get some sleep every now and then.”

That was another development. Seungcheol wouldn’t be able to avoid work completely and while he could do quite a bit remotely, there were some things he couldn’t avoid the office for. Y/N had some vacation time to use, so they’d decided to split staying with Jeonghan until he was a little more independent.

“If you insist. I should get back to Byeol, it’s late. But call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll be here right away.”

With that, Seungcheol leaves. It shouldn’t be awkward to move around Jeonghan’s apartment but it is. She puts the leftovers in the fridge and throws away the trash. Then she decides to peek in on Jeonghan. She finds him awake in bed, watching TV.

“Doing okay?”

Jeonghan shrugs and winces. “Fine, I guess. At least I’m in my own bed now.” He eyes her carefully where she’s standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over her stomach. She’s never looked so awkward around him. “You know, I’m sure I can’t talk you into leaving to go home and rest, but the least you could do is relax a little if you’re going to stay.”

“I’m not good at that, Hannie,” Y/N laughs. “Besides, I don’t want to impose. I’m sure you need your space. I’ll just go out to the living room.”

“When have I ever needed space from you?” Jeonghan chuckles, patting the other side of the bed. That’s the type of thing he’d say 4 years ago. “Come on.”

Y/N is silent as she slowly walks around the bed and sits down against the headboard. Finally, she says, “Kind of funny that you’d say that, considering that it’s been a while.”

She hopes he doesn’t take offense to it and is relieved when he just frowns, looking back at the TV. “Yeah, kind of weird how easily it came out, isn’t it?”

Y/N watches the TV without really seeing it. “What happened to us?”

Jeonghan hums. “I can’t really tell you. It’s confusing to me too… and then there was a point that even if I did want to reach out, I didn’t know how to. Or didn’t know if you’d want me to.”

Y/N glances at him. He’s being serious, a rarity in their years of friendship. “Of course, I’d want you to. But I didn’t know how to either, so I get it. I thought about you a lot.”

Jeonghan eyes widen with surprise. “Did you?”

“Yeah. I asked Cheol about you all the time,” Y/N answers simply. He doesn’t need to know that it drove Seungcheol crazy, sometimes to the point of just insisting she hang up the phone and dial Jeonghan herself.

“Same,” he says, and her head snaps back to him. “I’m really proud of you, you know? I was even before this week, but it’s nice to see you doing something you always wanted to do. Plus, Dr. Hwang and Joshua were very complimentary.”

Y/N’s eyes water for reasons she can’t really identify right now. “Thanks, Hannie. That means a lot. For the record, I’m proud of you too. You’ve really climbed the corporate ladder, huh?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “You hate it, if only because of where I work.” He’s right, of course. Jeonghan got a job at her father’s company shortly after graduation and Jeonghan knows all about how she feels about her father.

“I don’t hate it if you’re happy. There are just a lot of better people you can work for.” Y/N bites her lip. “Are you happy though? I mean, not just with work, but in general.”

He doesn’t answer for a long time. Finally he looks at her and she knows he’s about to be honest. Something about his eyes is completely unguarded. “Not really, no. I don’t think I have been for a while now.” Y/N doesn’t speak right away and Jeonghan continues. “The job is fine but it’s nothing I’m passionate about, and I’m not sure what I’d replace it with. I don’t see my family as often as I should, but they don’t ask me to visit either. And then Sora… well, that was a train wreck in slow motion.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Y/N offers openly.

Jeonghan laughs and there’s a bit do ingenuity to it. “Wasn’t that what I was just doing?”

Y/N sighs in exasperation. “You know what I mean. We were best friends once… I don’t know what you’d consider us now, but I’d still listen to you all the same.”

Jeonghan looks pensive. Instead of acknowledging the trauma dump that he just did, he bites his lip. “I’d still consider you my best friend, even if we haven’t been very good about it lately. Don’t tell Cheol he’s being replaced.” Y/N’s eyes are watering again despite his joke and Jeonghan shakes his head when she blinks the tears back. “Stop doing that. It’s okay to be upset.”

“I thought I was comforting you, not the other way around,” Y/N laughed but both her voice and her vision are getting watery. She kind of thinks maybe his eyes are too but she can’t be sure with how her vision clouds. She didn’t expect this conversation to flow the way it has. She expected him to turn her away and go back to being strangers as soon as he feels better.

“Fine, you can comfort me. Lay down.”

She follows his instructions, sliding down to lay her head on the pillow. He grabs her wrist with his uninjured hand, pulling her arm to lay flat. And then he’s laying into her side. They used to cuddle like this as kids, and even as teenagers. His head buries in her neck and she can feel his sigh. Mindlessly, her hand comes up to his hair, softly combing through it. Another sigh and then he’s snoring. Y/N wants to laugh because that was so fast and she’s stuck here now, but she’s the most comfortable she’s been in a long time and she finds herself dozing off too.

The next few days pass quietly at Jeonghan’s apartment. Y/N has made herself comfortable. Jeonghan is improving by the day, but today is a big one. He’s out of bed and on the couch, albeit laying down. And Y/N is preparing some soup for him to eat. He was relieved that it wasn’t anymore plain oatmeal or plain broth and finally something with a little flavor and substance to it.

Y/N helps him to the dining table and sits the bowl of soup in front of him. He’d laughed at her when she joked that she’d spoon feed him, but he had ultimately refused insisting he’s not dying anymore. Y/N is sitting next to him, watching TV when he speaks up. “I’m sorry you have to take care of me.”

She gives him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?” She laughs. “I kind of do that for a living.”

“I know,” Jeonghan says. “That’s why I’m sorry. You aren’t getting to enjoy any of your days off.”

Y/N frowns. “I don’t want to hear that, Hannie. You know I’d be here at a moment’s notice if you needed me.”

“I know,” he answers in a small voice. “I just feel like I don’t deserve it after the way I let things go a few years ago. And then how I yelled at you the other day at the hospital, despite the fact that you’re part of the reason I’m still here at all.”

Y/N turns to him and slides the empty bowl away. Then she’s gripping his good hand as she gives him a firm look. “Don’t you dare say that again. We let things go, not just you. You did nothing but take care of me and look out for me for nearly 25 years as I made a fool of myself. A few years of distance and a single argument don’t negate any of that. Think of this as me paying back an IOU.”

“This is a lot to ask for an IOU,” Jeonghan tries to laugh but it gets caught in his throat. “I mean, I can’t do anything for myself really.”

“And I’ll help you until you don’t need it anymore and you kick me out,” Y/N insists.

“Man, you’re still so stubborn. How has Joshua put up with you for this long?”

Y/N rolls her eyes in amusement. “He loves me, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. Very in love with you,” Jeonghan teases, but there’s a little tension settling in his shoulders. His fingers twitch around hers.

Y/N scoffs. “Not you too. Nothing like that’s happening.”

“Whatever you say, angel,” Jeonghan says easily and Y/N feels her face light up. She hasn’t heard that nickname in years and it warms her whole body. The response startles her once she realizes what it is and she pulls her hand away.

“Are you still hungry? There’s plenty left.”

Jeonghan nods and watches Y/N go back to the kitchen with the bowl. His eyes linger a while before he pulls them away. Things were the same in so many ways but so different in others.

Jeonghan wakes up sometime midday. He’s getting his days and nights mixed up and the only reason he’s getting out of bed slowly now is because he’s hungry again. It feels like he can’t eat enough. Y/N says that’s a good thing and that she would be more concerned if he didn’t have an appetite. He shuffles out to the living room to find Seungcheol on the couch with his laptop. While Y/N couldn’t exactly work from here, Seungcheol could and usually brought something with him to keep himself busy while Jeonghan slept. It kept him from using all of his leave time to help out.

Sitting on the couch next to Seungcheol, he asks, “Where’s Y/N?”

Seungcheol gave him a look that had him rolling his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint, but she had to go back to work today. She’ll be back later, much much later, so you’re stuck with me for a while.”

“Okay then. Like that’s a bad thing,” Jeonghan chuckled, leaning back and propping his feet up on the coffee tables. It feels nice to not have to be totally horizontal for a change.

Seungcheol’s doing that secretive smile again. “Yeah, you like her company better. You always have. It’s okay to admit it.” Seungcheol stands. “And you’re lucky she cooked before she left. You know I can’t do much there.”

Jeonghan is practically salivating when Seungcheol hands him bowl of simple stir fry. “Finally, some real food!”

“Yeah, she figured you’d be excited about that,” Seungcheol laughs, plopping back down. “So, how’s being nursed back to health by your ex best friend?”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “Ex? I considered her my best friend the whole time. I just… wasn’t showing it very well.”

This seems to entertain Seungcheol. “So you guys have talked? Are things back to normal yet?”

Jeonghan plays with his food because despite his hunger, this topic makes his stomach roll a bit. “Yes and no?” Seungcheol gives him a puzzled look. “In a lot of ways, yes. The banter, the jokes, the taking care of each other. But something seems different and I don’t know what it is. Things seem… emotional now, if we acknowledge the distance for too long.”

Seungcheol hummed and shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. The situation that got you guys here isn’t exactly light either.” Jeonghan nods and tries to eat as silence falls over them. “Do you remember what we talked about our last semester of college?”

“You might need to be more specific,” Jeonghan chortled. “We’ve known each other a long time and talk about a lot of things.”

“After we fought - well, after I hit you, I guess.”

Jeonghan can’t quite look him in the eyes. He’s referring to one of the only tough times in their friendship. A baseless rumor had gotten started on campus that Y/N and Jeonghan had been sleeping together. Seungcheol had been furious and it resulted in a bloody nose and the silent treatment for Jeonghan. When they finally made up, they had to have a nerve wrecking conversation. Cheol had been his friend for a long time but even that was too open for Jeonghan looking back on it. Jeonghan tries to be casual. “What about it?”

“How do you feel now?”

Jeonghan glances to his friend, wondering if he really wants a genuine answer. “Are you going to hit me again?”

Seungcheol looks entertained by the question even though Jeonghan’s very serious. “No, you look like you can’t fight back much right now, so I’ll let it slide.”

Jeonghan swallows. “I feel the same, but it’s ten times more complicated than it was before.” Seungcheol nods because he gets it. He doesn’t need a rundown of why it’s complicated.

“Have you guys talked about working together for the wedding?” Seungcheol asks and Jeonghan nods. “How’d that go?”

“There won’t be any problems. We promise that.”

“Good. But for the record, I feel the same about that topic from senior year too. Do what you will with that.”

Jeonghan doesn’t know what to say so he takes a huge bite of stir fry and lets Seungcheol get back to work.

Joshua looks entertained as he watches Y/N unpack and repack her suitcase with clean clothes that he washed today. “So how’s it going?” He sings and doesn’t stop smiling when she gives him a look.

“Fine. Thanks for doing my laundry, it helps a lot,” Y/N said genuinely. She would have been another couple hours if she’d had to do it herself.

Joshua shrugs from her bedroom door. “You know I don’t care to do it. But really how are things going?”

“He’s better. Moving around by himself and eating well. His injuries aren’t bothering him as much anymore,” Y/N lists off like they’re at work.

“I know all of that, Y/N. I got Dr. Hwang’s report from his follow up today,” Joshua still looks entertained. “I meant, how’s taking care of your ex best friend going?”

“The same as what it would be like to take care of my best friend, because that’s what he is.”

Joshua cries out, throwing himself on the bed dramatically. “I’m being replaced!”

Y/N has to laugh. “I kind of miss when you played things cooler than this. Besides, if anything, you replaced him first. He’s got at least 22 years of seniority on you,” she teased.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he gave a dramatic, fake sniffle, before it cleared to something serious. “Really, though. Is it awkward? Is it good? I’m dying to know.”

Y/N struggles to find the right words to describe it. “It feels the same as it always did most of the time. But then there have been 4 years of distance and sometimes I feel like we’re strangers. We both did quite a bit of growing up during that time.”

“And?” Joshua presses. She hates how he knew there was more.

“I don’t know, Joshua. It feels different. I missed him so much and now that he’s right there I don’t know how to act sometimes. I never worried about that before with him,” Y/N mumbles.

When she looks up, Joshua is frowning. “You’re insecure about it.” She gives him a perplexed look and he waves it off. “I know because I’ve seen that look on your face before. You gave me that look all the time when you weren’t sure how I felt or how to act.”

Y/N frowns back at him. They don’t talk often outside of the occasional inside joke about how they met. They used to date, or ‘date’, Y/N guesses. Single quotes only because it was fake for Joshua the whole time. A mean trick to get back at her for her reckless dating habits. Looking back on it now, the Joshua that apologized and became her roommate and friend is a totally different Joshua than the one she met his first semester here. Y/N tries not to think about it because it still stings sometimes. They’ve all apologized dozens of times over the years and have been really great friends to her ever since so she should really stop feeling that little pang in her chest when it comes up.

“Of course, I’m insecure about it. I don’t understand why the distance happened in the first place and being around him reminds me that I could have been there the whole time.”

“Have you asked why it happened?” Joshua asked carefully. He remembered watching her hover over Jeonghan’s contact so many times before locking her phone entirely. He’d been curious about why she didn’t just call him, but she’d never given much of an answer.

Y/N shrugs. “Neither of us can really explain why. But then it reached a point where we didn’t know how to reach out or if the other even wanted that.”

Joshua purses his lips and says, “Maybe you just need a heart to heart. Even if it’s hard to talk about, you might feel better about getting all of it on the table.”

Y/N doubts it but she doesn’t argue with Joshua. But she’s laying on Jeonghan’s couch later that night and he’s curled into her again. He’s not asleep despite it being the middle of the night. Instead, he’s got his head on her chest while he watches TV and she plays with his hair. The whole thing feels intimate like their friendship always did, especially before she started med school and he started dating Sora. She can’t help but giggle. “What?” He mumbles.

“I’m still not used to your hair being so short.” Jeonghan had always had long hair, often flat out refusing a haircut, and at some point during their time apart he’d chopped most of it off.

“What, you don’t like it?” To anyone else, it would sound teasing, but Y/N can hear that it’s a serious question with just a hint of insecurity to it.

“Oh no, I do. I think you look great with short hair, but I think maybe that’s why I almost didn’t recognize you that night in the ER. It’s still weird to see and feel,” Y/N insists.

Jeonghan is laughing, now fully teasing. “You think I’m handsome. It’s okay, you can say it.”

“Don’t make me push you off. It’ll hurt,” Y/N threatens but it’s totally empty. Nevertheless, his grip tightens around her waist because he knows she would have done it any other time without hesitation, just as he would have done.

They fall quiet - so long that when Y/N speaks again, she can tell she’s woken a dozing Jeonghan. “Hannie?” He grumbles. “Can I ask what happened with you and Sora?”

“Not much to say,” he says shortly. “It wasn’t going to work out.”

“But, it worked out for so long. Do you just wake up and decide one day that it won’t work anymore?”

She hopes Jeonghan knows it’s a genuine question. Y/N has never had anything long term, so everything about it perplexes her. It’s not six months, but rather five years. He sighs into her chest and she can feel the heat of it through her shirt. “Not just one day, no. It was kind of like watching it fall apart day by day. Each fight got harder and harder to recover from. What was overnight was the realization that I didn’t want to try to fix it anymore.”

“Do you love her? Or did you?” Y/N really wants Jeonghan to be honest.

After a few long beats of silence, he says, “At some point, I’m sure I did. It wouldn’t have gone on as long as it did if there wasn’t some kind of emotion behind it. But now I don’t think I do, which is why it won’t work anymore, amongst other reasons.”

“What are those other reasons?” She asks gently.

“So nosy,” Jeonghan teases, but she knows he’s hoping she’ll let it go. But she stays silent, hand still running through his hair, so he purses his lips. “I didn’t see a future with her. She kept hinting that she wanted to get married. She even thought I was ring shopping for her when she caught Seungcheol and I looking for something for Byeol. When that ring never showed up in front of her, she confronted me about it. She gave me an ultimatum and I decided to walk away.”

Y/N is frowning. “I thought you always wanted to get married.” She remembers the silly fake weddings as little kids when they’d yell in disgust at their parents’ joking suggestion to kiss the bride. Those little fake ceremonies had always been his idea and Y/N liked dressing up for them.

“I did. I do. But it didn’t feel right so I left.”

“Then maybe you made the right decision,” Y/N says with some finality. She doesn’t need to be a fly on the wall for that argument to know that ‘it didn’t feel right’ is a good enough reason. God only knows that she’d used that reason over and over again in a past life of serial dating. She had a lot of trust in intuition, even if she couldn’t always put a name to what she was feeling. “She really seems to hate me, huh?”

Y/N is trying to make a joke, but Jeonghan’s chuckle is pretty dim. “Yeah, that was a sore spot.”

Her fingers freeze in his hair. “How do you mean?”

Jeonghan hesitates. “I hate myself for this, but please don’t hate me too, okay?” Y/N nods and Jeonghan continues, fingers playing with the ends of her shirt. “Sora didn’t like me hanging out with you or talking to you. There were sometimes early on that I’d listen to her just to avoid a fight. One too many times of that contributed to us losing contact. And then when Sora and I fought about anything after you and I lost contact, she always made me feel guilty for thinking about reaching out to you for support.”

Y/N’s stomach drops. “I’m… sorry, Hannie. I didn’t realize I’d cause so much trouble in your relationship.”

“You’re too kind, Y/N. You never cared much for Sora. I knew that before we even started dating. You don’t owe an apology,” Jeonghan is back to teasing, trying to lighten the mood up, but Y/N is feeling crushed that she had anything at all to do with the end of Jeonghan and Sora’s relationship.

“Maybe not, but I cared for you and you liked her. I still care for you and if Sora was what you wanted I would understand the distance, or at least the boundaries. That would be totally understandable. I want you to be happy above everything else.”

Jeonghan is laughing now but it’s a bit humorless. “That’s just it, I’m not happy and I haven’t been for a while now. I lost my best friend and it wasn’t even for a relationship that made me happy 90% of the time.”

“You didn’t lose me. I’m right here,” Y/N insists immediately. “Even if I wasn’t brave enough to pick up the phone, if you would have been I would have answered right away. Besides you deserve to be happy. If Sora wasn’t it, then it’s time to move on.”

Jeonghan hums like he’s deep in thought. “Are you happy, Y/N?”

“What do you mean? Of course, I am. I’m just worn out with residency,” Y/N laughs.

“I don’t know,” Jeonghan drawls, voice tinged with concern. “You used to have this sparkle about you. It’s one of the things I admired most about you back then. You had so much enthusiasm for everything, even stupid things like my math homework. How long have you been missing that?”

Y/N pouted, and though Jeonghan couldn’t see it, she’s sure he knows. The truth was that she’d been flirting with depression for a long time and the stress of med school and residency hadn’t helped. On her days off, she spent most of her time in bed. “I don’t know, Hannie. I haven’t felt that way in years. So much of that ‘sparkle’ as you call it was found in other people hoping they could make me happy.”

“And you don’t find any of that sparkle anymore?” Jeonghan’s finger tips are grazing the skin of her stomach where her shirt has ridden up. It leaves goosebumps in its wake.

“I don’t really look anymore. I don’t really make new friends now, and the few dates I’ve been on over the years were set up by some of my friends and didn’t really go anywhere. Maybe that’s a good thing. I was so naive about love, looking back on it. And now I’m too jaded.”

Jeonghan’s thumb rubs against her stomach and it’s both soothing and lights a fire. She hasn’t been with anyone in a really long time and the touch is so foreign to her. “Maybe you were a little naive sometimes, but there was always a lot of charm and honesty about it. I always thought it was sweet and you just needed the right person to give the same thing back to you.”

“I don’t know how to be like that now. I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore.”

Jeonghan hummed. “You need someone that will be sweet with you and do the romantic things. Someone who makes you laugh and that you can stop being so serious with. But also someone that lets you be emotional because you have a tendency to bottle it up until you explode. Someone who helps you forgive your own mistakes. Someone who remembers the little things.”

The answer is so fast that Y/N lets out a laugh of disbelief. “You’ve thought about this before?”

“You’ve been my best friend for forever, Y/N. Of course I thought about who was right for you, especially after I watched the wrong ones show up time and time again,” Jeonghan insists.

Y/N lets out another laugh of disbelief. “Well, if you find Mr. Right for me, let me know.”

“Yeah, like you’d ever let me set you up. Come on, let’s go to bed. This couch is too cramped,” Jeonghan groans, hand on her waist pushing her now. It returns to her waist out of sheer habit again when they crawl into bed.

It’s been six weeks since the accident and Jeonghan is what Y/N considers 75% healed. His ribs still ache most of the time and she says he’ll probably feel that for a while, but the cast has been taken off of his wrist as of yesterday, and he’s getting fewer headaches due to the concussion and whiplash. Visibly, the only reminder of the accident now is some road rash, lacerations, and bruising that haven’t quite faded yet. Most of that is covered by his slacks and dress shirt as he looks in the mirror.

And he feels good because it’s the first time he’s been able to leave the house, save for a couple walks around the block when he became restless and Y/N couldn’t keep him in the house any longer, or his followup appointments with doctors.

Seungcheol and Byeol pick him up at his apartment and Y/N is already in the back seat when he gets in the car. Tonight is the ‘official’ engagement celebration with the wedding party. Over the last six weeks, Seungcheol and Byeol have been picking people and reaching out to ask if they’d like to be in the wedding. It’s a small group, only three people on each side, because they said they wanted the wedding party to be both intimate and manageable. Jeonghan thinks they might have taken their time with this selection process so that he can heal up and attend everything, and he wants to thank them for it but doesn’t know how bring it up.

Byeol’s choices for the wedding party don’t surprise Jeonghan. Y/N is the only possible choice for maid of honor because she and Byeol have been close since college and Byeol has no sisters or even cousins that she’s close with. Her two other bridesmaids are their friends from the sorority, Ara and… Sora. Jeonghan didn’t want to think much about that because he’d been enjoying not seeing her lately.

Seungcheol’s choices did surprise him though. He’d already asked Jeonghan to be the best man (and Jeonghan would have been deeply offended if he hadn’t after 30 years of friendship), but his two groomsmen were none of their than Kim Mingyu and Jeon Wonwoo. Mingyu was a surprise because Seungcheol had hated him while they were on the basketball team together for a variety of reasons, but Mingyu was good friends with Y/N now and he and Seungcheol seem to be on good terms now and even have a lot in common. Wonwoo had gotten a job in the IT department at the company that both Jeonghan and Seungcheol worked for and he was a little awkward but easy to get along with. When Jeonghan asked, Seungcheol said that he’d bailed him out of a lot of technical issues over the years at work and they’d become friends. He’d also liked that Wonwoo had stuck up for Y/N in college when no one else did. That was really enough for Jeonghan because treating Y/N well was a non-negotiable for anyone in their lives.

Jeonghan regrets that he let Sora break that rule for so long. It crosses his mind that if Seungcheol knew about how deeply Sora’s animosity towards Y/N ran, then Sora would be out of the wedding at the snap of a finger.

Seungcheol and Byeol have picked an upscale Italian place for their dinner and rented out a private room. As Y/N and Jeonghan follow them inside, Jeonghan leaned down to her ear. “Under no circumstances will you let me sit next to Sora.” And after a beat he added, “and neither should you, actually. I don’t know that she’s not above poisoning our food.”

Y/N gave him an entertained look. She’s dressed up tonight, something she says she doesn’t really do anymore given that she lives in scrubs. She’s curled her hair and put on make up, and is wearing a tight fitting dark green dress that plunges at the neckline along with heels. Jeonghan avoids looking anywhere but her face even when he tells her she looks nice, but it presents a challenge because ‘nice’ is putting it so lightly.

“Deal. Let’s get through this dinner unscathed.” Jeonghan can’t help but giggle at her words and Seungcheol and Byeol look back in amusement.

The giggles die down when they enter the private room though. Sora is already there with Ara and she does not look happy. Y/N and Jeonghan intentionally pick seats on the opposite end of the table. When Mingyu and Wonwoo arrive they greet Y/N with a hug and it diffuses some of the tension when they sit down. The waiter serves them some champagne and Seungcheol stands up. Jeonghan thinks he might tease him later for whatever speech he’s about to give, but Seungcheol looks too happy.

“Thank you guys for making it tonight and for agreeing to be part of the wedding party. Byeol has promised to not be a bridezilla and I promise to keep my temper in check when things inevitably go wrong.” This earns a laugh from the table. “Anyway, we wanted to get everyone together to celebrate and get reacquainted before we start any serious planning. So please enjoy. Dinner and drinks are on us.”

“Dangerous words, Cheol. I’m about to drink my weight in wine,” Mingyu teases.

“And I’m about to eat my weight in pasta,” Wonwoo tacks on for good measure.

The vibe is good, besides Sora who has a sour look on her face the whole time. Jeonghan is pretty unconcerned about it. He bounces between conversation with Mingyu and Wonwoo across the table and Y/N next to him. When their food arrives, Jeonghan doesn’t really think twice about pushing his and Y/N’s plates together to split what each other has. Before their years apart, this was an old habit and Y/N smiles when he glances at her. He’s relieved by that because for a moment he was afraid he’d overstepped. In some ways, they weren’t like they used to be and they were still finding these new boundaries.

She leans in to put her lips next to Jeonghan’s ear. “You’re making someone really unhappy.” Jeonghan glances to Sora, who is seething and it seems dangerous that she has a knife for her chicken parmigiana. He just shakes his head at Y/N, who looks a little anxious, and starts eating. He feels too light right now to let it get to him.

Between dinner and dessert, Jeonghan excuses himself to run to the restroom. None other than Sora is waiting for him when he comes out and his light mood comes crashing down. “Y/N? Really?” She snaps. She’s wearing a blue dress that Jeonghan usually likes on her and she looks perfect, really - besides the disgusting sneer she’s making as she crosses her arms and taps her foot like a petulant child.

“What about her?” Jeonghan breathes because this is already exhausting.

“You moved on that quickly? I guess it’s a good thing I kept you guys apart while we were together. I know you two have a history of cheating together.”

Jeonghan’s jaw clenches. “Yeah, it’s not moving on to someone else. It’s fixing something that you broke over the course of years. And you know for a fact that we never cheated together, not even back then.” Sora scoffs and looks like she’s about to snap back at him, but he cuts her off. “Look, Sora. All that I’m interested in at this point is making sure that Seungcheol and Byeol have a happy and peaceful wedding. I need you to cooperate with me on that, regardless of whose here.”

“But what about us?” Sora says in a bratty tone. He used to enjoy that - specifically, reminding her who was in charge in bed after she acted like that. It had happened constantly over the years because she was constantly bratty. Now it’s grating on his nerves and he wanted as much space as possible from her. A lifetime worth of space actually.

“There is no us. You said marriage or nothing, so I chose nothing. And after an ultimatum like that, I’m not interested in finding somewhere in between with you again,” Jeonghan says impatiently.

“But we were good together for a long time, Jeonghan! I don’t understand what’s so bad about marrying me,” she’s still whining and the pout she’s taken on won’t work now. Frankly, it had never worked because he particularly cared that she was upset. Most of the time he knew it would lead to a fight and he wanted to avoid it.

“Do you define ‘good’ as keeping me from my best friend? That’s really strange, Sora,” Jeonghan bit.

Sora looks taken aback. “It’s not strange when I don’t trust that slut of a ‘best friend’ as far as I can throw her.”

Jeonghan gave her a dead stare and his voice turned hard. “Yeah, Sora. Let me make something clear. You say one more thing like that about her and we’re going to have problems. I should have never let you talk like that about her and I won’t stand for it anymore. I’m going back to the table. Come back if you’d like, I don’t care.”

Thankfully, Mingyu is in the middle of an animated story when Jeonghan sits back down. His mood shift is only noticed by Y/N who frowns at him and he shakes his head. It doesn’t take much for Y/N to figure out what happened when Sora comes back to the table looking dejected. Y/N gives him a sympathetic smile, leaning over to whisper to him. “I ordered your dessert already.”

Jeonghan lightens up. “Thanks.”

As he eats the dessert that Y/N ordered for him, which he loves, he feels eyes on him. He decides Sora will be a problem, but he’s not sure what to do about it. The last thing he wants to do is ruin this wedding.

#jeonghan #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan x reader #Yoon Jeonghan x reader #seventeen #svt #seventeen x reader #svt x reader

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genericpuff · 6 months ago

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I feel mean criticizing an author's old work that they've deliberately buried, but sheesh the dialogue in Rachel's old stuff is really stilted. As awkward as LO's writing is, it honestly does show some improvement, so like...good for Rachel I guess?

I mean, it hasn't really improved though? Normally no, I wouldn't criticize someone's older work because by the virtue of something being old, it will naturally be improved upon and shouldn't be judged against what's created in the present (trust me, as someone with work from 10 years ago that hasn't aged well, I get it LOL).

But what's in the present... has all the same issues. I think it's easy to convince ourselves LO's writing is "better" because it relies on Greek myth to piece itself together, but when you aren't filling in the blanks for her based on assumptions made from the source material (which you shouldn't have to do) her writing in LO still doesn't have much to offer. Like, can we really call this an improvement?

If anything the writing in LO got even worse over time because it started to feel like ChatGPT was writing the dialogue and the narrative was crumbling under the weight of Rachel's lack of foresight / planning ahead.

I mean, just to get my point across, let me ask you one simple question: What is the actual theme of LO? What is the conclusion it comes to by its end to contribute to that theme?

This isn't me trying to minimize whatever improvements she may have made between the past and present, I just don't see those improvements, and there's a lot more to suggest that she was a lot more prolific 20 years ago as an artist than she is today. All of that stuff about Persephone / herself being a "workaholic" is based on stuff she went through 20 years ago that she doesn't even put on display now because it's all buried in deactivated Tumblrs and LiveJournals. But that's besides the point.

I think at best the "improvement" simply boils down to "at least she finished this one". But that's not necessarily a good thing because it's clear LO went on longer than it ever should have and that the only reason she even made it this far was because she was bound to a contract through WT. I guarantee you if it weren't for the success that WT's gave her through constantly advertising LO everywhere (and the fact that LO fit a very specific niche that was popular at the time) she would have ended LO ages ago, because just about every series she's done up until this point have been passing fancies that she's bounced between while still retaining a lot of the same tropes and crutches she always has.

LO is about a naive valley girl with mommy issues who goes to school to better herself. This is also the plot of The Doctor Foxglove Show. And while comics like Castle Castle, Woman King, and The Maiden don't involve school settings, they do still center around "girlboss" characters who hate their parents. LO isn't really an "improvement" among these tropes, just another rehashing that's hidden way better because 1.) she put it behind the veil of Greek myth and 2.) she's done everything in her power to hide the fact that she's been writing about the same pink-haired girls with mommy issues and trauma from evil men "except for that one guy who's perfect in every way" for 20+ years now.

And that issue of stilted dialogue goes way beyond even the comics. Read transcripts of her interviews or the Q&A from the end of the series that she did in her Discord and you'll see she has a really hard time finishing the thought she started on. I'm sure a lot of this can be chalked up to her ADHD / dyslexia, which is totally valid, but it just goes to show she hasn't done any work to actually improve her work in spite of her hindrances. She doesn't know how to separate Internet trolls from valid criticism and she seems to absorb any and all criticism as "proof" that she's better than everyone else, actually, and it's not her fault that other people are stupid and don't get her "vision". And I'm not pulling this assertion out of thin air, she's displayed this exact behavior before both within the LO fandom as well as her pre-existing fandoms around her other series.

Like, I can totally get the sentiment that "hate mail is a sign of success" and turning a negative into a positive, but there's a difference between deflecting hate mail from trolls and deflecting genuine criticism that's meant to identify your weaknesses and help you grow. That's what makes it all the more telling that she's built an audience around protecting and enabling her weaknesses rather than celebrating her strengths and empowering her to do better. She can't fall back on Webtoons as the only excuse for why the writing in LO is bad, her writing has always been like this and I feel like that's half the reason she's trying to hide it.

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything #tl ; dr nah she hasn't improved.. if anything she's just been more reinforced in her flaws because WT has enabled her to do the bare minimu #and because her fandom is made up of children #lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical

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mullermilkshake · 19 days ago

Text

Twelve days of fluffmas

On the twelfth day of fluffmas, my true love gave to me...

Yakuza!Kento getting his Christmas wish.

Tags: Yakuza AU, Fem!reader, first meeting, unexpected and fate driven, spilt coffee,

"Coffee please. Thank you."

Kento's favourite part of the Christmas market stalls that lined the street were any that involved coffee. That and the type that served toasted sandwiches with his favourite bread.

Hot steaming coffee on his morning walk through the snow, icy breeze nipping at his cheeks, warmed coffee cup stopping his fingers from freezing and-

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

Spilt coffee. All over his suit and coat.

Kento turned around slowly, padding his pockets for anything to wipe it up with before it stained and seeped through enough to burn him.

"That guy barged past me- but I should have seen where I was going..." it was you.

You who did not know he existed. You who had no clue how much Kento had watched you off in the background never getting the courage to speak with you. And here you were, right in front of him all glassy eyed because of a cup of coffee on his coat.

"I'm such a klutz..." your voice trailed off when you made eye contact and your head dipped down before you looked around for napkins. "I know someone who's really good at cleaning expensive suits, which I'm sure yours is- shit, I can have this cleaned."

Kento stood there speechless that you were stood there fussing over him and pulling napkins out to dab his coat. Instinctively, Kento drew his hand up to stop you and ended up cupping your napkin filled hand in his.

"Please, don't worry. It's only coffee," it was then he realised what he'd done, because your eyes widened and looked right up at his. "Sorry."

"No, it's alright," tucking a strand of hair away from your face, Kento noticed the blush in your cheeks. "I wasn't looking where I was going, it's totally my fault. Here-"

He watched you pull out a little note book and scribbled down on it. "Here's my home phone, call me and let me know what the bill is... and here's the address of the laundromat. She's a good friend of mine and she'll take care of you."

Not five minutes and you'd already given him your number and- Kento's eyes widened a fraction before he reined it in. Mei Mei was a prolific money launderer and everyone in the Yakuza world knew who she was.

So how did you know her? Were you aware of what she did behind closed doors? This coincidence begged the question as to how Kento never saw any link to Mei Mei whenever he saw you on the network cameras.

Perhaps he was slipping, it was true that he'd become burned out this close to the new year.

Kento never mentioned it, there was no need to. "Thank you, but I won't burden you with any bill for this. It's just coffee."

"I just feel so terrible, I'd be pissed if I got coffee all down me."

He realised just how cool he was being. No way in hell did he ever think he would react to you meeting by accident like this. Though now he was thinking about it, Kento felt himself shift uncomfortably and noticed he'd just been staring at you.

"Uh, it's really no bother."

By the relief splashed across your face, you were intent on leaving shortly and took one step backwards.

Yet you didn't lead the conversation that way. "I insist, really. But I'd like to buy you another coffee," your eyes paid him attention closely. "Or maybe lunch if you're not in any rush? I feel awful, it's such a beautiful suit."

A lunch invitation and compliment? Did you not know what sort of life he was leading, or what people he affiliated himself with- who you were being affiliated with? You should have known the moment you laid eyes on him. Most people suspected.

Yet you showed no signs of distress.

"Please?"

And now you were practically begging him to go with you. Kento contemplated all the times he'd talk down to himself for not pursuing you and how much of a bumbling idiot he would have been. There was nothing bumbling in the slightest.

Just long drawn breaths and pauses he used to figure out what to say though it flowed off of his tongue naturally like a waterfall into a lagoon.

"Alright, but I'll buy lunch."

You smiled sweetly and nodded. "Then I'll buy the coffee."

"It's a deal."

Kento let you lead through the stalls though it was really a chance to soak you in and let the realisation in that he'd just had his first conversation with you. A conversation he had agonised for months over.

"I know a really nice stall. It's off the beaten track a little, but I promise that it's great. It's only ever here at Christmas," once the stalls had dispersed along the street, you pulled back and matched his pace.

"If you recommend it, I'm sure I'll enjoy it," Kento was never a fan of group meals of crowded places to sit down and eat in.

A stall where he could sit off to the side was perfect. Especially uninterrupted time with you. Kento could not believe his luck.

"It has some of the best fried chicken I've ever tasted but if you prefer something different, the stall next door serves raw fish which just melts in your mouth..."

You stopped right in your tracks and watched Kento as he turned. "I'm talking too much. I apologise... I'm talking to a stranger with so much familiarity. I hope that didn't make you uncomfortable," you bowed like Kento did not enjoy it.

"Not at all," he was quick to reassure you. "I admire enthusiasm. I never would have known where the best fried chicken was if you hadn't told me."

Kento took the information on board. Ino was partial to fried chicken every now and then.

He listened to that sweet little chuckle leave your lips. "That's good, otherwise I would have been a weirdo that talks too much and spills coffee on people."

"You're no weirdo..." You never heard him say that and carried on walking. For a moment, Kento watched you leave with a quickness in his breath.

Some would say he made a Christmas wish. But in reality, it was fate. A thing he never believed in until now.

And all it took was a little coffee spilled on his coat.

I was going to wait much longer for Kento and reader to meet, but it's Christmas and I'm feeling all fuzzy inside. THEY MET AT LAST.

Me rn writing this stuff.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #yakuza au #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #kento fluff #nanami kento #jjk kento #kento x reader #jujutsu nanami #nanamin #jujutsu kaisen nanami #advent calendar #festive #holiday season #twelve days of fluffmas #Kento get your happy ending

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mabelstone · 1 year ago

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hello babie

little angst fic in light of the new matt pics? gruffy stubborn horknee matt? a little christmas miracle?

love u miss u

hi sugarpie miss u more

hope this suffices <3 i couldn't think of a 'christmas miracle' i am sorry xx maybe i'll write a soft christmas fic after this

18+ ofc, you know me by now

Nobody Compares to You

matt stone x reader

word count: 2.1k

***

Being with a prolific near-billionaire with a ridiculously successful TV show and a close-to cult following has its downsides. The copious amounts of groupies, stalkers, etc, etc. Not to mention that he's the textbook definition of a workaholic, which often meant you would go days without seeing each other due to your conflicting work schedules, despite sharing the same bed each night.

You knew this going into your relationship with him and you swore you wouldn't have it any other way.

That was until you found out about the new hire at South Park Studios. A painfully beautiful, bubbly young woman around your age, funny and oh, so intelligent. To your dismay, everyone in the studio had grown very fond of her, including your beloved boyfriend. The part he failed to mention was that she was now his personal assistant, hence why she would text him at inappropriate hours and was practically glued to him each time you visited him at work on one of your days off.

You could look past the groupies and die hard fans as you knew they wouldn't ever stand a chance. But a young woman so full of life, someone who made Matt cackle the way only you and his friends could unearthed something deep inside you. An unmistakable hatred for this girl, though she hadn't done anything wrong, per se. This created a rift in your relationship with him, and though you wanted to blame her, it was painfully clear that it was your doing.

One day you'd surprised him with lunch, taking in a container of his absolute favourite meal that you'd slaved over all morning.

"Oh, thank you, gorgeous," he'd kissed you tenderly, though his words to follow suggested he wouldn't be eating it any time soon. "I wish you'd called... Belle and I just got Chinese, I'm stuffed."

Your smile faltered, peering over at the twiggy blonde tapping away at her laptop with her long, neon orange nails. "I wanted to surprise you. My mistake."

Belle looked up intermittently with an unreadable expression, "yeah, so sorry. What was your name, again?"

"Y/N," you shot her a fake smile that was about as friendly as a kick to the jaw. He mustn't talk about me often. "Ah," was all you could muster, a pang of disappointment flooding your veins.

"I'm sorry," he frowned lightly, a gentle hand taking yours. "I'll have it for dinner! You know me so well."

"So you'll be staying late again?"

"At this rate, it's a safe bet," he smiled sympathetically. He looked tired, no surprise. You sometimes selfishly wished that he'd get a bad cold or something so he'd be forced to stay home with you. "I'm really sorry."

"Meeting in five, Matt," Belle spoke up, her tone a lot friendlier than it was with you.

"I'll get out of your hair then." You didn't say bye, instead speed walked to your car, fuelled by your rage toward his assistant.

Matt: Not even going to say goodbye to me?

Matt: This isn't my fault

You: i just didn't know you were having lunch dates with your assistant

You cursed yourself straight after your message sent, realising just how ridiculous you sounded. Like a jealous teenage girl.

Matt: Lunch date? You mean having lunch with your coworker is now considered a date?

You: does she even know you have a girlfriend?

Matt: Do I really have to share my personal life with my assistant? She does, yes. What has gotten into you?

You: she gets to spend every minute of every day with you

Matt: So this is about her? Don't be so jealous, this is a work relationship.

Matt: Gotta go.

Your eyes blurred with tears as you drove home in silence, your jaw ticking in frustration. You couldn't help but wonder if you were in the wrong. Surely he would have had to pick her as his assistant, right? Why couldn't he have picked a man. Or, as awful as it sounds, a girl who wasn't so attractive. Or maybe a girl who wouldn't have graduated the same year as you.

He got home at 11pm, a bit earlier than you had anticipated. You couldn't sleep though, your mind running wild at the possibilities. With all the time spent with her and away from you, would he fall for her? Would he stop loving you? Was she planning to whisk him away from you? Was your little argument today just pushing him further into her arms?

He walked into your bedroom and didn't say a word. He walked straight into the ensuite and locked the door before you had a chance to speak, closing your mouth immediately.

When he came out, he looked visibly more relaxed, newly grown out curls dripping beads of water onto his skin. He sat in front of you on the bed, only a towel keeping him decent.

"Care to tell me what that was earlier?" His voice was stern, eyebrows slightly raised.

"You tell me," you tone was unwavering as well, arms folded across your chest.

"I wish I could," he huffed, the frustration clearly creeping back. "I can see that you're jealous. But I think theres a bit more to it, isn't there?"

"I miss you."

"Of course I miss you too. But I have to go to work. I can't control the hours!" He raised his voice slightly. Maybe there was more to this for him, too.

"We haven't had sex in two weeks, Matt," you sighed, looking toward the ceiling as that awful, sad feeling reared its ugly head again. "You used to want it- need it, every second day, at least."

"We haven't had time!" He sighed now, running a hand over his face. "I've had to... deal with it myself."

"Does your assistant have to be there for that too? Does she add it into your calendar?" You bit, meeting his eyeline again, that now had narrowed on you, angry brows knotted together.

"You are a brat, you know that?" He spat, appearing as if he were about to double over in anger.

"I'm a brat, huh?" You laughed humourlessly, shaking your head at him. "I spent all morning cooking for you. Every day I do all the cleaning after I've been working all day. I iron your clothes for the next day and have them ready for you every night before I even think to do anything for myself. Before I even have dinner!"

He just stared back, not interjecting for a change. His expression softened as he let you get it all out.

"I have done that for you for four years now! Four years! But I'm a brat, huh? All because I miss you and yes, I'm upset that you have a pretty new assistant. I'm upset that she spends all day with you, gets to have lunch and sometimes dinner with you. She gets to eat and laugh with you, all the while I come home to our house alone. I go to sleep alone and wake up alone. Do you know the things I would do to have lunch with you just once a week? The fact that I'm even explaining myself is ridiculous, I-"

Your rambling was cut short but warm lips pressing gently against yours. Your hands instantly found damp curls, fighting the urge to cry at the fact he was finally at your fingertips, and not when he was snoring beside you in the small hours. He was finally there, finally, you had his undivided attention.

His fingers quickly hooked into your panties, pulling them off in one autonomous motion. He wasted no time disconnecting your lips, positioning himself between your thighs. His warm tongue flitting over your clit sent a shockwave of electricity through your body, a sharp gasp from your lips piercing the overwhelming tension in the room. You grabbed a fistful of his hair without a second thought, grinding down onto that beautiful face. The coarseness of his beard scratched your inner thighs, sending a chill down your spine. With your eyes screwed shut, you moaned his name just as you had imagined for nights on end, his own groan vibrating against your core. You opened your eyes when you thought he'd pulled out your vibrator, soon realised it was just his phone buzzing somewhere on the bed spread. He didn't slow his motions, continuing to lick dizzying stripes across your clit. You felt around for his phone, wishing you hadn't when you saw her caller ID on the screen.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Mm, what?" His voice was muffled against you, only pulling away when you pulled your hips away. "Oh, come on. I can't control when she calls me, babe. It's probably something really important."

You realised you weren't angry at him, but absolutely livid with her. You just had a gut feeling about her. You knew girls like her, you could tell from he minute you laid eyes on here. She just wanted to climb the hierarchal ladder that was your beloved boyfriend. Unfortunately he was going to have to figure that out on his own. You couldn't help but give him the cold shoulder that night.

***

Things had slightly improved between the two of you. You'd been intimate more frequently, things often getting so steamy that one time he'd bent you over the kitchen counter, resulting in very burnt chicken for dinner.

For the sake of your own sanity, you'd stopped torturing yourself with your imagination over his beautiful assistant. He loved you, he was as faithful as they come.

Matt: I'll be home in 30 xx

He'd messaged you that two hours ago. You were worried you'd have to start calling police stations, but he finally responded to your missed calls with another text.

Matt: Long story. Talk soon.

He returned home an hour later, the door slamming behind him. You startled from where you sitting on the couch, having stress drank through half a bottle of red wine at this stage. He scooped you up from your position on the couch, eliciting a loud squeal of surprise from you, followed by the thunk of your wine glass hitting the carpet, effectively painting the rug crimson.

"Don't worry about it," he breathed against your skin. "Missed you," he trailed kisses along your jaw and neck, your breath hitching when he would hit your sweet spots.

"Mm- what happened at work? Where were you?" You grabbed his jaw in an attempt to slow him to no avail. He continued to carry you to the bedroom, physically in front of you, but mentally somewhere deep between your thighs.

"Don't worry about it," he echoed, placing you down onto the bed. You felt a little worried - he only got like this if something really stressful happened. He was usually great at talking about his feelings, especially when something happened at work.

He continued to kiss down your body, trying to strip your clothes with such haste you could barely keep up.

"Babe- stop. Stop." You huffed, finally getting a grip on his tireless wrists. "What happened? Were you with her?"

Then he came back into his body, eyes narrowing on yours. "We're seriously still on this?" He groaned, sitting back on his knees. "I fired her."

"Fired her?!" You couldn't hide the surprise in your tone, but masked the happiness very well. "Why? I thought she was a hoot, no?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now," he sighed. Catching your expression, he realised you weren't going to let up until you had the full story. "Jesus- okay, she tried to make a move on me. Happy? You were right." He rolled his eyes.

Now you were beaming. You thought you'd be more upset, but his obvious disgust debunked that thought immediately. "Say that last part again."

"You were right," he rolled his eyes again, playfully this time. "Now take off your clothes."

"Yes, sir!" You laughed too, stripping off your clothes so fast, you'd miss it if you blinked. Immediately, he was on top of you, a growing hard on pressing into your thigh.

"Nobody compares to you," he mumbled against your lips, stripping his boxers without taking his eyes off you, drinking you in. "Nobody."

His words warmed you to your core, words you didn't know you needed to hear. Despite the intensity leading up to this moment, he slid himself in slowly, stretching and filling you inch by glorious inch. You arched your back into the feeling, bare chests rubbing against one another.

"I love you," you breathed, grinding gently into him, both of your hips connecting in slow synchronicity. His warm arms surrounding you, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I love you," he kissed you slowly, "so, so much."

You felt more connected than you had in weeks, months, even. And in that moment, you too though, nobody compares to you.

you know me by now. no proof reading sozzy and this ending sucks balls... but its dry out here

#matt stone #matt stone x reader #matt stone smut

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tgrailwar-zero · 4 months ago

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*stares at the PRIVATEER*

(A long time ago, back on the Moon, wasn’t she one of “our” servants?)

(Well. We’re on live TV. No need to cause or broadcast a public incident.)

Looking at her, you didn't get the sensation that she was one of yours.

As you stared at the ADMIRAL's face, her features, her scar… it seemed to trigger another faint vision. A feeling of deep rage. Of endless resentment. A 'memory’, or something resembling it at the very least.

It bubbled from deep inside of you as you once again remembered a time you fought alongside Izou. The memory and the emotions with it grew more and more potent.

Pride. Excitement. Confidence. Hope.

After all, 'You' had summoned the prestigious Okada Izou, one of the most prolific killers in human history. A warrior with immense adaptability and skill with the blade. This was a Servant primed for covert operations, for taking down enemies swiftly and quietly. You could fight a perfect, stealthy war.

And yet somehow- 'You’ had lost.

The Servant had cheated, clearly.

S█████ M████, a Master and famed 'Game Champion' on Earth, had started the Grail War strong. Rather than direct combat, he and his Servant gathered treasure and materials, focusing on hoarding precious items first and leaving the other Masters at a deficit. So, a small alliance between some Masters was developed to take out the 'Champ' before his advantage grew to troublesome heights.

Obviously, with 'Your' professional Assassin, 'You' were the perfect candidate to take out this nuisance before it became a problem.

…And yet, the attempt had failed. Miserably.

'You' were captured along with your Assassin, unceremoniously tied down and dragged to the bow of a ship. The 'Gaming Champ' wished to make an example of just what would happen if he and his Servant were messed with.

MASTER OF RIDER: "Rider, it's time! In this digital world, I'm on top! So let's show the others what happens when you come at the king! El Draque, finish them off while everyone's watching!"

'EL DRAQUE': "As you can see, my little Master is a real piece of work. But hey, for villains like us, flamboyancy is ideal. Don't take it personally... it's just war."

MASTER OF RIDER: "H-Hey! Don't call us 'villains'! We're just playing the game better than the others! Now quit talking and finish them already!"

'EL DRAQUE': "Aye, aye. You've done well paying me, so I'll do whatever you ask, Master."

With that, she drew her flintlocks, pointing one at the back of your head and one at the back of the Assassin's. In the last moment, your Assassin had tried to strike, cutting free from his bonds and going for the throat of his adversary. But--

Bang.

…The flash of steel ended up being slower than the pull of the trigger. A coin flip, made in an instant, that had landed on the losing side.

It wasn't your fault. The Enemy Master wasn't better than you. He wasn't stronger than you. He wasn't more talented. He wasn't. He couldn't be. That Servant must have been using a cheat skill. You had summoned a prime Assassin, so how... how?!

'You’ were a great wizard, and had lost to a pathetic Master and a pathetic Servant.

Failure. Loss. Hatred. Failure. Loss. Hatred. Failure. Loss. Hatred. Again and again and again.

Those feelings swirled and bubbled, locking together as 'You’ found yourself spiraling deeper and deeper into death and darkness…

The crash of ocean water shook you out of it, as you found yourself back on the deck of the ship.

MUSASHI: "Eyes up, Masters! We've gotta focus!"

#thgw story #endless whispers

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rebouks · 2 years ago

Text

Previous | Next

Transcript:

Mikaela: WOAH! Look at all those tattoos! Joslyn: How many times do I have to tell you not to point? Mikaela: But look!

Oscar: Impressive, huh? Mikaela: Yuh! How many do you have? Did it hurt? Did you pass out?! Oscar: [chuckles] Lots, yes, and almost.

Mikaela: So cool. Joslyn: Sorry. Courtney: It’s fine.

Joslyn: I just thought I’d check-up-… Oscar: Uh-huh. Joslyn: Hah, half true; let’s talk.

…

Oscar: What’s the point? She already spoke to Bruno, it’s not like I can add much more. Joslyn: She’s more interested in you, to be honest-.. wants to talk to you off the record. Oscar: That’s.. weird.

Joslyn: Maybe it’d offer you some closure? Courtney said you’ve been struggling-… Oscar: Doesn’t she have a job to do? Joslyn: It’s not an overnight thing.

Oscar: I’ll talk to her when it’s over, how about that? Joslyn: Norma’s been in this line of work for over thirty years, Oscar; that someone could take down such a prolific organisation almost singlehandedly-.. it’s unheard of.

Oscar: [snorts] It’s not that impressive. Joslyn: Debateable-.. either way, she’d like to apologise for the fact that it wasn’t picked up as well. Oscar: And whose fault is that?

Joslyn: I’ll admit that I could’ve done more.. but I chose to put my family first, and I know you understand that. Oscar: Hm. Joslyn: I get that you’re suspicious of them, but they’re not the enemy you think they are.

Oscar: Neither is the mailman, but I ain’t about to tell him my life story. Joslyn: I think you’d feel better if you met her; I promise she’s on our side-.. think about it? Oscar: I might.

Joslyn: Courtney has her number, okay? Come on, you… Mikaela: Your baby’s kinda cute, but I prefer your cat. Oscar: [laughs] Thanks.

[Quiet parental muttering about not saying everything that pops into your head without thinking first…]

Oscar: You’re just as cute as Lou, aren’t you?! [Robin babbles enthusiastically as he’s swung into the air, reaching for Oscar’s stubble] Courtney: What was all that about?

Oscar: Norma wants to talk-.. I think he’d love it if I grew a proper beard. Courtney: Are you going to? Oscar: Maybe next winter, and I guess I’ll think about the Norma thing.

#somnium #sims 4 #storytelling #ts4 story #sims story #simblr #oscar finch #courtney mcmahan #robin finch #ᓚᘏᗢ #joslyn ames #mikaela ames #i think i would've pointed at oscar as a kid too ngl lmaooo #i miss beard oscar too cookie :c #ahahksjjs

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may-bonne · 9 days ago

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fast & furious stats dump - 2024

it's 2025! let's update my graphs! if you're curious, here's last year's post.

the dombrian resurgence continues! but note that the percentage increase is much more modest. for the first time, the raw number of fast & furious fics posted increased from the year prior in a year without a movie release.

hobbs/shaw is still on the decline, but it's leveled out a little over the past year.

our three main het ships (dom/letty, mia/brian, and han/gisele) have all held fairly steady since 2023.

letty/mia takes second place for the third year running, but it's declined noticeably from its peak in 2023. this is because i got kind of busy with work. sorry about that. 83.7% of letty/mia fic over the last three years was written by me.

mia/vince had a (relative) banner year for the second year running, with a record high of 14 posted fics! unfortunately, none of those were otp:true.

much more below the cut!

not much has changed in these graphs since last year - the takeaway is just that this has always been a juggernaut-dominated fandom.

so...the raw number of fast & furious fics posted went up, and by a lot. we got 434 fics in 2024 as opposed to just 337 in 2023. but only 15 more dombrian fics were posted in 2024 than in 2023, and it seems like our other ships have largely held steady or declined. what accounts for that increase?

yeah, that would do it. there was a massive increase in f/m ofc fic! gang, i really did not see this one coming. in 2024, f/m was the most popular category for fast & furious fic on ao3 for the first time ever - it's always been m/m, even back when dom/letty and brian/mia were peaking.

this was mostly an increase in ofc f/m for canon male characters - cipher/ofc, which was actually the most popular ofc ship in 2023, declined significantly. what's causing the change? well, as far as i can tell, a handful of prolific authors, as well as migration from wattpad (where fast & furious fandom is much more het- and oc-focused) and an increase in cross-posting to both wattpad and ao3.

there was a corresponding bump in mia/omc, mia/ofc, and letty/ofc fic - but only one letty/omc fic. which i think is very funny.

if you were wondering, dom/oc fic is overwhelmingly f/m. brian/oc (much less common) is almost evenly split. letty/oc is overwhelmingly f/f. mia/oc is mostly f/m, although the ratio isn't as stark.

dom is by far the most popular character for oc shipping, even though brian appears in slightly more fics on the whole. i guess authors want to fuck dom and want to watch someone else fuck brian.

not much to note here compared to last year. mia and vince remain the bridesmaids, never the brides. brian/vince saw a little bump from 2023! dom/letty and mia/brian tend to get almost no otp:true fic, although it's likely that this is because they're often tagged together.

(why did otp:true letty/mia fall off so much? yeah, that was my fault again. i guess i liked dom/letty a little more this year.)

some analysis of trends in tagged relationships:

the most popular secondary ship when hobbs/shaw is tagged is dombrian. but 74.7% of hobbs/shaw fic is otp:true. that makes sense - the vast, vast majority of shobbs fic came from the spinoff, which doesn't include the franchise's main characters.

the most popular secondary ship when dombrian is tagged is mia/brian. 60.9% of dombrian fic is otp:true. why mia/brian and not dom/letty (or pair-the-spares letty/mia)? well, a lot of this is brian-focused canon-divergent first-movie fic where he gets together with both dom and mia, and it seems like writers find it easier to make dom single at the start, which precludes dom/letty. some is also set during the period when letty's "dead." letty can be easier to write out than mia, i think, since she really doesn't play any role in bringing brian into the family.

the most popular secondary ship when brian/mia is tagged is dom/letty, and vice versa - but there are twice as many otp:true dom/letty fics as there are fics for otp:true mia/brian. i don't think this is that surprising. for one thing, dom and letty's relationship is the central focus of the sixth, eighth, and (to a lesser extent) seventh movies, and none of the movies are really equally devoted to mia and brian. fast five probably comes the closest. dom/letty has (or had) a real ride-or-die contingent of shippers, and nothing like that's ever really coalesced around mia/brian.

the most popular secondary ship for letty/mia is dombrian. that's not surprising - it's pair-the-spares. it's just interesting that it doesn't go both ways.

just for fun, i also graphed a couple new datasets this year!

a note i want to make here (not reflected on the graph) is that as you go through the years, you can really see how tagging conventions change. "latino character" and "character of color" get tagged a lot up through 2012. sexuality tags like "bisexual character" are also more popular early on. i feel like i don't see the "slash" tag much anymore.

fast & furious fics were generally less "tropey" this year than in 2023 - fewer fics proportionally were tagged with fluff, angst, and hurt/comfort. "family," though is more popular than ever. vin would approve.

a.u. fic has declined pretty steeply since 2022! i'm honestly not sure why that line looks the way it does. did people just get bored in 2019 because we hadn't had a new movie in a while?

mature was the most popular rating this year! that's only happened one other time, in 2012. generally, fast & furious fandom seems to favor teen & up. you can see that it's not consistent at all year-to-year, though.

as for warnings: huge increase in graphic violence in 2024! it was more popular than ccntw for the first time ever. i guess we were feeling sadistic. more underage fic was posted in 2024 than in any other year, too.

(what's behind that little bump in underage in 2010? not much. a handful of high school a.u.s drove up numbers, and there just wasn't much fic posted that year.)

Q: WHO'S GETTING RAPED? A: brian, mostly.

Q: WHO'S UNDERAGE? A: it's all over the place, but somehow it's almost never jesse. i guess he's already eighteen in the first movie? hoping for more dom/jesse and letty/jesse in 2025.

in summary: most of my 2024 predictions were right! more fast & furious fics were posted, dombrian kept on growing, hobbs/shaw continued to decline, letty/mia also declined slightly, and the post-fast x pairs (rome/little nobody and aimes/reyes) fell off significantly. i was wrong about a big dom/letty increase; there was a huge surge of f/m fandom, but it was pretty much all centered around ofcs.

what about next year?

honestly, i think there will be even more fic posted than this year. i don't think it matters that we're getting further and further out from fast x - most of what's being posted is first-movie fic, anyway.

that increase will be mostly driven by dombrian and ofc fic for every male character in the franchise, especially dom.

the three main het ships and hobbs/shaw will hold steady in numbers, but decline proportionately.

letty/mia will probably continue to decline, unless i suddenly have a ton of new ideas.

lastly, a few notes on methodology: this includes archive-locked fic. i have no way of checking for backdated/redated/reposted fic since i collect this data manually, and fics originally posted before 2024 that were updated in 2024 are double-counted in this dataset. my "major tags" numbers include all fic tagged with synned tags - e.g., "heavy angst" and "light angst" count towards "angst," and "families of choice" counts towards "family." the percentages in the warnings graph will add to more than 100 since fic can be tagged with multiple warnings.

let's check back in in 2026!

#fast and furious #the fast and the furious #fast x #dom x brian #dombrian #hobbs x shaw #letty x mia #dom x letty #mia x brian #han x gisele #stats!

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scoutvox · 9 months ago

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Desecration [Pt 2]

[x]

"That's not fair, you know."

The deer half-breed kicked a rock a few feet ahead of him, pacing along the length of the courtyard. The centre was often quiet at dusk, allowing Vox and Dario to enjoy the departing light of day in solitude. "You have so much here."

"Do I really?" The boy carved at the wood in his left hand with a fairly dulled blade. His words carried a defeat not uncommon for him. "I can't expect you to be there every time I get into trouble, which is more reason for me to leave."

"You think I would be at all equipped to help you out there?" Dario pressed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Not to sound ungrateful, it's sweet of you... but things aren't going to get better here for me."

Vox sighed, falling back onto the grass behind him. Dario wasn't wrong; the Triumvirate continued to dominate the socio-political climate in High Central, and the hostility towards half-breeds bloomed in droves with each passing day.

"Not with the "Grand Illuminar" in power." Vox's words were laced with venom as he swung around air quotes - while not directly impacted by the regime, it wasn't difficult to notice the growing divide within their community. "I already made up my mind anyway, pal. You're stuck with me, remember?"

The stag chuckled, knowing there wasn't anything he could say or do to stop the boy. Loyalty to a fault was a double-edged sword.

"My burden to bear."

The scout shook his head, turning to face Dagny.

"The Grand Illuminar." Vox cleared his throat. "Kezia. She worked with Darien during my younger years here in High Central. I can't speak too much on what happened after I left, but she's about as dangerous as it gets."

Vox moved in closer to his son, maintaining some distance but wanting to be nearby in the event of the worst.

"You need to be careful, Liam. She didn't become one of the most prolific figures in High Central by doing nothing."

#botgd2 #vox blogs #liam blogs #dagny blogs #kari blogs #nio blogs #sav blogs #milae blogs #lmao

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mamamittens · 2 years ago

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I hope you enjoy Zelda!!! But I do have an ask platonic wise if that’s alright, so sweet child of mine is obviously a reader who’s like 18 to young 20’s I’d say. How would the story have gone if the reader was like way younger? Like a kid the navy came across with the devil fruit abilities, would things have gone down differently, and if so how much? (As everyone kinda sees reader as a kid anyways.)

But I hope you enjoy the game- my sisters got it and I haven’t heard from her since she got it so I’m guessing that it’s amazing

Well, a lot of the story is out of Reader's hands as someone that's kidnapped for literally all of it. So plotwise it's not that different. They wouldn't go to the labs as a kid either because they're not old enough to properly test outside of the field. They don't know how to explain their power or do anything, so real life is the best teacher still.

But for starters there probably would have been at least one more marine at the starting incident. Kiddo would be treated... A little better but not really by their partner since the blow to the ego of knowing you 'awesome power' is because of a tot.

Marco would have been quicker to just snap them up without knowing about the devil fruit after Williams smacked the baby like a dickhead.

Reader as a kid would be a lot faster to cry and get overwhelmed but genuinely believes they're 'meant to do good' in the Marines. Just really sad baby hours that they can't seem to 'do it 'right'' when really it's their partners getting pissy about a literal child being valued more than them.

"Mm not supp'sed ta talk to pirates. Even if they have a cute dog."

Marco smiled softly, crouching down to whisper in the kid's ear.

"If anyone asks, it's all my fault, cause I'm a big mean pirate, yeah?" He suggested playfully, picking them up into his arms while Stefan barked for attention.

The kid giggled, bouncing excitedly as they waved at Stefan who licked their fingers with every hop.

Kid reader would also attach faster to positive attention without the knowledge an older reader would that they're still a prisoner. Though they'd get scared easily and freak outs mostly involve getting upset that they can't leave to go back to their 'job'. By the time plot catches up, reader will mostly have let go of being a marine or having forgotten entirely. Liking being on a big ship where everyone is nice all the time and doesn't snap at them for things outside their control.

Teach would have convinced them that they're playing a hide and seek game seeing as it's the easiest route. Taking them around the islands to distract them from the fact that this 'game' sure is taking a long time.

Meeting Luffy is more positive cause they think his fruit feels cool but no one gets why they keep making drum sounds while playing with him--not that Teach let's it go on for long. He knows Ace is closing in at that point.

Triggering the Dial Down is due to finding out the truth and that Teach hurt Thatch. Wanting to 'ground' Teach from the neat powers he's used prolifically all this time. And then probably not totally understanding what Akainu did at first by melting his head.

Poor Ace and Marco will be so horrified when the last they see of little reader is just a sobbing child, wailing before accidentally "over locking" Akainu's fruit and blasting off.

Still gets saved by Mao and found as word gets out about a miraculous rescue of a child via sea king.

Reader is very tired and more than a little injured when they show up and take the tot home.

Aside from that, a lot more carrying around at every opportunity. Hugs and affection since reader isn't as against it. A lot easier to distract from negative situations and likely didn't realize they'd been drugged so Thatch isn't bullied like before.

Might keep the title thing cause it's funny to think of them trying to argue with a child who just thinks they're cooler than the actual name.

"Sweetie, call me Thatch, please! Or at least big brother! Oh! Just call me big brother!" 🥺

"But your title is soooo cool! Twin-Blade! Twice as sharp and a-sim-metric-al!" 🤓

"...T-Thats nice sweetie but... I wanna be big brother..." 😭

"What about calling me, Pops or Oyaji?" 😃

"But you worked so hard on your moose-stache, Whitebeard!"😃

"Wait! If you're my dad, would I grow big and tall like you!?" ☺️

"...y--" 🥺

"Don't lie to the baby, Oyaji!!!" 😡

(Zelda is going great btw! Ask your sister about Zelda going 'my people need me' on the Hyrule tower. I legit started laughing. Zelda's unexpectedly a damn troll and I love it)

#mittens answers #oh sweet child of mine #child au #ngl its cute as hell lol

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bamboozledbird · 6 months ago

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IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU // Chapter 1

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski, Original Female Character Pairing: eventual Stiles x OFC, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.9k Warnings: canon typical gore/violence, parental death, descriptions of burning, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author loves lesbian poets and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: Four years ago, Drea Dickinson's entire life fell apart. Her mom died, her best friend replaced her, and all she could do was watch listlessly while everything else burned down around her. All she wants is to forget and maybe get through her sophomore year without flunking chemistry and completely unraveling at the seams—a seemingly impossible task with the sudden appearance of ghosts from her mother's mysterious past and a hair-raising beast ripping people apart all over town. It would be easier to pretend if she hadn't accidentally entwined her life with the most interrogatory bastard in town. She could have gone her whole life without meeting Stiles Stilinski, and she would've been perfectly fine, but now she's stuck knowing that she's made her bed in the fragile, breakable bones of the boy with all the answers. Chapter Summary: After her annual interrogation with Sheriff Stilinski, Drea meets his son who turns out to be very handy with jumper cables, poetry recitation, and incoherent babbling.

A/N: This is an entirely selfish project. This rewrite has been so incredibly nostalgic, and I may or may not have cried a few times because the TW era was such a special time of my life. To be 17 again, sigh. I wrote a very bad version of this in 2014, and I cannot believe it has been 10 years!!! I'm almost 30! Impossible! The 10-year anniversary is entirely coincidental but still a wonderful, serendipitous happenstance. I'm re-watching the entire series with my little sister, who is coincidentally 17, and good god I just miss the TW, TVD era. Bring back the cheesy teen monster shows that give perpetual fall vibes PLEASE. You can also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight)!

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Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

Before her mother’s death, Drea would have picked fire. Every single time.

She never liked the cold; never really had to get used to it growing up in central California—but the crux of her argument, the twisted logic behind it all, was that most burn victims died from suffocation before they felt the flames. A small mercy, really, in the face of unspeakable tragedy.

In the end, however, statistics were just numbers, her mother didn't die from smoke inhalation, and there was no mercy in burying a parent before you were old enough to have children of your own. Nothing ever ended poetically off the page. Death was just death, and it was always ugly. Someone should really tell that to Robert Frost, Drea mused, biting at a raw hangnail.

The medical examiner said the actual cause of death was pulmonary edema; at least, that was his best guess based on the state of the body. He didn’t say that she felt everything, her skin peeling back into her flesh, her flesh liquefying into fuel, her joints flexing into contorted pleas until the fire incinerated her last nerve ending. He didn’t have to; Drea connected those dots all on her own. She’d been twelve at the time, not an imbecile.

“I’m sorry to drag you through this all again.”

Drea flitted her eyes away from the flickering lightbulb above Sheriff Stilinski’s head and met his gaze; it was nauseatingly sympathetic. Her responding shrug was a small, little thing—more like a twitch in practice, “Not your fault.”

Her yearly visits to Sheriff Stilinski’s office were solely her father’s doing, even if no one wanted to admit it to her face. Most mayors would use their political power to get their child out of a police station, not into it, but perhaps Mayor Dickinson stopped being her dad somewhere between the funeral and now.

“If you could start—”

“From the beginning,” Drea smoothed her thumb in small circles over the armrest of her chair, attentively tracing patterns into the polished wood, “I know.” This was, after all, the fourth anniversary of her first interrogation. She’d become somewhat of an expert at being a useless witness. Drea picked at her uneven cuticles before continuing, “Mom put me to bed around 10:00—which was kind of late for a school night, honestly, but she let me stay up to finish another chapter anyway.” The right corner of her mouth twitched for a brief moment, “Nancy Drew: Password to Larkspur Lane. I told her that forcing someone to go to sleep in the middle of a mystery was specifically forbidden in Geneva Protocol II.” Her mom had been far too indulgent of her lip on most occasions, but that night she didn’t smile at her snarky aside. She let her finish the chapter because she was too tired to argue; Drea could tell. At the time, she saw it as a victory. Now, it kept her up at night, the drooping lines of her mother’s mouth spilling over the pages of whatever book she was trying to read.

Drea bit down on her tongue when a stray splinter snagged against the soft pad of her thumb, “Dad was out of town, so it was just the two of us. Mom always put me to bed when Dad was gone; said it was the only way she could get to sleep. Had to make sure my window was locked.” She paused for a long moment: everything went dark after this. Her mother kissed the top of her head, murmured, ‘Love you,’ turned out the light, and then that was it. Drea woke up in the hospital, and her mom was dead.

A bead of sweat dripped onto her top lip. The air in the Beacon Hills police station was, without fail, sticky with heat and body odor—and it wasn’t just the oppressive Californian sun. Even in the winter, a person could choke on the stifling warmth. Idly, she wondered if it was a matter of interrogatory tactics or budgetary constraints.

“And then,” Sheriff Stilinski prompted gently, though they both knew how the story went from here. She had told it to him and a dozen other officials at least a hundred times in the last four years.

Drea bit down on her thumbnail and winced when her teeth snagged on the tender nail bed, “And then nothing. I opened my eyes, and a nurse said that you found me on the front lawn.”

“You don’t remember how you got outside?”

Drea shook her head, staring past the Sheriff's shoulder. Large pieces of dust floated through the air, highlighted by the slivers of light trickling through the blinds. Suddenly, she had a newfound appreciation for the lack of fans in the room.

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “You don’t remember saying it was an angel?”

Blinking slowly, Drea looked at the grim line of the Sheriff’s mouth and gripped her knees tightly, digging her fingers into tawny skin until her wrist cracked, “I should, right? I was twelve. I should remember something—that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what my dad thinks.” Her eyelids fluttered to a tight close, and her voice went so quiet she could barely be heard over the hum of the copier outside the door, “He thinks it was me. That’s why he makes you question me every year.” She pulled the sleeves of her jacket over her fists and gnawed on the soft lining of her cheek, “He thinks you’ll finally figure out how I did it.”

Drea was scared to open her eyes as the silence stretched between them. They’d danced around the subject before, hinted and twisted around the heart of it, but they’d never truly discussed how it looked from the outside. Sheriff Stilinski had been kind enough to give her a few different excuses over the years: trauma, head injury, oxygen deprivation, plain old grief—but whatever caused her temporary amnesia wasn’t so conveniently explained. In fact, currently, she still had no explanation at all. When she finally peeked through her lashes, clumped together with frustrated tears, Drea couldn’t quite figure out what expression the Sheriff was making. He leaned back in his desk chair and frowned, “I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“He does,” Drea cut him off. Her eyes went flinty, deep brown darkening to something far more ashen with the resolve of her anger. She never had any trouble reading her father’s face; the disgust was thinly-veiled between the flickers of fear.

Sheriff Stilinksi leaned forward so that she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. They were kind—more tired than usual, but still kind. They always were. That was one thing Drea remembered from that day, waking up in the hospital to Sheriff Stilinski’s kind, watery blue eyes, just before the entire world fell apart. His voice was gentle, but firm, when he finally spoke, “I don’t.”

Drea nodded numbly and pulled at a fraying string on the hem of her denim skirt until the thread snapped.

“I mean it, kid. They couldn’t identify the source of the fire. They couldn’t even find an origin point; no twelve-year-old could pull that off.”

Drea chewed on her bottom lip, “Could anyone?”

Drea blinked up at him for a moment, once again taken aback by his raw sincerity, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to have the answers; he was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. There was one failure in his muggy office, and it wasn’t the Sheriff. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Not your fault.”

“My dad spends a small fortune on a psychiatrist and a behavioral therapist for that,” Drea stood up quickly, shouldering her bag. She forced the corners of her mouth into a small smile, tight at the edges like a sheet that had been stretched too thin, “But thank you. For everything.”

The Sheriff’s gaze darted to a framed photo on his desk. Drea had seen it before, on one of her many visits to his office. It was of a boy—his son, she assumed—he looked like he was around five or six at the time. He was grinning, wide enough to show off his missing incisors, and his fingers and wrist were stained cotton-candy blue from a melting popsicle. She must’ve been that happy once, right? In the beginning, everyone was unencumbered by the weight of imminent mortality. Maybe that’s what Sheriff Stilinski was thinking, too. He looked away from the photo and gave Drea a small smile, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Drea gave a half-hearted wave before wrapping her fingers around the strap of her backpack and walking to the parking lot.

The sky was grim, a mocking reflection of expression on her face. The spite in her eyes hardened when big, fat raindrops splattered against the apples of her cheeks. For a moment, she just stood there, glaring at the rain and cursing the cosmos for their utterly unamusing sense of humor. A jeep pulled into the parking lot, and the squealing engine startled her back into reality.

Unfortunately, the search for her car keys was a considerable endeavor. Typical. Drea stacked her textbooks and binders onto the hood of her sedan, haphazardly throwing her jacket on top of the pile to protect her painstakingly penned Kafka essay from the rain. By the time her fingertips brushed against the cool metal of her keys, her hair was damp and curling at the ends.

The momentary relief was short-lived when she pressed the unlock button five times and the accompanying beep didn’t sound, not even once. For an absurdly long minute, all she could do was rest her forehead against the driver’s side window, breathing heavily until condensation gathered next to her mouth and the drizzle speckled dots onto the sleeves of her thin cotton shirt.

“If you’re trying to charge the battery through osmosis, it’d probably be more effective to smash your head against the hood.”

Drea jumped, and then flinched again when her keys clattered against the ground. She caught a glimpse of the phantom speaker in the side-view mirror; bizarrely, he looked just as surprised as she felt. She turned around, apprehensively—objects may be closer than they appear n’all—and tried to swallow her rapidly rising heart.

Drea blinked at him, slowly, and bent down to reach for her keys, “Might wanna see someone about that. Sounds unsanitary.”

“Eh, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” he said, eyes widening into horrified round circles the second he stopped talking. A faint flush creeped up his neck to his ears, and Drea’s heart dropped back into her chest. Slashers and ax murderers didn’t blush. Probably. She hadn’t ever met one, but it seemed like sound logic.

“Choking hazard,” Drea hummed, leaning back against her car. Her fingers traced a small dent in the door, the cause long forgotten, “It’s definitely still a choking hazard.”

“98.3?” Drea’s brow arched.

“Maybe even 98.9.”

The buzz of a lamp post hummed above their heads as they stared at each other with little smirks until the quiet made Drea sink her teeth into her bottom lip and big-mouth drum his fingers against his forearm.

“So,” his sneakers squeaked against the slick asphalt as he shifted his weight, “you need a jump?”

Drea pursed her lips and ran her eyes over the front of her car, “I might give osmosis another shot. 30 seconds is hardly a fair trial.”

“Of course,” he hummed, “you gotta be fair.”

“We are in front of a police station.”

“Well,” he scratched his cheek, “it’s not a courthouse.”

“Technicality.” Drea was slightly horrified when she finally noticed that she was smiling. The sensation felt like it had escaped straight out of the uncanny valley and latched onto her face like a parasite in need of a host. It only took two weeks for muscles to atrophy; years must have completely decimated the fibers in her cheeks. “I guess I could use a jump. If your offer was an offer and not a hypothetical.”

“Smart choice.” The boy rapped his knuckles against the hood of her car and said, “Steel’s probably pretty low on the permeability scale.”

“As opposed to a skull.”

He snorted and then nodded towards the large lump of books and papers covered by her freshly dampened jean jacket, “You should probably move your stuff. Y’know, ‘cause of the very un-permeable battery.”

“There’s that,” Drea sighed and started stuffing her things back into her backpack, shaking it violently until her notebook finally slid past her chemistry textbook, “and flunking English isn’t high on my list of things to do this weekend.”

His gaze flickered back and forth, rapidly cataloging every corner and crevice of her face. Drea tilted her head, brows pinched, and stared back at him with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. His eyes, she noticed, became a peculiar shade of brown in the yellow glow of the setting sun and the fluorescent light of the lamppost. More like honey, she realized, more like honey than irises. Something finally clicked behind them. "You,” he pointed aggressively, “you go to Beacon Hills.”

Drea pushed his finger away from her face with her own, “Safe bet, considering there’s exactly one option for the next 2,000 square miles.”

“You’re kind of a smartass, you know that,” he muttered as he struggled with the trunk of the jeep parked one space to her right until he finally wrenched it open with an almost guttural grunt.

Her lips parted briefly, and then she grinned drolly. It was refreshing, not being treated like some fragile little creature who would buckle in the knees—or possibly set something on fire—at the slightest confrontation. “Kind of?”

Drea bit back the snark poised on the tip of her tongue. When people looked at her, the only thing they saw was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She was the daughter of the woman who burned to death on Cedar Street; Drea Dickinson’s mom died, and she was there. It seemed like that was all she would ever be in Beacon Hills.

In the grand scheme of things, it was better to be no one.

High school had been her chance to slip into social obscurity—more kids, more drama, less discussion of homicide by arson—so she took it, wholeheartedly. She kept to the corners of classrooms, away from extracurriculars, and her mouth resolutely shut.

“I try to exclusively bring the smart and leave the ass at home,” Drea finally replied.

The boy’s eyes drifted downwards for a moment, and his voice did a funny, squeaky thing when he said, “I should give that a go sometime.”

“10/10 would recommend. No one bugs you—and teachers never throw erasers at your face.”

“So you do remember me,” he grinned a little and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before unlatching the jeep’s hood and propping it open.

Slanting her head, Drea watched his profile. There were moles scattered across his cheek and neck, and his angular jaw clenched as he struggled with the knotted cords in his willowy fingers. “Vaguely,” she said faintly. It was coming back to her in pieces. That was life after twelve for Drea Dickinson: bits and pieces. Everything was made up of the disquieting moments when she surfaced from the haze and into the present. It should’ve felt like a lungful of air, but it didn’t. It always felt like choking.

He wiped his grease-smudged hand on his jeans and then extended it towards her, “Stiles.”

She took his hand, despite the strange formality, and shook it—mainly because of the black streaks staining his pants. “Drea.”

Stiles’s brow wrinkled, “I thought it was Andy.”

Drea hadn’t been Andy for what felt like a very long time. Four years, in fact. There were several reasons: her mom called her Andy, and she wanted to become someone else, anybody else—but ultimately the deciding factor was ‘Andy Arson.’ The nickname stuck around far longer than she thought it would. With a last name like Dickinson, Drea really thought the tweenager taunting would go in a different direction, but thirteen-year-olds had a knack for latching onto a person’s deepest-seated insecurities. Middle school, she mused, was a tragedy all on its own.

“Nope. Just Drea.”

Stiles examined her face, and she saw that flicker in his eyes again: the light of recognition. “Well, Drea’s cool, y’know, in comparison.” His fingers twitched a few times when he connected the clamp to the coordinating battery terminal, and Drea’s eyes widened. She held her breath in her sternum until she registered that he hadn’t been electrocuted. He was just naturally tweaky, she concluded. It was either that, or he had jumped one-too-many engines in the last 24 hours…unless it was hidden option C, and he was actually tweaking. Unlikely, given he was on his way into a building teeming with cops, but far stranger things had happened in Beacon Hills.

The longer she remained silent the more parts of his body started to move. Stile squeezed and unsqueezed the black clamp in his hand and drummed on the side of her car with his unoccupied fingers, “Like, Andy—no offense—doesn’t exactly strike fear or confidence in the heart. I mean, I wouldn’t trust Officer Andy to save my ass in a shoot-out, and I definitely wouldn’t trust Dr. Andy to cure my unknown, incredibly rare, incurable disease.”

“No one could cure your incurable disease. That’s quite literally the entire definition of the word.”

“Sure,” Stiles connected the last clamp and glanced at her over his shoulder, almost checking himself in the chin with a large shrug, “but I’d buy that Dr. Drea could.”

Her mouth parted for a second, and then she closed it before she could say something impulsive. “That’s not even how it works; I’d be Dr. Dickinson.”

Stiles winced, “Brutal.”

“Yeah,” Drea sighed and rubbed her palms over her arms until the goosebumps prickling her biceps receded into her skin.

Stiles looked back at her again, and his mouth wormed its way into a little frown. His head disappeared into his trunk, and after a moment a lumpy maroon mass hurtled towards her face. She caught it before it could smack into her nose, and she clutched at the soft material until she realized that the projectile missile was actually just a sweatshirt.

Stiles was staring at her when she looked up from her hands. A small, unsure…something squirmed over his face, and she felt a little stupid, just standing there, hoodie limp in her arms. It happened a lot—more than it should after so many years. The invisible quicksand materialized in the strangest, most insignificant moments. Drea blinked, completely brainless, at simple questions, stared aimlessly into her closet until her second alarm startled her into snatching the first shirt her fingers came in contact with—clasped at a stranger’s hoodie until the rainwater pooled on her lashes dripped into her eyes.

Robotically, Drea thrust her arms through the sleeves and tugged it over her head, “Thanks.” The sweet scent of grass clung to the fabric, and there was something earthier underneath it, something like evergreen. She smiled slightly, combing her baby hairs behind her ears, “I almost forgive you for being a dick about my name.”

Stiles’s shoulders unwound as he scoffed, “At least people can say it without seizing.”

Drea looked at him and tilted her head, eyebrows crawling towards the bridge of her nose.

Stiles waved his hand in the air and extrapolated, “My full name is—just trust me. Dick jokes aren’t the worst thing in the world.”

“No,” Drea chewed on her lip, “they aren’t.”

There was a moment in middle school where she was tempted to plant the seed of something incredibly stupid and irresistibly raunchy, something like, ‘Andrea wants ‘Dickinsideher,’ because even that was better than a name with matricide as the punchline. But it didn’t take when Jared Cartwright soft-launched it in PE, so Drea seriously doubted it would ever catch-on from the target herself.

She cleared her throat, “But they are almost as bad as stye jokes.”

“Uh, absolutely not. Eyesores are nowhere near as gross as dick’n nu—” Stiles coughed, throat bobbing as he swallowed, before finishing his sentence with an audible question mark, “…phallic imagery.”

Drea pursed her lips, “Pus beats penis on the ick meter by at least 23 points.”

Stiles’s eyes glimmered in the fading light, “23?”

“Maybe even 24.”

Another bout of silence fell between them, but it wasn’t so restless this time—even after Stiles torpedoed his body through his passenger seat. He fought with his keys for a while until the correct one slid into the ignition.

The jeep’s engine hummed pleasantly in the quiet as Drea let out a soft sigh, dropping her head back against her car window. The rain had stopped somewhere between trying to unlock her car and now, but she couldn’t quite recall when. The chill wasn’t so bad, she realized, without her foul mood casting a shadow over her head.

Stiles landed back on his feet and leaned against the jeep. Drea could feel his gaze on her again. A tickling sensation trailed down her spine as she fiddled with her keychain. It was old, a gift from her parents on some birthday she couldn’t remember. Paint had chipped off in most places after thoughtlessly throwing her keys every time she came home, but she could still make out the M and Y of the orange ‘Mystery Machine’ logo.

Stiles hummed for a moment and then said, “I’m Nobody. Who are you?”

Drea stared at him and waited for the punchline. It didn’t come. Instead, he shifted from one foot to the other and fumbled over each following syllable. “You know, like…Dickinson,” he waved his hands around, seemingly searching for some sort of cosmic relief. “I thought it would better than a dick joke, but upon some seriously belated reflection, I realize that you’re probably tired of corny assholes qu—”

“How dreary,” Drea interrupted, quietly but loud enough to be heard over the rumbling jeep, “to be Somebody.”

Stiles’s jaw snapped shut; it was his turn to blink at her stupidly. He smiled a little and ran his hand over his buzzed head, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t know what she was agreeing with, only that she wholeheartedly did.

“I forgot that part.”

Drea clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head, “It’s the best line.”

“It might have something to do with my species landing somewhere between microscopic bacteria and radioactive cockroach on the high-school social food chain,” Stiles said dryly. His face remained impassive, like he was talking about something benign as the weather.

Drea tilted her head a little and a timid smile unfurled over her face in time with the swell of familiarity blooming beneath her ribcage, “Then there’s a pair of us.”

His cheeks dimpled when he smiled back at her, “I do remember that one.”

“Well,” Drea slid her hands into her back pockets and shrugged, “it is the best part.”

Stiles squinted at her and then laughed.

Drea felt a bit like laughing too, so she swallowed thickly before she could choke on the impulse. She took a step backwards and curled her fingers around her keys in her back pocket, “I should probably try start my car…y’know, before you start reciting, ‘I Felt a Funeral, in My Brain.’”

He nodded, taking a step towards his jeep, “Solid plan. ‘Because I could not stop for Death’ would be next.”

Drea slid into her car and stared at the steering wheel, wrapping her fingers around 10 and 2 and silently calling upon every deity she’d ever heard of to end her suffering. Stiles seemed nice enough, but she seriously doubted her smalltalk capabilities were up-to ‘ride home’ standards. Perhaps, she should revisit her resounding dedication to atheism, she thought, as the engine sputtered in protest a few times and then came back to life.

Stiles flashed two thumbs up through the window. The smile on his face was positively goofy, but his dismount from the jeep was somehow even goofier. He stumbled over his large feet a few times before regaining stability. Drea bit back a smile when he shot her another thumbs up, this time through the dash as he removed the jumper cables from her battery.

He wiped his hands off on his jeans again; at this point, she was convinced that they were beyond saving, but Stiles didn’t seem concerned. He tapped against her window before stepping around the open door, “You should probably let it run for a while. Take the scenic route home; enjoy all the Beacon Hills hotspots open past 8:00 pm on a weeknight. I personally recommend the Rite Aid or Walmart.”

Drea snorted, “Maybe I’ll swing by the Preserve. I hear the woods are especially beautiful in the foreboding darkness.”

“Don’t.” Serious was an odd look on Stiles’s face. Drea decided that she much preferred the goofy grin. “Don’t go anywhere near the Preserve. It’s officially cordoned off—totally locked down, quarantine-zone-central. Something about flesh-eating, parasitic plant life.”

“As completely real and unobtrusive as that sounds,” Drea drawled, “don’t worry about it. Literally every single person in town knows about the body they found in the woods.” It was bound to happen, small town and all—and ‘woman dies in deadly animal attack’ was the most interesting thing that had happened in Beacon Hills since the intersection got a Target two years ago. “I’ve seen every installment of Friday the 13th and The Blair Witch Project. If I’m going to be murdered, I refuse to also be humiliated by a cliché C.O.D.”

Drea thought back to a house fire with no origin, accelerant, or discernible cause. Apparently, not. “You know what they say,” she sighed, “life finds a way.”

Stiles tilted his head, “And death.”

“And death,” Drea agreed, staring at a small chip in her windshield. The cracks had just begun to spiderweb out from the pit.

Stiles looked like he wanted to say something, and he looked so much like the Sheriff with his face twisted around thoughtful contemplation that she couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to make the connection. The boy in the photo had grown up. How unfortunate for him. Stiles swallowed whatever it was that was lingering on his tongue and shut Drea’s door. He leaned his elbow against the window frame and cocked his hand in a stiff little wave, “See ya in English, Dickinson—both of you.”

“Awful,” Drea’s nose scrunched as she buckled her seatbelt, “terrible, dreadful. A solid 25 on the ick meter.”

Stiles grinned and held up his hands, “I’ll think of something better by Monday, promise.”

Drea put her car in drive once Stiles was safely a few feet from the wheels and flicked her damp hair over her shoulder, “I dwell in Possibility.” What a scary place to be, she thought as she watched Stiles disappear in her rearview mirror. Possibility. Hope. Life. She was chronically good at surviving; cockroached her way out of every horrible thing life squashed her with. Lately, all she could do was cling to her heartbeat and the warmth of her skin, until she was barely more than roadkill. A walking carcass was a far cry from living, but Death would not stop for her, so she stopped looking for him. She kept treading water, took her pills, stopped existing—she was a lot like Schrödinger’s cat that way: too stubborn to live, too stubborn to die. She didn’t know what to do if someone unsealed the box and forced her to choose. That was the trouble with possibility; it required far too much uncertainty.

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