#mostly i just want to put them in a blender and turn it on | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hockeyluvrr · 3 months ago

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BLENDER || lh43

MAIN MASTERLIST

summary: Love was never the problem-but distance, doubt, and heartbreak were. You tried to hold on. So did he. But when love stops being enough, what's left?

based on the song BLENDER by 5SOS

warnings: arguments, emotional tension, swearing, miscommunication, jealousy, confrontation, desperation, uncertainty, breaking up, heartbreak, emotional limbo, unresolved feelings, basically all the basic angst stuff lol

notes: holy shit, this came out of nowhere ngl... this is my longest fic yet and I love it so much. shoutout to my 5sos girlies, this is for you (mostly me though 🤭)

word count: 6,410

The fight had been over for an hour, but your phone was still buzzing.

LUKE: can you just pick up?

LUKE: i don’t want to end the night like this.

LUKE: please.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the notification. Your body still felt tight, wound up from everything you’d just screamed at each other. The distance was getting to both of you. Maybe it had been from the start.

This was supposed to be easy. A summer fling that accidentally turned into more.

You met Luke last July, when the air was thick with humidity and the nights bled into each other without much consequence. You didn’t think twice when it started—just a guy and a girl caught up in something fun, something fleeting.

But then August came, and instead of ending things, you found yourself tangled in his sheets, whispering promises neither of you had planned to make.

So now, months later, you were here—staring at his name on your phone, wondering if loving someone like this was supposed to feel like free-falling with no parachute.

Another buzz.

LUKE: i’m calling.

The screen lit up with his name, and you swore under your breath before finally answering.

“What?”

A beat of silence. Then, his voice—tired, frustrated, but still laced with something soft. “You actually picked up.”

“I figured you weren’t gonna stop until I did,” you muttered, shifting in bed. Your voice came out flat, but you weren’t sure how else to talk to him when your heart was still beating too fast from the argument.

Luke exhaled sharply. “I don’t get why you’re acting like I don’t care.”

“You don’t get it because you’re never here.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and aching.

His silence was louder than the words themselves.

“Y/N…” He sounded exhausted. “You know I can’t just—”

“I know, Luke,” you cut in. “I know you have a career. I know you can’t just drop everything for me. But I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one trying.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You sat up, gripping your blanket. “I call. I text. I make time. But when was the last time you put in the effort? When was the last time you planned something instead of just squeezing me in when it was convenient?”

His breath hitched, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the words.

The silence stretched.

You should’ve let it sit. Let him stew in it. But instead, your voice broke when you whispered, “Do you even miss me, Luke?”

The question must’ve hit him harder than anything else, because when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could.

“Of course I fucking miss you,” he snapped. “Every damn day. But I can’t just—” He cut himself off, cursing under his breath. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Y/N. I can’t fix the distance. I can’t fix my schedule. I can’t—”

“I don’t want you to fix it,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I just want to matter enough for you to try.”

The silence came back, heavier than before.

You closed your eyes. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait—”

“I need space, Luke.” Your throat tightened. “Just… goodnight.”

Then, before he could say anything else, you hung up.

You threw your phone onto the nightstand and curled up into yourself, letting the weight of it all crash down.

Outside, the city lights flickered through your window, but they didn’t feel warm. Not tonight.

Not when you weren’t sure if this was just another fight—

Or the beginning of the end.

———

You didn’t sleep.

Not really, anyway. You drifted in and out, your mind replaying every second of last night’s fight, twisting his words in a way that left a hollow ache in your chest.

By the time morning rolled around, your phone was still dark. No texts. No missed calls.

Luke had listened when you said you needed space.

You weren’t sure if that made you feel better or worse.

With a deep sigh, you pushed the blankets off and sat up, rubbing your hands over your face. The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside. It felt unnatural, like the silence had taken up permanent residence in your head, stretching far beyond last night.

You hated how much you missed him.

Even now, your body was wired to check your phone first thing in the morning, waiting for one of his lazy, half-awake messages. Morning, pretty girl. Wish you were here. Call me when you wake up.

But today, there was nothing.

It shouldn’t have surprised you. You were the one who ended the call. You were the one who asked for space.

So why did it feel like he was the one pulling away?

With a groan, you flopped back onto the pillows and stared at the ceiling, replaying the fight in your head. Maybe you’d overreacted. Maybe you should’ve let him explain instead of throwing accusations like knives. You knew his schedule was hell. You knew long distance wasn’t easy.

But at the same time… when was the last time he really made you feel like a priority?

Before you could spiral any further, your phone buzzed.

Your heart jumped.

But when you grabbed it, the screen didn’t show Luke’s name.

It was your best friend, Riley.

RILEY: u up? brunch. now. no excuses.

You hesitated. Normally, you’d decline, opting to stay curled up in your thoughts. But today, with the weight of last night still pressing on your chest, you needed the distraction.

YOU: be there in 20.

—

The café was small and familiar, the kind of place you and Riley had claimed as your own years ago. The smell of coffee and syrup hung thick in the air, and the morning crowd buzzed around you.

Riley spotted you before you even reached the table. “Oh, yeah. You look rough.”

You rolled your eyes as you dropped into the seat across from her. “Thanks.”

She pushed a mimosa toward you. “Drink. Then talk.”

You didn’t argue. One sip turned into two, and before you knew it, you were spilling everything—how Luke had called, how you fought, how you hung up first. How he hadn’t texted since.

Riley frowned. “So you told him you needed space, and now you’re mad that he’s giving it to you?”

You groaned, slumping in your seat. “Not when you say it like that.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to say it?” She arched a brow. “Did you expect him to blow up your phone? Show up at your door?”

You hated that you didn’t have a good answer.

Riley sighed, softer this time. “I get it, babe. I do. Long distance sucks. And I know you’re tired of feeling like you’re the only one putting in the effort. But you guys love each other, right?”

Your stomach twisted. Love.

Neither of you had said it yet.

Riley noticed your silence and leaned forward. “Wait. Have you guys even talked about—?”

“No,” you cut in quickly, suddenly regretting this conversation. “It’s not like that.”

She gave you a knowing look but didn’t push. “Okay. So what is it like?”

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “It’s…” You struggled for the right words. “It’s messy. It’s intense. It’s too much but never enough at the same time.”

Riley nodded like she understood, even though you weren’t sure you did.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, she reached for her phone.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, with a pointed look, she turned the screen toward you.

Luke’s latest Instagram post stared back at you.

Your chest tightened.

It was a photo of him at practice, mid-laugh, sweaty and effortless in a way that made your heart ache. The caption was simple. Back at it.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional.

But all the comments blurred together in your head. Can’t wait to watch you this season! Missed you on the ice! Looking good, Hughesy!

It was a reminder that, while you were sitting here overthinking everything, Luke was out there living.

Like last night never happened.

Like you didn’t happen.

You swallowed hard. “So what? He’s just… moving on?”

Riley gave you a sympathetic look. “Or maybe he’s just waiting. For you to reach out first.”

You stared at the screen, your stomach twisting into knots.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should text him.

Or maybe the cracks were already too deep to fix.

———

It had been three days.

Three days since the fight. Three days since you hung up on Luke. Three days of absolute silence.

You told yourself you wouldn’t be the one to break first. If he cared, he’d reach out. If he wanted this to work, he’d try.

But every hour that passed without his name lighting up your phone chipped away at your resolve.

You were starting to wonder if maybe this was how it ended—not with a dramatic goodbye, but with a slow, suffocating silence that swallowed you whole.

And yet, even with the weight of it pressing down on your chest, you still couldn’t bring yourself to text him first.

Instead, you did the worst possible thing.

You checked social media.

Luke wasn’t the type to post often, but his teammates were. And there he was—in a video on Jack’s story, laughing in the background, surrounded by friends, a drink in hand like the last three days hadn’t meant anything to him.

You stared at the screen, your grip tightening on your phone.

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe you were reading too much into it.

But the longer you watched, the worse it got.

Because then she appeared.

A girl you didn’t recognise—blonde, wearing a Devils jersey far too oversized to be her own—sidling up next to Luke, whispering something in his ear. He didn’t move away. Didn’t look uncomfortable. Just smirked, shaking his head at whatever she said before taking another sip of his drink.

Your stomach twisted.

The worst part wasn’t the fact that she was there. It wasn’t even the fact that Luke didn’t seem to mind.

It was the fact that, for the first time since you met him, you had no idea where you stood.

You weren’t his girlfriend, not officially.

Not really.

Because when the summer ended, neither of you had wanted to put a label on it. You told yourselves it was easier that way—no pressure, no expectations, just whatever this was.

But now, as you watched him on that screen, looking so effortlessly unbothered, it hit you like a fucking freight train.

Maybe you’d been wrong.

Maybe you weren’t something worth holding on to.

The buzzing in your head was so loud that you almost didn’t hear Riley calling your name.

You blinked, barely processing that she was standing in the doorway of your apartment. “Are you even listening?”

You swallowed hard, locking your phone before she could see the screen. “What?”

She sighed, stepping inside and dropping onto your couch. “I said we’re going out tonight. You need a distraction.”

“I don’t need a distraction,” you muttered, even as you stared blankly at the wall.

Riley rolled her eyes. “Okay, so what? You’re just gonna sit here all night, refreshing Instagram like a psycho?”

Your silence must have been answer enough.

She groaned. “Y/N. Come on. I love you, but this? This isn’t healthy. You don’t even know what’s going on.”

You clenched your jaw. “I know enough.”

She gave you a long look, then sighed. “Fine. If you’re not gonna let it go, then at least don’t let him be the only one having fun tonight.”

You hesitated.

Riley saw the crack in your resolve and jumped on it. “Just a couple drinks. That’s all I’m asking.”

You weren’t sure why you agreed. Maybe it was the fact that you’d barely left your apartment in days. Maybe it was the need to feel something—anything—other than this ache in your chest.

Or maybe, deep down, it was the smallest, most pathetic part of you that wanted Luke to see you moving on, too.

———

The bar was packed. Music pulsed through the speakers, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and too many bodies crammed into one space.

It should’ve felt suffocating.

But instead, with a drink in your hand and Riley’s laughter ringing in your ears, you almost managed to forget.

Almost.

At least, until your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You knew who it was before you even checked.

LUKE: are you out?

Your heart nearly stopped. After three days of nothing, this was how he chose to reach out? Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and typed back before you could think better of it.

YOU: why do you care?

His response was instant.

LUKE: where are you?

You stared at the message, pulse pounding in your ears.

He had no right to be asking that. Not after ignoring you. Not after letting you sit with the weight of this fight while he went out, acting like he didn’t care.

So instead of answering, you did the stupidest thing possible.

You let some guy buy you another drink.

You didn’t know his name. Didn’t care. He was tall, attractive, and most importantly—he wasn’t Luke.

And if you felt the burn of guilt in your chest when he leaned in closer, when his fingers brushed against yours. You shouldn’t even feel guilty, right? Luke’s been doing the same thing.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Until your phone buzzed again.

LUKE: Y/N.

One words. Your name. That’s all it took to make your breath hitch.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a fight. It wasn’t just a rough patch.

This was a game.

———

The tension had been simmering all night.

It started with Luke’s text. One simple word that crawled under your skin, wrapping around your ribs like a vice. But what pissed you off the most wasn’t the message itself.

It was the fact that he suddenly cared.

After three days of silence. After her in his Instagram story. After making you feel like you were the only one suffering through this distance.

And now, here he was, acting like he had a say in what you did.

So you ignored the text.

And maybe you let that guy keep flirting with you a little longer than you should have. Maybe you let his hand linger at the small of your back when he leaned in to talk. Maybe you even laughed a little louder, tilted your chin just enough that if Luke somehow saw—if he was watching—he’d know exactly what you were doing.

It was petty. It was reckless.

But so was loving someone who could make you feel this small.

The tension cracked the second you stepped outside the bar.

Luke was waiting.

You nearly tripped when you saw him, heart slamming against your ribs. He was standing near the curb, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he was trying to grind his teeth into dust.

Your stomach flipped. He was here. He actually came.

But you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

His eyes locked onto you immediately, flickering down to the guy who had followed you out. And in that moment, the simmering tension didn’t just build. It exploded.

“The fuck is this?” Luke’s voice was low, controlled—but you knew him well enough to hear the storm brewing beneath it.

You blinked, still caught off guard by the fact that he was here. “What?”

Luke’s jaw tightened. “Who the hell is he?”

The guy next to you—God, you didn’t even remember his name—shifted awkwardly. “Uh—”

“Not your business, Hughes,” you cut in before he could finish.

Luke’s eyes snapped back to you. “Not my business?”

“You heard me.” Your pulse was pounding, but you forced yourself to hold your ground. “You don’t get to disappear for three days and then show up acting like you have any right to be pissed.”

Luke let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “That’s funny, because I could say the same thing. You tell me you need space, ignore me for days, and then I see you all over some guy?”

“I ignored you?” You scoffed, anger bubbling to the surface. “That’s rich, Luke. Where the hell were you? Oh, right—too busy playing NHL golden boy, letting some random girl hang off you—”

“What girl?”

The fact that he had the audacity to act confused made your blood boil. “Don’t play dumb.” You crossed your arms, nails digging into your skin. “The blonde. The one in your jersey.”

Luke stared at you for a moment, then let out another disbelieving laugh. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“She’s Jack’s friend. She was at the game. I barely talked to her.” He shook his head, eyes dark with frustration. “Jesus, Y/N. You saw a story and what—just assumed the worst?”

You hated the way your stomach twisted at that.

Because maybe—just maybe—he was right. Maybe you had let jealousy cloud your judgment. Maybe you had let the silence between you turn into something uglier than it was ever meant to be.

But that didn’t change the fact that this wasn’t just about her.

It was about everything.

The late-night calls that were always cut short. The weeks without seeing each other. The way it felt like you were constantly reaching for him while he was always a step too far away.

“You let me assume the worst,” you muttered, voice shaking despite yourself. “Because you never do anything to prove me wrong.”

Luke’s expression flickered—just for a second. And in that second, you saw it. The guilt.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” His voice was quieter now, raw around the edges. “That I wish I could be around more? That I fucking hate the distance just as much as you do?” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You act like this is easy for me. Like I don’t miss you every goddamn day.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why don’t you act like it?”

He stared at you, breathing hard, like he was trying to find the right words—but they never came.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

There was always so much left unsaid.

Neither of you spoke. The tension that had been simmering all night was now crackling in the air between you, but this time, there was nowhere left for it to go.

The guy you had walked out with cleared his throat. “Uh—”

Luke’s head snapped toward him. “Leave.”

“Luke—”

“No, it’s fine.” The guy held up his hands, clearly deciding that whatever this was, it wasn’t worth the drama. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You didn’t watch him leave. You didn’t even care.

Because all of your attention was on Luke.

On the way his shoulders were tense, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes locked onto yours like this was some kind of battle neither of you knew how to win.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you exhaled. “So what now?”

Luke hesitated.

And that hesitation—that tiny moment of uncertainty—made something inside you crack.

Because if he didn’t know, then maybe you already did.

Maybe you’d known for a while.

Maybe you just hadn’t wanted to say it out loud.

You swallowed hard. “I can’t keep doing this, Luke.”

His face fell.

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth.

I can’t keep doing this, Luke.

Because now they were out there, hanging heavy in the space between you, and you couldn’t take them back.

Luke’s face twisted, like the weight of them had hit him straight in the chest. He shifted slightly, like he wanted to move closer but didn’t know if he was still allowed to. “You don’t mean that.”

Your throat tightened. Didn’t you?

“I don’t know,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the city around you. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

That seemed to snap something in him. His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into his voice. “So what? You just want to walk away?”

Your stomach twisted. That wasn’t what you wanted—not really. But maybe it would be easier. Maybe it would hurt less than this constant, suffocating ache in your chest.

“I don’t want to,” you admitted, voice cracking. “But, Luke… I don’t know how to keep this from falling apart.”

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Then we figure it out.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “And how do we do that? Because I’m fucking exhausted. I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this.”

That made something flicker in his expression—something wounded. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “Isn’t it?”

His eyes darkened. “You think I don’t fight for this? You think I don’t want to be with you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient.” The words came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “When you have time. When it doesn’t get in the way of your schedule.”

Luke took a step closer, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” You could feel your control slipping, the frustration bubbling over. “Because I spend every day waiting for you to call, waiting for you to show up—and half the time, I’m left wondering if you even remember I exist.”

Luke’s brows furrowed, his expression torn between anger and something softer, something that looked like guilt.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice tight. “You have no fucking clue how hard this is for me too.”

“Then tell me.” Your voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Because all I know is that I feel like I’m constantly reaching for you, and you’re never there.”

Luke let out a frustrated breath, his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I don’t know how to do this, okay? I don’t know how to give you everything you deserve while I’m a thousand miles away.”

Your chest ached at the confession, at the vulnerability underneath the frustration. But it didn’t change anything.

“I’m not asking for everything, Luke.” Your voice softened just slightly. “I’m just asking for something.”

Luke shook his head, exhaling sharply. “I—fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to pull himself together. “I don’t know how to fix this, but I can’t lose you.”

Your heart clenched.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Neither of you knew how to fix it. But neither of you could bear the thought of letting go.

Luke’s gaze searched yours, desperate and pleading. “Tell me what to do.”

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t have the answer.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. The tension was suffocating, your emotions teetering on a knife’s edge.

Then, suddenly, Luke moved.

He reached for you like it was instinct, his hands cupping your face, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath was shaky, his grip almost too tight—like he was afraid you’d slip right through his fingers.

“I love you.” The words were barely above a whisper, but they hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your breath hitched.

Because he’d never said it before. Neither of you had.

You felt your resolve cracking, splintering under the weight of those three words.

But love wasn’t always enough.

And as much as you wanted to believe this was the turning point—the moment everything changed—you weren’t sure if this was a beginning or just the messiest part of the end.

Because Luke had never said those words before.

And you’d spent so long wondering if he ever would—if he ever could.

Now, here they were, hanging in the air between you like a lifeline you weren’t sure you could reach for.

I love you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the way his hands trembled against your skin. He was holding you so tightly, like he thought you might slip through his fingers if he let go.

And maybe he was right.

Because as much as you wanted to say it back—as much as you felt it—you weren’t sure love was enough to fix this.

Your throat felt tight. “Luke…”

He shook his head quickly, like he already knew what you were going to say. “Don’t. Just—don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Your heart twisted. “I do mean it.”

Luke’s breath hitched, but before he could say anything, you continued.

“I love you, Luke.” The words tasted like the truth, and you hated how much it hurt to say them. “But I don’t know if that changes anything.”

Luke exhaled sharply, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were desperate, searching. “Of course it changes things.”

You swallowed hard. “Does it?”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to ask that. “It has to.”

Your chest ached. Because you wanted to believe that. You wanted to believe that loving each other was enough to make the distance bearable, to make the jealousy fade, to make the ache in your chest disappear every time he left.

But love wasn’t a bandage. It didn’t erase the late nights spent staring at your phone, wondering if he’d call. It didn’t undo the fights, the silences, the way you felt like you were constantly fighting a battle you didn’t know how to win.

Luke must have seen the hesitation on your face because his grip tightened. “Y/N, I need you to tell me what to do here.” His voice was quiet, but it was raw, edged with frustration and fear. “Because I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to make this work.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know either.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Neither of you had the answers.

You loved him, and he loved you. But love alone wasn’t fixing anything.

Luke clenched his jaw. “So what? We just give up?”

You inhaled sharply. “I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” he pleaded. “Stay.”

Your heart cracked straight down the middle.

Because God, you wanted to stay. You wanted to hold onto him and pretend like love was enough. You wanted to ignore the distance, the fights, the uncertainty.

But how much longer could you keep pretending that love was enough to stop this from falling apart?

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “Luke, I don’t know how to keep doing this.”

His expression twisted, something breaking in his gaze.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

The silence felt heavier than ever before. Stretching between you, thick and suffocating.

Luke’s hands were still on you, but his grip had loosened—like he knew, deep down, that he couldn’t hold on forever.

But neither of you were ready to say it out loud.

Not yet.

“I can do better,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse. “I’ll—fuck, I’ll make more time. I’ll fly out every chance I get. I’ll call more. Whatever you need.”

Your chest ached at the desperation in his voice.

Because he meant it. You knew he did.

But the problem was never him meaning it.

The problem was reality—the way life always seemed to get in the way, no matter how much either of you wanted to pretend otherwise.

You swallowed hard. “Luke…”

“Just give me a chance,” he pleaded. “One more chance to make this work.”

You hated how badly you wanted to say yes.

Because you did. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that one more try would be enough. That if you just held on a little longer, fought a little harder, things would get easier.

But history had already proven otherwise.

Still, when you looked at him—at the raw emotion in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were slipping through his fingers—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

Not yet.

You exhaled shakily. “Okay.”

Luke’s shoulders sagged with relief, and before you could second-guess it, he was pulling you against him. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in your hair, like he was trying to memorise the feel of you against him.

“I love you,” he murmured again, like saying it enough times would make everything okay.

You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the back of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

And you did.

But deep down, you had a sinking feeling that love wouldn’t be enough to save you.

Not this time.

———

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

For a little while, it almost felt like things were okay. Luke called more, sent you stupid texts throughout the day, made an effort to remind you that he wanted this, that he wanted you.

And maybe that should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because even when he was trying—when he was doing everything he promised he would—the ache in your chest never really went away.

It wasn’t just the distance. It was the exhaustion. The weight of trying so hard, only to feel like you were running in circles.

Like you were holding onto something that was already slipping through the cracks.

And now, standing in his apartment, you felt the final thread start to snap.

Luke was frustrated. You could see it in the way he raked a hand through his hair, in the way his jaw kept clenching like he was trying to hold something back.

“Jesus, Y/N, what else do you want me to do?” His voice wasn’t raised, but it was edged with something sharp, something tired. “I’m trying. I’m here. What more do you want?”

You exhaled shakily, heart pounding against your ribs. “I don’t know.”

Luke let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You have to know. Because I can’t keep guessing what’s going to make you happy.”

Your stomach twisted. “This isn’t just about me.”

“No? Because it sure as hell feels like I’m the only one bending over backward to make this work.”

That stung.

Because you had been trying. You had been fighting for this.

But maybe that was the difference.

Luke thought fixing this was about doing things—calling more, texting more, showing up when he could. And sure, those things mattered. But that wasn’t what was breaking you.

It was everything in between.

The distance that couldn’t be closed by a few extra phone calls. The silence that still felt heavy, even when you were together. The way you still felt alone, even in the moments he was right in front of you.

It wasn’t about effort anymore. It was about the fact that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t supposed to keep fighting for something that hurt this much.

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t think we can fix this.”

Luke froze.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then, his expression hardened. “So that’s it?”

Your chest ached. “Luke—”

“No, seriously. That’s it?” He let out a sharp breath, stepping back like he couldn’t stand being this close to you anymore. “We hit a rough patch, and you just decide it’s not worth it?”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “This isn’t just a rough patch.” Your voice wavered. “We’ve been fighting for months. We keep trying, and it’s not working.”

Luke shook his head, eyes dark with frustration. “No. You keep doubting us. You keep looking for an excuse to leave.”

That felt like a slap.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” Your voice cracked. “Do you think I want to feel like this? To feel like I’m constantly begging for something that’s never enough?”

Luke’s expression flickered—like maybe, just maybe, he finally saw how much this had been hurting you.

But the worst part?

You knew it was hurting him too.

That was what made this so fucking unbearable.

Because this wasn’t about not loving each other.

It was about the fact that love had stopped being enough.

Luke’s hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

“You really want to do this?”

No.

God, no.

But what choice did you have?

Your chest felt like it was caving in, but you forced yourself to nod. “Yeah.”

Luke inhaled sharply, like he’d been punched.

And just like that, it was over.

The fight drained out of him all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes flickering toward the floor. “Okay.”

You weren’t sure which hurt more—the frustration, the fighting, or this.

The emptiness.

The realisation that there was nothing left to say.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I should go.”

Luke didn’t stop you.

And somehow, that was the worst part of all.

———

The apartment felt too quiet.

Your suitcase sat half-open by the door, clothes spilling out of it. You hadn’t unpacked since you got back a week ago, pathetically trying to cling onto something you weren’t ready to let go of.

But what was left to stay for?

Your hands shook as you opened it further, starting to finally unpack. Your chest felt hollow, like the fight had carved out a part of you that you weren’t sure would ever feel whole again.

You had been the one to walk away.

So why did it feel like you had just lost everything?

You had told yourself that this was the right decision. That love—no matter how deep, no matter how real—wasn’t always enough. That some things just didn’t work, no matter how badly you wanted them to.

But God, it hurt.

Your phone sat on the bedside table, untouched since you got back to your apartment.

Luke hadn’t called.

And you weren’t sure what hurt more—the idea that he was too angry to reach out, or the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had already accepted this.

That he was ready to let you go.

You weren’t sure you were ready to let go of him.

But you had already done the hardest part. You had walked out of his apartment, out of his life.

Now, you just had to figure out how to live with it.

———

The silence in the apartment was unbearable.

Luke had never noticed how loud it was when you were here—the hum of your voice on the phone, the sound of your laugh echoing from the other room, the way you always seemed to fill the space in a way he never had.

Now, it was just quiet.

And he fucking hated it.

His hands flexed at his sides as he paced the living room, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

You were gone.

And it wasn’t a stupid fight. It wasn’t a rough patch.

This time, you weren’t coming back.

Luke had thought about calling you. Had stared at his phone for so long that his vision blurred, the screen taunting him with your name.

But what would he even say?

That he was sorry? That he still loved you? That he wanted to take it all back, but he knew deep down that nothing had changed?

That no matter how much he wanted to fix this, some things just weren’t meant to be fixed?

Luke sat down heavily on the couch, staring at the door like he half expected you to walk back in.

But you wouldn’t.

And he wasn’t sure how to live with that.

———

Time was supposed to make this easier.

That’s what everyone told you. That eventually, the ache in your chest would dull, and one day you’d wake up without the weight of him pressing against your ribs.

But weeks had passed. Then months.

And Luke still felt like a ghost in your life.

He was everywhere and nowhere all at once. In the song that played in the coffee shop, in the hoodie still shoved in the back of your closet because you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. In the fleeting moments when you reached for your phone before remembering that he wasn’t yours to call anymore.

You had moved on, technically. You did all the things you were supposed to do—went out with friends, filled your days with distractions, pretended like the hole in your chest wasn’t still there.

But every time you saw his name in a headline, every time you heard his voice in an interview, it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Because you still missed him.

And no matter how much time passed, you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

———

He didn’t talk about you.

Not to his teammates, not to his family, not even when Jack asked in that quiet, careful way that made Luke’s jaw tighten.

Because if he didn’t talk about you, maybe he could pretend like he wasn’t still thinking about you.

Like he didn’t check his phone some nights, scrolling mindlessly, hoping to see your name somewhere even though he knew he wouldn’t.

Like he didn’t still hear your voice in the back of his head sometimes, teasing him, laughing, telling him you loved him.

It was pathetic, probably. Holding onto something that was already gone.

But Luke had never been good at letting go.

He threw himself into hockey. Into practices, games, anything that kept him too exhausted to think about the way his apartment still felt empty without you.

But some nights, when the adrenaline faded and the silence crept in, he wondered.

If you still thought about him. If you still missed him the way he missed you.

If this was really over.

Or if maybe, just maybe, it never really would be.

#luke hughes angst #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fic #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes #lhughes #lh43 #new jersey devils #nj devils #devils hockey #hockeyluvrr

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thetomorrowshow · 25 days ago

Text

love is such a drag - ch. 7

Grian's whole desk is just his make-up stuff (oh, and it's valentine's day)

Grian parades through the living room in practically every outfit he owns, sorting them into yes and no piles based on mostly his own opinions, given that both Pearl and Mumbo are focused on their homework and only occasionally look up to voice their thoughts on the look.

“I really like this one,” Grian says, twirling around. It’s the skirt he wore the first night he met Scar, a light pink pleated skirt that poofs out when he spins. “It’s very Valentine-y, you know? But I’ve worn it before, and I kind of want a new look.”

“You could pair it with your new top,” Pearl suggests, glancing at him. Grian hums, then digs said top out of the yes pile—a white crop top with a heart shape cut out in the chest.

“Do you think I’ll get cold?” he asks, holding the top out in front of him. The sleeves are short and the cut-out leaves a fairly large expanse uncovered. The skirt doesn’t reach his knees, either, and his white sneaker heels (which of course he would have to wear with an outfit like that) have lace on the sides, not doing much to keep his feet warm.

“More of an excuse for him to give you his jacket,” Pearl shrugs, and she does make a very good point there.

“Mate, it’s already six,” Mumbo says. “Don’t you need to be there by seven?”

Grian waves a hand at him. “I just need to do my hair and makeup, it’s fine. This is important, Mumbo!”

“You’ve been at it for hours.”

Grian scoffs. “Like—like, an hour and a half!”

“You started at three,” Mumbo deadpans. “Don’t you have a quiz due at midnight?”

“This is important!”

“So is your academic career!”

Grian ignores him and snatches up the top, skipping back to the bedroom to change. He’d been hoping that he would be able to wear his new shirt, especially since he’d bought it with the dance in mind.

He just needs to have a good time tonight and feel good about himself. No worrying about Scar or where their situationship is headed, just going to a dance in drag with a handsome man at his side. What could be better?

It’s just a fun dance, Grian reminds himself as he shimmies into the top, adjusting his left breast just a little bit. Nothing serious or heavy. He isn’t even going to think about anything bad, just enjoy himself.

He can worry about all the messy stuff tomorrow.

Grian tugs the top down a bit on the left side, then turns around to check in the full-length mirror. It looks. . . .

Well, it looks a little awkward, he thinks wryly, running a hand through his hair. He hasn’t clipped in his extensions yet, so he really just feels like Grian dressed up in girl clothes. With cleavage. He isn’t a proper femboy until he gets his hair and make-up on, after all.

He does give the skirt a little twirl, though, snorting at the way it poofs up. He’ll need to put some shorts on under that.

“Hey, G, is Pearl driving you?” Mumbo calls, his footsteps trudging down the hall. Grian snaps open his make-up palette and sits at his desk, setting out everything he needs.

“If she can, that’d be nice,” he says as Mumbo enters. Grian passes him a beauty blender. “Can you get this wet real quick?”

Mumbo disappears out the door and Grian hears a second of running water before he returns, handing back the now wet blender. Grian nods his thanks and dips it into his foundation before patting it all over his face.

“The shirt is cute,” Mumbo comments. “Do you want to cover it while you do all that? With it being white and all.”

“Eh, it’s fine,” Grian dismisses with a wave of his beauty blender. “I’ve done this loads of times. Should I do eyeliner?”

A thump tells Grian that Mumbo has flopped onto the floor. “Erm . . . maybe something light? Whatever you normally do is fine.”

“Right, but what I normally do isn’t anything special,” says Grian. His nose crinkles as he pats foundation around his nostrils. He’s never much cared for the oddly sweet smell of the stuff, and he doesn’t seem to be getting used to it. “It’s a special day.”

“Right, but . . . it kind of isn’t?”

“I—yes it is!”

“G, there’s a 99.9 percent chance that you’re going to break his heart soon,” Mumbo says, not unkindly. “You shouldn’t try to make this out to be a special day, you know? Don’t get his hopes up.”

Grian’s fingers are shaking a little bit, but he still picks up his contour stick and starts tracing his cheekbones.

The thing is, this is a special day. For him, not just for Scar. Mumbo seems to have forgotten that Grian is practically as smitten with Scar as he is with Ariana, which makes this a very odd conundrum of trying to impress Scar as much as he can while also trying to wean Scar off of Ariana. He still hasn’t decided if he’s just going to come clean or if he’s going to make Ariana dump him and then try to seduce him as Grian. The first one will ruin his chances for sure, but he doesn’t see much hope for the second option, either.

No! He isn’t going to think about that right now. He’s going to do his best to focus on letting loose and having a good time, and that’s it.

“I just want a fun look for Valentine’s Day,” Grian tries to cover. “Maybe a little black heart next to my eye? That’d be cute.”

“Sure,” Mumbo says dubiously. “Dude, you’ll look good in anything. Just do it for you, yeah? Not some guy.”

“Tell me that next time you consider shaving your mustache just to see if a guy likes you for you and not your mustache,” Grian shoots back. Mumbo gasps.

“Don’t remind me of my weakest moments!”

Grian laughs. “I will never let you forget that, dude.”

“Ugh,” groans Mumbo. “I can’t believe I actually was going to do that. Young me had no clue what he was on about.”

“That was two months ago, max.”

“Don’t you need to go find some toxic bad boy to date?”

“Don’t you need to get up to your vampiric activities?”

“Dude, what is that even supposed to mean?”

Grian shrugs. “I dunno. You’re the vampire, not me. Stalking a victim down an alley, or swishing your cape around menacingly, or striding through the apartment all gloomily?”

Mumbo doesn’t answer that with anything more than a bonk of his head against the worn carpet. Grian pauses, comparing two eyeliners. The pink eyeliner is definitely a bit camp, so black it is.

“I think I would look good without a mustache,” Mumbo says, nearly making Grian mess up the gentle line he’s drawing down the edge of his left eyelid. He pulls the pencil back and blinks a couple of times, then turns around to fix Mumbo with an incredulous stare.

“Dude. The mustache is like, your thing,” he says. “You’ve had it since you were fourteen and it was just baby hairs.”

“Maybe it’s time for a change,” Mumbo says, looking far too innocent to be believable. Grian just rolls his eyes and turns back to lining them.

Some pink eyeshadow follows, then some blush, then a bit of silver glitter to join the highlighter on his nose and cheekbones. He doesn’t go overboard in the way he’s tempted to, but he does draw a black heart on his cheek and a couple of tiny white ones at the corners of his eyes. He ends it with a pink lipstick that’s subtle, but still makes a statement. It looks super cute—he flashes himself a grin in the mirror, then wipes his hands off on a tissue and moves on to his extensions.

“Grian, you ready to go?” Pearl calls from the living room. Grian checks his phone—it’s already twenty til seven, which is just ridiculous. Where had all the time gone?

“Doing my hair, five minutes!”

Grian pulls most of his fluffy hair up— “Mumbo, hand me that clip? No, the large one. No, next to it. Dude, next to it—” and clips it in place once Mumbo hands him the correct one from the pile on the floor, then starts clipping on his extensions layer by layer. It doesn’t take too much effort, but it is time consuming, so hopefully Scar doesn’t mind him being a tad bit late.

Scar. He’s been on several dates with him at this point, but it’s totally different now that he likes him! What if Grian gets all tongue-tied and can’t even make conversation? What if he’s so nervous that he embarrasses himself? What if—

“What if his concussion knocked some sense into him and he’s no longer attracted to you?” Mumbo suggests.

Ah. Grian had been thinking out loud again. “Don’t joke like that, Mumbo,” he says, adding the second layer of hair. “I will genuinely cry and-slash-or throw up.”

Mumbo clicks his tongue disapprovingly, but doesn’t say anything else. Grian finishes up his hair as quickly as possible without rushing, then once again checks himself out in the full-length mirror.

Yeah, Scar’s not going to be able to focus on anything other than him tonight. Grian smiles, waggles his fingers in a little wave at himself. The skirt and the top go perfectly with his make-up. The tiny heart earrings that he’d chosen look adorable next to the tiny hearts on his face, and his white sneakers complete the look.

“Come on, let’s go!”

Grian snatches up a purse from the floor of his closet, his normal white quilted one with the gold chain, then hurries out of the room and the apartment, Pearl following behind.

This is it.

He’s for real going on a date.

And, yes, he’s been on dates with Scar already, but those weren’t exactly real dates, were they? He was there with intentions to mooch off Scar’s money. This is entirely different; this is the first date he’s been on since he realized that he likes the man.

Is it weird that he feels more nervous about this one than he’s felt about any date before? Is it weird that he thinks he’s more in love he likes Scar more than anyone ever?

Grian allows himself one more panicked thought about what he’s going to do after tonight, then puts on his best Ariana smile and heads out into the cold.

Grian sees Scar before Scar sees him.

Now, Scar is always dressed up to some extent, but this is next-level. The man has a three-piece brown suit on with a matching brown tie, his hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail that has Grian absolutely salivating. His oversized leather jacket is on the bench beside him, his gold-tipped cane resting against it.

Wow. Wow, wow, wow.

Grian really should have realized he was head over heels for this man earlier than he did, because that is the crispest-looking suit on the most roguishly handsome man he has ever seen. He’s hunched over a bit, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the ground, his mouth turned down in an adorable pouty frown, his long fingers tapping against his chin in time to the music echoing distantly from the gym.

His hands are so pretty, aren’t they? How has Grian never noticed that before? His fingers are long and lithe and gentle, the veins on the back of his hands popping just slightly, a bit of hair peeking out from under his shirt cuffs.

This man. This man is here for Grian? Is there some sort of mistake?

No. No, he isn’t here for Grian. He’s here for Ariana.

There’s a difference, and it totally isn’t breaking Grian’s heart.

Grian clears his throat as he gets near, and Scar jolts, looks up—

And his face just melts.

“Hello, there,” Scar breathes, then he fumbles around for his leather jacket, not breaking eye contact. “Um, uh, one moment please—”

From under his jacket, he pulls out a single red rose.

Okay. Yeah. Grian’s heart is not breaking, nor is it competing in olympic gymnastics. He’s so very fine and normal.

Grian accepts it, pushing his nose between the red petals (more to hide his blush than to actually smell it). It’s wrapped in plastic, accompanied by those little white flowers that are always with roses and a couple leaves, all of which will probably get pressed between two of his textbooks to preserve them.

“Thanks,” he says shyly. He clears his throat as feminine-like as possible, then smiles up at Scar.

Scar grins back, his face taking on that dopey look that Grian’s so accustomed to. “Of course!” he says. “I wanted a whole dozen of them, but the store was already out.”

“No, this is perfect,” Grian reassures. “It’s . . . it’s really nice.”

His eyes are so beautiful. Grian really hasn’t paid much attention to his eyes before, but they’re green. Isn’t green a rare eye color? In the light of the street lamp above them, they’re a little dark, like spinach leaves. Or, no, something prettier than that. Like . . . like green eyes.

They look nice, okay? Grian’s not great with descriptions.

He’s known this whole time that Scar likes him, but the look on his face is utter adoration. If Grian asked, Scar would probably agree to marry him right now, no further questions.

Which he isn’t going to do. That’s—that’s a terrible idea.

“Excuse us!”

Grian blinks and steps back; a group of four or five girls push forward toward the gym, giggling and holding onto each other.

“Er, should we go in?” Grian asks awkwardly. Scar nods quickly, and, for the first time, he gets up, his movements stiff and slow.

Right, he had a concussion—

“Are you okay?” asks Grian, stepping forward to offer Scar his arm. Scar declines, but once he’s straightened up, he shoots Grian a dazzling smile and shrugs.

“I’m doing just wonderful,” he insists. “Oh, but Ari—you aren’t wearing a coat! Here, take my jacket.”

Scar doesn’t hold the jacket for him to put on, but he does hand Grian the leather jacket, which he takes with a shiver—he hadn’t really noticed how cold it was until Scar mentioned it. The jacket is warm and well-worn and smells like Scar’s woody cologne (Grian surreptitiously sniffs under the arm as he pulls it on, but he isn’t sure what kind of wood it’s meant to be). It practically swallows him in size, but Grian just pulls it around himself, shoving up the sleeves so that his fingers show.

“Milady,” Scar says, offering his free arm.

Grian bites back a smile. “Milord,” he teases, and wraps his hand around Scar’s bicep, his heart thudding a million times per minute.

Can Scar feel his heartbeat through his wrist? That’s one of the places that pulses can be taken. He can probably feel just how fast it’s beating.

Or, easier, Grian’s palm has probably sweated through his suit jacket and his button-up shirt and he knows how nervous he is from that. Or he’s suddenly developed mind-reading powers because of the concussion that he got, and he knows exactly what thoughts are racing through his mind right now.

If his heart beats too fast, will his veins burst?

Scar hands their tickets to the attendant inside the gym building, the music louder now. There are well-dressed students hanging all over the lobby, leaning against the walls and chatting in small groups or waiting by the door for their date. There’s about six people on the floor playing Uno, their coats and purses discarded around them.

The doors to the gymnasium are propped open, loud music booming from within, a chattering wave of voices flooding out. Grian leads them in, pausing inside the doors to survey the situation.

The gym is dimly lit, occasional pink and purple lights flashing from a spinning mirror ball hanging above their heads. There’s a couple of plastic tables with snacks set up along the wall beside them, with folding chairs lining the back wall. The rest of the gym is sparsely populated by groups of students dancing, enjoying whatever unfamiliar pop song that’s blaring so loud Grian can’t hear himself think.

Scar says something that Grian doesn’t hear—the only reason he knows he spoke at all is his chest rumbles pleasantly, and Grian just barely finds the strength to not swoon before he looks up at his face.

Scar points to the snack tables, then the chairs, one eyebrow raised. Grian nods. He kind of wants to dance, but they can sit for a minute. He doesn’t even know this song, anyways.

Surprisingly, Scar makes a beeline for the chairs, even though he had gestured for the snack table first. Grian peels off him to get them a plate to share; he grabs carrot sticks, donut holes, and some pretzels, and debates getting them some punch but eventually realizes he doesn’t have enough hands for all that.

He barely even considers only getting them one cup of punch to share before dismissing the thought, face burning.

Scar smiles his thanks when Grian returns and plops down next to him, shedding Scar’s jacket. It’s hot in here, so many bodies mingling in a gym that’s never had great air circulation.

It’s hot and it’s loud—really, the only thing to do is dance. Grian’s not bored, per se, because he’s still on edge with Scar sitting right beside him, munching thoughtfully on a carrot stick, but there isn’t much happening as far as their dates usually go.

The song ends and another one starts—another pop song that he doesn’t know. Grian settles back in his chair and considers the food in Scar’s lap. He’s hungry after not eating anything for dinner, but there are so many butterflies in his stomach right now that they’re probably blocking any food that would attempt to enter.

“How have you been?” he asks loudly.

“What?”

“How have you been?”

Scar just looks confused.

“How have you been?” Grian practically yells, leaning up to say it in his ear.

“Oh,” Scar says. Whatever he says next, Grian can’t hear.

“Sorry?” he says.

Scar shrugs and leans down, his breath hot against Grian’s ear. Those butterflies in his stomach all clump together into a knot; a shiver runs down his entire arm and then back up and down his spine.

“Good,” Scar says. “You?”

Grian takes a moment to calm his everything before leaning back up to Scar’s ear. “Good,” he says. “It’s loud,” he adds, not sure what else to say but not wanting the conversation to die.

Scar chuckles and nods. His eyes leave Grian to scan the room, as if looking for something.

Grian tugs on his skirt, trying to get it to cover his knees. He remembered shorts, right? Yeah, he’s sure he did.

He picked some frilly socks for tonight, as much as he feels like a little girl when he wears them. They look cute with his outfit, but right now he just feels a little stupid in them. Does he look super young and it’s making Scar uncomfortable? He is kind of young, after all. Sure, they’re only a year or so apart, but is that too big of an age gap?

Well, no, because Scar knows how old he is. It must be something else, then. There must be a reason that Scar isn’t looking at him and dancing with him at the Valentine’s Day dance.

Maybe he got the wrong snacks. He’d thought that carrots and pretzels and donut holes were a pretty safe choice, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe Scar hates those snacks and it gave him the ick that those would be Grian’s go-to.

A new song starts, this one slow piano and a swinging beat, and Grian points to the dance floor before he can lose his nerve. “Dance?” he shouts.

Scar looks at him.

Scar’s expressions are usually pretty easy to read, seeing as they tend to stray toward the general area of besotted under any circumstances, but now Grian finds himself with a face that’s as inscrutable as the conversations around them.

Why is his mouth slightly turned down? Why are his brows furrowed? Why won’t he quite meet Grian’s eyes?

Before he can panic too badly, though, the expression clears with a gentle smile, and Scar pushes himself up with his cane, helping Grian up by his hand.

After a moment of determination, Scar gently rests his cane against his seat, careful to not squish the plate of snacks. He leaves those and his jacket (hanging over the back of Grian’s chair) and slowly heads out to the dance floor, leading Grian along.

Saxophone starts playing alongside the piano. “Give me a kiss to build a dream on,” croons Louis Armstrong’s distinctive voice, and Scar carefully places his arm around Grian’s waist, looking so terribly unsure of himself.

Grian puts his own arm on Scar’s shoulder, then links their other hands together. He doesn’t really know how to dance, but he’s pretty good at faking it, so he leads Scar in a small circle, their feet shuffling delicately.

Wow. This is . . . this is romantic, Grian decides, and he can’t hold back the smile that unfurls on his lips. He’s sure that his face matches Scar’s, dopey with—with liking him. This is romantic, totally and utterly blissfully romantic.

And when I’m alone with my fancies,

I’ll be with you.

Weaving romances,

Making believe they’re true. . . .

Carefully, more carefully than he’s ever done anything, Grian rests his head against Scar’s shoulder, breathing in his woody cologne. Those butterflies are going pretty crazy right now.

He could say it. He could say anything, right now, and Scar wouldn’t hear it. He could confess whatever he wants.

That’s moving way too fast, though. He doesn’t—he doesn’t feel like that, not yet. He just really likes Scar, and that’s okay.

Scar’s hand is sweaty in his, his palm soft and fingers gentle, fitting against Grian’s hand like it had been made to be there. Like they were made for each other.

The song transitions into a saxophone solo and Grian scrunches his eyes shut against Scar’s suit jacket. This is perfect. This is what he wanted. Slow dancing with his crush at the Valentine’s dance is everything he could have asked for and more.

Why is Scar so perfect? Why is everything so perfect?

But Scar—

Scar pulls away, just a little, just enough to lean down to speak into Grian’s ear. Grian waits, his breath caught in his mouth, for him to say something so perfect—

“Can we talk?”

Grian nods dumbly, not quite sure what he means. They can talk, but not here, certainly. It’s too loud.

So Scar slowly brings them back to their chairs and takes up his cane, then hands Grian his jacket and rose, and together, they walk outside, through the lobby and into the cold night, Louis Armstrong growing muffled behind them.

Can we talk.

That usually means something bad, right? That usually means a break-up, right?

But they aren’t together, so they can’t break up. And even if they do, that’s already halfway to one of Grian’s plans to get Scar to date not-drag him.

The bench that Scar had been sitting on is now taken, so Scar keeps walking, through the wandering paths that lead back up toward campus. “There’s a bench over there,” Scar points up ahead. “Let’s go sit.”

Grian nods, but ahead of them a familiar head of blue hair is pulled through a lamplight, giggling, and he immediately changes course. Scott cannot, under any circumstances, see him out with Scar right now.

“There’s one this way,” he invents, pointing to the right. “It’s quieter.”

He sincerely hopes there actually is a bench that way, because if there isn’t, Scar won’t be too happy with him.

Grian breathes a sigh of relief when they round a bend and one quickly comes into sight. They move toward it and sit down on the cold wood, fairly well isolated from the noise of the dance.

“I need to tell you something,” Scar says after they get settled, his voice almost unnaturally quiet compared to the gym. He doesn’t look at Grian, his eyes staring straight into the pavement.

Grian glances at the trees behind them, through which he can see what he’s pretty sure is the music building. It’s as if he’s expecting a murderer to pop out on them—this is the perfect start of a slasher film, if you think about it.

“And—it’s okay if you want to stop seeing me after,” Scar continues. Grian’s heart drops like a stone.

Stop seeing him? Over—over what?

Scar turns, now, and there’s definitely something unknown in his eyes.

Did he—

Did he see another woman?

What is going on?

“The other week, I fell,” Scar starts, his eyes falling from Grian’s as he fiddles with a button on his suit coat. “Down a flight of stairs.”

The emergency room had found a concussion and multiple bruises and contusions on his body, then sent him home with a walker at Cub’s insistence. He hadn’t used it, not once, had preferred to stay in bed or scoot on the floor on his behind rather than use it.

Then, a week later, he found himself at a follow-up with his primary care physician, an appointment that Cub had strong-armed his way into attending.

“I don’t want one,” he said. “My cane works just fine.”

His doctor exchanged a look with Cub.

“Scar, last time I saw you, I recommended purchasing a walker for bad days,” she said patiently. “How many times have you fallen without one?”

Scar shrugged. “I don’t keep count,” he said belligerently.

Cub sighed.

“With the way your condition is deteriorating, I have to recommend that you start looking at wheelchairs, and transition into using a walker full-time,” she said. Scar was shaking his head before she even finished.

“I don’t need a wheelchair, I barely ever fall,” he declared. “And when I do, it’s just because I’m tired!”

She fixed him with a look. “So what are you going to do on days that you’re tired?”

“Scar, dude,” Cub said quietly. “I don’t feel comfortable with you walking around without extra support.”

“I—” Scar gestured to his cane, the cane she had prescribed him, the cane that he hadn’t wanted to use but had begrudgingly accepted. “I have extra support! I have that! I’m fine!”

“You’re fine most of the time,” the doctor placated. “But there are times that you aren’t fine, and those times are incredibly dangerous.”

“What if you fall down another flight of stairs and nobody’s there to help?”

“In a wheelchair, I wouldn’t even be able to get down the stairs,” muttered Scar.

“You don’t have to use the chair all the time,” she said. “In fact, you could only use it around the house to start—that way, you can get used to it. But I would really like it if you used a walker around campus.”

Scar didn’t want that, though. He wanted—he wanted to be normal.

“How long do I need to use a walker before I can go back to my cane?” he asked. The doctor exchanged a look with Cub.

“Scar, you have a neuromuscular condition that has very low chances of regression,” she said, as if she’d told him that a hundred times before. “In fact, it usually progresses until people with it are wheelchair-bound. With how quickly yours is developing, I don’t think you’ll be able to return to a cane.”

His eyes burned, even though he knew what she was going to say. This was it, really. He’d bought himself—what, an extra year? He’d bought himself an extra year of time with his cane, but now it was time to lose pretty much every inch of freedom he had left.

How was he supposed to get to council meetings? How would he get down to the university greenhouses to visit the plants?

How would he take Ariana out on any dates?

He didn’t really remember the rest of the appointment. He signed some papers, listlessly sat while Cub discussed wheelchair options with the doctor, let Cub support him as they walked back to the car.

When they got back home, he went straight to bed, though he didn’t fall asleep.

He just stared at the ceiling and blinked away tear after tear, despair drowning every feeling inside him like a kiddie pool drowns mosquitos.

There really was nothing left for him, was there?

He might as well give up on every hope he’d ever had.

“So I’m sorry,” Scar finishes, tears rolling openly down his cheeks. “I—I just wanted to dance with you, I just wanted to make this a perfect night for you, but I can’t. I can’t stand long enough to dance, and—and I can’t really do anything, can I? I can’t ever dance with you. I’m just going to get worse. So what’s the point?”

Grian stares at him. At some point in the story, Scar had shifted away from him, even though Grian wanted nothing more than to hug him as tight as he could.

He had no idea. How was he supposed to know? He was half-convinced that Scar’s cane was for aesthetic purposes! His only real theory was that Scar had lost a leg below the knee to a shark. He hadn’t been expecting this.

This isn’t about that, though. He can talk through the whole disability revelation with Mumbo and Pearl later. Right now, Scar needs him.

He recognizes that look in his eye, now.

Shame.

Slowly, almost afraid of spooking him, Grian slides his hand across the bench and slots it in perfectly with Scar’s hand.

Scar’s hand is warm, this palm calloused in a way that his other hand isn’t, marked by the constant use of his cane. Grian squeezes it and scoots closer.

“I think there’s a point,” he says quietly.

Scar’s mouth drops open in an o, his gorgeous green eyes shining. “I—what?”

Grian rubs his thumb along Scar’s knuckle. “I don’t—I don’t care that you can’t dance,” he says honestly. “That isn’t important to me. None of it is. Scar, I—I like you,” he admits, and the butterflies are quiet, the somber conversation still hanging over them. “I like you. I like you with a walker, or in a wheelchair, or—or whatever! I like you, dude.”

Why did he say dude, what kind of girl is he? Before he can fully cringe of embarrassment, though, Scar places his other, softer hand over Grian’s, turning to fully face him.

“I won’t be able to drive,” he says, voice cracking. “Or—or walk you home, Ari, or . . . or walk at all, eventually. Are you sure?”

No. No, because he isn’t Ariana, he can’t make promises when she isn’t even real—

Grian promptly tells that part of his brain to shove it.

“Yes,” he says, and Scar’s face glows.

“I really like you too,” Scar whispers, and Grian’s eyes dart down to his lips to make sure he gets the words right, because Scar really does say them quietly, and not for any other reason.

His lips look so soft. Soft, and slightly parted, and like Grian’s lips would slot in just perfectly between them.

No. No, he’s not going to that.

Grian looks back up to his eyes, and. . . .

Scar’s eyes are fixed on Grian’s lips.

Oh.

Cool.

And before Grian can stop himself, his lips are forming the all-important question.

“Can I kiss you?”

Scar, looking breathless, nods.

All night, they’ve moved slowly—on the dance floor, to the bench, holding hands. All night, Scar’s disability has kept them creeping along, progressing in inches rather than leaps and bounds.

They don’t move slowly now.

Grian surges up against him, fitting his top lip between Scar’s lips, warm and just as soft as he’d imagined, a little wet in just the right way, a summer afternoon that smells of a pine tree he’s leaning against (and that’s the scent of his cologne, isn’t it, pine tree) and feels like the sun against his mouth and tastes like love.

Love.

That’s what this is, isn’t it?

#scarian #hermitcraft #hermitcraft smp #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #grian #hermitcraft fanfic #lisad #<- the tag for this fic #mas writes #YAY YAY YAY MORE LISAD!!!!#MORE SCARIANA GRIANDE COLLEGE AU!!!#i have been grinding today to finish this #i lowkey worked myself out of spoons so. i am going to rest now #the chronic pain be paining and whatnot #lmk what you think!#love you guys

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alltheboysandgirlsiloved · 1 year ago

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So I've been trying to get a gist of post-time skip Ben based on Chaos Theory trailer (obsessed again? wrong, I never stopped being obsessed), and I feel like I can optimistically assume that his personality will make sense for his character development that we've seen in Camp Cretaceous.

I made a post about it once but to sum it up shortly:

season 1 Ben is a boy who was clearly raised in some sort of bubble (a different bubble than Kenji) - he is scared and anxious (not just regarding dinosaurs); at the same time we get hints that he can be very passionate and has a sense of an adventure (he's just scared to cross the line). Season 2 Ben experienced a massive traumatic event, to put it nicely, his personality was put into a blender which was then turned on and left unsupervised for several days. His season 2 jungle boy persona, while still consistent with the traits showed prior (as mentioned - Ben was both passionate and adventurous before - he was just too shy to act on it), is mostly a result of a severe trauma; meaning his personality feels more extreme because he had to rely on extremes to survive. Season 3 Ben is one of the most interesting "forms of evolution". The trauma is still fresh but at the same time Ben tries to think beyond it – wants to make decisions based not on "fight or flight" response but on his own feelings on the matter, it's very interesting but in this season - though not visibly - he slightly reconnects with season 1 personality (slightly) for example by considering advantages and disadvantages of his actions (leaving Nublar or staying) (it doesn't apply to every situation which is actually quite perfect because at this point he is still pretty damn traumatized). Then we have season 4 which is actually very important for Ben's character arc because, for the second time, he loses his footing - Nublar was wild but familiar, Nublar was 'never without Bumpy'. Mantah Corp Island is completely new and Ben is forced to reestablish what actions and behaviors are going to pay off in this environment; ironically enough, I think that the distance from Nublar is good for him - Nublar was also the environment where he got traumatized, personally I think that the island could, to some extent, prevent him from healing. And ofc, season 5 - Ben shows clear signs that he is going to evolve as a person; he mellows down not because he gets soft in a bad way but because he recognizes that he doesn't always have to be a knife. At the same time, he is not hesitant to strike if the situation calls.

So, now let's take a quick look at Ben in the Chaos Theory trailer. I noticed four traits that we can spot in that short clip:

He has that sort of shy-silly boy charm to him. A subtle mixture of bashfulness ("hey Darius," his voice is amused but he also sounds a bit apologetic). That is something that especially shines through his character in season 1

When he needs to be serious - he is ("Someone is hunting us"). This is such Ben-thing to do, especially in season 4 and season 5 Ben – when he is learning how to distinguish between a real danger and something that doesn't require setting the world on fire.

He gets slightly panicky sometimes ("before it's too late!") which is a fantastic news because trauma really messed up Ben's sense of danger and it's just good to knows that he feels fear like a normal person (yes, when someone is hunting you for sport, I guess everyone would be a little bit panicky)

From what I can tell - when the situation calls he does display signs of recklessness - notice how he's driving the car. Notice how Darius is visibly not impressed with Ben behind the wheel. Now, sure we can't tell whether someone (something?) is chasing them at that exact moment but either way - it seems that Ben is in a hurry and, excuse me but, he does not give a flying fck about safety on the road (which is! funny considering how he was driving the gyrosphere in season 1)

So yeah, overall, I think that we are going to get a nice continuation of Ben's character arc in Chaos Theory. I certainly hope so because watching Ben grow as a person was one of my favorite aspects of Camp Cretaceous!

Ah, and also... I really hope that at some point in Chaos Theory Ben will do something unhinged out of nowhere and the rest of the campers (because we will see all of them - I don't doubt that) will look at each other, nod, and say "ah, yes, that's our Ben"

#jwcc #camp cretaceous #jurassic world camp cretaceous #ben pincus #jwcc ben #jurassic world #jurassic world chaos theory

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nyoomfruits · 10 months ago

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So this is slightly on the edge of a director’s cut question, but the dynamic between charles and max in where I am going is absolutely hilarious (as with most things yours, everything that goes on in the background is at least as entertaining as the main story). Do they ever get anywhere or is it going to go on like that for a while for them?

Additional question: favourite background plot/thing?

FUNNY STORY i actually started writing the lestappen sequel. it's on hold now while i work on the summer fic but here's a snippet:

The bell above the door tinkles softly as Charles pushes his way inside Max and Daniel’s café. Behind him, a watery sun is illuminating the still wet pavement, a tentative promise that maybe, just maybe the first real summer days are finally here.

“Charlie boy!” Daniel hollers, from where he’s leaning against the coffee machine behind the counter. “My man! You’re early.”

“Meeting with Lando,” Charles says, leaning over the counter to bump his fist against Daniel’s outstretched one, trying not too obviously look around. “Is uh, Max in?” He glances at the kitchen doors as he says it, the little round windows in the double swinging doors too small for him to see anything through.

Daniel grins knowingly at him. “He’s doing something with sauces, I think. Hey, do you want to try my newest coffee creation?”

Charles hums, still trying to get a peek through the door. Sauces means stove, and stove means he’s on the left side, so if Charles moves a little bit to the right he should be able to-

“Wonderful!” Daniel says, gleefully pushing his way off the coffee maker. “I’ve been working on my breakfast series, you see. After the success of the English Breakfast Latte and the Omelet Frappuchino it is time for my next star,” he continues, fiddling with the piston before moving on to the blender. “The Iced Avocado Toast Coffee.”

There. There’s a movement through the little window, a flash of white that might actually be Max’s chef jacket, or maybe a tea towel he just slung over his shoulder, but he’s there. “Ah,” Charles says, rather noncommittally. “Interesting.”

“Right? Avocado coffee is already a thing in Vietnam, so it was kind of easy to adapt,” Daniel says, before whirring the blender to life with the flick of a switch. “Now the toast part is kind of the difficult thing. Same as the English Breakfast Latte I’m using a heavily roasted coffee bean to simulate that kind of toasted mouth feel of, well, toast, but I feel like I’m not pushing it enough yet, you know?”

“Oh for sure,” Charles says. At that moment, three things happen at once. The bell above the door tinkles softly again, Daniel puts a finished glass of iced coffee in front of him, and Max takes a step back, finally appearing in full view of the tiny swinging door window.

It’s unfair, really, how Max still manages to steal Charles’s breath away a little, even after all these years. His back is mostly turned towards the door, but Charles can see his side profile, his brows frowning in concentration, the downward tilt of his mouth as he considers something that’s just out of view. Charles wishes things were different, that he could just wander in through the swinging doors, kiss the corner of Max’s mouth, the crease between his eyebrows, until he was no longer frowning but laughing instead.

But he can’t do that. And he won’t do that. And so instead he watches mournfully as Max steps out of view again, gets back to work.

#the return of daniel's coffee abonimations #lestappen #i have a whole plot for this i just haven't had the motivation to work on it #also personal favorite background plot is FOR SURE pierre and esteban in where i am going #hilarious to write too

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flyingwargle · 8 months ago

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sunaosa week day 7: past / future

suna stands in the center of his living room, hands on his hips, surrounded by boxes. after a long and successful volleyball career, it’s time for him to hang up his court shoes, fold the compression sleeves, and frame the jerseys. his retirement press conference went without a hitch, and so did his farewell party with ejp. all that’s left is to pack up his apartment, and move everything to his new home with his husband in hyogo.

it's the start of a new chapter.

osamu is in the kitchen, carefully wrapping the glassware in newspaper and old copies of volleyball monthly. he straightens to stretch his back, suna watching out of the corner of his eye. “everything good over there?” he asks.

“yeah. where are ya gonna donate these?”

“probably the nearby restaurants. “i’ll bring the cups to ejp.” they were always short on coffee mugs in the lounge, and most of his are in good condition. “washio said he’ll take the pots and pans, komori will take the air fryer, and nagito wants the blender.” osamu insisted they’ll buy everything new for their kitchen, which is why most of it is being pawned off.

“i put the pots’n’pans in a box fer him. he can just take it whenever.”

suna nods, then surveys the living room. they’re taking his tv, but donating the coffee table, couch, porch chairs, and shelves. the books and pictures are already packed, accolades safely wrapped and sealed. the bathroom is packed too, towels tossed with his clothes, toiletries spent. all that’s left is his bedroom.

it’s surprisingly cluttered, despite how little he brought with him. leading up to his retirement, he donated most of his training gear, along with clothes that no longer fit. he prepares a box and starts going through his desk drawers, filled with old receipts, invoices, contracts, and documents. osamu joins him, recycling bin in hand. “thought ya might need this.”

“thanks.” suna inspects each piece of paper before tossing it, just in case. osamu continues to pack the clothes in another box, an effort that suna abandoned halfway for a change of pace. they work quietly, until–

“hey, rin. look at this.”

suna turns around. osamu has a wrinkled envelope in hand, his name addressed on the front. it’s sealed shut, so he fetches a pair of scissors from the kitchen to slice it open. “did ya write me a love letter at one point?”

“actually…”

inside are three folded pieces of paper. osamu stares at the first page – specifically, the date. “ya wrote this…five years ago?”

he nods, joining him on the floor. “yeah.”

“were ya gonna send it ta me, or…”

“i was, but…well, you know what happened.” although many of their friends call them high school sweethearts, they broke up when they were 21, were exes for three years, and then got back together on new year’s on the cusp of the fourth. the reasons for their separation sound amateurish now – they couldn’t handle the distance, they were chasing parallel dreams, they couldn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t make time for each other.

while they were separated, osamu opened three more onigiri miya locations; suna played in the olympics and overseas. osamu won awards for his food and service; suna became sponsored by top brands and corporations. osamu starred in documentaries and television shows; suna was featured in interviews and press conferences.

when they met again during the new year’s party organized by inarizaki alumni, both agreed that it made sense to try again, now that they were older, smarter, better. it led to an engagement. it led to marriage. it led to this.

a life together, walking down a singular path.

“i was in chicago, i think. i felt homesick after eating at a japanese restaurant because their onigiri…reminded me of you.” suna’s arm snakes around osamu’s waist, resting his head on his shoulder to read his own writing, shaky kanji after years of writing mostly english. “i missed you, but i couldn’t tell you, so i…wrote you a letter.”

he remembers that night vividly. his teammates took him there for his birthday, where all the dishes were recipes passed down through the owner’s family. as he ate, all he could think about was home, but what came to mind wasn’t aichi, hyogo, nor shizuoka. instead, it was osamu.

osamu, who would video call him for hours while working in the kitchen. osamu, who would reply to his memes or shitposts with equally cursed content. osamu, who would sleep shirtless so he could absorb suna’s body heat, even in the middle of winter.

when home is a person that you can’t have, what does home become?

osamu flips to the second page. the kanji is messier, strokes uneven, with increasing amounts of hiragana to substitute the characters that suna couldn’t remember how to write. he is quiet, eyes traveling across the lines, pensive. then, he reaches the last page, which only contains a few lines.

when i’m with you, i feel timeless, because my love for you is infinite, no matter the distance or time. i used to fear what the life without volleyball would look like, but i’m not afraid anymore, because i know that it’ll always be with you.

“rin.” a hand finds his, the slim silver band digging into his skin. suna looks into osamu’s eyes, the same as he did on their wedding day, and sees nothing but love in its depths, an endless pool constructed of memories between them, from the first day they met at inarizaki, to now, sitting on his floor among boxes, packing a past to bring into the future.

“i never told ya, but in all those years…i never stopped lovin’ ya, either.” his voice rumbles deep and tight, the telltale sign that he’s holding back tears. “i knew why we had ta do it, but…if i were more selfish, i woulda asked ta keep tryin’, an’ tryin’, an tryin’. yer worth all my effort.”

“i wish we were both more selfish,” suna murmurs. “but look. we made it.” he puts their hands together, matching bands gleaming in the light. “you’re a successful business owner. i had the best volleyball run of my life. and now, we have each other. we’ll always have each other.”

the letter falls as they kiss, enveloped in one another’s warmth. there is one part of the writing where the ink is smudged, paper slightly wrinkled, relics of tears shed for a lost love, now a witness to a love that is eternal, that will light their way through the unknown, that will guide them to a new life.

together.

#flyingwargle original #drabble #haikyuu!!#haikyuu drabble #sunaosa #sunaosaweek2024 #miya osamu #suna rintarou #post timeskip #gay people am i right #sunaosa did things to me man #suna did things to me is more accurate #the only things i want him to do is osamu #haha #i wish them nothing but happiness #fandom event

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plaguedoctormemes · 11 months ago

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drop the chicken paprikash resippy 👀

caveat: I don’t use a lot a measurements and just use my eye/intuition/taste buds a lot, so if you need specific measurements you’ll probably be better off following a dedicated recipe online or comparing them to mine. Also, my recipe is by no means traditional as I am just a latino dude living in the southwest and i’m Not Hungarian in any way, and this is a riff off of my mom’s dish rather than the traditional dish itself. I also like to be really descriptive so there’s a lot of steps but this recipe is, in reality, mega easy lol. Okay-

This dish contains dairy. You can try dairy-free sour cream but I’ve never tried it. Lactose-free sour cream is a perfectly fine substitute though!

(Serves 4)

Cookery:

- a large pot big enough to line thighs on the bottom

- A wooden spoon or spatula to stir with, and tongs or something to take out the chicken with.

Ingredients:

- Chicken thighs with skins on (i really do not recommend skinless or substituting for breasts at all) enough for 1 or 2 per person

- 1 white or sweet yellow onion

- 3-4 cloves of garlic

- 5 large carrots, or two handfuls of baby carrots.

- 3 Russet Potatoes

- Sour cream (you can use 8 oz, i like to use 16oz because i always use a little more than half)

- Chicken broth (at least 4 cups, I used almost a whole 32 oz carton.)

- Any neutral oil (for frying), olive oil is ok though

- Salt and pepper

- Paprika (If you can get hungarian paprika that’s preferred, but otherwise dont sweat it. The dish is called Paprikash so make sure you have plenty)

- Cayenne pepper

- Dried red pepper strips (I happened to have a bag of them from Trader Joes. This is kinda optional but i liked it so much that i recommend it.)

Optional Ingredients:

- Any other vegetable you want (corn, peas, green beans or diced fresh bell pepper would be good!)

- Tony Chachere’s cajun seasoning (for seasoning the chicken, i put this shit in everything tbh)

- Parsley (for color)

Directions:

1. Season thighs liberally with salt, pepper (and tony chachere’s seasoning if available), allow to sit for 30 minutes or while you chop veggies.

2. Pre-cook the potatoes partway by using a microwave, oven, or cubing and boiling in water until almost done. I used a microwave since it’s much faster.

3. While potatoes are cooking, slice onion horizontally (into rings) or vertically (into strips), whichever you’d prefer. Slice large carrots into 1/2 cm coins or baby carrots in half. Smash and mince your garlic.

5. Blend entire bag of dried red pepper. It seems like a lot, but it’s not since peppers are mostly air now. If you don’t have a blender, use a mortar and pestle or put into a bag and smash the fuck out of those guys until theyre a powder. It’s okay if it’s not super duper fine. If you dont have dried red pepper, skip this step.

6. Whenever your potatoes are half done, take them out of whatever vessel you chose and carefully cut into large cubes (theyre probably really hot!)

7. At med-high heat, add a couple tablespoons of oil to your pot, enough to coat the bottom. Add your thighs skin side DOWN so that theyre in direct contact with the bottom. Allow the thighs’ fat to render out and the skin to brown a bit. It should take about 6 minutes. If the skin hasnt taken on a lot of color yet, that’s ok- allow a few more minutes and then flip the thighs. Allow the bottoms to cook for another 5 minutes in the rendered fat then remove.

8. Now put in your carrots, garlic, and onion in the pan to cook in the rendered chicken fat. Scrape whatever yummy brown fond has built on the bottom. Don’t sweat about scraping it all up, as youll get most of it later. Cook until carrots are softened but still a little firm and onions are starting to turn translucent.

9. Add your cubed potatoes in with the other vegetables, give them a toss, and take off of the heat so you can add the seasonings- papricka scorches easily. Most recipes use ~3tbs, I swear I always use more like 4. Also add in your powdered red pepper here, as well as 1 tbs of cayenne some more salt and pepper. Mix everything and bring back to the heat, which you will reduce to Medium.

10. Pour in your chicken broth, enough to submerge all of the vegetables. Add about 3 generous spoonfuls of sour cream, mixing it in so that the soup is now a creamy, luscious gravy. It’s important to not have the pot much hotter than Medium so that the sour cream doesnt curdle. This is a good time to do some extra fond-scraping if you couldnt get a lot earlier! The potatoes may soften and deteriorate, and that’s fine.

11. Re-place the thighs back into the pot as well, making sure theyre covered in the gravy. If the liquid doesnt cover the thighs, add some more chicken broth and sour cream until it does.

12. Chop up or tear up a handful of parsley and add.

13. Cover pot with a lid and allow everything to come back to a boil. Let everything mingle together for about 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally. This will re-heat the thighs and finish cooking them. You can also taste the gravy for salt and adjust accordingly. This is also a good time to add some frozen corn, peas and stuff if desired.

And that’s it! You can serve this on top of egg noodles as well since thats pretty traditional, but the thighs and veggies alone with the gravy makes for a very savory and hearty dinner. Make sure you add another ladle-full of gravy on top.

This dish will result in something that sort of resembles a stew with a bright vibrant reddish zesty and creamy gravy, tender vegetables and juicy, tender chicken. The gravy should be chickeny, savory, and delightfully creamy. Paprika is already powdered red pepper, but I feel like adding just normal powdered paprika and then the freshly blended dried red pepper adds an additional fresh, sweet richness to the sauce. Thighs still have the bone in it, so i usually eat this dish with a fork and use my fingers to carefully tear the meat off the bone, and then just pick up the bone once it’s cooled off a little and gnaw on the rest of the meat and the softened cartilage.

My partner and friends really liked it. Next time we’re going to add some chipotle or southwestern red chile to it for some more spice and smokiness to try out.

#the doctor is in #not plague #recipe #ask

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milestonekestrel · 5 months ago

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I think I might be able to guess where most of the drafts are going (straight into the blender), but "explodes and dies and seven trains crash" genuinely intrigues me.

CFDBHGBGF yeah you'd be right with your guesses. mostly I think.

so thats like. the only one that isn't a wip of a narrative fic. y'know. that one's a lyric analysis!! the title is how i feel.

its about Abraham and Billy, with the song "BlackBoxWarrior - OKULTRA" by Will Wood. which you can expect I mean. I have NOT been normal about that song with those too since I first listened to it.

so anyway, you want the lyrics I have so far, you get them!

Me being so normal and full of thoughts about blackboxwarrior i need to be taken out back im so NORMAL AUHGHGH

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the E.R. floor

Panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic

This whole beginning is like. Kinda just abraham recounting billy’s life idk.

This part specifically… how he died (bro collapsed… of shape infection..) but also metaphorically!! SJS is usually a disorder caused by an allergic reaction to medicine. So Billy develops it as an allergic reaction to the medicine Abraham gives him (medicine as in!! How he teaches him to be. Like the stuff he does to train him an’ allat!! Billy has an “allergic reaction”(he can’t live like this) to Abraham’s “medicine”(training) which is supposed to help him get over his “condition” (just. Like who he is. The bi thing an’ slurred speech and all)

The way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges

The way he chose to live his life (spin his butterfly). And the relationships he wanted in it is the reason he gets hurt and dies (risked all six his phalanges). To Abraham, anyway. It basically ruined his life to him. (wow. No other reason huh. wild) and also risked his own reputation.

Roman candles at both ends in his synapses

Abraham “burning the candle (Billy) at both ends” via his training. Yknow. Putting all that shit into his brain, leaving him no space of his own (it was burning at both ends) and leaving him basically fighting for his life and space like. The entire rest of the time he is alive. He could never get his own brain.. There was always something from Abraham no matter where he looked.

And the method with which he recycled his humors

Trojan Horse'd his Blood-Brain Barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes

Billy recycling his humors (the man he is was thrown out, turned into trash, but hes trying to recycle it and sort of regain control) with of course, the method being both immensely disliked by Abraham and also.not completely healthy but whatever abraham is the big issue here. He sees Billy’s polycule thing as him “Trojan Horse’ing his blood-brain barrier” because of Abraham’s own views. He looks at it like Billy looking at something positively, or accepting something, that is ultimately killing him. Letting harmful things through his “blood-brain barrier.” also. Raising the LD-50. Billy is somehow surviving something that, to his dad, is the LD-50. The lethal dosage of something that would kill half of the people given it. Hes rasiing the LD-50 which he has no right to do, and not only is it endangering Abraham(‘s reputation. loser), its also proof that he’s not completely weak and pathetic.

And through flight-or-fight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior

He skipped this town and headed straight down history

“The above usage of “black box” is used to describe behaviourist psychology theories, in which all one is concerned with is a particular subject’s responses to stimuli, with no regard to what is happening in their mind (treating the mind as a “black box”).”

Billy is the BlackBoxWarrior. Abraham is doing all this shit to him only looking for how he responds to it (the inputs and outputs) NOT what's going on inside of him. Also “fight or flight revelation” Abraham is trying to change Billy’s fundamental fight-or-flight responses to life. Trying to change the like. Inherent parts of him to fit his own interests. Not only that, he forced Billy into a corner with the shit hes putting him through, causing Billy to use his “fight-or-flight” basic instincts and act to get himself out of it. By like. Cussing Abraham out and running over his foot. And its through this “fight-or-flight revelation” that Abraham calls for “shame” on Billy because he left. “Skipped this town” i.e fled the house and moved in with Caz and Suze, and “headed straight down history” just. became history. Yesterday’s news. “Going down in history” typically means to gain some sort of fame after you die, but it's flipped on its head here. Billy has no one to mourn him. He's history. He just.. Does not exist anymore, and maybe someone’ll read his name, but he's just history.

Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo

Abraham sees Billy resisting his lessons. Fighting against him. “shielding himself from reason” but the kevlar (material typically used for bulletproof vests) means Billy really feels he needs to be protected. Which he does. Abraham sees him put up huge defenses to avoid “seeing reason” and only laughs at what they are, not considering what they're made of and why he might feel the need for that.

Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers

Billy is “quilted.” Abraham is just taking out the parts he doesnt like and sewing other things on that he thinks looks better, which, of course, is only the “finest fibers, flesh, fiberglass, and flowers” all very different things and generally not things that are very great for this.

His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito

Just. straight up “I hate my son” shit right here. Billy is a pest that Abraham dislikes, he thinks there's nothing good about him. That all the things that could be good (re. The parts Abraham likes) have gone “incognito” with his recent life.

Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

“Pops” could be like how people “pop” pills when they need to take medication. Placebo is an effect where your brain can sort of think something into existence, and libido is like. Your sex drive. Billy pops (takes like medication, so often. Also, to some degree, needs it) placebos (things he thinks are working / helping but really do nothing. Could be, in reality, following his fathers orders. Or, in the eyes of Abraham, his relationship with Caz and Suze) for his libido (in reality, he follows his father’s orders to “fix” himself, even though its not helping. To Abraham, Billy has got some fucked up thing going on with Caz and Suze to satisfy his libido. Also something about the oversexualization of gay men in here)

“Bless the torpedoes” Abraham sees Billy as embracing all of this shit that like. He thinks is going to destroy all their lives.

#still wakes the deep #billy chamberlain swtd #wip titles game

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mercymaker · 5 months ago

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So what is a 3D render compared to digital photography? I'm so curious about this medium.

I'm not sure I can entirely explain it in technical terms, but essentially...

Digital photography is like taking a camera, walking into a room and snapping photos, right? Of course, there's much more that goes into that than just that, you can spend a lot of time finding angles, trying to find certain poses, but it's all sort of... working in a sandbox that's already there, with pre-posed models and a pre-made world setting. The downside of digital photography is that you don't really have a lot of control of the environment, you're only really capturing what's already there (that can be somewhat influenced through mods in video games, but still).

Unlike digital photography, with 3D renders you start by 3D modeling the entire thing yourself. The models, the setting, the lighting, the camera position. It's a lot more work than playing in the sandbox of a game, because you are essentially creating the whole thing from scratch (not entirely, as most 3D artists rely on assets as well, but using them requires knowledge of 3D programs!).

For example, I am currently working on a render idea for a shot from one of my fics. I already have the nude models from my previous renders, but for this I want them to wear different outfits than before. So I need to extract meshes and textures from the game and "attach" them to the existing models. Then I'd need to pose those models to my liking (which can take A LOT of time), then you'd need to do the same with the setting. Find meshes for the objects you want to use, extract them, import them to blender and then 'dress' them using textures and shaders. And then the light, and the camera position. And that's not even touching on hours upon hours one can spend troubleshooting something (like textures not working, or having missing parts, or trying to figure out how to apply a certain effect, like putting dirt or blood on the model, etc.).

And then where with digital photography you capture the image with one click of a button and it's done, in 3D art you have to render the image, which is basically turning a 3D environment into a 2D image. And that, depending on your computer, can take anywhere from a couple of hours to days to weeks (the last is mostly with animation).

So yeah, it's a much more involved and complicated process that takes a lot of time and effort, but the ultimate advantage of 3D renders compared to virtual photography is the freedom you have. You can make pretty much anything that's on your mind happen with enough time and effort. You are not limited by the pre-built scenarios and poses, you can pretty much do whatever you wish. The problem is building all that from essentially scratch.

Hope that explains it well enough to see the difference between the two?

If you want a deeper look at all the little aspects that result in a 3D render, I can't recommend this blender tutorial that shows off and explains the process behind everything. I started learning blender by just following along and building on from there!

#asks #anonymous #the blender adventures

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hunterwritesstuff · 1 year ago

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Same anon who requested the linzer fic and it was so cute I adored it!!! Should make an anon name for myself....snow anon maybe? Or maybe something else? Idk! Btw saw your introduction post and I'm also autistic so I understand need for detailing and I usually try to pack detail into something unless my brain battery is low lol! But for now...I got another request for ya!

Autistic female reader x Shining glitter and I got 3 scenarios cooked up! I'll let you choose or maybe we can do multiple in seprate requests if you end up wanting to do more than one and I can request it again or idk...sorry if this is weird to offer, i just find em all cute....all are possible things Shining glitter comes home to when they come back from a tour that they don't take y/n on because they know y/n would probably get overwhelmed:

1. Shining glitter coming back from a tour to find that y/n stayed up late to welcome her home and is very drowsy so Shining glitter has to put them to bed despite y/n wanting to welcome them home with some time to spend together...maybe Shining glitter has to sing them to sleep in order for them to be unable to fight the eepiness anymore!

2. Shining glitter comes home to y/n greeting them like an excited puppy, happily stimming and rushing at them with hugs and cute couple stuff ensues...maybe involving Shining glitter singing to calm y/n down if they think y/n is getting a little over excited since their singing always calms them down.

3. Shining glitter surprises y/n by coming home earlier than they expected and surprising y/n with their favorite food, favorite board/card/video game set up, and just watches as y/n comes out from their room to see the surprise! Happy stims ensues and happy girlfriends have fun together!

Hope you like these and have fun!

Of course! Snow anon totally works! Gonna throw these into a blender and make something outta it, hope that's okay! :D

You sat on the couch, having put the dinner you cooked in the microwave as you waited tiredly. Your girlfriend was coming home, so you wanted her to have a warm welcome! She'd been gone a while, so you wanted to make sure she felt welcomed!

You almost started to doze off before you perked up, hearing the sound of a pair of familiar keys turning in the door's lock. The door opened and your girlfriend stepped in. "Honey, I'm-" She was cut off as you tackle-hugged her.

"Oh! Hello! How long have you been waiting for me, love?" She asked, laughing softly.

"Since you texted!" You smiled tiredly. The smell of dinner wafted through your shared apartment and Shining Glitter Cookie sighed in relief.

"Mmm....something smells good...what'd ya make?" She asked, picking you up and carrying you into the dining room with her.

"Your favorite! Hot Jelly Stew with bubbly boba to drink!" You smiled. "The food is in the microwave, the drinks are in the fridge!"

Shining Glitter set you down in your typical seat, going to grab your dinner. "Yours is the one without the pearls, I'm guessing?" She asked.

"Mhm, you know me! It's a sensory sensation I can never really handle, ha ha..." She dropped your dinner off, kissing the top of your head.

"That's okay! I know it isn't something everyone can handle!" She giggled. The two of you ate dinner together, occasionally making small talk, which was mostly just you asking how your girlfriend's tour went.

After dinner, she carried you into your shared bedroom, you giggling and basically infodumping about how much you loved your girlfriend's music and how if and when you got married, you wanted to see if the music played could be hers.

Eventually, it got to be bedtime, but you were still going. Shining Glitter loved you, but she wanted sleep, so she just sorta...pulled you under the covers, singing softly to get you to calm down, eventually getting you to calm down enough to fall asleep.

"Goodnight, love~" And she kissed the top of your head, falling asleep with you.

Hope you enjoy! :D

#shining glitter cookie #shining glitter cookie x fem reader #shining glitter cookie x autistic fem reader #cookie run x reader #cookie run x you #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #Idk if it's just me but the boba pearls are a sensory NIGHTMARE for me-#snow anon #I ALMOST TYPED 'BOOBA' TWICE WHILE WRITING THIS BTW

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linagram · 1 year ago

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[meet the guard!] guard 003: kuroki hinode

(this was supposed to be posted yesterday but.. i forgor...)

HE'S FINALLY HERE!!! THE THIRD GUARD!!! AND ALSO RIKU'S BIG BROTHER!! LET'S GO!!!

he gets not one but two drawings bc he's a very special little boy (and also bc i feel bad for him since he got introduced late for obvious story purposes but like.. i really need to make more content for him..)

(also fun fact: the first drawing actually was done in july and the second one just a few days ago.. i can actually see some differences in my art style hehe..)

another note is that when i started to work on hinode's character, my first thought was that i kinda wanted to create another physically disabled guard character (since i think eiji can count as the first one because kei's treatment of him had not the best impact on his body), it just sounded like a neat concept! but i also didn't want to make him.. how do i explain.. too sympathetic, maybe? too squishy? what really annoys me as someone who is physically disabled is that characters like that are often used to make people feel bad for them and don't really have any personality OR they turn out to be the bad guys who only pretended to be disabled for pity points. so instead i've tried to make hinode's problems realistic and a lot of it comes from my own experiences, but i still wanted to make him morally gray and kinda.. you know.. kinda suspicious. (you're more than allowed to joke about punching him or putting him in a blender and all that)

General info.

Name: Kuroki Hinode (黒木日出) (his last name means "black" and "tree" and his first name means "sun, day" and "exit, leave". yes, hinode's name has kanji for "day" and riku's name has kanji for "evening".. the parallels <3...)

Age: 22 y/o

Gender: Male

Status: Guard 003

Birthday: January 28 (Aquarius)

Blood type: AB

Height: 179 cm

Occupation: Unemployed

Personality: Hinode isn't as outgoing as his brother, but he still enjoys talking to others, learning more about them and just spending time with other people. However, he's used to being alone, so he won't complain if it's not possible for him to talk to anyone at the moment. It actually might be better for him, since he gets tired quite easily because of his poor health and can't be active for too long. He feels sleepy most of the time, so please don't judge him for suddenly dozing off in the middle of the conversation, even if it's very important. He's not as passionate about justice as the other guards and mostly just wants to do his own thing, not caring about morals too much, but still having enough common sense to punish those who deserve it (in his opinion). He dislikes the physical kind of punishments because he believes that they're too "basic", since pain can easily scare anyone and there's nothing special about it. It's also possible that he doesn't like them because of his own experience with chronic pain, but to be honest, Hinode is lying when he says that he doesn't like to see people in pain. Yes, he believes that pain is the worst thing that could happen to anyone, even worse than death. But also, as someone who has no choice but to spend most of his days in pain.. Maybe he does want to see the prisoners feel the same way as he does. Maybe just a little bit. He still prefers the psychological punishments, finding them more "effective" and "suitable".. mostly because he's too weak to punish anyone physically.

MV info.

His Milgram cover: Him and T1 Naomi are twinning and he'd cover Weakness! The lyrics remind me a lot of him and I think with an instrumental like that it'd be appropriate for Riku's brother to cover it.

His DECO*27 cover: Harinezumi. The lyrics remind me a lot of him in general, him trying to keep up with everyone even though his condition doesn't allow him and him feeling like a burden to others, especially his family, but also being jealous of Riku for being so popular, talented and living his best life (at least it seems so on the outside) ("I can still keep going! Jealousy, what a trifling thing", "Don't you sometimes feel a little dizzy? I'm sighing because I'm tired of my heart pounding", "People know their true forms after being broken and crushed") and also the song describes his dysfunctional relationship with Riku really well as two brothers who are both jealous of each other and who both want something the other has (Riku has friends, popularity, the time and energy to make music, meanwhile Hinode has the family's attention, others helping him and people not judging him for spending the whole day in bed) but who also still love each other and genuinely wish their life could go differently ("I'll embrace you, we won't be parted", "Don't be prickly with me, each time we touch, I throb. If I prick you, you might hate me, well, there's no way that will happen!.. At least, I think", "I'm an attention seeker! I want to be spoiled! I want to melt even more for you!") And also considering that one of them is extremely suicidal and the other one is afraid that his life won't be that long.. ("In the blink of an eye, which of us will die?")

His Non-DECO*27 cover: Waltz by Nashimoto-P. I imagine Hinode having this very soft and quiet voice that almost sounds like a whisper and I feel like it would fit the way Miku is tuned very well! Also the lyrics sound so much like him trying to cope with his condition, his relationship with Riku, other problems and slowly going insane in the process. ("Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, I ask what day is it today, regrettably thinking today will be a good time", "I don't know what's fun, but as I run out of things to do, I will accompany you", "My EKG is a straight line, I wonder how many decades ago") Some lyrics, especially the chorus remind me of the way he acts as a guard too. ("Stop trying to give up, the world is connected. Dance, smile, while you're being controlled. In the beginning, in the end, the details are non-existent. Don't resist, accept it, everything is connected") Also, Riku's T3 song is supposed to be by Nashimoto-P too, so :} They're matching!

His T3 Voice Trailer Voicelines:

"Ah, greetings, prisoners. Um, I apologize for such a late introduction, haha.. My name is Kuroki Hinode and I am the third guard of this prison. Nice to meet you. Starting from today, I'll be replacing Sanada Eiji-san as he's recovering. I hope we all get along. I'm really not the best person for this job, so I apologize if I end up falling asleep in the middle of the interrogation, haha.."

".. What was I supposed to do? I can't even get out of bed right now. If he wants to be saved, then I'm not the one who he should ask for help."

Trivia:

His eyes may not look like it because of the lighting on the first picture, but his eye color is supposed to be gray, meanwhile Riku's eye color is more of a mix of light green and gray.

Hinode's natural hair color is light brown, but a few days before Riku committed his crime, Riku suggested that he dyes Hinode's hair, hoping to make him feel at least a little better. They went with the brightest colors Riku had just for fun and it really did make Hinode smile and he was happy to spend time with his brother like that. In season 2, Riku dyed his hair the same way and noticed the colors only when it was too late, so it's possible that he missed his brother and did that subconsciously. It should be noted, however, that Riku's T2 hair is light green on the left and red on the right, meanwhile Hinode's hair is light green on the right and his hair is more pink rather than red on the left. Hinode also has a double ahoge just like his little brother and same goes for their little sisters. It's something they all share :)

He started putting his hair in a bun since he arrived because he found working with his hair down uncomfortable. Miki helps him with it now.

Hinode's illnesses aren't deadly, but a lot of them are chronic and dealing with them made Hinode a little bit paranoid and he has a lot of health-related anxiety. His condition is supposed to be mostly up to interpretation, but I can say for sure that he has anemia, narcolepsy and fibromyalgia.

He's the tallest out of all the guards (and that also makes Eiji the shortest). He's also the oldest one.

It's hard for him to walk because of how tired he feels most of the time, so he asked Miki if it's okay to hold her hand when they walk together. After a lot of internal screaming because of Hinode being so cute, Miki agreed.

His room has everything he needs and he can see the whole prison on multiple screens, watch the interrogation recordings, adjust the brightness of the screens and the room temperature and whoever kidnapped him also somehow learned about all the medications he has to take. He was creeped out by first, but then went "Oh, it's kinda nice actually :)"

Speaking of him arriving to Milgram, he was kidnapped while he was asleep. So before Jackalope brought him his guard uniform, Hinode spent all his time wearing pajamas. He still thinks they're more comfortable than his uniform. (another fun fact is that the first "concept art" of him had him in his pajamas sjskkssl)

He's probably the best character to ask for medical help at the moment, since he does know a lot about things like that, but whether he's able to actually help someone depends on how he's feeling at the moment and what his relationship with that person is like.

Hinode actually used to play the guitar before his health started to get worse and after he realized he doesn't have the energy to play anymore, he gave it to Riku. Riku still uses his brother's guitar and not counting the ones he got in Milgram, he refuses to get a new one. It also has a bunch of silly drawings on it made by Riku himself, Hinode and their little sisters.

#.. yes my hair is also green and pink rn.#IT WAS A COINCIDENCE OKAY. I CAME UP WITH HIS DESIGN THIS SUMMER #AND I WANTED MY HAIR TO BE MORE TEAL AT FIRST BUT THEN MY HAIRDRESSER SUGGESTED THIS COMBINATION AND. YEAH #also just know that when kei and eiko see him for the first time they immediately start flirting with him in their t3 lines #shun it's okay sHUN PUT THE GUN DOWN.#(he doesn't actually get a gun in season 3 though.. at least not right now)#❤️‍🩹guard 003: kuroki hinode❤️‍🩹#milgram #milgram oc #milgram project #ocgram #👤 profiles 👤

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