#my life was on hold for a year because of this

[sempiternalmuze]

And we go on.

dr abbott x third year resident who feels with her whole soul. late night chinese takeout is how they connect

tags: dr. jack abbott x female!reader, jack calls reader kid ONE TIME, more off a slice of life deal we've got going on here, reader probs has anxiety ngl, full scope of relationship never really established, just kind of implied, jack abbott please save me pookie, reader loses patient, probably medical inaccuracy (sorry pitt and greys you raised me better), first fic in five minutes but I NEED this man, no use of y/n, female reader

enjoy and let me know <3

ϟ.·:¨༺ ♡ ༻¨:·.ϟ

"That's enough. Clock out. Now." Robby whispered, firmness and anger dripping from his tone.

You looked up at him, jaw clenched as you pushed around him, past Dana despite her best attempts to reach you, and straight to the elevator. You practically punched the fading 4 and waited for the doors to close. When they met in the middle you slid down the wall, breathing heavy.

Head pounding, fingers flexing as you recounted every step you'd taken on the patient. It should've been easy. Bag them, push the meds, step back. But something happened. She coded, her heart refused to cooperate. Robby had walked in, and that's when your head started spinning because god forbid you lose a patient in front of him. He'd told you to stop compressions five minutes ago. It wasn't fair.

The elevator stopped, you stood up, entering one of the empty rooms. This part of the hospital was empty, and the beds were heavenly after a shitshow in the Pitt. You sat, took down your hair. You glanced at your hands. They were shaking. A sob escaped you, a quiet, strangled sound that you fought hard to keep down.

The patient had been in her sixties, she was frail for her age. It probably wasn't your fault, but that didn't mean you weren't going to take it to heart. She had a life, a family. She woke up this morning, and now she was dead.

The tears had long run out. The AC was turning off and on, the buzz kept you awake. Your shift was over, but you didn't really want to go home. A buzz lit up your phone. You grabbed it, the text message bright as day.

Come downstairs, from Jack. You sighed, stood up and went back to the elevator.

When the doors opened, there he was. Dark washed out jeans, a tight blue tee, curls a bit disheveled.

"Robby called me." He barely had time to finish the sentence before you were pressed against him, arms holding tightly around his neck, as you breathed him in.

He didn't say anything, his arms wrapping around you, strong hands rubbing up and down your back. His head rested on yours, letting you take your time, regain your peace.

"Wanna get some Chinese?" You laughed and looked up at him, his soft eyes already looking down at you. You nodded. He presses the basement button, and the elevator moves. You two stand side by side, fingers brushing softly as the hum of the fluorescent lights sing around you.

You elect to grab your things during your next shift and soon enough you and Jack are off, walking in a hushed silence with the promise of orange chicken awaiting you.

At the restaurant (which is so courteous to be open late for the hospital workers or the loud college kids) Jack pays, much to your protests ("During my third year I could barely pay rent, you're not paying for your dinner") and you two sit in a booth in the back.

The food comes, the zesty warmth like a hug on what has been a shit day. After a few bites Jack pushes his white rice to the side and reaches across the table to you, his hand quick to find your own, fingers rubbing tiny shapes across the back of your palm.

"What happened out there today kid?"

Kid. It was such an arbitrary nickname that he'd assigned you when you two had first met. It made you feel small, like he didn't see anything past your age, past the gap of years between the two of you.

"I couldn't help her." Was all you could muster, barely looking up at him.

"No, you couldn't. She threw a clot. There wasn't anything anyone could do at that point. Not Robby, not me...not you sweetie." He leaned closer, his hand traveling to your arm now, pressing thumb into your forearm.

"You couldn't save her, but you've still got your pulse. You carry on. I'm not saying you should move on, I'm the last one to be giving out that advice." He smiles. And when Jack smiles you have to look, because its almost rare, almost a foreign action from him. So you look, and he catches your eyes, and you can't look away.

"I know you love with everything in your heart. I know you feel it all, its part of why I love you so damn much. But this work—and its work you are damn good at—you gotta pack it and set it on the curb."

You nod. His words have such power, they're so calculated but genuine. Never has Jack made you feel like your problems were small and stupid, or that you needed to get over it. But he did make sure you knew that you had to pack it up and move on to the next.

"How else are we supposed to live? We don't have to remember the reason, we just have to know its there." He'd told you after the fourth date.

You and Jack pack up the rest of the food, lunch for the next shift. He walks you home, he comes inside. Its quiet, the way you two interact. He doesn't push you, you don't need to thank him, because you both know where the line is, where the other person's head is at, and its so perfectly meshed for you both.

Its 10:43 pm when you crawl into bed, Jack laying beside you.

"You don't have to stay." You whisper.

"I know." Is all he whispers back, pulling you so your head rests against his bare chest, his arm hugging you close against his body. The night takes over, and you tangle your body with his.

And your head quiets.

ϟ.·:¨༺ ♡ ༻¨:·.ϟ

a/n: lol posting for the first time in MONTHS and I hope this is enjoyable. if you liked please like/reblog, it helps so much. give me feedback, I felt like I could see this "oc" coming together in my head and i'm wondering if I should make some sort of series from it. lots of love - muze

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Who broke the internet?

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

"Who Broke the Internet?" is a new podcast from CBC Understood that I host and co-wrote – it's a four-part series that explains how the enshitternet came about, and, more importantly, what we can do about it. Episode one is out this week:

https://www.cbc.ca/listen/cbc-podcasts/1353-the-naked-emperor/episode/16144078-dont-be-evil

The thesis of the series – and indeed, of my life's work – is that the internet didn't turn to shit because of the "great forces of history," or "network effects," or "returns to scale." Rather, the Great Enshittening is the result of specific policy choices, made in living memory, by named individuals, who were warned at the time that this would happen, and they did it anyway. These wreckers are the largely forgotten authors of our misery, and they mingle with impunity in polite society, never fearing that someone might be sizing them up for a pitchfork.

"Who Broke the Internet?" aims to change that. But the series isn't just about holding these named people accountable for their enshittificatory deeds: it's about understanding the policies that created the enshittocene, so that we can dismantle them and build a new, good internet that is fit for purpose, namely, helping us overcome and survive environmental collapse, oligarchic control, fascism and genocide.

The crux of enshittification theory is this: tech bosses made their products and services so much worse in order to extract more rents from end-users and business customers. The reason they did this is because they could. Over 20+ years, our policymakers created an environment of impunity for enshittifying companies, sitting idly by (or even helping out) as tech companies bought or destroyed their competitors; captured their regulators; neutered tech workers' power; and expanded IP laws to ensure that technology could only ever be used to attack us, but never to defend us.

These four forces – competition, regulation, labor power and interoperability – once acted as constraints, because they punished enshittifying gambits. Make your product worse and users, workers and suppliers would defect to a competitor; or a regulator would fine you or even bring criminal charges; or your irreplaceable workers would down tools and refuse to obey your orders; or another technologist would come up with an alternative client, an ad-blocker, a scraper, or compatible spare parts, plugins or mods that would permanently sever your relationship with whomever you were tormenting.

As these constraints fell away, the environment became enshittogenic: rather than punishing enshittification, it rewarded it. Individual enshittifiers within companies triumphed in their factional struggles with corporate rivals, like the Google revenue czar who vanquished the Search czar, deliberately worsening search results so we'd have to repeatedly search to get the answers we seek, creating more opportunities to show us ads:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/the-men-who-killed-google/

An enshittogenic environment meant that individuals within companies who embraced plans to worsen things to juice profits were promoted, displacing workers and managers who felt an ethical or professional obligation to make good and useful things. Top tech bosses – the C-suite – went from being surrounded by "adult supervision" who checked their worst impulses with dire warnings about competition, government punishments, or worker revolt to being encysted in a casing of enthusiastic enshittifiers who competed to see who could come up with the most outrageously enshittificatory gambits.

"Who Broke the Internet?" covers the collapse of all of these constraints, but its main focus is on IP law – specifically, anticircumvention law, which bans technologists from reverse-engineering and modifying the technologies we own and use (AKA "interoperability" or "adversarial interoperability").

Interoperability is at the center of the enshittification story because interop is an unavoidable characteristic of anything built out of computers. Computers are, above all else, flexible. Formally speaking, our computers are "Turing-complete universal von Neumann machines," which is to say that every one of our computers is capable of running every valid program.

That flexibility is why we call computers a "general purpose" technology. The same computer that helps your optometrist analyze your retina can also control your car's anti-lock braking system, and it can also play Doom.

Enshittification runs on that flexibility. It's that flexibility that allows a digital products or service to offer different prices, search rankings, recommendations, and costs to every user, every time they interact with it:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

It's that flexibility that lets tech companies send over-the-air "updates" to your property that takes away functionality you paid for and valued, and then sell it back to you as an "upgrade" or worse, a monthly subscription:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

But that flexibility cuts both ways. The fact that every computer can run every valid program means that every enshittificatory app and update, there's a disenshittificatory program you could install that would reverse the damage. For every program that tells your HP printer to reject third-party ink, forcing you to buy HP's own colored water at $10,000/gallon, there's another program that tells your HP printer to enthusiastically accept third-party ink that costs mere pennies:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

In other worse, show me a 10-foot enshittifying wall, and I'll show you an 11-foot disenshittifying ladder.

Interoperability has long been technology's most important disenshittifier. Interop harnesses the rapaciousness of tech bros and puts it in service to making things better. Someone who hacks Instagram to take out the ads and recommendations and just show you posts from people you follow need not be motivated by the desire to make your life better – they can be motivated by the desire to poach Instagram users and build a rival business, and still make life better for you:

https://www.digitaltrends.com/mobile/the-og-app-instagram-alternative-ad-free/

And if they succeed and then recapitulate the sins of Instagram's bosses, turning the screws on users with ads, suggestions and slop? That just invites more disenshittifying interoperators to do unto them as they did unto Zuck.

That's the way it used to work: the 10-foot piles of shit deployed by tech bosses conjured up 11-foot ladders. This is what disruption is, when it is at its best. There's nothing wrong with moving fast and breaking things – provided the things you're breaking belong to billionaire enshittifiers. Those things need to be broken.

Enter IP law. For the past 25+ years, IP law has been relentlessly expanded in ways that ensure that disruption is always for thee, never me. "IP" has come to mean, "Any law that lets a dominant company reach out and exert control over its critics, competitors and customers":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

The most pernicious IP law is far and away "anticircumvention." Under anticircumvention, it is illegal to "break a digital lock" that controls access to a copyrighted work, including software (and digital locks are software, so any digital lock automatically gets this protection).

This is mind-bending, particularly because it's one of those things that's so unreasonable, so very, very stupid that it's easy to think you're misunderstanding it, because surely it can't be that stupid.

But oh, it is.

One of the best ways to grasp this point is to start with what you might do in a world without digital locks. Take your printer: if HP raises the price of ink, you might start to refill your cartridges or buy third-party cartridges. Obviously, this is not a copyright violation. Ink is not a copyrighted work. But once HP puts a digital lock on the printer that checks to see if you've done an end-run around the HP ink ripoff, then refilling your cartridge becomes illegal, because you have to break that digital lock to get your printer to use the ink you've chosen.

Or think about cars: taking your car to your mechanic does not violate anyone's copyright. If your car, you decide who fixes it. But all car makers use digital locks to prevent mechanics from reading out the diagnostic information they need to access to fix your car. If a mechanic wants to know why your check engine light has turned on, they have to buy a tool – spending 5-figure sums every year for every manufacturer – in order to decode that error. Now, it's your car, and error messages aren't copyrighted works, but bypassing the lock that prevents independent diagnosis is a crime, thanks to anticircumvention law.

Then there's app stores. You bought your console. You bought your phone. These devices are your property. If I want to sell you some software I've written so you can run it on your device, that's not a copyright violations. It is the literal opposite of a copyright violation: an author selling their copyrighted works to a customer who gets to enjoy those works using their own property. But the digital lock on your iPhone, Xbox, Playstation and Switch all prevent your device from running software unless it is delivered by the manufacturer's app store, which takes 30 cents out of every dollar you spend. Installing software without going through the manufacturer's app store requires that you break the device's digital lock, and that's a crime, which means that buying a copyrighted work from its author becomes a copyright violation!

This is what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model." We created laws – again, in living memory, thanks to known individuals – that had the foreseeable, explicit intent of making it illegal to disenshittify the products and services you rely on. We created this enshittogenic environment, and we got the enshittocene.

That's where "Who Broke the Internet?" comes in. We tell the story of Bruce Lehman, who was Bill Clinton's IP czar. Anticircumvention was really Lehman's brainchild, and he had a plan to make it the law of the land. When Al Gore was overseeing the demilitarization of the internet (the "Information Superhighway" proceedings), Lehman pitched this idea to him as the new rules of the road for the internet. To Gore's eternal credit, he flatly rejected Lehman's proposal as the batshit nonsense it plainly was.

So Lehman scuttled to Switzerland, where a UN agency, the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) was crafting a pair of new treaties to create a global system of internet regulation. Lehman lobbied the national delegations to WIPO to put anticircumvention in their treaties, and he succeeded – partially. WIPO is a very bad agency, since the majority of delegations that are sent to Geneva by the world's nations come from poor countries in the global south, and they're made up of experts in things like water, agriculture and child health. The vast majority of national reps at WIPO are not experts in IP, and they are often easy prey for fast-talking lobbyists from US-based media, pharma and tech companies, as well as the US government reps who carry their water.

But even at WIPO, Lehman's proposal was viewed as far too extreme. In the end, the anticircumvention rules embedded in the WIPO treaties are much more reasonable than Lehman's demands. Under the WIPO treaty, signatories must pass laws that make copyright infringement extra illegal if you have to break a digital lock on the way. But if you break a lock and you don't infringe copyright (say, because you refilled a printer cartridge, took your car to an independent mechanic, or got some software without using an app store), then you're fine.

Lehman's next move was to convince Congress that they needed to pass a version of the anticircumvention rule that went far beyond the obligations in the WIPO treaties. In this, he was joined by powerful, deep-pocketed lobbyists from Big Content, and later, Big Tech. They successfully pressured Congress into passing Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act in 1998 – a law that protects digital locks, at the expense of copyright and the creative workers whom copyright is said to serve.

Lehman has repeatedly, publicly described this maneuver as "doing an end-run around Congress." Once America adopted this extreme anticircumvention rule, the US Trade Representative made it America's top priority to ram identical laws through the legislatures of all of America's trading partners, under the explicit or tacit threat of tariffs on any country that refused (the information minister of a Central American country once told me that the USTR threatened them, saying that if they didn't accept anticircumvention as a clause in the Central American Free Trade Agreement – CAFTA – they would lose their ability to export soybeans to America).

Canada took more than a decade to enact its own version of the anticircumvention rule, which was the source of public outrage by the USTR and US industry lobbyists. These neocolonialists found plenty of Parliamentary sellouts willing to introduce laws on their behalf, but every time this happened, the Canadian people reacted with a kind of mass outrage that had never been seen in response to highly technical proposals for internet regulation. For example, the Liberal MP Sam Bulte was challenged on her support of the rule by her Parkdale constituents at a public meeting, and had a screeching meltdown, screaming that she would not be "bullied by user-rights zealots and EFF members." Voters put "User-Rights Zealot" signs on their lawns and voted her out of office.

Anticircumvention remained a priority for the US, and they found new MPs to do their dirty work. Stephen Harper's Conservatives made multiple tries at this. After Jim Prentice utterly failed to get the rule through Parliament, the brief was picked up by Heritage Minister James Moore (who liked to call himself "the iPad Minister") and now-disgraced Industry minister Tony Clement. Clement and Moore tried to diffuse the opposition to the proposal by conducting a public consultation on it.

This backfired horribly. Over 6,000 Canadians wrote into the consultation with individual, detailed, personal critiques of anticircumvention, explaining how the rule would hurt them at work and at home. Only 53 submissions supported the rule. Moore threw away these 6,130 negative responses, justifying it by publicly calling them the "babyish" views of "radical extremists":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/15/radical-extremists/#sex-pest

Named individuals created policies in living memory. They were warned about the foreseeable outcomes of those proposals. They passed them anyway – and then no one held them accountable.

Until now.

The point of remembering where these policies came from isn't (merely) to ensure that these people are forever remembered as the monsters they showed themselves to be. Rather, it is to recover the true history of enshittification, the choices we made that led to enshittification, so that we can reverse those policies, disenshittify our tech, and give rise to a new, good internet that's fit for the purpose of being the global digital nervous system for a species facing a polycrisis of climate catastrophe, oligarchy, fascism and genocide.

There's never been a more urgent moment to reconsider those enshittificatory policies – and there's never been a more auspicious moment, either. After all, Canada's anticircumvention law exists because it was supposed to guarantee tariff-free access to American markets. That promise has been shattered, permanently. It's time to get rid of that law, and make it legal for Canadian technologists to give the Canadian public the tools they need to escape from America's Big Tech bullies, who pick our pockets with junk-fees and lock-in, and who attack our social, legal and civil lives with social media walled gardens:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/15/beauty-eh/#its-the-only-war-the-yankees-lost-except-for-vietnam-and-also-the-alamo-and-the-bay-of-ham

"Understood: Who Broke the Internet" is streaming now. We've got three more episodes to go – part two drops on Monday (and it's a banger). You can subscribe to it wherever you get your podcasts, and here's the RSS feed:

https://www.cbc.ca/podcasting/includes/nakedemperor.xml

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/08/who-broke-the-internet/#bruce-lehman

[kxsagi]

may I ask for blue lock characters headcanons on how they would propose to the reader if they have been together for more than 5 years? you can add anyone you like but this is for my one and only glorious supreme king isagi yoichi.

THANK YOU

“𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧”

a/n: i might like writing proposals more than fluff (i also have an isagi proposal fic i wrote here and i still love it sm)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru, kaiser michael, mikage reo, nagi seishiro

isagi yoichi

he’s been thinking about it for months. writing drafts in his notes app. texting rin for help and getting roasted. pacing the training room during breaks muttering, “what if she says no?” even though you’ve been his person for five whole years. 

when he finally does it, it’s quiet. domestic. intimate. just you and him on a sunday morning. he makes you breakfast with heart-shaped pancakes (they’re wonky, but endearing), and insists you stay in bed. when he brings the tray over, there’s a little folded napkin next to your juice. you open it and it reads: “marry me?” in his handwriting, complete with a nervous smiley face. 

you look up and he’s on one knee holding a ring with trembling hands, eyes glassy, voice cracking when he says, “i want to be with you forever. through every win, every loss. just… us.” 

he fumbles the ring, panics, catches it mid-air. cries when you say yes. you end up lying on the floor laughing with him, tangled in blankets and feelings. 

won’t shut up about how he bagged the love of his life. reposts his own engagement post three times. 

itoshi rin

takes 7 business days to say “i love you,” so proposing is the olympics of stress for him. 

he keeps the ring in his pocket for weeks. but every time he tries to do it, something throws him off. you burp mid-dinner. you wear his hoodie. you beat him at mario kart. it’s too much. he short circuits. 

finally proposes when you’re brushing your teeth together at night, and he’s looking at your face in the mirror like, this is it. this is what peace feels like. 

mutters, “marry me,” like he’s asking if you want takeout. then freezes. stares at your reflection. 

when you ask, “wait, for real?” he just nods and pulls out the ring from his hoodie pocket. he’s literally shaking. 

later pretends he had a whole speech of “i know i’m not good with words. but being with you makes life feel… less heavy. you make things better. you make me better. so please stay with me. forever,” but forgot it. he did not say that. he ended up saying: “u cool. marry me.” 

itoshi sae

it takes him years to admit he wants to marry you. not because he doubts it (he's known since day two), but because he's scared. terrified, even. of needing someone that deeply. of showing that part of himself. 

he doesn’t want something loud or flashy. instead, he books a quiet trip to a secluded coastal town in spain. it’s the off-season, the weather's breezy, and you spend the whole day exploring sleepy streets, eating gelato, watching the boats drift lazily in the harbor. 

at the end of the day, he takes you to a rocky overlook at sunset. the water’s glowing. the sky is all peach and gold. 

and then he hands you a little notebook. every page is dated. he’s been writing you letters for five years. 

entries from after matches, on planes, in hotel rooms. thoughts he never said out loud. memories. fears. the way his chest tightens every time he looks at you. how your laugh sounds when you’re brushing your teeth. how the world softens when you're near. 

the final page just says: “i don’t want to be brilliant without you. will you marry me?” 

you look up and he’s already kneeling, lips pressed into a line like he’s holding back a million emotions. 

“i know i’m difficult. i know i get quiet. but you’re the one thing i’m sure of. please say yes.” 

and when you do, his hands shake. his breath catches. he presses his forehead to yours, and for the first time in a long time, sae itoshi lets himself cry. 

you whisper something like “i love you, dummy,” and he laughs softly, the kind of laugh he saves just for you. 

he doesn’t post it. doesn’t tell the world. 

but at the next press conference, a reporter asks about the ring “so pretty it makes influencers cry” spotted on your finger by fans inspecting recent paparazzi pics of you. 

he just smirks and says, “guess i won something better than a trophy.” 

bachira meguru

his proposal is a chaotic masterpiece. it starts with you waking up to a crayon-drawn treasure map taped to your forehead. yes. your forehead. 

he’s turned your entire city into a love quest, each stop filled with inside jokes, goofy gifts, and memories from your relationship: your favorite boba place (the cashier gives you a note), the alley you once slow-danced in (there’s a heart chalk drawing), the bench where you first kissed (a polaroid taped under it). 

the final clue brings you to the soccer field where he first told you he loved you. it’s covered in fairy lights and handmade decorations (and probably a few fire hazards). he’s waiting at the center in a suit covered in paint splatters because “i wanted to look fancy and like me.” 

he runs up to you with a goofy grin, gets down on one knee, and says: “you’ve always been my favorite teammate. wanna play life together?” 

you say yes and he tackles you into the grass. you're both crying and laughing and covered in glitter somehow. he puts the ring on your toe as a joke first. classic bachira. 

kaiser michael

obnoxiously extravagant. skywriting? rented out a soccer stadium? flash mob in berlin? absolutely. 

but here's the twist: he plays it down. tells you you’re going to a “boring sponsor event.” 

when you get there, it’s pitch black… then boom. lights, camera, roses in the shape of your name, string quartet playing a romantic song, and kaiser walking toward you in a tux. 

"everyone knows i’m great. but being with you? that’s the only thing that ever made me better." 

drops to one knee like he’s on the cover of GQ proposals edition. the ring is a custom design with your birthstone and an engraving that says “you win. i surrender.” 

when you say yes, he kisses you so obnoxiously dramatically that the quartet messes up their notes. 

later posts a selfie of you two mid-kiss with the caption “#ringed 💍 #shewonfr.” comments on his own post: “undefeated.” 

mikage reo

reo has had the ring for eight months. he’s shown it to nagi. to his driver. to the chef. to his tailor. hell, he’s almost asked you during brunch three different times but chickened out because “no, it has to be perfect. 

so, he builds perfect. 

he rents out an entire rooftop in tokyo, overlooking the skyline where you both made so many memories together. he has a custom-built garden placed on the deck with flowers flown in from your childhood town. your favorite piano music plays softly in the background, courtesy of a live quartet. the air smells like your favorite scent. 

there’s no crowd, no press, no flashy headlines, just you and him, dressed in your finest, alone at a candlelit table under the stars. 

after dinner, he leads you through a string-lit walkway where framed photos from your relationship hang like a timeline: your first trip. your first christmas. your matching sweaters disaster. the moment he realized you were it. 

at the end, he stops, takes both your hands, and says with a nervous, reverent breath: “i’ve had access to everything: money, power, comfort. but nothing ever came close to what it felt like holding your hand for the first time.” 

he kneels. his voice wavers, but his heart doesn’t. “i don’t want a future if you’re not in it. will you marry me?” 

your “yes” comes with tears, kisses, and a full dip spin because reo is dramatic and romantic and very in love. 

later, when he twirls you around to slow music, he whispers: “you made me believe in forever.” 

(he doesn't even post it on social media. the moment is too sacred. but nagi leaks it by accident with a story captioned “finally. he shut up about it.”) 

nagi seishiro

nagi never liked effort. until you. and for the first time in his life, he wants to try. for you. 

he doesn’t propose with a big event or a plan that reo drafted. instead, it happens on a normal day, a slow, rainy morning where you're both wrapped in blankets, watching old anime on the couch. 

you’re sitting on his lap. he's playing with your fingers, tracing your knuckles with soft, sleepy circles. 

out of nowhere, he mumbles, “you ever think about marriage?” 

you blink. “uh… yeah?” 

he nods like it’s no big deal. “cool. wanna marry me then?” 

you pause. “wait… what?” 

he stretches, yawns, then digs into the hoodie he’s been wearing for three days and pulls out a velvet ring box like it’s nothing. like he didn’t practice this moment in front of the mirror at 3 AM while trying not to wake you. 

“got a ring and everything. it’s comfy. like you.” 

you’re crying and laughing and he just stares at you with those tired eyes that hide galaxies of devotion. “been with you so long it’s hard to imagine not being yours. don’t wanna try, honestly.” 

when you whisper yes, he finally smiles. a sleepy, bashful smile as he slips the ring on your finger. 

he kisses your cheek and hums, “cool… now i don’t have to stress about it anymore. let’s nap.” 

(he later uses the story to brag to reo: “took me five minutes. still beat you.”) 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick

pazzi series

Theme: homoerotic friendship in all it's messy glory... iykyk

A/N: My personal life is a hot mess and I needed to write some therapeutic angst. Not sure where this story is going to go, but it's going to be a slow burn, it'll get better eventually because I'm a hopeless romantic. I just don't know how often I'll update -- might depend on whether you like this or not?

Warnings: cussing

WC: 4.6K

**** Chapter 1 ****

The coffee isn’t working.

Paige knows this not because she’s finished half of it and still feels like her brain is running three seconds behind her body, but because she’s staring into the murky liquid like it holds some kind of cosmic answer, and all it’s doing is making her feel more nauseous. She shifts in the seat, blinking against the way-too-bright lights of the student center, her sweatshirt hood half-draped over her head in an attempt to block out the world.

Regret is a funny thing. It always hits in layers.

First, there’s the easy kind of regret—the kind you can trace back to one stupid choice. She shouldn’t have had that last tequila shot. Or the one before it. Honestly, she probably shouldn’t have gone out at all. But at 8:47 p.m., Amari had sent a text that just said “Thirsty Thursday 😈” and Paige barely hesitated.

She didn’t even respond. Just stood up, grabbed the cleanest jeans off her floor, and smeared on some mascara with the same mechanical energy she used to lace up sneakers before a game. Her limbs moved before her brain could argue. And maybe that was the point—maybe she didn’t want to think too hard about it. About what staying in meant. About how quiet her room had gotten lately. About how it’s easier to make noise than sit with silence.

So she went.

Now it’s 8:43 a.m., and her body feels like it was hit by a bus named Jose Cuervo.

She slumps lower in the armchair, tugging her hood a little tighter, phone glowing dimly in her palm as she scrolls Instagram reels she won’t remember watching. Somewhere in her peripheral vision, someone drops a backpack too hard and her head pulses. Everything feels too loud. Too sharp.

She should be in the gym. Correction: she wants to be in the gym. Correction: she can’t be in the gym.

Not really, anyway.

Her knee aches again, like it always does when she thinks too hard about the way things were supposed to go. It’s not the sharp pain anymore—just this low, nagging throb that lives there now, like a shadow she can’t shake. A ghost of the season she was meant to have. She shifts in the chair, trying to stretch it out, but nothing helps. Not really.

It’s junior year. The year she was supposed to lead. The year they were supposed to run it back, take what almost was and turn it into what should’ve been. She’d played through pain last spring, limping through the tournament with one leg and a lot of adrenaline, and she’d still nearly gotten them there. This year was meant to be the redemption. The banner year. Twelve.

But instead, she’s sitting in the student center at 8:47 a.m., head pounding, sweatshirt wrinkled and smelling vaguely like someone else's perfume—she doesn’t remember who, and she doesn’t care enough to figure it out. Half-hungover. Tired in a way sleep won’t fix. And mad at the world. Or maybe just at herself. She can’t tell the difference anymore.

The scroll continues. Likes. Highlights. People pretending their lives are together.

She thinks about turning her phone off. Maybe skipping class altogether. What’s one more absence in Family Interaction Processes? The idea of sitting in a circle and talking about “attachment theory in parent-child relationships” feels laughable. She can’t even attach to her own future right now.

So yeah. Maybe she just… won’t go.

Then it happens.

The laugh.

It floats in, sharp and sudden, before the doors even fully open. Light and familiar. Too familiar.

Paige’s stomach flips, slow and mean. Her hand freezes mid-scroll.

She doesn’t even have to look to know.

But of course she does.

Her head lifts before she can stop it—eyes flicking toward the entrance on pure reflex.

And there she is. Azzi.

Like the universe knew Paige was already on the verge of spiraling, and thought, you know what would be funny? Let’s really f**k her up today.

There’s a beat—maybe two—where Paige just watches. Where time slows, and everything else in the room goes fuzzy around the edges.

Azzi strolls in like a damn movie scene. Hair pulled back in that effortless way that always drove Paige crazy. UConn warmup hoodie unzipped just enough to reveal the fitted black crop top underneath. Surrounded by a crew of teammates like they’re all just living their best lives on a sunny Friday morning.

And then there’s him.

Derrick Fucking Jones.

Paige’s lip twitches before she can stop it. Of course he’s here. Of course he’s walking beside her—no, with her. Hand in hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they fit. Like it’s always been him. And Azzi’s smiling—really smiling—like he just said something that made her laugh from the center of her chest.

It looks easy. Simple. The kind of moment you’d catch at the end of a movie, all golden light and soft focus, two people falling into step like it’s meant to be.

And Paige? She’s the one on the outside looking in. The one they cut to for a second too long—the sad ex in the background, watching it all unfold like a scene she was never written into.

Azzi laughs at something he says. The one Paige used to hear at 2 a.m., soft and sleepy, tangled somewhere between sheets and skin and promises they never said out loud. The one she could pull out with the dumbest joke, a look across the room, a meme sent with a single word: you.

And now it’s his. Or at least, it’s being directed at him. Her whole face lights up, dimples and all.

Paige feels the ache like a bruise being pressed. Old and buried, but never healed.

She yanks her hood further down, like maybe if she folds herself into this chair hard enough, they’ll all just walk past her. She’s not in the mood to play catch-up. Or pretend she’s okay. Or fake-smile through a conversation when she’s actively fighting the urge to throw up.

Her phone’s still in her lap, but her fingers have gone numb. Heart climbing somewhere into her throat.

And that’s when it happens—Aubrey spots her.

Of course, it’s Aubrey. Loud, observant, well-meaning Aubrey, who probably didn’t think twice before saying something to the group.

Paige doesn’t have to hear it to know. She sees the slight shift in posture. Aubrey’s arm gesturing. Caroline looking over next. Then Derrick. Then—

Azzi.

Their eyes meet like magnets that forgot how to unstick. And for a second, it’s like Paige forgets how to breathe.

Azzi’s smile fades. Just a flicker. Barely enough to catch unless you were looking for it.

And Paige always is.

There’s too much history in that split-second glance. Too many late nights and drawn-out silences. Too many “what are we?” conversations that circled the truth but never landed. Too much that was never said out loud, and even more that was.

And now all of it lives right there in the space between them.

Unsaid. Unresolved.

Unmistakable.

Paige forces herself to move.

She stands slowly, her knee stiff and unforgiving, throbbing in rhythm with the headache pounding behind her eyes. A full-body reminder of every bad decision she made last night—staying out too late, drinking too much. She grabs her coffee like it’s armor, like maybe it can steady her hands or mask the way she’s unraveling from the inside out. 

She nods once in their direction—cool, detached, like yeah, I see you but we’re not doing this today—and tips the cup toward them in a mock toast.

Then she walks.

Or limps, technically, but she’s trying real hard to make it look like swagger.

As she passes, the space between her and Azzi feels like static. Like the second she crosses the invisible threshold of proximity, the whole world holds its breath.

Azzi looks at her.

Paige looks back.

She wishes she hadn’t.

Azzi’s expression is unreadable, but her eyes are soft. And maybe that’s worse.

Paige doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t let herself feel the full weight of the eye contact burning into her back.

She does, however, catch Caroline’s voice—sharp and way too loud:

“Damn. She looks like shit.”

Cool. Thanks for that.

Paige clenches her jaw, ignoring the way her stomach turns again. She tightens her grip on her coffee and pushes through the student center doors like they wronged her personally.

She doesn’t stop walking until she’s out in the cold morning air, hoodie still half on, knee screaming, heart pounding, and the bitter taste of coffee and something much worse lingering at the back of her throat.

Paige exhales a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in. It’s shaky. Sharp. Cuts through her chest like glass.

She presses a hand to her stomach. Something tight coils low—nausea, regret, grief, shame. Could be all four. Her mouth tastes like acid and disappointment.

Why do I feel like I’m gonna throw up?

Is it the tequila still hanging around like an unwanted party guest? The venti iced coffee churning in her gut like cement? Or is it just—Azzi?

She blinks hard against the sunlight and veers left, scanning frantically for somewhere—anywhere—to get sick without making a scene. Her eyes land on a trash can just outside the library steps.

Barely makes it.

She leans over, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists, and throws up everything—coffee, milk, espresso, and whatever fragments of composure she had left. It comes up quick and bitter, and when it’s over, she’s left with her palms braced on the concrete, breathing heavy and eyes stinging.

Perfect. Really killing it today.

“Uh—are you okay?”

A voice. Neutral. Some kid in a beanie, looking mildly alarmed and also deeply unsure of what to do.

“I’m fine,” Paige mutters, wiping her mouth with the inside of her sleeve. “Bad coffee.”

The kid nods slowly, backing away like she might infect him with whatever brand of chaos she’s carrying.

Paige doesn’t blame him.

She stands, barely, and starts walking. Not toward class. Not toward anything productive.

Just… away.

Screw Family Interaction Processes. Screw being seen. Screw this whole damn morning.

Her dorm is too warm when she gets back. Too still. That kind of suffocating quiet that makes your thoughts louder. She peels off her hoodie, kicks off her sneakers, and crawls into bed fully clothed.

Head against the pillow. Eyes closed.

Please. Just an hour of sleep. A pause. A reset.

But her brain—traitor that it is—doesn’t cooperate.

Because of course it doesn’t.

Instead, like a scratched record, her mind queues up the scene she’s watched a thousand times before. Every blink brings it back sharper.

The night everything changed.

Paige turns over in bed, pulling the blanket over her head like it could block the memory out.

But it’s too late.

It’s already started playing.

One Year Ago

The lights inside Ted’s were low, but everything about Azzi still found a way to glow.

Paige leaned against the bar, half-sipping a drink she didn’t really want, the condensation soaking into her hand. The music was loud enough to drown out her thoughts—almost. The kind of bass-heavy, shoulder-to-shoulder chaos that used to feel like escape, but tonight just made her feel stuck. Like she couldn’t breathe right.

She spotted Azzi across the room before she even realized she was looking for her.

Same UConn hoodie. Same easy posture. That half-laugh she only gave to people who didn’t know how complicated she was underneath it all.

And then—him.

Some guy. Tall. Smiling at her like he was winning something. Paige had no idea who he was, and honestly, she didn’t care. All she could focus on was the way Azzi tilted her head back laughing at something he said. The way her hand brushed his arm as if it meant nothing. As if it always meant nothing.

Paige felt it in her chest—tight and sudden.

Not because it was new.

But because it wasn’t.

Because this had become a pattern. Azzi flirting with someone else while Paige watched from the sidelines—again. Because Azzi knew exactly where Paige was in the room and still chose to look right through her.

Her drink hit the bar a little too hard as she set it down, untouched.

No one noticed. Or maybe they did and chose not to say anything.

She pushed off the counter and started moving. Past the line for the bathroom, past the couple making out near the door, past the entire situation she never should’ve walked into in the first place.

And then—

The second the cool night air hit her skin, Paige felt like she might crack wide open.

She stormed out of Ted’s like the place had personally offended her, shoving through the crowd until she hit the sidewalk, breath fast, vision hot. The thrum of bass and clinking glasses still echoed behind her, but out here everything felt sharper—colder. Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t mean to make a scene. Didn’t mean to lose control like that.

But watching Azzi, lit up and laughing, leaning just a little too close to some guy Paige didn’t even recognize, it had knocked the air right out of her. Not because it was new, but because it wasn’t. Because it was the same game, the same script they’d been dancing around since high school, and Paige had finally hit her limit.

She was halfway down the block when the voice hit her.

“Paige?”

That voice.

God.

Azzi.

Of course she followed her.

Paige turned slowly, already regretting it. Azzi stood under the glow of a streetlight, one arm folded across her chest, the other gripping her phone like a lifeline. She looked concerned. Like genuinely worried.

And that made Paige want to scream.

“What?” Paige snapped, sharper than she intended.

Azzi blinked. “I just—saw you leave. You looked upset. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Paige scoffed. “Why? So you can feel better about yourself?”

Azzi flinched like she hadn’t expected that, and honestly, Paige hadn’t either. But the words were coming fast now, her heart racing to keep up with them.

“You don’t get to do this.”

Azzi stepped forward, cautiously. “What are you talking about?”

Paige laughed—sharp, bitter. “Seriously?”

She took a step closer, the emotion bubbling just beneath her skin now, too much to hold in.

“Do you even realize how messed up this is?” she asked, her voice shaking. “One night you’re in my bed like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and the next you’re out here acting like I don’t even exist.”

Azzi’s mouth parted slightly, stunned into silence.

“You hook up with me in secret, act like I’m yours when no one’s watching—and then you go out and flirt with guys like I don’t even fucking exist. You don’t get to be all over me in private and then play straight for the crowd. I’m not your secret. I’m not some backup plan you get to use when it’s easy.”

Azzi doesn’t respond right away.

She just stands there—frozen, blinking like she’s still catching up. Like the words hit her late and hard, like a wave she didn’t see coming until it knocked the air out of her.

Her mouth opens, then closes. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly across her chest like she’s trying to hold something in.

And Paige could see it in her eyes—the empathy, the sadness—but also something else. Distance. Like Azzi had already decided this was the only version of them that could exist, and Paige had just never caught on.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” she says quietly. “I swear to God, Paige, I never wanted to hurt you.”

Paige scoffs under her breath, turns half away like she can’t stand to hear it.

Azzi swallows. “I know I’ve been selfish. I know I’ve made this messy and confusing and not fair to you. But I wasn’t trying to use you. I just…”

She trails off, voice cracking on the last word.

Azzi’s voice hangs in the air between them, fragile and trembling. Paige wants to believe her—wants to reach for that version of the truth where none of it was intentional. 

But it doesn’t change what it felt like. What it still feels like.

She shakes her head slowly, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

“I can't keep doing this,” she says, voice rough. “This emotional whiplash. I’m getting motion sickness from it. And I’m exhausted, Azzi. I can’t keep pretending that this—we—doesn’t mess me up.”

Azzi didn’t move. Didn’t argue.

And that—more than anything—was her answer.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

She turned, slow and steady, and walked back toward the bar.

And Paige stood there alone on the sidewalk, chest cracked wide open, watching the one person she wanted most walk away without a fight.

She didn’t chase her.

She couldn’t.

Because this time, Azzi had let her go just as easily as she’d kept her.

Present Day

She blinks back into the dim light of her dorm room like she’s just resurfaced from underwater.

The memory clings to her like humidity—dense, sticky, impossible to shake. It sits in her chest, thick like smoke she can’t cough out, creeping up her throat every time she lets her guard down. Her stomach twists again—not from the hangover, not from the too-sweet coffee still curdling in her system, but from the weight of everything she’s been trying not to feel since that night outside Ted’s. The words she said. The ones she didn’t. The way Azzi looked at her—like she’d broken something that was already cracked and didn’t even know how to begin fixing it.She pulls the blanket tighter over her body, like it might shield her from the past. From herself. From Azzi.

I’m tired of this, Azzi.

She meant it. God, she meant it.

And yet—here she is, a year later, still tired. Still aching. Still wondering what would’ve happened if Azzi had said anything else besides “okay.”

The room feels too still, too quiet. Her hoodie smells like stale bar air and regret. Her phone buzzes somewhere in the sheets, but she doesn’t reach for it. She already knows it’s no one she wants it to be.

Azzi never texts anymore. Not unless it’s something team-related. Logistics. Group chats. Nothing personal. Nothing that says I miss you.

And now she’s walking around campus, hand-in-hand with Derrick fucking Jones, like none of it happened. Like Paige hadn’t handed her every vulnerable part of herself just to be told—okay.

She turns over onto her side, wincing as her knee twinges sharply beneath the blanket. Another lovely souvenir from the universe.

Not playing this season was supposed to feel temporary—just a detour. But watching Azzi from across the student center this morning, laughing like she didn’t feel anything at all, made Paige wonder if she’s the only one who ever thought they were more than a phase.

She stares at the wall, blank and gray and safe.

Paige has always been good at powering through. Rehabbing, recovering, restarting. But this? This emotional limbo? This silent ache every time she sees Azzi across campus, like a ghost of the future she wanted?

She doesn’t know how to push through that.

She exhales slowly and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes until all she sees are stars.

Maybe she should sleep. Maybe she’ll wake up and it won’t hurt as much. Maybe by tomorrow Azzi will just be her ex-best friend with a new boyfriend and Paige will finally start to mean it when she says she’s over it.

Maybe.

But for now, she just lies there.

Wishing she hadn’t looked up in the student center. Wishing she hadn’t left Ted’s that night. Wishing, most of all, that she could forget what it felt like when they still felt like a “what if” instead of a “never.”

Azzi

Azzi shouldn’t have looked.

She knew Paige was there the second Aubrey nodded toward the corner booth. Felt it like static in her chest. Knew it in the same bone-deep way she used to know when Paige was about to pass her the ball—without words, without warning, just felt it.

And still, she looked.

Paige, hood pulled halfway down her face, coffee in hand, eyes dull like she hadn’t slept. Azzi didn’t need the commentary—Caroline muttering “She looks like shit” under her breath—to know how wrecked she was.

Paige had just stood, nodded toward them like they were strangers on a train, and walked off.

But she looked right at her.

That look.

The same look Azzi has tried and failed to forget for months. The one from that night outside Ted’s. The one she sees in her dreams when it’s late and quiet and her chest feels too tight to breathe.

That look still haunts her. Because she remembers what came right before it.

“You don’t get to be all over me in private and then play straight for the crowd. I’m not your secret.”

God.

Azzi swallows hard, still tasting regret behind her teeth. It’s been a year, but sometimes it hits like it was yesterday. The way Paige’s voice cracked. The way Azzi didn’t stop her. Didn’t chase her. Didn’t say what she should’ve said, even if she didn’t fully understand it then.

Even now—especially now—she doesn’t know if it was fear or selfishness that held her back. Probably both.

Derrick squeezes her hand, pulling her back into the present. “You good?”

Azzi blinks, forces a small smile. “Yeah.”

He’s nice. Safe. Predictable. He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he doesn’t make her feel like she’s walking a tightrope with her own feelings. And she knows, somewhere deep down, that she doesn’t love him.

Not like that.

Not the way she—

She cuts off the thought before it finishes.

Not the way she used to look at Paige.

They’re walking into the dining hall now, the fluorescent lights making everything look too sharp. Too sterile. She nods along as Caroline starts talking about practice later, but the words blur. All she can think about is the way Paige looked this morning—like she was barely holding it together. Like seeing Azzi hurt more than she’d ever admit.

And that makes Azzi feel worse than anything.

Because the truth is, she hasn’t stopped thinking about her.

She’s tried.

She filled her time with practice and people and pretending. Tried to let Derrick kiss her and convince herself it didn’t feel wrong. Let herself believe that the silence between her and Paige was necessary. That it was better this way.

But every time she sees her—across campus, on social media, in her dreams—something twists in her chest. Guilt. Longing. All the words she never said and still don’t know how to.

She should’ve said something that night.

Anything besides “okay.”

Because the truth is, Paige wasn’t wrong. She had kept her close when it was convenient. When it was safe. She liked the way Paige made her feel—steady, known, loved. But Azzi hadn’t been brave enough to reach for it out loud.

And now?

Now she walks next to a boy whose hand she’s holding and feels like she’s living someone else’s life.

She pulls out her phone under the table, opens Paige’s contact without thinking, then locks the screen again before she can even type a word.

Nothing she says now will fix it. Not really.

But still—Azzi can’t help but wonder.

If she’d just said don’t go that night… would Paige have stayed?

They pass each other all the time.

At practice, in film sessions, on the sideline waiting for treatment. It’s not that they don’t acknowledge each other. There’s nods. The occasional "you good?" in the weight room. A tossed towel. A shared laugh when Coach Geno goes on one of his rants and no one knows if he's serious or just dramatic.

But they don’t talk. Not really.

Not the way they used to.

Not the 2 a.m. texts. Not the playlists they used to trade. Not the inside jokes over Chick-fil-A or the FaceTimes from opposite ends of campus just because they couldn’t go more than an hour without hearing each other’s voice.

Now it’s polite. Controlled. Measured.

And it kills Azzi slowly.

Because Paige doesn’t look at her the way she used to. Not with that open softness, that teasing spark. Now there’s just this guardedness. This distance. Like Azzi’s been put in a box and labeled handle with caution.

Azzi knows she did that. She built that wall between them. She told Paige without saying it that her love—whatever it was, whatever it could’ve been—was too much. Too risky. Too real.

And now she gets to live with the version of Paige that doesn’t look at her like she used to.

She looks right through me now.

At practice, it’s almost worse.

Because they click on the court. Always have.

Azzi knows where Paige is going before she moves. Paige cuts backdoor and Azzi bounces a pass without looking. They’re telepathic, instinctive, frustratingly in sync. Geno eats it up. Teammates praise it like it’s magic. But Azzi feels it for what it is—muscle memory. Chemistry that never really went away, no matter how badly she tried to bury it.

Only now, Paige doesn’t cut. Not really.

Not since August.

Not since her ACL gave out during a pre-season practice—before classes had even started. One wrong plant, one too-fast drive, and everything came undone.

Azzi hadn’t even been in the gym that day. She heard about it from Caroline. And when she showed up to the training room, Paige was already sitting on the table, leg braced, eyes hollow, pretending like it wasn’t the end of something she’d been building toward for years.

Now, she runs the offense from the sideline like it’s second nature—clipboard in one hand, barking out reads with the sharpness of someone who still sees the game like she’s in it. And in a way, she is.

But it’s different.

Azzi watches her during drills, sees the flickers—Paige’s jaw tightening when the trainers roll out the ice, the way she shifts in her seat like her body still wants to move. Still wants to lead.

But she never lingers too long. Never lets it show. Never lets herself feel it out loud.

And Azzi knows better.

She knows what it’s like to want something so badly your chest aches—and to watch it move on without you.

Every day it eats at her. The silence. The space. The unanswered question hanging between them like fog.

Why didn’t you fight for her?

Azzi still doesn’t know.

She thinks about texting her all the time. Writing something that could undo a year of unspoken everything.

“I didn’t know what I wanted back then.” “I was scared.” “It was always you.”

But the truth is, none of it feels like enough.

Because Paige gave her everything. And Azzi gave her nothing.

She sighs.

You were scared to choose her. Now she’s gone.

[emiel-surreal]

started yelling and crying at people who even seem like the next thing they say might be "its okay to be a tomboyish girl". people i consider close friends who are "just asking questions". it's not up to you to question my gender. i'm doing enough of that myself.

frankly when i was less sure about how i wanted to transition i would pretend to be more sure about my decision just to get people to shut up. even when i was unsure about top surgery i'd say, "i've always wanted a completely flat chest, as long as i can remember."

i lived my whole life as a tomboyish girl, i know that's "okay". but obviously something is missing. that's why i started exploring my options. i shouldn't even need to explain this to anyone.

i want to believe that cis people's curiosity in and of itself isn't bad--who knows if this "cis" person questioning me is also questioning their own gender-- but they start to get disrespectful. i'm not too stupid to consider Cisgenderism as an option. i did it for 20 years. if you wanna ask questions, don't undercut my expertise of my lived experience all because you can't imagine ever being that thoughtful and deliberate about your own life.

honestly, trans people publish enough about their experiences for even well-meaning cis people to learn from without resorting to interrogating the people in their lives. maybe i'm letting honest questions trigger me, but understand that comes after years of dealing with my own friends telling me that i'm just out of touch with my womanhood, and that i would be a more complete person if only i would embrace my natural femininity. i have no tolerance for this line of questioning. a cis person questioning me on my gender has zero expertise on the subject and their opinions and perspective hold zero value to me, and i will treat them as having no value.

everyone who thinks "social pressure to transition" is real has naturalised the social pressure Not to transition to such a point that they have become incapable of understanding that it's real and exists. "cis guy who likes wearing a skirt has been pressured into becoming trans :(" how about "trans girl who is in the middle of cracking her egg is terrified of being trans and you telling her that it's Okay to be a cis man in a skirt is unhelpful at best and open transmisogyny at worst". you do not see that 99.99% of the social pressure is in the direction of Staying Cis because it is only that 0.01% that feels unnatural to you

[anglbnny]

Tequila like Tension ♡ Sae Itoshi

cw: smut mdni, exes hooking up, teaser for a potential series

⸝⸝♡⸝⸝♡

The music is loud but maybe your thoughts are louder. Correction. Drunk thoughts. Because if you were in your right mind you wouldn’t even dare think about letting sae fucking itoshi tear your clothes off of you. But here you are, staring back at him from across the vip lounge. 

Throwing back a drink as he watches you, swirling his. He looks like ruin, temptation, like the only thing he’s here to do is ruin your life. And frankly, you might just let him cause fuck. 

It’s not long until he’s walking across, standing infront of you. No words are exchanged but everything’s been decided. Your arms are wrapped around his neck before your brain even processes anything. His are on your waist, then back and then on your ass. 

You end up at a fancy ass hotel somehow. Underneath him. Underneath your ex boyfriend, exactly the opposite of what you said you won’t do. But is your head even working as his soft lips trail down your body like they did years ago when you were his. 

The way his large hands glide up, grope you and flip you over to give a perfect view of your round ass. It’s clumsy. Hushed. Gentle, almost, until it’s not. He grabs your waist tighter than he means to. His lips linger on your neck too long. He mutters your name like it’s a question, then a curse, then a prayer.

His cock is lined against your cunt, pushing inch by inch inside until he’s buried inside. Warm and tight. He hold back, fingers digging into your skin. He moves his hips, thrusting in, the slow, soft thrusts turn into mean, angry pounds. Your back is arching, his fingers run down your spine, then his lips. He groans, hips slapping against the red skin of your ass. For a split second. It almost feels real. 

Almost. 

You bite your lip, fingers tangled in the sheets. Sae swears under his breath. The kind of breathy, desperate groan you’ll hear in your dreams for months.

He finishes with a low gasp of your name, but something in you breaks when he says it again, softer this time. Like he’s apologizing.

And maybe he is. Or maybe he’s making you believe he is. 

The next morning, he’s gone. Just a note on the pillow:

“Don’t fall too hard.

– S.”

Taglist:@samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella

A/n: MAYBE a litllleee sneak peak for a future seriest

���︎Anglbnny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[oltammefru]

I've been thinking recently about Theresa and the end of Ep14 and her creating Civilight Eterna, and the question of like: Was she aware of the consequences of her actions? That doing so would extremely fuck up her loved ones, Kal'tsit most of all? The more I think about it the more I come to think that the answer is "yes, but she did it anyway."

Her behavior at the end of EP14 is kind of insane because like, despite how willing she is personally to sacrifice herself for the good of the future and how she tells Kal'tsit "My dear Kal'tsit, since we're all clear about our respective endings, why should we go through sorrow yet again?", at the same time she's like not really willing to let go either. (Think about how the moment she is out of sight, she goes on a mad scramble throughout time itself because she needs so, so, so desperately to know, if she can't have anything else, that her loved ones are ok. She says one thing, but then does another.)

Despite the path that she had chosen and her determination and willingness to see it through, at the end of it all she still doesn't want to go, she is still the person who listened in wonder to Kal'tsit as she told her stories about Terra, the world outside of Kazdel that she wanted to but never got to see, she is still the one who wanted to be able to hold Amiya and read her bedtime stories and assuage her of her nightmares, she is still the one who wanted to be there for her loved ones, in whatever form she can.

And despite all her willingness to sacrifice, and the selflessness of almost all her deeds, she is still in many ways a selfish person (which she acknowledges herself). This is one of the central contradictions of her character, that despite her selflessness, she is characterized majorly by a few specific, extremely, extremely selfish choices of such enormity that they arguably outweigh all of her selflessness. She passed on the crown to a 10 year old child (and Theresa knew Amiya would accept, since she is like that, even though it's not a question that Amiya could given an actual, non-coerced answer to) because so believed she could carry on her ideals, she erased the Doctor's memories both to free them from the shackles of their past, but also to shape them into the person she wanted them to be to best carry out her ideals.

There is such a delightful hypocrisy to this. She, in some sense, wanted desperately, in that selfish core of hers, more than anything else, was to live a life where she was free from the burdens of the past and the shackles of fate, but she still forced that onto Amiya. At the end of Babel, she is walking toward her literal death, but she is still vaguely aware of how death works for the Sarkaz, that she will return to the Originium but still exist in some form, and so she is still hopeful about this: "it's time to say goodbye… we'll meet again in the future won't we… Kal'tsit… Amiya… Doctor." But this time, it really is the end for her, after this there will be nothing left of her, it is a total and complete annihilation of the self. (Which, the thing about this is that like, she deleted the Doctor's identity and subjected them to this, but is unwilling and scared to go through it herself). Despite her virtues and her selflessness, despite what she tells Kal'tsit about partings and endings, she is scared.

The thing about Theresa is that she is a hypocrite, but she is a hypocrite in a highly specific and interesting way. If you pay attention to depictions of Theresa throughout the story, she is someone who believes that fate can be overcome, that the cycle of violence can be broken, except when it comes to specifically herself, for which she is incredibly, incredibly pessimistic, and believes that she's a failure and was unable to break free from her fate. ("To change a man is to make them believe, to make them believe is to destroy their faith, nothing can save such a lost soul.", "But yet, there is no antidote to loneliness, there is no end to nomadic wandering, there is no cure to a terminal illness..." etc.) This is why she's willing to do what she does in Ep14, intentionally choosing to perpetuate the cycle of violence and inflict suffering on other people for the ends of her (and her people) and this something that she fully acknowledges and is perfectly ok with doing in Ep14 even though she could have just like, not. She chooses to act against her ideals because she is a failure, a victim of fate, the sacrifice on top of which the future will be built, an obstacle that the true idealists must and will overcome. She is a hypocrite because she believes that Amiya/the Doctor/Kal'tsit are better people than her, that they are capable of doing what she isn't, and so she is willing to subject them to standards that she doesn't apply to herself.

She can't bear the idea that this is it, that there will be no more of her left, and is willing to do anything to assuage this, and so she makes CE, so she can linger and be there for her loved ones in whatever form possible. I think in this there is a conscious understanding that doing this will hurt her loved ones, and especially Kal'tsit most of all. It's not something she wants to do, but she thinks of Amiya/the Doctor/Kal'tsit as better people than her. She is deliberately doing something that will hurt them yes, but they are strong, and will get through this, like they always have. But herself? She is scared, she has nothing left and soon she will be nothing at all. And so (like she always has), she chooses to go out with one last moment of selfishness.

[moorlandwitch]

I always get asked “Why do you do what you do?” At every event, radio show, conference, article I write and podcast I film.

This inspired me to finally tell my story like I’m spilling tea in a nursing home. The good, the bad, the ugly and the destructive. So, let’s go…

At 16 I knew something was wrong with my brain and body. Coordination became harder. Balance was fading. My mind was a constant hamster wheel of anxiety that wouldn’t shut up. Hamsters don’t live long, but this little fucker did!

I was gaslit by hospitals and doctors. The very people that were meant to help me were as useful as a chocolate teapot.

Professionals now telling 18 year old me that if the final tests they were running came back clear, I was to be sectioned as a danger to myself as it was all in my head.

Hint: it wasn’t.

At 19 I was diagnosed with a rare disability that only 15 thousand people have worldwide called Friedreichs Ataxia.

Never heard of it? Me neither. I was handed a pamphlet and sent on my way! A three sided piece of paper that told me the worst things possible. By 20, I’d lose the use of my legs. 25, I’d be unable to speak. 30, I’d develop heart problems. 35, death!

So, it was good news. My life was over! Dramatic? Yes. True? No. But to my 19 year old brain it was very true.

By 20 I had totally sunk into depression and anxiety. Letting my demons play ping pong with the dark thoughts. I used every vice to numb my brain. Alcohol and drugs. Forgetting just for a second who I was. I didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be me.

I needed to grieve the death of me. Who I thought I’d be and who I was. 2 funerals that was only happening to me.

Or so I thought.

It honestly takes a village. My family, friends and the disabled community showed me patience and love I didn’t feel like I deserved.

I was truly ashamed of who I’d become. Didn’t leave my house for two years! Just wanted to disappear.

Until the disabled community embraced me regardless. Showed me that they had been there too. I wasn’t alone.

All of a sudden I felt like I’d been found from being stranded in the wilderness. Spoken to with such understanding. Relatability. Reality. Truth.

What I thought disability looked like; the toxic, stereotypical, media representation couldn’t be much further from the truth. All these wonderful people weren’t meek, uneducated, monoliths with child like mentalities. Becoming an asexual object in society. Like a lamp. We are smart, confident, strong, opinionated, beautiful, accomplished, sexy human beings! Deserving of the exact same things abled bodied people are.

Now, my disability is very real. The timing is not!

I’m 28 with no speech issues or heart issues. And even though I chose to be a wheelchair user for my independence, my legs still work. My brain still works.

Perhaps too well. Anxiety, depression and ADHD still impact my life. My disability means I’ve learnt to listen to my body. Brain included. Meaning I’ve become more in tuned to knowing when my anxiety, depression, ADHD take hold. No matter where and when. I used to have panic attacks every day before university.

ADHD would (and still do) cause burn outs. Forgetting to eat, drink and sleep due to hyper focus. But it’s not what happens to you, it’s how you react to it. And I learnt patience, understanding, acceptance and love of myself. That was and still is the hardest one of all.

Love really is the strongest superpower in the world. Love changed my life. I have done things I never thought I would. Living alone, independently and doing creative projects I adore. I am proud to look in the mirror again.

Insecurities and imperfections happen. We’re human. But I love what makes a person imperfect. That’s beautiful to me. I would not take back the last 12 years because I don’t know who I’d be without them.

My podcast and the guests that I have on every episode prove to me and keep the message going that it gets better!

I need to get that on a shirt. The motto of my life. But it’s true!

Life isn’t fair and no one makes it off this world unscathed. That’s why I do what I do! Everyone’s got a story. Everyone’s got a journey to tell. To reach out to someone going through the same things, showing them love and hope.

If I can reach out, help one person feeling lost. The way I did. If I can walk them out into the light, then I’ve done what I was put on this earth for.

“That’s why I do what I do.”

No one’s alone and every person is loved and worth it!

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Guilt and Shame:

A few months ago I wrote the below post on my journey of sobriety. Making my sobriety public was never what I had envisioned when I went crawling into AA defeated. I’ve been thinking a lot recently on my journey as a human being on this planet. It’s a beautiful thing. I’ve been thinking a lot on guilt and shame surrounding my slip up and I suppose I wanted to share with you more on that.

I have been invited to a recovery house in America to help them raise awareness and money for their charity. I of course jumped at the chance, after all, giving back is what we are lead to do. I would be lying though if I said I wasn’t terrified. 

The fear of admitting fault of feeling like I let down those around me. Writing this is terrifying but I’m trying to push myself out of my comfort zone and become more attune with me and what my higher power want’s me to do.

I suppose ultimately I want to share this with you as I’ve already opened the door to this part of my life and it seems vital that I continue to do so.

Fear is at the root cause of so many issues regarding addiction in my experience. 

I still have anxiety, yesterday I took the tube to see some friends and had to leave half way through my journey due to the overwhelming feeling that I may at any second pass out. Even at dinner this feeling was hard to shake. It’s hard to describe. I walk out on to a stage to talk with you all or play music or act and I feel little of this, however in daily life it can creep in so quickly. 

Whilst my consumption of marajuana wasn’t what I would call habitual I recognize that it was a poor attempt at controlling my own feelings, anxiety’s and stressors. Which is backwards because it wasn’t exactly helping with those things either as they still were there regardless.

Living the life I am fortunate enough to live now I recognize those things and how I respond to them now is with choice. 

I suppose writing this is an exercise in digging in, in recognizing the feelings of guilt and shame, in owning up to myself and to my world. 

The last thing I ever want to be doing is walking out in to my world with a lie. 

It’s hard to know how to end this post. I suppose a thank you would be appropriate, I have a deep love for the world and for people in it. I have a love for my world and my higher power and I was very much moved to write this.

With love.

Jamie

[dollracha]

𐙚 gentle punishment ⋆ b.c x reader

pairing: soft! daddy dom! chan x sub! fem!reader genre: smut warnings: daddy kink ⋆ light punishment ⋆ mild praise ⋆ soft dom chan ⋆ pussy rubbing ⋆ softie sweetie chan wc: 748 synopsis: wrote the draft a year ago and almost posted the list version before going to put it in a doc and realizing i actually wrote a more fleshed out story ready to post already. oops. and i'm back with an upload! life's been a whirlwind recently but i'll try to post some more.

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

one of the most insane things about daddy!channie is that he can punish you without force and it works. he doesn’t spank you, or let his anger get the best of him and fuck your cunt until it’s sore. no, no. he knows you’ll enjoy being used like that. so punishing you often looks like this: one hand gripping your hip. his hand holding his cock between your pussy and panties, tip barely brushing against your clit with every little movement of his hips. and he ate you out and stopped just before you could cum so your cunt is all nice and messy and wet for him.

you try to push him away because he's been at it for so long, alternating between fingering your cunt, eating you out, and rubbing his cock against the slick lips of your pussy. every time you get close to coming he stops. his teasing is just enough to make your eyes all watery from the stimulation, and he’s just attentive enough to leave you hanging every time  you get close to the edge.

"too much, daddy, 's too much..."

"c'mon. be a good girl for daddy, yeah?"

he pushes your hair outta your face and grips your chin, thumbing across your jaw. "i know you can, baby." and if channie says you can then you can! so you lie there and take it like his good girl. that’s all he wants, is for you to realize that you’re still his good girl even when you’re being punished. good girls don’t act out and break rules.

that realization makes you mutter out an "i'm sorry, daddy."

chris doesn't stop as he responds. he knew you’d get there eventually, all it took was a little bit of coaxing. "sorry for what, babygirl?"

"for acting out earlier..."

"yeah?" he muses along, both hands gently resting on your hips. he finally stops rutting his cock against your pussy. he lets a hand trail down to your clit, slipping in between your soaked panties to rub circles on your clit. "gonna apologize to daddy properly?" 

you nod, and it takes you longer than it should to force the words out of your mouth. he's got you half dumb with all his teasing. "i'm sorry for acting out daddy."

chris smiles. he’s got a soft look on his face as he leans down to kiss your lips. "that's my girl." he praises, and sits back to admire the mess in your panties, the dazed look on your face, and the way your hands untangle themselves from the blankets to ask for his.

there's no hesitation on his end. all he wanted was for you to learn your lesson. it looks like you have. he can never resist you for too long. his hands grab yours, his thumbs trace soothingly against the back of your hand. 

"daddy," you murmur and look into his eyes. his attention shifts from your hands to your face. chris is so attentive with you. he’s also so amused by your apology. it’s what he wanted, but it never fails to make him giddy and proud. 

"what is it, baby?"

"can i cum... please?"

chan laughs. "nobody was stopping you, pretty girl." he definitely was, but you guess he’s right. he never said you couldn’t cum. he just stopped before you ever had the chance.

you think for a moment before asking another question.

"can you make me cum?" that’s an entirely different question. smart girl.

he can’t resist you. but he can't immediately reward you with whatever you want. what’s the point of punishing you if he’s just going to reward you immediately after? 

compromise. that's his specialty.

"you're gonna cum on my fingers or daddy's not gonna help you at all. understand?"

you frown, but nod. "i understand, daddy" you know him better than to ask for more, especially after you pissed him off. and he makes you cum so hard you're unable to do anything but lie there for a good minute afterwards.

maybe he did reward you a little too thoroughly… oops.

and aftercare with him is so so sweet too. he makes sure you're all clean, that you have food if you're hungry, water regardless of if you're thirsty or not, that you're cozy at his side. he can't keep his hands off you, can't stop praising and checking up on you.

he says things like: "you're such a good girl f'me... always such a good job."

"wasn't too much, was i? no... not too rough?"

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

[billieswh0r3]

✩︎ 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

𝐬𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬 : just two music stars fan girling over each other.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : billie x fem!reader, just fluff, maybe a few nicknames and curses but other than that just fluff :p face claim is gracie abrams so if you dont like her then..this isnt a fic for you.

𝐚/𝐧 : this draft has been sitting for a long time and i just re-read it and i fell in love with it again so here it is, also its a bit small but— something is better than nothing.

𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.. 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎

‘so miss eilish, we saw that you attended a ___ concert recently. we didn’t know you were a fan of hers.’ the interviewer smiles at billie the sentence falling from her lips her eyes glistening with curiosity.

‘uhh— yeah i did, i’ve been a fan of hers since her debuting ep and you know going to her concert was such a surreal thing because i take a lot of— not inspiration but yeah inspiration’ billie lets her head drop as she stumbles over her words letting her giggles slip past her lips before looking up fixing her glasses.

‘she’s just an angel— shes so pure and everything she does is too its fullest and she deserves everything that comes to her’ billie smiles genuinely at the interviewer feeling her cheeks heat up slightly.

‘have you ever met her? seems like your very fond of her.’ billie immediately looks around the venue nervously her lips parting slightly. ‘she’s not here right..?’ billie mumbles softly into the microphone— the crowd lets out more laughs and more giggles spill from the interviewers lips as she shakes her head.

‘okay good— i would like shrink into myself.’ she brings a hand up over her nose to semi hide her face as she feels the heat leave her cheeks.

‘she’s actually been on the show and she actually brought you up’ the interviewer smiles pointing to the screen signaling to give the attention to the screen.

𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫

‘who’s someone you’ve always taken inspiration from musically wise’ the camera then pans to you. your dressed in a stripped dress shirt which is only buttoned on the second button, a pair of loose low rise jeans hanging from your hips, and simple black and white vans.

you gasp a smile immediately finding your lips as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear sitting up straighter in your seat. ‘billie’ you say without hesitation smiling sheepily at the camera.

‘eilish?’ you nod eagerly your legs beginning to kick at the thought of her being a topic you get to talk about. ‘yeah i love her so much— shes was actually my number one artist this year’ you nod before your eyes widen grabbing at your necklaces showing an original blohsh hanging from your neck.

‘i mean i’ve been a fan of hers since i was 14— i remember hostage being my shit when i was in like 8th grade, like that woman possesses a power over me that she doesn’t even know about’ you gush smiling widely your cheeks hurting from how hard you are smiling.

‘i actually went to her concert like the beginning of this month’ the video then fades you looking at the camera screaming ‘the greatest’ lyrics before turning back to the stage holding your arms out acting like billie is singing to you.

when the video fades back into the interview theres you with a huge smile playing on your lips. ‘best fucking night of my life, i cried the entire time’ you say feeling your cheeks and ears heat up shying a bit.

‘so to say your a fan of hers would be an understatement.’ you nod soft laughs slipping past your lips your legs still kicking.

‘i mean— she was my gay awakening, me and my friends have an inside joke cause all the girls i date, look like billie’ the crown laughs a bit as you look at the interviewer clearly sensing her wanting to ask another question.

‘billie does follow you on instagram though correct’ again you smile widely nodding eagerly bringing the mic up to your mouth. ‘yeah she does— the day i found out she followed me was through my friends’ you nod tucking hair behind your ear. ‘and you know me being a small artist at the time didn’t believe it and when i did finally see it i almost passed out— i mean like for me the girl ive been looking up to and admiring for ages…noticed me i was star struck’ you finish off with a soft smile letting your hands fall into your lap.

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

as the video fades away the crowd is cheering as billie is softly clapping as she looks at her lap with a grin eating at her face.

‘so seems like you aren’t the only fan girl in this situation.’ the interviewer teases as billie finally looks back up adjusting her hair and glasses before bringing the microphone to her lips.

‘um— no words..i mean she’s perfect— she’s truly angelic and seeing someone like her look up to someone like me is beyond me when all i ever did was look up to her’ she looks sheepishly at the camera giving it one of her looks knowing the the interview was almost over.

'so it seems that you wish to meet her one day.' billie looks at the interviewer a soft smile playing on her lips and she sends a soft nod towards her.

'yeah hopefully one day— and hey, ___ if your watching hit me up mama' she says sending a playful wink towards the camera before she erupts into giggles hiding her face behind her hands.

'your heard it here first folks— now we'll be back after this commercial break'

𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

yourname.offical

❤︎7.M ❏︎ 16.8. ⌲︎397K

yourname.official - so pretty girl just won iheart radio album of the year literally sobbing im so fucking proud 😭😭❤️ this album changed me in ways that i could not even put into words. congratufuckinglations @billieeilish you deserve this more than anyone i know, i guess you could say im a proud girlfriend.

comments limited

billieeilish - crying thank you precious girl

billieeilish - kisses mamas, your not supposed to be making me cry

↳︎ yourname.offical - oops ☹️

sabrinacarpenter - 👏

yournamelover - soft launch??

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Hey you probably get plenty of messages like this. And also this gets kind of heavy/dark so warning if you don't wanna read this rn

I usually don't expect to live beyond a 3-5 year window at any given time but seeing you vibing and being trans and alive past 30 is such a blessing.

I saw your post the other day reflecting about being a sort of father figure to a bunch of people on here. It's wonderful that you're able to be that person for people who might be missing that kind of support.

Reading that affected me because I usually break down whenever someone gives me guidance or acts like a parental figure because it's so alien but it also means so much. And your post was very sweet. I hope I'll make it to a stage in life where I can also help others out. Of course that can be done any time but there's something extra special about providing support with life experience behind it.

Keep being you and happy late birthday :)

Honestly, getting out of the 3-5 year mindset is difficult for me, as well. It isn't an easy thing to work your way out of, and it can do a real number on your sense of self-worth. (I still have big problems asking people for things I want, I think because of this - I spent too long feeling like my life was an imposition, and doomed to be a brief one, at that.)

Which is why I try to encourage trans joy. If we can't fully imagine our futures yet, maybe we can still uplift folks (and spite the bastards) in the present, and just hold onto every moment we can.

I hope both of us are around in another 5 years to look back at ourselves, a little wiser and more self-confident.

But at least we have today. ❤️

[killmeleatherface]

It Had To Be You

Part 2

Dr Michael Robinavitch x f! resident (turned attending) OC

AN: this is a part 2 to my ongoing series about Dr Robby on The Pitt. I am very new to Tumblr and formatting so pls forgive any formatting mistakes. I’m just having fun being creative and I hope you enjoy :)

TW: kissing, petting, age gap relationship. No smut in this one :) cursing, medical setting.

Summary: You and Dr Michael Robinavitch started as friends, attendings exchanging information. Until he asked if tou wanted to go to a diner to talk about an especially hard shift. The rest was history. That was years ago and your forbidden fling became an actual relationship, boyfriend and girlfriend. And then the love of your life proposes. Life couldn’t be better, until it comes crashing down. You catch the person you couldn’t be more in love kissing his ex girlfriend in a trauma room when they obviously thought no one was looking. You instantly react with fight of flight instinct and flee home, using all your vacation and sick time. You escape, leaving behind no call or text for your fiance and get the first flight out of there. Now you’re back. And life didn’t wait for your arrival, it just kept on coming like a freight train at The Pitt.

—-

2 Years Ago

“Listen, I really wanted to talk to you about something” the man next to you eyes the nurses station, while talking to you to see if anyone else is listening to him. He comes back to look you in the eyes. He loves eye contact.

“Can I take you for a bite to eat after work?” Robby asks you. The way he was looking at you was unusual, not that he never looked at you, but there was an unknown glimmer of something else behind his words. It also wasn’t usual for you guys to share a meal, although it was usually at a diner a few blocks away from the hospital. Or on top of the roof shoulder to shoulder looking at the lights of the city. Sometimes, if you got really lucky, you’d be able to share a 10 minute break in the designated break room, where you could actually sit down and enjoy your food. Robby never brought anything besides a granola bar or apple, so you’d, almost without thinking, started packing extra snacks for him. You’d double up the amount of cucumber slices, or dates, you’d throw an extra sandwich together “just in case.” And Robby always took it with a large smile that you came to know was only reserved for you.

You put the iPad you’ve been looking at but not really reading and turn to your attending.

“Yeah, Dr. Robby. I could go for a bite to eat,”You smile back.

“Alright. I was a little hopeful you’d say yes and I made reservations at 9 PM.” He says quietly.

Because of course he did. Michael Robinavitch takes charge. He knew, even if for some crazy reason you said you couldn’t, he could still convince you to agree. There was a way he looked at you, made deep eye contact with you, that hit something inside of you so deep that you didn’t know it existed in you before. You never said anything out loud but this man has an extremely tight hold on your heart. You hadn’t even been on a date, hell you hadn’t even kissed, let alone held hands. Actually, neither of you even crossed any real boundaries that would have Gloria up in arms about. More him than you kept whatever was between you as professional as he could while also making it known you were some form of special to him beyond coworkers.

He’d opened up to you about things. Growing up with his grandmother, how he didn’t know who he was talking to but in really hard situations in the Pitt he’d talk to someone, something, for something resembling hope. He talked about his relationship with Adamson, how he changed how he saw medicine when he started working with him. How much Adamson taught him not only professionally, but personally. How it took him years to realize how wrecked he was because of letting his best friend go and not being able to properly grieve him or any other person during the literal hell that was Covid. You never said anything back, just nodded, and every once in a while you’d reach for his hand and he’d let you stroke his thumb in comfort.

You knew you loved him a year into your residency. You always thought he was the sexiest man you’d ever met, almost immediately upon shaking his hand. But loving him took longer. You weren’t even more than friends when you’d realized it. You were on the roof top after an especially brutal shift. There was a multiple car pile up that brought 10 cars of people in, none of them be able to be saved. You and Robby were involved in calling TOD on most of them. It was brutal. He was looking to the skyline when he turned around, making immediate eye contact with you.

“I know I’m your attending and I know you’re my resident but I’m too fucking tired to pretend right now. Way too fucking tired.” And with that he approached you, stepping forward with his hands and skimming them down to wrap around your waist, pulling him into you. You’re surprised he made the first move but you don’t dare pull away. You relish in hearing his heartbeat through his chest, bringing your arms up to wrap around his shoulders. You of course don’t speak the actual words to him for quite some time but on some level you think he knows you so well that he’s known the whole time.

Now all these years later you were finishing residency and weeks away from being an attending. Years of being Robby’s confidante, secret favorite resident, and best friend (besides Jack).

“I’ll pick you up at 8:30 if…that works.” He puts the iPad down. “Yeah, yeah. That sounds good Michael.” You respond quietly.

If you were right, and you were, because you knew him, he was nervous. More so than usual, and it wasn’t about any of your coworkers hearing. Was it because he’d asked you to dinner? Was it because this was a date?

This was a date right? He made reservations, he asked you out and it wasn’t to a greasy diner. It had to be a date. You know you weren’t alone in your feelings, either. Not even close. If Robby knew you, you knew him. You could predict his next move before he made it. His heartbeat was yours. You almost moved as one when you were both with the same patient in the Pitt. It was magical, almost like a staged opera. Mesmerizing.

And to prove your point, like he can read your mind Robby leans in to you and says “Just so there’s no doubt about this in any way. I’m done playing around. You’re not going to be my resident anymore in less than 2 weeks and it’s as long as I can wait. Look at me.” You take your eyes away from the nursing station, and look up into his eyes. But I want to be very clear about what you’re accepting. All my cards are on the table. Are we on the same page doctor?” And prods, obviously eyeing your lips.

“Yes Dr, I think so.” You reply.

So this would be a date.

AN: I knooooow. It’s shorter, but I wanted to pump this out while it was still fresh. It’s a flashback again, but I promise you’ll wanna keep reading this!! The next chapter will be the first official date and it may get steamy ;)

AN continued: I edited this a bit to take out some too steamy stuff at work but no big deal in plot ways

[spiderm444rk]

LOST IN TRANSLATION - mark lee smau

32) who’s the loser ?

You stare at Mark skeptically - not because you don’t trust him, but because you know he tends to make bad decisions sometimes. Especially when there’s no one around to give him an honest opinion. So, right now would be one of those times, assuming he didn’t talk it out with his friends beforehand. And knowing him, he didn’t.

You watch him take a few sips from the bottle someone brought him as he gets comfortable again. He clears his throat, trying out the chords again and mumbling something to himself. You cross your arms, bracing for the worst - this is the first time a man made a song about you and he isn’t even thoughtful enough to play it for you first. No, Mark just has to go all out and let the whole school hear it, because it has to be done his way. Typical.

Mark finally starts playing, and your eyes go wide the second you realize what kind of song this is.

“I don't wanna lose her, oh

I don't wanna lose her, no

Yeah, baby, don't you go

I can't say no more, 'cause

I don't wanna lose her, no,” Mark is strumming the strings carefully, nodding to himself as he sings, clearly lost in the song.

In the meantime, your jaw is practically on the floor. You have to remind yourself that you’re in public and you can’t just gawk at him like some kind of idiot in front of all these people. You look around, noticing how everyone got quiet, listening to the lyrics. You glance at the band in the corner of the room, especially Taeyong, who’s looking at Mark in surprise, clearly not expecting him to go with his own song. And neither did you, to be completely honest. This was supposed to be Bruno Mars, for God’s sake.

“Baby, I can't sleep

'Cause you said you'd call me back

Burning one more leaf

All year round, seasons falling

The moment you came into my life again

I waited, and the sun came up,” Mark continues, his gaze fixed on his fingers as he plays skilfully, like he played this a hundred times already. You can barely believe the scene happening in front of you, because there’s absolutely no way Mark wrote this in just three days… right ? It just can’t be.

He keeps playing the song and you’re a few seconds away from pinching yourself, your head spinning from how are these events turning out. You aren’t even sure whether you’re more mad, baffled, or flattered - the emotions are a mess inside of you.

Mark gets to the outro, bouncing his leg to the beat of the last few lines.

“Loser,

Who's the loser ?

Who's the loser ?” The music stops and you can tell that the cheers are not as loud this time, but only because people aren’t yelling now, just clapping, murmuring to themselves. It’s obvious that they don’t know what to think of such a personal song choice, and to be honest, you can’t blame them - you also feel like you’re dreaming. Mark stands up and bows, stumbling forward a little. You can see his legs shake slightly, even though he tries to play it off.

You chuckle, shaking your head and you want nothing more than to go talk to him, waiting for him to spot you in the crowd. But before it comes to that, someone taps you on the shoulder. You frown in confusion and turn around, your heart still beating loudly in your chest. You blink a few times in an attempt to calm down, and your gaze lands on a guy you’ve never seen before. You raise an eyebrow expectantly. “Yeah ?”

“Hey !” He gives you a grin, nodding appreciatively towards Mark. “What a performance, right ?”

You nod, not sure where is this going.

“I heard you’re the one who made it possible for everyone to audition, right ? The magazine girl.” He gives you a grin, scratching the back of his head. “You’re Y/n, yeah ?”

You nod again, turning to him fully. “Yeah, that’d be me. Why ?”

“Oh, I just wanted to thank you personally… I didn’t make it to this round, but I’m still glad I was even given the opportunity. By the way, I’m Jake,” he holds out a hand, and you shake it. “I don’t know, you think I can borrow you for a bit ? Get you a meal or something ?” He motions towards the door. It’s true, the event turned out to be pretty big, and the school had even set up some food stalls outside so people could grab something on their way home.

You glance at Mark one last time. He’s looking everywhere but at you, bowing to the crowd that’s still clapping, then turning to the band with a relieved grin.

You shake your head and turn back to Jake, finally agreeing to his offer. “Yeah, that’d be nice. So, Jake, what do you study…?”

The two of you head out, getting lost in the conversation as Jake tells you about his major, where he lives - and you’re surprised to learn that your dorms are apparently pretty close to each other. He even tries to remind you which song he performed during the first round, and you just don’t have the heart to tell him that you had no idea he was even there. But you definitely aren’t complaining - not while you’re sitting side by side, both munching on burgers and Jake is showing you some pics of his golden retriever back home.

The applause is still ringing in his ears, but Mark barely hears it. He bows instinctively, his heart still pounding in his chest as if he just ran a marathon. He finally gains back enough composure to glance at the band - almost sighing in relief once he sees Taeyong clapping aggressively with a huge grin plastered on his face.

He takes a step back, fingers still tingling from playing the strings. It’s over - no more audition rounds now, no more late-night practice sessions and the most important part - no more pressure. He can finally stop being so anxious and just wait for the band’s decision. The relief he suddenly feels almost makes him laugh. No one booed - that’s a win, right ?

His eyes quickly scan the crowd, especially the rows he didn’t get to see before. Everyone’s smiling or clapping, and under different circumstances, Mark would probably be basking in the attention. But right now he has other problems - like, where the hell are you ?

And then, he sees it. That familiar red hair he likes so much, near the back.

He squints, leaning forward to confirm his suspicions. That has to be you.

His breath catches, and he has to physically stop himself from jumping off the stage and trying to get through all these people to reach you as fast as he can.

But before he can even call out, you turn. Not toward him. Away.

And suddenly there’s someone else. Mark has to do a double take - a tall guy, smiling down at you like he’s known you forever. Mark can’t hear a word over the crowd, but he sees you laugh - and then you just follow the guy out ?

He watches the back of your head disappear, your figure swallowed up by the crowd as you just leave with a random man like you didn’t just hear him sing a whole damn song for you.

Mark blinks. Once. Twice. His hand tightens around the neck of his guitar. You can’t be serious, right ? There’s no way you’d just ditch him for a guy you don’t even know. Maybe you’re just showing him out and you’ll come back ?

He realizes he’s been standing still in the middle of the stage like an idiot. Shaking his head, he bows one last time, waving at the audience as he rushes backstage.

Donghyuck immediately tackles him. “Are you kidding ? What was that ???”

Jeno and Jisung are quick to join him, bombarding Mark with questions.

“When did you even write that song ?”

“Why didn’t you tell us !”

“Was Y/n there ?”

Mark groans, plopping down onto one of the couches. “Please, shut up. All of you.”

The boys all pause, exchanging confused glances.

Mark sighs again, throwing a hand over his face. “She was there, so she heard it. Still left with someone else, though.”

Silence.

“…What ???” Donghyuck steps forward like he didn’t hear him right. “What do you mean she left ?”

Mark shrugs. “There was a guy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Tall. Looked confident.”

Jisung stares at him in disbelief. “Okay ? So why are you still here ? Why didn’t you go after her ?”

Another shrug. Mark keeps his arm over his face, refusing to look at them. “Why would I ? She clearly has company.”

“Bro,” Donghyuck says slowly, “you just sang your heart out like a sad little simp in front of the whole school.”

“And she still left,” Mark mutters, letting out a bitter laugh. “She’s not giving me another chance, dude. It’s over.”

Jeno narrows his eyes. He doesn’t buy it - not for a second. “Didn’t you say you didn’t know the guy ?”

Mark lifts his hand slightly, just enough to nod.

“What if he’s a creep ?” Jeno continues. “What if he gets her drunk and tries something ? She went alone to see you.”

That makes Mark freeze. He sits up slowly, staring at Jeno like he just got hit in the chest. “What ?”

Jeno shrugs, arms crossed. “I’m just saying. If anything happens, that’s kind of on you.”

Mark looks between his friends, then at his guitar, then at the exit.

In the next second, he’s up on his feet. “Watch my guitar. I’ll be right back.”

The three of them watch him go.

Donghyuck nods to himself, satisfied. “Yeah, that was smart.”

Jeno flops down in Mark’s place, picking up the guitar with a shrug. “What can I say ? Someone’s gotta use their brain around here.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─

A/N: i was never a big fan of using lyrics in fics but i just HAD TO include at least one of the songs from mark’s album </3 this whole smau actually only exists because i loved the rem account a little too much and desperately needed to write something about it 🙂‍↕️ i hope y’all loved loser as much as i did !!! it’s definitely going to be in my top 5 this year 🫡

ALSO ! i purposely changed it to ‘lose her’ because we all know that’s what he meant anyway 🤫

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[nowimjustastranger]

I saw this art and my unhelpful brain decided that it wanted to write something for this instead of finishing any of the several dozen wips that I have. But like, no regrets because I've been wanting to write an AU that's more on the creepier side and FrankenStan is the perfect medium for that.

So, without further ado... enjoy!

Stan scrutinized the haggard being in the mirror, his hands braced on the white countertop. They had been covered in grime last Stan saw them –much like the rest of him– but now they were squeaky clean. There wasn’t even dirt under his fingernails anymore. His newfound cleanliness came off as an attempt to erase the wear and tear of the last decade.

Stan still didn’t know how he felt about Ford washing him when he was a corpse.

His body, once an unmarked canvas that life had not yet touched, had become riddled with scars after he was kicked to the curb. And now he was a patchwork of stitches, the worst of the scarring removed with careful cuts before new skin was sewn into place. Each ugly reminder of what he’d survived was replaced with his brother’s handiwork, Ford literally piecing him back together.

Besides, Stan would rather be covered in scars from his brother than keep the marks from all of the unsavory characters that he’s had the misfortune of getting mixed up with over the years.

There was a y-shaped cut spanning nearly the entire length of his torso, stopping just above where the hem of his jeans would be if he hadn’t stripped down after turning the shower on. One of his hands left the counter to brush the pads of his fingers over the raised skin, and there was the distant sensation of what might be pain, but it was just an echo.

Stan’s fingers pressed down harder and curled into the wound, three of the stitches holding it shut tearing, blood gushing from the ragged hole that he had created. The curious digits sunk deeper with a wet sound, dull brown eyes blankly staring at his questing fingers through the mirror. His right eye was a familiar brown but the other was slightly off, the color just a few shades too light.

A timid knock at the door startled him, tearing his eyes away from the fingers buried to the hilt in his chest to the wooden obstruction. He blinked, clawing his way back to the surface, looking around once he was more present in his body. The sheer amount of blood covering both his front and the floor had him grimacing, though he couldn’t help but experimentally wiggle the fingers that he had stuffed into his own chest just to feel that not-quite-pain again.

“Stanley, I brought you a towel and some clothe–” Ford’s voice grew clearer as the door opened and he poked his head in, freezing with one foot in the bathroom. Stan found Ford’s eyes in the reflection, but he was staring at the fingers buried in Stan’s bloody wound, the color rapidly draining from his face. Ford’s grip on the neatly folded stack of fabric went slack and he closed the distance between them, reaching Stan before the pile even hit the ground in a messy heap.

“Stanley! What are you doing!?” Ford demanded, his voice the closest to shrill that his vocal cords could manage. Stan didn’t resist when Ford grabbed his wrist to carefully extract the digits from the gaping hole, blood pouring out unimpeded once his fingers were removed and there was nothing plugging it up anymore.

Ford made a wounded sound that had Stan’s insides clenching with guilt, turning his head away so he didn’t have to look at the devastation and terror on his brother’s face. Ford had yet to let go of Stan’s wrist, grip so tight that it should hurt, but it didn’t. Truthfully, Stan didn’t remember a time in his life where he wasn’t feeling some type of pain. From the sting of shallow cuts and splinters as an adventurous kid, to the ache of bumps and bruises as a stubborn teen, and finally to the burn of beatings and broken bones as a piece of shit adult.

“Stanley? Stanley, talk to me. Please?” Ford pleaded and Stan nearly gave himself whiplash with how fast his head turned to look at Ford, who hadn’t sounded that small and scared since his age hit the double digits.

He opened his mouth to say something –maybe a joke, maybe reassurances, even he didn’t know what would come out of him at this point– when he suddenly paused. A blood vessel in Ford’s right eye had burst, red creeping into white, and Stan abruptly found himself rooted in place. A chill crawled down Stan’s spine, fear settling heavy in his gut as his fight or flight instincts stirred.

Something was looking back at him.

Watching.

“Stanley?” Ford called, his tone less panicked and more wary now, and Stan soon realized why when he snapped out of his intense staring only to find that he had squared up against his brother. Stan stiffly took a step back, his body resisting with all the ferocity of a cornered animal as he forced it to relax into a less aggressive stance. He was losing it, he had to be. There was nothing staring at him from his brother’s eye, that was fucking crazy.

Ford should’ve just cut his losses and buried his corpse in a shallow grave out in the woods somewhere.

“Sorry. Jumpy.” Stan offered lamely, scrubbing a hand over his face as he shuffled further away to put more distance between them. He cringed when he realized that he was ass-naked in front of his brother, less ashamed and more worried about Ford’s sense of modesty or whatever. Ford had hated when Stan would walk around the house in his boxers as a teen, and now here Stan was with not a scrap of fabric on him in Ford’s house.

“Unusual side effects are only to be expected.” Ford grunted dismissively, seemingly letting it go as he marched over to the discarded towel and clothes to pick them up and brush them off before refolding them. He set them onto the countertop when he was done fussing, then he crouched down to grab a large first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink.

“I need to replace the stitches.” Ford murmured, beckoning Stan over with a sharp jerk of his head. Stan hesitated for a moment before ultimately shuffling over to him, though he kept a respectful gap between them since he didn’t think that Ford would like Stan’s bare skin brushing up against him. Ford had always been skittish about touch, sometimes he couldn’t stand it and sometimes it was like he needed it more than air.

Ford surprised Stan by closing the space between them, pressing a warm hand to Stan’s side to guide him to sit on the toilet lid. Ford would no doubt sanitize it later, along with the rest of the bathroom considering there was a significant amount of blood pooled on the floor where Stan had been standing. Stan tried not to feel guilty about it. Failed.

Stan felt that distant pang again as Ford removed the ripped stitches and replaced them, the pull of skin was all he registered. Ford’s hands were steady but his expression was pinched, his worry and guilt recognizable even with a decade of estrangement between them. Little did Ford know, Stan remembered what happened, though he had lied and said he didn’t when Ford had asked.

Ford had looked so scared when he brought up their lackluster reunion that Stan lied. He didn’t regret it though, not when Ford looked so relieved to hear that Stan didn't have any memory of Ford’s hostility and then their fight in the basement. Stan had felt like shit, the infected incision on his side pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Being on the run with a kidney missing was… an experience, to say the least. One that he never wanted to repeat.

Stan remembered the feeling of Ford’s boot pressing against his chest, pushing him back. He remembered how his right shoulder erupted with white-hot agony, the scent of burning skin making his head spin. Then the foot was gone and Stan had slumped over onto the side that still had a kidney, his chest hurt and his stomach churned. He couldn’t seem to breathe properly either, black encroaching from the edges of his vision.

Then… nothing.

Stan assumes that he lost consciousness, but he’s still not sure how exactly he died. Ford was awfully tight-lipped on the matter too, visibly uncomfortable. So, against his better judgement, Stan let it lie for the time being. Ford had looked… bad. Worse than when Stan had initially come face to face with him. The dark circles darker and eyes wild, his hair an utter mess and the same clothes that he had been wearing when they reunited were now dirtied with dried blood.

Ford had yet to clean himself up and change since he insisted that Stan get the first shower, which led to the present where Ford was packing up the first aid kit, his brows furrowed like he wanted to ask a question but hesitated to do so for whatever reason. Ford had a habit of getting all up in his own head, overcomplicating things or needlessly worrying.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Stan prompted and Ford’s face smoothed out, his emotional shields slamming down in an instant. It was like highschool all over again, though Stan had no one but himself to blame for how that turned out. If he had just been a better son, a better brother, just… better. Things would’ve been different.

“You don’t need to worry, Stanley.” Ford grunted, putting the first aid kit away but otherwise making no move to make himself scarce. Stan couldn’t really blame him for his unwillingness to leave Stan to his own devices, especially after he found Stan fucking around with one of his stitched-up wounds. So Stan didn’t comment, opting to make his way to the shower and step under the steaming spray.

The hot water was blissful, warming Stan from the outside in. He left the curtain pulled open just enough that he was able to peek out every so often as he went through the process of washing himself, finding the bathroom empty but the door left wide open, Ford returning with rubber gloves on and a bucket of cleaning supplies within a few minutes.

Ford wiped down both the toilet and counter before starting on the floor, scrubbing the cold and sticky blood off the tile. Stan occasionally checked his progress, impressed and a little uneasy in equal measure about how much he seemed to know concerning proper clean-up. Stan himself had been a cleaner for Rico rather than a smuggler, he was less apprehensive about cleaning up a crime scene than potentially participating in human trafficking.

Still, he had eventually sent an anonymous tip to the authorities when he had been called to clean a family massacre. One of Rico’s men had been skimming off the top and Rico had made an example of him and his family. One of the mutilated bodies was a fucking six year old, and her death obviously hadn’t been fast or painless.

But Rico had half the precinct in his pocket and Stan was given a warning by way of ambushing him in his motel room, knocking him out with a blow to the head. He had woken up naked in a tub, his side hurting like a bitch and head throbbing. He was alone, his clothes neatly folded and pockets cleaned out, his possessions lined up on the counter.

When Stan struggled out of the tub with uncooperative limbs and lots of cursing, stumbling over to check his wallet first and then his phone, he found a text from Rico waiting. That’s when he realized just how deep he was, stuck in a cage that he had voluntarily walked into, even shutting the door behind him. He was an idiot to think that he could get involved with the cartel and not end up in a shallow grave.

So he ran.

“–ley. Stanley.” Ford said urgently, snapping Stan out of his trance. He blinked, the burbling drain coming into stark clarity. The water was lukewarm at best now, Ford’s hands a hot brand on his slick skin. And, judging by the distress written all over Ford’s face, he had been trying to get a response from Stan for longer than he was comfortable with.

“...sorry.” Stan mumbled, reaching for the knob only for Ford to gently knock his hand away to do it himself, the spray dying down to a rhythmic drip. Then Ford pulled the shower curtain open further, briefly stepping away to snag the fluffy towel, before returning to wrap it around Stan’s shoulders. He hovered as Stan stepped out of the tub, body moving on automatic.

Stan couldn’t find it in himself to protest when Ford took the towel and started carefully rubbing him down with it, starting with his hair and working downward. Thankfully, Ford skipped over Stan’s crotch and ass, simply passing Stan the towel once he was done with Stan’s calves so Stan could do it himself, Ford hurrying over to the counter to fetch the clean clothes.

The silence was oppressive, like a physical weight bearing down on Stan’s shoulders, but he had yet to scrounge up the courage to break it. But something had to give and, as the confrontational twin, Stan usually took it upon himself to crack open Ford’s hard outer shell. Stan didn’t even know if he could still reach the familiar boy who was hidden beneath layer upon layer of Ford’s protective walls.

But fuck if Stan wasn’t going to give it his best shot.

I T ' S A L I V E

click for better quality

[thevillainswhore]

Looks Like We Made It

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Bucky ponders whether your paths were always meant to cross, if fate was what brought you together. You offer a different perspective.

Warnings: Bucky’s POV, established relationship, fluff, flirting, sexual innuendos (no smut).

Author’s Note: Divider by @saradika-graphics

I’m back with a Bucky fic!! Finally 🥹 this instalment is part of the Love In The Woods Collection ❄️, but can absolutely be read as a standalone 🤍 hope you enjoy, friends x

Bucky loved to reminisce. 

And it wasn’t in favour of gone days or that he didn’t enjoy the present — because Bucky couldn’t adore living in the moment more if he tried. 

Rather, he held a fondness of the journey the two of you had taken over the years; how life played its funny little tricks to make sure everything turned out as it should. 

Bucky wasn’t a believer of God, didn’t hold much faith in destiny or fate or a path already paved by a higher power. 

But holy fuck when he looked at you, it was impossible to imagine that there wasn’t any kind of influence to your souls finding each other and intertwining for eternity. 

Either that, or he was a lucky man. 

The thought ricocheted in his mind as he watched you from the bar, dancing to an old 80’s song. Your moves were sloppy and you were singing the lyrics all wrong. Yet, you threw your head back and laughed without a care in the world and for a countless time, Bucky was blessed with the avid reminder of just how much he loved you. 

Of course, he was always aware of his affections. There wasn’t a day that went by where Bucky questioned himself. But in certain moments, when the full measure of his feelings came rushing in all at once, he’s knocked off kilter once more and suddenly his love for you is so overwhelming that it’s hard for him to breathe. 

Magic was laced in everything you did. From how you greeted your friends with pure happiness no matter how often you saw them to the way you sat by the fireplace, swaddled in the masses of blankets you owned, and hummed in bliss at the taste of your homemade hot chocolate. 

It was simply extraordinary and Bucky couldn’t picture a better way to describe you; there was no one else who could make the mundane feel ethereal. 

Bucky’s life may have been simple. But it was yours and his. There was nothing more remarkable than that. 

Natasha knocked against the wood of the bar, gently pulling Bucky from his stupor. “Gonna gawk at your girl all night, Barnes, or are you planning on joining her any time soon?” 

“Wife.” He corrected instantly, though his tone held no animosity, only awe. “She’s my wife, Nat.” 

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head with a grin as she refilled Bucky’s glass. “And doesn’t everyone and their mother know it.” 

Shrugging, Bucky lifted his drink to his mouth and sipped, the whiskey smoothly burning his throat. “You look at her and tell me that I shouldn’t shout it from the damn mountain tops.” 

She did so, glancing over at you with a fond smile. “Then you’re a wise man, Barnes.” 

“Maybe.” His eyes gravitated over to you. He had already looked away for too long for his own liking. “Or I’m just a really lucky fool.” 

It was that moment your gazes locked from across the room. The music played on, the patrons of the bar continued their conversations. However, the world stopped spinning on its axis for Bucky and he wasted no time in taking advantage of the little pocket of time spared for the two of you. 

Parrying his way through the sea of bodies, Bucky made his way towards you, gaze never straying, focus never drifting. He reached you by the vintage jukebox and instantly weaved his arms around your waist. 

“Hi, there,” you grinned, snaking your hands around his neck. Bucky shivered. “I was wondering when you were gonna come over.” 

Bucky bumped his nose against yours. “‘M sorry, baby. Wanted to sit back and watch you for a little while.”

“You’re forgiven.” You teased your lips over his, whispering your wicked hymns against his mouth. “It’s hard to be annoyed at you when you look this good.” 

“That right?” Your outward appreciation of him never failed to fill him with a smug confidence. Compliments from you made him feel like he was on top of the world. “The jacket workin’ for you is it, Dolly?” 

You looked up at him with hooded eyes, licking your lips. “Sure is, handsome. I wonder whether it’ll work for you tonight when it’s the only thing I have on.” 

All the blood in Bucky’s body rushed down to his lower region, hardening his cock in his jeans and weakening his knees.

He groaned, deep and raw. “Fuck—You sure know how to kill a man.” 

Creating a gun with your fingers, you pointed the barrel against Bucky’s chest and mimed a gunshot to the heart. He couldn’t help how his heart stuttered as you winked and whispered a soft boom. “I’m dangerous for the heart, Bear. Haven’t you heard?” 

That you were. “You’re the talk of the town, sweetheart. But I want you anyway.” 

And suddenly, the heated lust dialed down to a tender intimacy. Something only lovers could appreciate. “Very smooth.” 

Bucky began to guide you into a gentle sway, hugging you tighter until any space between you was diminished. “I aim to please, Wife.” 

The name rolled off his tongue so easily. He wasn’t ashamed to say he called you by it as often as he could. It could have been interpreted as a sense of ownership to others. But those who knew the two of you understood that Bucky just couldn’t get enough of reminding himself — and everyone else — that you had married him. 

A true pinch me moment. 

If your smile was anything to go by, you savoured it just as much. “You like saying that, don’t you?” 

Bucky beamed. “All the damn time, you have no idea.” 

You kissed him. A slow, drawn out peck that swallowed his stomach whole like a blizzard. He wasn’t sure if he could ever get used to that feeling; how you continued to steal his heart years on. 

“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” Bucky confessed, eyes closed with his forehead resting against yours.  

Your brows furrowed and you let out a shocked laugh. “What are you talking about, silly? Does the cabin or the ring not seal the deal enough for you?”

“‘Course it does, Dolly.” As if anything could hold a candle to the pillars of bliss that was your story. “It just doesn’t feel real sometimes, y’know? Like surely someone as amazing as you can’t have come into my life without circumstance. Someone must’ve been having a good day when they made you my soulmate.” 

“Are you drunk, Bear?” You giggled. 

“No, darlin’.” Bucky may not have been drunk, but you sure did make him feel like it. “Just wanted to let you know how much I love you.” 

You fell quiet as you slightly backed away. Eyes turned inquisitive, you observed him and Bucky felt more naked than ever. For once, he was clueless to what you were thinking and the unease had him desiring his long forgotten whiskey. 

You finally settled his nerves. “Can I ask you something, sweetie?”  

Bucky swallowed the dryness of his throat. “Anything.”

“Have you ever considered that there’s no other reason as to why I fell in love with you other than that I like you?” 

Frowning, Bucky voiced his bemusement. “Well, I would like to think so.”

You shook your head fondly. “As a person; your personality, your humour. You’re kind and sweet and thoughtful. You're not too bad on the eyes either.” Fingers tangling into the roots of his hair, you coyly pulled before soothing the sting. Your attempt at some lightheartedness before you resumed. “I enjoy spending my time with you, Bear. None of those are miraculous things. You are just you, that’s what love is.”

Though Bucky recognised you were trying to make a point, the pinnacle of your moment wasn’t reaching him. He was silent, struggling to connect the dots in his head. 

You sighed softly. “Believe it or not, I don’t need you, Bucky.” 

The revelation was one he hadn’t expected and for a minute his stomach pitted. Pouting, Bucky attempted to mask his slight hurt. “Ouch.” 

“Oh, stop it. I’m not finished, you big lug.” You smacked his chest playfully. “What I mean is that I’ll never need to rely on you to make me happy. It implies that I have no autonomy and I stay for all the wrong reasons. I’m not some estranged princess, whose only purpose it is to find a prince to save them. I’ve lived a life without you and I was content. But it’s because of you that life is much more fulfilling and it’s because of you that I spend every waking moment thankful that we met.” 

A spark of peace brightened Bucky’s eyes, the bigger picture finally revealing itself and your message becoming clear. You must have caught the subtle undertones of his relief as your lips curved into a smile. 

“I choose to love you, Bucky. I choose to be by your side every single day for the rest of our lives. And I think that’s a lot more meaningful than the idea that some greater good already decided our fate. Instead, out of any other choices we could’ve made, we chose each other.”  

You were right. You were so completely right that Bucky cursed himself for not comprehending it for himself. Because of course, what was better than the act of fortifying a bond so strong that you didn’t have to rely on anything other than knowing what you felt for each other. That your care and warmth of the other was enough to keep your relationship solid rather than depending on the notion of destiny.

No. You and Bucky had created something so stunningly special by yourselves. And he was an idiot for ever thinking anything else.  

Standing in Nat’s bar, in the middle of the dance floor by the vintage jukebox, the world came rushing back in. The music, the chatter. It was reality — tangible. And it was the outcome of your own doings. Better than anything the universe could have concocted for you. 

“In the future, when you think back to each memory of us, remember that there was nothing binding us together. I just wanted to be with you.” You booped his nose, a delicate glisten in your eyes. “Know now, I’ll want you forever.”  

Bucky cleared his throat, discreetly trying to blink away the tears that threatened to break the surface. Even so, his voice cracked with an overload of emotion. “You’re somethin’ else, Dolly.” 

You sniffled, not as willing to hide your sentiment. “Nope. Just me. And you love me all the more for it.” 

“I do,” he breathed. “God, do I fuckin’ love you, more than you could ever know.” 

“Well,” you grinned, as beautiful as always. “We’ve only got the rest of our lives for you to make sure I do.” 

Your excited squeal of laughter echoed around the bar, your friends and family cheering as Bucky swept you off your feet and gathered you into his arms. His smitten smile rang loud for everyone to see, but his soft promise was dedicated to you alone. “Then I best get makin’ good on that then, sweetheart.”

[attyy]

MAYBE I JUST WANNA BE YOURS

desc: suna x reader | Loving him quietly never seemed enough. But he never stopped loving since you left. Letters read years too late, just as your heart starts to love again. But not every goodbye stays gone. Not every love stops burning.

SECRETS THAT I HAVE HELD IN MY HEART, ARE HARDER TO HIDE THAN I THOUGHT...

Suna never needed words. 

Seldom was he loud about his feelings, never the type to announce things or drown you in sweet affections. But you knew. You always knew. 

It was the way his eyes narrowed when he’s pissed— never at you, always for you. How his eyebrows furrowed whenever teachers scolded you unfairly, or when a classmate got a little bit too close for a second too long during a group project. He never said anything, but his silence grew sharper, heavier—like a fuse waiting to light. 

It was in the mundane moments. Ordinary choices that didn’t look like love to anyone else. Like when he prefers leaning on your left shoulder—never the right. You’d asked once, casually, “Why not this side?” but he never explained. “I can see your face better,” he muttered. But you think it's because it’s easier for him to show you tiktoks. It was always the smallest things to him. 

The way he always found you in every room like it was second nature. In every crowd, his eyes never fail to find yours. The gym, cafeteria, or school gates, no matter the place, he always knew where you were. 

Sometimes, a glance across the field. The brush of shoulders in the halls. The tug of your hand as he led you down a hallway no one ever walked down except the two of you.

The cracked wall behind the rooftop door. The science wing’s back corridor. The unused staircase no one uses, which creaks on the fourth step. His fingers would find yours, tangled beneath desks, in the fold of jackets, between late-night messages and early morning silence.

You can read him like a book. A little too well. You saw how his shoulders tensed whenever you teased him about going public with your relationship. A subtle change in topic, a low hum when you asked, “What are we?” jokingly.

And he’d shrug, avoiding your gaze. “Does it matter?”

And part of you wants to believe that it doesn’t. You used to tell yourself that your content having him like this. This quiet, hidden kind of love was still love. But the ache never went away. It only grew. 

After graduation. 

After he became a professional volleyball player. 

After life kept moving like you hadn’t given so much to someone who never said the words out loud. 

He got busier. And you became the secret he couldn’t afford to slip. A saved contact with no name, just a heart emoji. A “I can’t call right now” and a photo of another hotel room. 

You tried to believe that it was enough. 

But it wasn’t. 

To watch someone live a life where you didn’t exist. To love someone who meant forever but spoke like you were temporary. To love someone who kept you hidden. Like being seen with you looked like a mistake. 

Loving him feels like holding on too tightly, that it might break. 

How his fingers would intertwine with yours, but letting go the moment someone else entered the room. Or how he’d constantly text you at 2 am, “miss u”, then leave you unread for hours when morning came. 

You finally had enough. 

The final crack came quietly. Unexpectedly, like the ache you’ve felt for years was non-existent. No fight. No slammed doors. 

When the words slipped out, “I don’t think I can keep doing this,” and he didn’t even say anything. 

You waited. For a word. A nod. Anything. 

But, nothing. 

Years of stolen glances, secret corridors, and quiet rooms. Years of pretending it was enough. That maybe if you waited long enough, he’d finally say it. 

But he never did. 

—

People grow apart. It’s just the way it is. Just two people slowly fading from each other’s lives. 

So you unfollowed his account. Deleted all your private rants on your burner account that he never saw. You moved cities. Found a job. Met new people, new friends. Laughed, smiled, and built a life you never imagined could happen without him. 

You even forgot, and started telling yourself that this was better. And you believed it. Until today. 

Ding. 

In the middle of cooking dinner (surprisingly not burning the house down yet), you open your door. And on the floor, a wrapped package. No name on the return address. No clues. 

Until you spot your name. In his handwriting. 

“Hikari.” 

Your heart drops. 

You hold the package a little too long, staring at it, hoping it’ll disappear. But it doesn’t. You bring the package inside. 

Sit at the kitchen table. Stare at it. 

For a second, you think about throwing it away. Pretending you never saw it. But you’ve never been able to ignore him. 

You quickly open the package. Still recognizing his signature perfume as you opened it. He must’ve sprayed his perfume on this.

Inside— letters. 

Dozens. Each one dated. Sealed. Stacked in chronological order, like a timeline of a love he never found the courage to live out loud. Some even go as far as to ask when you first started dating. 

Some envelopes are crumpled a bit, like they’ve been handled too many times. Others are in pristine condition. You recognize the ink he used to write with in class. Even the faint scent of his cologne still clings to the paper—like the memory of him never faded. 

And atop the stack of letters, a folded note. The ink is smeared in places, with tear stains on the paper. 

“I don’t know if this will ever reach you. Or if you’ll even open it if it does. I’m not good at saying things out loud. You know that. But I’ve regretted every day since you left, wishing I had. These are all the things I should’ve said to you when you were still here. 

This is the only way I knew how to show you everything I’ve kept hidden for so long. I don’t know if it’s too late. But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wonders—I loved you. I always will. —Rintarou.”

Your vision blurs. Tears build up in your eyes.

The words carried weight, ringing in your mind like a curse. You try reading the words again, tears flowing out. Slower each time. Like your brain was bracing for impact.

Because it’s him. And you knew him, he was never the type to admit his feelings. And it hit harder this way. 

Your hands hover over the first letter before opening it, only to see the ring you wore, reminding you of the decision you made.

Too late, you think.

Too late, too late, too late.

Then—

“Babe?”

The voice snaps you back to reality. 

The front door creaks softly as Atsumu steps inside, damp from his evening run. He comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pauses when he sees your face. 

“Hey, why are you crying? What happened?”

You flinch, closing the package immediately, but he spots it. 

His voice softens. “...Is that from him?” 

You can’t speak. His arms hesitate, then wrap around your waist tightly,  “You opened it.”

After a long silence, his voice—raw. Hesitant: “Should I be worried?”

He looks up, searching your eyes for an answer. 

You want to say no. You really do.

And Atsumu just stares at you— in that moment, doesn’t fight it. He just nods once like he already knows. 

Some ghosts don’t knock when they come back. 

And some loves never really leave.

all works belong to @attyy, do not copy, steal, or plagiarize my works.