#sorry. bad posts tonight to Cope

[bizlybebo]

i need to get that man pregnant

[eldritch-nightmare]

some updates uhm. i finished up cody's valentine's day prompt!! i haven't started on bo's or carmina's but hopefully i cant get started on one of them tomorrow if the universe will permit it.

[puck-luck]

give him six | trevor zegras

warnings: extreme domination. EXTREME domination. daddy kink because i do what i want. edging. spanking. cockwarming. at the same time. don’t worry about it. i do what i want. HINTS of anal play but they don’t actually do it. derogatory language (name calling…). crying during sex. sorry! spit kink. had to be done. subspace! ugh need a man to put me in that BAD bad pairing: trevor zegras x fem!reader summary/request: “thinking about trevor zegras needing to fuck his gf roughly after a tough game to let out his frustration bc i can sooooo see him being into that. but he’d always be looking out for u too, saying to tell him if it hurts and checking in to ask if she’s ok, but as soon as she assures him she is he’s just going absolutely nuts not holding back 🫠” wc: 4109

You don’t have to look at Trevor to see how angry he is. He lost a few weeks of hockey due to his broken ankle and now he was back– but he couldn’t make a fucking goal in a shootout to get the win for his team? The worst part was that his shot was denied not by the goalie, but by the post. By the fucking post. 

Trevor loves to flaunt his accuracy in the backyard, in the practice rink, even when tossing trash into the garbage bin, but the one time he doesn’t mean to hit the post, the puck does? It’s idiocracy. It’s humiliating. He’s better than this. He knows it, you know it, the whole world knows it. But St. Louis got to celebrate tonight, and maybe if he hadn’t hit the damn post, then he’d be celebrating with his teammates instead of stewing in your bed. 

His arms are crossed over his chest and the TV isn’t even on– you join him and want to laugh at the image of your pouty boyfriend wallowing in silence. You climb under the covers with Trevor. 

“You did really well, Trev,” you compliment, settling into the mattress.

“We should’ve won,” he replies.

You sigh. “You can’t win them all.”

Trevor scoffs. “Yeah, well, we could’ve won this one,” he snaps.

You stare at him for a moment while his tone really sets in. “You don’t have to talk to me like that,” you say, your voice growing cold. “I wasn’t out on the ice with you.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He, at least, sounds the part. He covers his face with his hands, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. “I just– I’m so mad.”

You take a deep breath. You don’t have to be at work until 9 and it’s about five minutes away if you leave on time. You have to do the laundry tomorrow afternoon anyway. Trevor would feel better if you did this. You really wanted to sleep after the game tonight, but it would be a lie if you said you didn’t want to make him feel better. Another deep breath.

“Why don’t you take it out on me?” You ask.

Trevor looks over at you, surprise written all over his features. “Really?” He asks, like a child who was just told that he could have another candy before bed. “Like last time?”

Last time. You practically start salivating, thinking about how Trevor brought you to the edge and ripped you away from the cliff time after time, until you were sobbing and screaming and begging for a release. 

“Yeah, like last time,” you agree, already a little absent. Trevor notices, of course he does, he’s more in tune with your body than you are at this rate.

A smile tugs on the corner of Trevor’s lips, but he ignores it.

“Hands and knees,” Trevor says. “Right in front of me.”

You position yourself accordingly.

Trevor smooths a hand over your behind, your shirt riding up and exposing your skin due to the position you’re in. You hadn’t worn anything else to bed– why would you? You and Trevor had been together for ages and you weren’t exactly new to his… post-loss coping mechanisms. 

“Elbows,” Trevor corrects. His cock twitches when you immediately drop to your elbows, no hesitation in your movements. You’re silent, like he wants when you play like this, and you’ll do anything he says. You’re gorgeous like this, all spread out and listening to him with your head forward like a good girl, waiting for your next instruction.

You hear his voice over the thumping of your heart, although you’re not sure how. You’re always finding Trevor in the mess of everything. 

“Bite the sheets,” Trevor commands, shimmying out of his boxers. You can hear him moving and you take the bedsheets in your mouth, the fabric almost immediately saturating with your saliva. “Close your eyes.” You slide your eyes shut and wait, your shaky breath filling the room and heating your face.

Something warm probes at your entrance and for a moment, you can’t tell if it’s Trevor’s fingers or his cock. The answer comes to you via a sharp spank on your left cheek, with Trevor’s left hand. He always fingers you with his left hand so that he can keep his right around your neck– the hand that’s currently kneading your other cheek. 

He pushes his cock into you slowly, the movement more like he’s pulling you back than pushing you forward. 

“Six shots,” Trevor muses, watching his cock disappear into you. “Six shots, and I didn’t make one.”

You bite back the reassurance, swallowing it. Trevor doesn’t want to hear it.

“Do you know how that feels?”

You don’t answer. He still doesn’t want to hear it.

“I’ll show you,” Trevor promises, his voice deceptively soft. His hand rests against your skin, heavy and present. 

You get lost in the feeling easily, your mouth full of the comforter and your fingers twisted in the top sheet. Your eyes stay closed, the red-tinged darkness grounding you. 

“Yeah, I’ll show you,” he repeats, his voice darker this time. “You’re going to understand exactly what it feels like to come so close six times, just for all of that to be taken away from you.”

Your eyes open at his words and you pale. You spit the covers out and break your silence. “Six times?” You ask, incredulous. “Trev.”

“Daddy,” Trevor corrects with a spank. “Unless that’s… not what we’re doing tonight?”

You clench down on his length at the contact and the name, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at the sound of his voice. Trevor is playing with you, teasing you. His fingers are walking all over you– the small of your back, your cheeks, down your crack all the way to where he’s buried inside of you… and it’s distracting.

You find yourself nodding. “It is.”

“Good,” Trevor says. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make the second and third ones quick, okay?”

His voice is full of condescension, like he knows you’re going to lose track of everything as soon as he starts hitting you. He’s right, but that’s neither here nor there.

For as long as you’d been dating Trevor, you’d never seen him tap into the mindset that he has on the ice off the ice. However, when he’s bringing his hand down on your ass, he gets pretty damn close.

His spanks are precise and powerful. He’s leaving pink handprints all over your skin, from the fleshy parts of your ass to the top of your thighs, even a few falls over the hole that he’s not occupying. Each flash of his hand leaves your skin burning and your hips inching upwards, begging for more. All of this, and he’s still inside you– the torture of the spanking is that he isn’t moving, and you’re not supposed to.

You lose track of the count, feeling your stomach flip with each slap. What starts as stinging pain turns into aching pleasure, and the sensations aren’t lost on Trevor.

He feels you jolt each time he brings his hand down on your skin, the clench of your pussy around his cock, the pounding of your pulse from inside of you. Trevor smirks and shifts his hips forward as he brings his hand down, his hand making contact with your asshole just as his tip nudges against your g-spot.

You wail, lurching under Trevor’s watchful eye. You fuck back on his cock once, only managing the movement one measly time, before Trevor stills you with a hand and slides out of you.

“No,” you breathe out, voice muffled by your makeshift gag. 

“Yes,” Trevor replies, smug. “Isn’t it frustrating?”

You glare at him, turning so he can see the look on your face.

All it does is make him laugh. “Well, now I have to really punish you, don’t I?” He asks. “I can’t have my baby making angry faces at me.”

Trevor taps your hip, wordlessly telling you to move. You resume your original position next to him, expecting Trevor to tell you to put your “pretty little hand” on his cock and jerk him until he comes all over your freshly manicured fingers. 

You don’t expect him to slide under the covers and hike up your shirt until your breasts are exposed. Trevor hooks a leg around yours, his mouth exhaling warm air onto your nipple. His fingers tap at your skin, one hand on your side and the other on your mound, making its way south. 

“We’re going to do four like this,” Trevor tells you. His voice is merely a whisper, crawling over in your skin and raising goosebumps in its wake. “Just like this. I’m gonna take one,” he breathes, catching your nipple between his teeth for a split second before continuing. “Right here. Gimme one, baby, just from me licking your tits. I know you can.”

He dives in, tongue first. Your jaw drops as Trevor’s eyes close, the same way you know they do when you kiss him. It’s surreal, seeing him kiss and lick over your skin the way he normally does over your lips. His eyelashes flutter, the long, dark pieces of hair stealing your train of thought. 

Trevor surprises you with how quickly he brings you to the edge again. He promised that the second and third would be quick, but you didn’t know just how quick he meant.

You let out a strangled gasp and your hand flies to Trevor’s hair when he opens his eyes and lets his adoring gaze fix on your face. You pull him off your chest, heaving breaths filling your lungs. 

Trevor smirks, but it never quite reaches his eyes. The same look burns you, makes you shy under his gaze. You blush and look away, one of your hands covering the redness on your cheeks.

“Good,” Trevor remarks, a mere observation. “You got close, didn’t you, baby?”

You nod, still breathing heavily.

Trevor waits, expectant. He tilts his head down and blinks.

“Yes, Daddy,” you concede. “I was close.”

“Honest girl,” Trevor praises. His fingers dance over your slit. “Love you.”

“Love you,” you parrot back to him. 

Trevor rewards you by pushing one finger into your heat, pumping it in and out of you at an agonizingly slow pace. 

Your breath stays shaky, your eyes never leaving Trevor’s. His finger drags along your walls, petting the inside of you with its pad, and you swear you can feel the ridges of his fingerprint inside of you if you focus enough. 

It’s hard to focus on that when Trevor’s got his scrutinizing eyes on yours, though.

“What finger is it?” Trevor asks.

“What?” You stammer, finally blinking and breaking the trance. 

Trevor’s other hand flies up to steady your chin before you can look down and ruin his game. “Which finger–” Trevor asks, curling it inside you. “–am I fucking you with?”

Your brain stalls. It’s a no-brainer, really, you should know each of Trevor’s fingers by feel alone with how often they make their way inside of you. However, you’ve been denied two orgasms already and Trevor is close to taking a third from you with just his smug stare.

“Come on,” Trevor goads. “You know which finger this is, baby. The faster you tell me, the faster I get you to your orgasm.”

“Yeah, the faster you take it away,” you reply. 

Trevor’s eyes cloud over and he jams his finger inside you, increasing his pace. “Don’t be a bitch.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Trevor twists his finger inside of you.

“Unless you want me to fuck you like one,” he teases. 

You clench down on Trevor’s finger, his middle finger you realize, when he utters those words.

“You like that?” Trevor asks, unnecessarily. He can feel how you feel about it. “You like the idea of me getting my cock in you and fucking you like a damn animal? What is it, baby? Is it the primal instinct of it all or just the fact that I’m disciplining you like you’re worth less than I am?”

You moan at his words, logical responses and formed sentences too far from you to grasp.

“Tell me.” Trevor nudges your g-spot and you arch your back, your hips grinding against his finger… just for him to draw it out of you. “Not so fast. We’ve still got three more to go.”

“I was close,” you complain.

“So was I,” Trevor counters. “Hurts, doesn’t it? When things don’t work out the way you want them to?” 

“Trevor!” You frown, put off by his game.

“Well, now you’ve really done it,” Trevor growls, shoving two fingers inside of you and resting his thumb on your clit. “You know better than to call me by my name.”

You’re drenched in sweat and slick, so Trevor’s movements aren’t hindered in the slightest, not even when you squeeze your thighs shut. All Trevor does is push them open, trap your thigh under his bony knee. Somehow, even though you just had your legs spread, Trevor seems to push in further and rub your clit faster, hitting every right spot in alternating movements: clit, then g-spot, clit, then g-spot again. And over and over.

You don’t warn him this time, you don’t pull away. You try not to clench down, you try not to rock your hips, you try anything that might get you real relief from a real orgasm without Trevor noticing.

But it’s also a futile effort because your boyfriend knows you that well.

He withdraws his fingers just as your legs, the traitors, begin to tremble.

“Oh, baby, you didn’t think you’d get away with that, did you?” Trevor teases.

“Please,” you beg. “Please, Daddy.”

Trevor’s eyes flash with approval and he teases your entrance again, this time with a third finger. “Don’t worry,” he coos. “We’ve only got two more. Then I’ll let you come.”

You choke on your own spit when Trevor buries his three fingers inside of you, all in one motion. He doesn’t dawdle or stall for time. He doesn’t take advantage of the situation at hand– that you were already shaking for him and a pump of his fingers would give you away to the pleasure just on the other side of your approaching peak.

No, he doesn’t pump his fingers. He just wiggles them as deep as he can get them and smirks before dropping a kiss on your lips. He lowers himself then and blows cool air on your clit, spreading your folds with his other hand so the full bundle of nerves is revealed to him. He leans in and captures it with his tongue, lightly sucking on the bundle. It’s not the most friction he’s ever given you, but it’s consistent. He builds you up on his tongue, slowly, so slowly. 

And when your thighs close around his head, he stops. You’re aching for a release, tears building along your waterline. Your refractory period is shrinking with each near-orgasm, your babbles begging for Trevor to do something.

“I need it,” you beg, but the words feel more like a scream with how heavy they sit on your chest. 

“Oh, I know you need it,” Trevor replies, tone mocking. “You need it so bad, you’re acting up. Talking back, not using my name, not answering my questions, trying to trick me so that you can get an orgasm. I ought to leave you like this, really show you what it’s like to be left frustrated after a disappointing performance.”

“No,” you whimper. “No, Trevor, that’s too much.”

It’s not your word, it’s not a cry of pain, but it still gives Trevor pause. 

“Need me to be sweet to you?” Trevor asks, his eyes genuine and his hair wild from your wandering grasp.

You whine, arching your back. Trevor smiles fondly, but bats you away. When your back makes contact with the mattress again, Trevor’s deft fingers pinch your nipple and cause you to arch up a second time. He pushes you back down.

“Slut,” Trevor chastises. “Think you can distract me with your tits? This isn’t amateur hour, baby. I’ve still got to steal one orgasm from you.”

You blanch at that, your eyes wide. You take in every detail of his face, panting. There isn’t anything you could say that could stop him, except your word, but you’d rather curl into a ball and die than stop this right now. The words don’t come to you to tell him to continue, though.

“I’m going to get you so close,” Trevor whispers, his face close to yours. He leans down and kisses your neck. You arch into him, your once-useless hands finding his sides. You feel over the muscle there, his lean waist and strong chest. “You’re going to be right there, baby, and then I’m going to take it all away.”

“Please,” you repeat, but it’s indecipherable whether you’re begging Trevor to let you come or begging Trevor to leave you wanting more.

“Yeah,” Trevor agrees, sliding his three fingers back into your wet cunt. 

You moan sharply at the intrusion, pumping deep into you this time and dragging along your walls in a torturous way. It feels so good, it has you seeing white specks when you manage to open your eyes and look at Trevor. His eyes are trained on your cunt, watching your wetness seep all over his fingers. When you push his hair out of his face, his eyes lift to meet yours. 

His pupils are blown wide with lust and he’s got a snarl rumbling from deep in his chest. It is primal, you realize, the way he’s bullying his fingers into your cunt without a thought about what you can or can’t handle. He’s taking you, the way that you’ll only ever allow him to do.

“Gonna come?” Trevor asks, the evil smirk overtaking his face again.

“Please,” you beg again.

“‘Please,’” Trevor mocks. “Is that the only word you know?”

He pulses his hand, his fingers bouncing off your walls and causing you to jolt and scramble to find something to hold onto. That something ends up being Trevor’s hair and the pillow to your side. Your chest is heaving again, your nipples taut and pointed and begging to be touched. 

As Trevor’s eyes trail down your body at a snail’s pace, you can feel your orgasm approaching. You yank his hair and he winces, bringing his hand to your neck and squeezing in retaliation.

“Daddy,” you wheeze, the edge of your vision growing fuzzy and dark. It’s the only warning you can give Trevor as the cliff starts to crumble below you, as you start to fall away into the orgasm that was denied from you for so long.

And when Trevor pulls his fingers out of you, he yanks you back onto solid ground.

And, unsurprisingly, you start to cry.

It’s not pretty, either. It’s not a tear here and there when you’re deepthroating your boyfriend, or the beautiful running of mascara as he fucks your face at some hockey event. No, this is full-on sobbing, gut-wrenching cries that have Trevor taking inventory of all the things he did to you, wondering if he pushed you too far. He rubs your thighs with both of his hands in a soothing motion, ignoring the glistening precum that he’s inadvertently rubbing into your skin. 

“Baby,” Trevor murmurs. 

You sob and raise your arms, needing him to hold you. Trevor’s face softens immediately and he pulls you into his chest, turning so he’s sitting with his back against the headboard and you’re awkwardly dangling half on his lap, half off. You keen into his neck, burying your face in his soft, tan skin.

“My girl,” Trevor whispers, rubbing your arms now and pulling you closer to him, comforting you with his warmth. “You’re perfect.”

“Daddy,” you whisper into his neck. “Please.”

Trevor tilts your head back and looks into your eyes. His gaze looks sad, meeting your own, red and puffy. “Please what, baby?”

“I need your cock,” You plead, petting over his stomach with a hand that feels like its made of static. “I need you to make me come, Daddy.”

Trevor groans, sounding pained. He twitches beneath you. “Like this?” He asks.

You nod, losing your words again. It’s a timid but vehement nod, needing Trevor to press inside you more than anything, but not knowing if you could handle another ruined orgasm.

“Please, let me come this time,” you say, trying to look as pathetic and needy as you can. With big doe eyes like this, Trevor has always been bad at denying you the things you want. 

“Yeah, I think I’ve tortured you enough,” Trevor agrees, reaching under you and pressing his cockhead against your entrance. “Give me a bounce, baby. Wanna see your tits jump in front of my face, yeah?”

Trevor snakes his hands around to grab your bottom, his fingers tight against the skin. He uses his leverage to bounce you for him, knowing that you don’t have control over your movements as fucked out as you are, and he’d hate to see you cry more because you’re mad at yourself for not moving the way he wanted you to.

He lifts you up and down, snapping his hips up to meet yours when they fall. His eyes flicker between your boobs and your face, the teartracks drying over your cheeks as you allow yourself to be consumed by ecstasy. One of Trevor’s hands flies upward, tracing over your skin until he threads it between the strands of your hair. Once his whole hand is enveloped in your roots, he tugs and your mouth falls open.

Trevor leans forward and directs a glob of spit down your throat, his forceful hawk causing his spit to find the back of your throat. 

You convulse on top of him, trembling under his watchful gaze and his warm cock. “Daddy,” you pant, feeling like you’re burning and drowning in your desire for him. Trevor slips his thumb into your mouth as you come and you suck on it like a child, grinding against him through your aftershocks.

You’re floating on air by the time your aftershocks cease and Trevor pulls out of you gently, grasping his cock in his fist. He’s watching you and you’re watching him. Never breaking eye contact, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out.

Trevor presses his tip to your tongue and strokes his cock, squeezing on the downstroke and groaning curses with each turn of his hand. He comes just seconds later, his white ropes of come gracing your tastebuds. He pulls away after only a few drops intersect with your tongue, continuing to come in spurts over your cheeks, lips, and nose. A bit of come drips down the tip of your nose and you poke your tongue out again to try and catch it, which makes Trevor laugh.

Still lost in your post-orgasm haze, you barely notice when Trevor leaves the bed and comes back with a moist towel. He wipes your face, then your thighs and pussy, dropping a kiss on your lower belly after he’s finished. You let out a breath at that, not knowing that you were holding it, astounded by the fragility and intimacy of the moment.

“Daddy,” you say out loud, mostly just to yourself. Mostly just to feel the word on your tongue, feel it take its shape in your mouth. It sounds like awe.

Trevor deposits the towel in the hamper across the room with a toss, proving yet again that his precision and accuracy are off the charts most of the time. He crowds your space, tracing your features with his delicate pinky. “Did Daddy make you feel good, baby?” Trevor asks. “You made Daddy feel good.”

You whine at that and almost want to cry again at the praise. All the time you spent wondering if you were good enough, if you’d ever get a boyfriend who loved you and stayed with you was worth it when you found Trevor. He always said the right things, made you feel things you’d never felt before. 

“I love you,” you say.

Trevor slips his thumb into your mouth, watching your eyes close in bliss as he presses it against your tongue. You can still taste where he was rubbing your pussy with this digit.

“I love you,” he replies, voice soft. His voice sounds like awe, too.

note: small town girl chapter 1 next! (hopefully)

[shuastar]

ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ .3 (JWW)

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴋᴇ!ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ x ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴄ: 9.9k (holy shit) warnings: none for now?? hot wonwoo, lowkey obsessed wonwoo, seungcheol featuring!! y/n does like kinda get hurt (you'll see) but nothing like bad, a lot of crying?? sorry i make y/n cry so much, ᴀ/ɴ: i told myself i would post this like three days ago but i just finished the last part so here you go!! sorry sorry sorry for the delay! im also trying to go through requests at the same time so if i like dont answer for a while i promise im writing it!! just wait!! anyways, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ᴘʟꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ <3

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ; ɴᴇxᴛ

Wonwoo 

The palace feels extraordinarily wistful tonight. 

His coat trails after him in the dark of the night. He shouldn’t be awake at this hour. It’s unhealthy, or whatever Hoshi had told him for the years when he was on the battlefield. He couldn’t help it. It was a coping mechanism of sorts. His mind would spend the day experiencing everything that happens and would spend the night sorting and processing through each and every event. And on those days where the empty company of his desolate, cold commander’s tent seemed too loud, he would take a long evening stroll around the camp grounds, brushing it off as an evening check-up on the midnight-round soldiers who seemed more asleep than himself. 

He thought the systems of his mind would have adapted to Society’s peace by now. 

Apparently not, because he found himself in a random hallway in the royal palace, thin rays of the moon streaming in through the windows and the midnight air chilling him, even through his layers. 

He hasn’t ever seen the palace so silent before. 

When he was younger, running the hallways of the palace with Seungcheol, Mingyu, and Hoshi, he had always remembered it to be bright, sunny, almost over-crowded with laughter and giggles from the maids and royal court officials who would pass by the halls frequently. Now, in the cover of a twilight moon and a midnight blanket of stars, the palace was almost eerily, strangely quiet. Silent, almost. Each flickering lantern casts soft yellow shadows along the stone and tapestry walls, illuminating the bare minimum of each section of the hallways. 

He prefers it like this, he thinks. Alone. 

Alone with the clangs and clashes of swords. Alone with the cries and yells of his far-away officers, now sleeping peacefully, forever. Alone with the tears that were spilled on off-handed solitary nights over old parchment letters. Alone with the burden of duty that seems to haunt him wherever he goes. 

He turns a corner. 

He prefers it this way. And maybe he was-

He stops in his weary tracks. 

He notices her fluttering hair first. First her dark hair that flutters with the icy winter wind from the opened window that she leans against. Then her rather thin-looking shawl that leaves nothing of her nightgown up to anyone’s imagination. And then lastly, how the moonlight shines an ethereal glow upon her face, tilted up towards the stars, lost in thought. Her posture is tense, almost as if she is expecting something to jump out of the shadows at this hour of the night. 

Well, him, technically, he guesses. But still. 

He stands, rooted to his place, as she shivers with a small breeze. One side of her shawl slips down her shoulder, but she makes no move to adjust it back up her shoulder. Almost as if she does not notice it. Her hands remain folded in front of her on the windowsill. A small hand-held lantern rests almost forgotten on the corner. 

He hesitates. Every fiber of his body begs for him to take a step closer – to take in her perfume again, to run his fingertips down her porcelain skin again, to make up for the time he had given up. 

Joshua’s words ring in his ears. 

If you really like her, you would do something. 

He takes a step closer. 

“It’s late.” 

Y/n whips around, a hand on her chest and another on the windowsill, surprised by the sudden sign of another person. The way her face slightly falls as she turns back to the window pinches Wonwoo’s heart. 

“It seems the palace is enduring a restless night,” she replies. But her words are clipped – voice soft and light but tone careful. As if she is afraid of him getting too close. 

Wonwoo takes another step, then another, and then another, until he stands behind her, leaving just enough room for another person. His eyes dart to her hands that rest against the ledge. There are white bandages, starkly contrasting against the dark stones of the palace walls, that wrap themselves around her hands. His brows furrow. 

His chest tightens. He feels his hands close into fists at his side. He tries to keep his voice casual – keep his worry from seeping in too much with his words, “What happened to your hands?” 

Y/n stiffens as her gaze drops. Her hands slowly move in to tuck into the folds of her thin shawl. “Nothing worth mentioning,” she murmurs. 

Wonwoo tries his best to force down some sort of disappointment at her short response. Her obvious attempt at pushing him away. 

For a good reason, too. 

No. 

Fix this. 

Another breeze drifts through the opened window. Y/n shivers, tightening her hold over her shawl. 

Before he can even think through his actions, Wonwoo’s hands are reaching for his coat. In the next second, when he finally realizes what he is doing, his coat is already over y/n’s shoulders, draping it over her bare skin. In a desperate attempt to prolong his distance, his fingers linger on her shoulders, smoothening the fabric over the curve. 

“It’s cold,” he murmurs. He waits for her rebuke, a snark, a comment, or a shove of his coat to his chest, but it never comes. Instead, he sees her fingers curl around the fur and pull it tighter around her. Something, deep inside of him, lights in a proud flame, seeing her draped in his furs. 

Y/n suddenly scoffs. “Is this part of your duty too?” Wonwoo easily picks up on the bitterness her voice is laced with. 

As much as Wonwoo tries to ignore the underlying stab at him, her words still sting. The words are laced with a certain pain he wished he could erase. Instead, he has become the cause of it. 

Fix it. 

“Not everything I do is duty,” Wonwoo pauses, unsure of whether to continue, “your grace.” 

Y/n stills, before a laugh is ripped from her throat. It sounds so genuine Wonwoo is almost taken aback. “What did you just call me?” she huffs, giggles flowing out of her mouth she tries to stop. 

Wonwoo can’t help the smile that spreads across his own lips at her laughter. “Your grace?” 

Why was that funny?

“God,” y/n sighs, turning to finally look at him over her shoulder. Her cheeks are a rosy red and her lips are glossed, eyes wishful for a second. “I’ve never heard you call me that before.” 

Wonwoo perks up. “Do you prefer me call you that?” 

Y/n shakes her head almost vehemently. “God, no. That would be terribly formal,” she argues. 

Wonwoo cocks his head. “But you call me that, y/n.” 

She freezes, laughter dying in her throat. “That’s-” she clears her throat, “That’s different.” 

And just like that, she stands away from him, expression guarded again. 

A blanket of silence falls between them before Wonwoo breaks it. 

“Everything I do is not just duty.” His words are firmer this time. Rooted deeper in his own conviction. 

She looks at him, eyes unreadable again. “Am I?” her voice is soft, almost as if she’s testing him. 

The question, oddly vulnerable, hangs heavy in the air – fragile and sharp. She looks especially delicate at this moment. As if one wrong word from his mouth can break her from the inside. His heart tugs painfully at the anguish he can puzzle together in her eyes. He steps closer, closing the remaining distance between them. His eyes hold hers and he wonders if she can see the longing swimming in his eyes. 

“Am I, Wonwoo?” she repeats. Every utterance of his name falling from her sweet, saccharine lips makes him feel like he’s falling for her again. 

“No,” he shakes his head. He tries to weave in every ounce of conviction into his next words, “No, y/n, you’re not.” 

They stand in silence. Y/n against the windowsill, Wonwoo in front of her. For a moment, he feels as though the silence can convey everything he had ever wanted to say to her. They stand in silence, their breaths mingling in the cold night air. Wonwoo stares into her eyes, his metal-frame glasses slipping down his nose. Her cheeks are flushed and he can’t help but think how breathtaking she looks – haloed by the moonlight, wrapped in his coat, hair cascading down, strands tickling her face. 

She breaks eye contact first, glancing down at the coat that wrapped her shoulders. “You left, Wonwoo.” When she looks back up, her eyes seem glassy, glazed over with unshed tears she refused to let out. 

Wonwoo’s throat tightens at her expression. She seems so pained. So frightfully alone that he wants to pull her in an embrace – gather her up in his arms and never let her go. Never let her go. A voice nags in the back of his mind. 

See? No good for her. You're making her cry. Fucking again. 

“Y/n,” he trails off, hand reaching for her before he physically has to force it down. Now, he is the one whose gaze drops. “Fuck, don't look at me like that,” he mumbles. 

Y/n lets out a bitter sort of laugh. “Like what, Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo looks up and he can't help but feel a thick pressure behind his eyes. “I never meant to- to cause you pain,” he tries to explain, but his voice catches on the lump in his throat. “I- I have never wanted to cause- to be the cause of your- your misfortunes. Or your pain. I've only ever wanted to-” he cuts himself off. Eyes pained. If he says this now, y/n would probably scoff in his face. 

I've only ever wanted you, he wants to say, but he bites it down. 

There is now something else in her eyes. He can see it for a split second before it disappears back into the depths of her irises. When he searches her eyes for it again, she suddenly seems so vulnerable. As if she is finally letting him in. 

“I was sincere,” he starts, stepping ever so slightly closer, “at the ball.”

Y/n lets out a huff. “Before or after you kissed me?” Her face is hard again and Wonwoo wants to curse himself out. 

He runs a hand through his hair. “No, um,” he swears under his breath, “before I-” his cheeks heat and he averts his gaze, “-I kissed you,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah,” she says, “fat amount of good you kissing me did.” 

Wonwoo winces. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes. “I really am. I just-” 

Y/n suddenly covers his mouth with her hand. She shakes her head. “Stop talking.” She reaches for her lantern. “Come talk to me after you've sorted out your own thoughts, your grace.” She turns down the hall. “You said you do not view me as a duty?”

Wonwoo nods. “Yes, of course.”

Y/n gives him one look over her shoulder. Even then, Wonwoo cannot help but swallow at how his coat envelopes her figure. 

Her eyes seem more desolate in the shadows of the hall. “Then why does it feel that way?” she whispers before she turns and walks away, down the hall. Away from him. 

Again. 

y/n

It is by pure coincidence that you hear your name outside of Sungcheol’s study a couple of days after your rather forced midnight escapade with Wonwoo. 

However, it is by your choice that you stay, ear pushed up against the rather thin oak doors that are slightly ajar, a soft yellow light seeping out, listening into a conversation that apparently concerns you. 

“...marriage to …” 

Your brows furrow at the words. Marriage? Why did marriage have anything to do with you? And then you remember it’s Seungcheol. Him and his obsession with seeing you marry before he gets married. Before he opens the entirety of your powers. At this point, after everything, you might as well turn in a resignation letter or something, because you weren’t quite sure how you were supposed to survive high Society after the event a week ago. 

And you know. You’re listening to a private conversation of two men, one of whom is the king. But you couldn’t help yourself. It was like something rooted you to your position, brows furrowing as you tried to pick up all the words. 

“But why?” The voice sounds oddly familiar. “You’re not married. I’m not …marriage … who?” The sentence is chopped up but you can loosely string together a translation in your head. 

You recognize Seungcheol’s frustrated sigh. “Friend,” he mutters, “Wonwoo,” he groans. 

You freeze. 

The world around you comes to a standstill. 

You want to laugh at your continued stroke of misfortune. You and your fate’s delectable horrid need for pushing you towards someone you swore off years ago.  

“You can’t keep running from this. The elders want you to get married – preferably to someone with equal or around the same standing as you,” Seungcheol continues, and you feel your chest tighten. This feels like a page out of one of your conversations with the king. “I’m not even going as far as saying a love marriage, Woo. I cannot give you full title and power over your duchy until you do, you know this. An arranged one, a contractual one, a construct only, I don’t care.” It sounds so familiar it gives you shivers. “Just get married. If not to y/n, then to someone else. I’m not saying this again, Woo. Last time was your first warning from the council elders. This is your second from me.” 

“... I can’t. Cheol do you know how hard it is to get-” 

“-yes. I do. But you cannot take on the full title and powers without it, Wonwoo. I cannot control that.” 

A groan. Your foot taps against the floor. “I don’t know who-”

“-Y/n.” 

Seungcheol’s utterance of your name makes your heart stop in its cage of ribs. Your mouth goes dry and you finally realize the gravity of the conversation you just walked yourself into. 

Why doesn’t he ever just close his door when talking to someone?

“You know as well as I do, Wonwoo,” Seungcheol continues, a rare softness in his tone, “that the title of Archduke Jeon isn’t simply yours by name. The council has strict expectations—and right now, they expect you to marry.” He says the entire thing so matter-of-factly that you can’t even protest against it. Well, that and the fact that the exact thing was happening to you, but perhaps maybe less. Just a little bit. 

“Was all of that night because of your marriage?” Seungcheol asks. 

You backstep, blood running cold. 

What? 

Wonwoo’s next words almost tear your unassuming heart into shreds. 

“... it was.” His voice is hard. “My claim … based … marital status…” 

Seungcheol sighs. The noise shakes you to your core. 

There was absolutely no way a human could be this cruel. No way he could ever be this cruel to you. You had to mean more to him than just another duty he had to fulfill. You had to because if you weren’t even the smallest parts of you that had waited for him during the mundane pieces of life would seem so meaningless. So hellbent on your societal ousting. 

You had to be hearing something wrong. 

“Whatever you have with y/n…”

“...nothing.” 

You hear a chair scrape. It scrapes with it the remnants of your heart. You can hear it shatter onto the floor again, the pieces now so small you cannot be bothered to pick them up. There are pieces that lodge in the corners of your lungs, blocking blood vessels as cells carry oxygen into your head. Your hand grasps the wall in a desperate attempt to ground yourself

What did you even expect?

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. “You have a duty, Wonwoo. If not to yourself, then to this country, to the ducal people, to your king.” You hear the scatterings of paper. “And I advise that you fulfill that before you move on to more ambitious fulfillments.” 

That was what you were. Fulfillments. A solution for his aggravating empty ducal responsibilities. 

That was everything you were in their eyes. No, in his eyes. In his eyes, you were a means to an end. A sense of duty he felt that he had to accomplish. And of course he would go for you. Of course he would march back into your life like he had never left. Of course he would have kissed you under the moonlit twilight, not a care in the world about if anyone could see you two. 

Because he would have heard. He would have known everything already. He would have known your scandals, your engagements, your whereabouts in Society – how you were one scandal away from no prospective marriages – one scandal away from losing everything. 

You feel bile creep up your throat. 

Were you only duty for him the entire time? The entire fucking time?

Were you only a means to an end, a convenient solution, another Society whore in the rough for him? 

All this time?

You feel like your lungs are caving in. 

Your hand goes up to knock. 

Your knuckles rap against the wooden door. 

It creaks open. 

Creeeaaaaak. 

Seungcheol and Wonwoo both whip around. 

You bow:

Low, respectful, dutiful. 

You try to mask your sniffles with a quiet cough. 

“The nation’s humble servant greets the king,” you murmur. You are still in your bow when you feel a tear roll down your cheek. Your nails dig crescents into the meat of your palm. 

“Y/n?” Seungcheol pushes off of his desk, making his way over to you. You can picture his look of confusion painted on his face when you don’t rise from your low bow. It’s not like you, you know. You usually bring him into a warm embrace, a smile on your face. You usually give him a teasing bow. 

But you can’t look up right now. If you do, you know you’re going to break down sobbing in the middle of the royal study room. If you do, you’re so afraid of meeting his cold sharpened eyes and recognizing none of the imagined emotions you had found four nights ago. You’re so afraid you were terrifyingly wrong. 

Seungcheol stops right in front of you. From your line of vision, you can see the toes of his shoes. 

“Y/n.” His voice seems much more urgent, as if he’s worried. “Y/n, what’s wrong?” 

Your nails dig further into your palms. You feel the tips rip open the first thin layer of skin. You can feel tears welling against your waterline. How could his words feel so real?

“Your highness,” you whisper. Your hoarse voice echoes through the room. You can almost feel Seungcheol’s startle backstep at your sudden title. “I apologize for intruding on your conversation, but I feel as though I will not be able to attend our afternoon tea today.” 

Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. 

You can feel warm tears drip down your bowed face. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your brain feels foggy. You feel foggy. 

“Why not?” A warm hand is placed on your shoulder, trying to force you up, but you refuse to budge. Seungcheol sighs. “Y/n, look at me. What’s wrong, kid?” 

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip. Hard. The habitual nickname digs a sharp blade into your throat. “I just-” 

At that moment, your nails, which you had forgotten were still tight against your skin barrier, finally break through the last of the tension, stabbing into your palms. There is a surge of pain before the crescents fill with warm, wet, dark blood. 

“Ow,” you mumble. When you slowly open your hands, your palms are dark red. You finally lift yourself up, meeting Seungcheol’s eyes, which blow wide at your tear-streaked face. But he does not say anything. You move your hands behind you. 

“Why are you-” Seungcheol cuts himself off with a quick glance behind him. Your eyes trail his, only to see Wonwoo sitting rigidly straight, facing the other way, at Seungcheol’s desk. “-Nevermind. Why can’t you attend tea?” Seungcheol pouts. 

You swallow, mustering a small smile. Just big enough for Seungcheol to not worry. “You know. Duties. I think-” you heave in a breath, “-I think it will be best for me to head down to my estate in a couple of days, you highness.” 

It is evident Seungcheol does not enjoy your continued usage of his title because his nose scrunches and his pout deepens. “Already? You just got here,” he whines. 

You hum, eyes darting to Wonwoo’s form at the desk. He isn’t looking, but you know he can hear every single word. “It’s been a while since I’ve been down at the duchy. Plus,” you add, “I do not want to intrude on guests who feel as though I am merely a duty to be fulfilled.” Your words come out much more scathing, and when you glance at Wonwoo’s turned figure, it is frozen in place. 

Seungcheol does not get the hint because he suddenly grabs your shoulders, gently shaking you. “Who is saying that? I’ll have them exiled,” he huffs. His big arms cross across his chest. You can’t help but break out into a genuine smile. “What?” he asks, sniffing. “You come before this country,” he says matter-of-factly. 

You tilt your head. “So, actually, no, I do not,” you laugh. One last look at Wonwoo, who is tapping his foot. You swallow down the rest of your tears and force a grin. “God, you need to get yourself a wife, Seungcheol,” you hum, patting his bicep. 

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Needa find you a husband first. Then we’ll talk about my love life, Miss Cupid,” he retorts, shaking his head. “Won’t you come to tea?” 

You shake your head no. “I’ll see you around, your highness.” You spare one fleeting glance towards Wonwoo, steeling yourself. “Your grace. I apologize for my intrusion again.” You bow before you can see Wonwoo turn at your sudden calling of him. 

You step towards the door before stilling. “Oh, and if I may,” you clear your throat, “perhaps close your door in the future, your highness? You would not want unassuming,” a pause, “passerbys listening into rather private conversations.” 

With that, you close the door behind you with a soft click. 

You miss Wonwoo’s gaping mouth and Seungcheol’s taken-aback stare that you leave in your wake. 

However, you do hear one sentence before you make your way down the hall: 

“Fuck, Seungcheol, what am I gonna do?” 

That and the shattering of your glass heart you had carefully glued together three years ago. Every step you take, further into the palace, leaves broken shards in its wake. 

When you reach up, fingers brushing over your cheeks, you feel a warm wetness. Its excruciatingly amusing, really, that you keep fucking yourself over with the same man. Same stupid stupid man with the same stupid fucking face.

Him with his dark hair. Him with his glasses. Him with his gentle smile, low voice, dimpled cheeks. Him with his stupid old letters that are in a meticulously organized pile in a drawer back at your estate. Him with his fast-beating heart under your hand during the ball. Him with his piercing eyes that you can’t help but blush under. Him with his knack of squeezing your poor naive heart until it explodes into shattered glass pieces. 

You forcefully rub at your eyes, tears coming out of you in staccatoed sobs and gasps of breath. You probably sound ridiculous, gut-wrenching sobs escaping your covered mouth as you stop in the middle of a hallway, one hand against the wall as you slide down, skirt covering your legs. You must seem crazy, insane, as a lady of your standing to drop into such an alarming position in the middle of the royal palace’s hallway. 

But you can’t help it. You can’t help the tears pouring down your face, the throaty gasps of breath as your hand clutches at your heart. You can’t help your fists slamming into the brick walls until you can physically feel the stone breaking your layer of skin. And you can’t help but lean back against the cool stone, staring up at the painted ceilings of the palace, wet tracks marking every tear you shed because of him. 

And you don’t even know why you’re crying in the first place, anyways. This concept, this dreadful soliloquy of duty, of honor, of responsibility has always followed you. Has always followed him. What did you even expect? Maybe, you dread to admit it, but maybe, just maybe there was – still is – a part of you that got excited at his sudden return from the battlefield. Maybe there was a part of your heart that still longed for something, a lost spark, a reunited kind of flame, to blaze to life again the moment you two locked eyes in the ballroom. Maybe there is still a piece of you – naive and stupid – that wants to run to Wonwoo, tears in your eyes, and pour out your soul. Confess to him the extent of your missing him. Confess to him the deeper, chained parts of your memories.

Maybe that part of you still wants to let him know the space he took up in your thoughts, your everyday routine, your unconscious spirit. Still wants to let him know how violently, terrifyingly your heart shattered when twenty-year-old you, still new to Society, still new to the idea of a responsibility, of a duty, heard him and Seungcheol talk about him leaving. Leaving into the battleground of bloodied wilderness – back to the northern borders of his duchy, and thus the country. Leaving the Capital, leaving his life, leaving you for something as measly as duty? 

And you could live with it. You swear. 

If it was just that – if it was just him leaving and never coming back to face Society again, you could do it. You think you could have powered through the rest of your noble life. You would have probably settled for some second-rate high-class noble who could bring, at least, value to Seungcheol’s life in the royal courts, if not yours. You would have given birth to two children and would have then gone down south to your sprawling country estate you hadn’t been to since you were twenty. And you would go down and see the nostalgic halls that chronically had sunlight beaming down on the limestone columns. You would have gone down and seen the visages of your younger self, running, laughing, tripping, and then falling in love with a man you thought you had erased from your life forever. You would have raised your children peacefully with Nai and a governess, teaching them subjects your father had not taught you when you were six and ten. Then, maybe you would have died a peaceful death – loved by at least, hopefully, Seungcheol, Mingyu, Joshua, and your children, if not your husband, living on in memories as the one noble lady who resolutely carried her burdens with a smile. The one who was untouchable, the one who sacrificed her dreams for the duty she wore like a heavy crown.

You would have been okay with the slow burn of regret over the years. You would have turned it into something manageable, something to grow old with in your desperate solitude. 

And you would have been okay. You would have lived on like he didn’t – never – existed. 

But then he came back. 

He came back like a ghost of your past you had just finally laid to rest. He came back like a phantom resurrected with the only purpose being to torment you with the memories you had buried meticulously in each polished hallway, echoing ballroom, whisper of silk, hurried glances, judgemental eyes of Society. 

You hug your knees close, face burying as you try to hide your tear-streaked face, gasping pathetically into the silence of the palace hallway. Suddenly, the very idea of knowing what he had felt – every glimmer of hope, every wishful unspoken feeling, every lonely night you spent dreaming of a different life – was all constructed. That all of your naive daydreams were for nothing. Wonwoo’s words ripped through your psyche, like sharpened daggers: “Nothing.” 

How cruel, you think, a laugh bubbling up your throat. How cruel to have meant absolutely nothing to him. To have been reduced to a mere patronizing duty, a role he, as a man, must fulfill because of popular demand. Because the crown required it. Because the court required it. Because you were a convenient solution to such an inconvenient fucking problem. And then he just comes back from his battlefields up north with just a little more pain in his eyes – enough to tear down your walls with just a little bit of help from his stupidly sweet words. And he kisses you.

The slightest brush of his lips – a constructed play of his – it wasn’t real. It was never yours to begin with. It was a ploy into his obligation to his title, his land, his legacy, his duty. 

You feel the coldness of the wintry palace air and the frigid stone floor seep into your skin, mirroring the slow chilling of your soul. There’s a dull jab of pain in your heart. You feel stupid – foolish. Foolish to dream and even more foolish to believe he had come back for you. And now you were to bear the weight of a revelation you knew was coming. A revelation that solidified your position beside him: a duty to shoulder, a burden to silence. A requirement to complete before he advanced to the next stage. Like you had always been with everyone else. 

You don’t know how long you stare into the dull darkness when you suddenly hear a pair of soft footsteps approaching from the dark. You hurriedly collect your breath, your sobs leaving now in small gasps. Your fingers rub almost violently against your eyes, trying to compose yourself. You get to stand up – an archduchess should never be on the floor – but when you look up, the face that stares back at you makes your shattered heart press miserably into your ribs, thudding with traitorous beats of hope. 

It’s unfair how the moonlight glints and reflects and twinkles off of his glasses that sit low on his nose. It’s unfair how he looks at you with a certain sense of grief, of regret, of pained sorrow. 

“Y/n?” 

You stand the rest of your way up to your feet, whipping around to face the other end of the hallway, your scrambled mind trying to come up with some sort of excuse other than “haha, you made me cry!” to tell Wonwoo when he asks the question. 

You start, “I apologize for-”

“-It’s late.” Wonwoo’s voice is thick with some kind of emotion you can’t really understand. “And cold.” An emotion you can’t place your finger on. 

You stay turned to the dark end of the hallway, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of Wonwoo’s body. And when you feel a thick, heavy, warm cloak being placed around your shoulders, you want to tear out your thudding heart and throw it on the floor, stomping on it until it finally bursts – until it finally stops beating for someone who did not want you the same way. Who only saw you as a duty – a wish to be fulfilled. Another box to tick off on his Archduke Requirements. 

“I will live,” you mutter, shrugging off the cloak. The fabric piles to a thick lump on the floor between you and him. You feel like you’re trying to convince yourself. “Perhaps it is time for both of us to return to our chambers, your grace,” you state. But you know Wonwoo can hear you swallow the rest of your tears back, your last breath going in stuttered and gasping. 

Wonwoo is quiet behind you, and you think he’s already left (leaving you to talk to yourself and an empty hallway, which would be rather embarrassing), but you feel his presence again as he leans down – picking up his discarded cloak.

His next words fan over the open expanse of your neck. “I bid you goodnight, then, duchess.” His words are quiet and reserved, and you can hear the small clangs of his sword and the cloak chains hit against each other. For some reason, his parting formality stabs a more piercing pain in you than anything else. 

Perhaps he is also reconsidering.

The next sound you hear is his parting footsteps and a thud against a wall that sounds disturbingly similar to a fist meeting the jagged stones followed by a shudder of an exhale.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Technically, you should be at Seungcheol’s tea. Technically, you should be indulging the king in his weekly rant about the royal court members, his prospectives for a wife, his dreadful repetition of his day, the like. And technically, you should be smiling and laughing with him, sipping one of the most expensive tea steeped from the tea leaves from the West. 

But every time you stepped in a hallway a little further from your wing of the palace, you felt a hard lump in your throat, the words that had pierced you last night ringing in your eardrums unfairly loud. 

The library is silent at this hour of the afternoon. The royal court had convened in the morning – a meeting you were conveniently exempt from – and the advisory council had also met just a few hours prior. The maids and servants are busy with meal preparations for supper, the knights have their afternoon training with Mingyu and Soonyoung, and every other guest in the palace is either outside in the gardens or at Seungcheol’s open afternoon tea. 

So the library is quiet. It’s cold and quiet – the kind of quiet that presses against your ears and makes your breath sound a little too loud. The kind that makes you come to a standstill at every scuff of your heels against the carpeted floors.

You’re here under the pretense of finding a book. You had to lie to Nai about liking the quietness of the library and the slanting rays of the winter sun the large windows had to offer. The lie was more the sunlight than anything. You had walked into the library wing thinking reading something, thinking of something other than your tangled mess of emotions stemming from last night, would distract your naive heart from thudding for him again. 

As your fingers graze the spines of the library’s collection, curated by the princess who was off at Reoka finishing her University education, the door creaks open behind you. 

You stiffen. 

This isn’t a common hour to be roaming around, especially as an unfamiliar palace guest. 

You can’t bring yourself to turn around until you hear the soft padding footsteps and the familiar quiet clangs of metal near you. Your heart squeezes before your mind can process who it is as you turn from your place. Under the archway opening to the private collection, where you stood in front of an old bookshelf, Wonwoo stands, silhouetted tall and almost commanding under the shadow of the arch. He almost looks as troubled as you probably do. Almost. 

You turn back to the books, feigning disinterest at his sudden presence. Your fingers pick out the first book you touch by the spine, pulling it out from its home in between the old books. 

“I thought you would be-” Wonwoo’s voice is loud against the once-silent room. 

But your barely-contained words spill out before he can finish and before your mind can catch up to your voice. 

“-I thought you would be off attending more pressing duties, your grace,” you interrupt. You can’t control how icy your words sound and you force yourself to stand facing the windows, staring out into the sparring courtyard where the knights are being led through a drill. “Perhaps fulfilling your own or taking your precious time to remind another of theirs.” 

Wonwoo’s boots, careful footsteps, scuff the carpet, coming to a stop a couple of steps behind you. He makes no move to turn you around, to say anything to you. Instead, you can feel him staring – his heavy gaze boring holes into the back of your head, almost. Grazing up and down your back. 

When the silence becomes almost awkward, he speaks. “I wasn’t aware I needed to inform you of my whereabouts, duchess.” 

Your grip on the book tightens after his last word. The same formality of last night brings up evening memories of the night prior … rather unwillingly. Your hands squeeze the book until the hard spine digs into the wounds on your palms from 2 nights, bandaged with white cotton. 

You lower your head. “Oh, I think you’ve made your priorities clear enough. No reason to inform me of anything when you speak so clearly with your actions, your grace.” 

Although you will your words to not trail off in the end, they do, with the quiet lull of your voice. You let the silence after your words stretch – thick, uncomfortable, taut – between the two of you, letting it densely fill up the atmosphere. 

“It seems you misunderstand,” Wonwoo states, like you definitely said something wrong. Like you were wrong and he was right. His words are softer but not any less firm. 

You let out a hollow laugh, fingers relaxing their hold on the book. “Have I?” Even to you, your words seem accusatory. “Then please, enlighten me on what there is to misunderstand after being reduced down to a convenient solution?” 

You finally turn, meeting his eyes in the wake. They look troubled and your eyebrows furrow ever so slightly at the detailings of the darkness under his eyes, shadowing his face. Behind his glasses, his eyes glint with something you aren’t used to. When he meets your eyes, his expression flickers. 

Frustrated, you think. And you want to laugh. Frustrated. Him. Because of you. 

He steps closer. “A solution? You think you are simply a solution for me?” His voice rises at his utterance of ‘you,’ and you almost flinch back at his sudden rise in voice. 

But when Wonwoo stares at you with frustrated eyes, a flame of indignation sparks in you. Who does he think he is to be frustrated with you? 

You scoff. “What else am I supposed to think?” You surprise yourself, even, with the rise in your own voice, echoing through the library. You can hear the bubbling smoke of the tears from last night in your words. “You suddenly show up – out of nowhere – back into Society, after three years, and suddenly you’re everywhere – talking about some sort of duty and expectation placed on you. Do you think of me as some illiterate or some unhearing noble lady, your grace?” You spit, “Do you think I did not understand what you and Seungcheol were talking about last night? About your marriage, your title, your more aspirational fulfillments after marriage? Do not think of me as stupid, your grace.” 

Your chest heaves with every snarked sentence that escapes your mouth. 

Wonwoo steps closer, eyes glancing down at your bandaged hands. “You think- That wasn’t-”

“-Don’t even,” you laugh, holding up your hand. You hope the desperation in your voice is enough to convince him to stay rooted in his place – no closer to you. Because you think if he comes any closer, you’ll actually snap. “I do think. And what wasn’t, when I heard you so clearly?” Your next words escape you before you have a chance to properly bet on the probability of them being true. “And you’re here following me into the only place I can ask for some peace and quiet for what? Because if you’re going to come up all close to me and hold my waist and kiss me under the stars, your grace, you chose the wrong day to do it.” 

You can visibly see Wonwoo’s jaw tighten, fingers curling slowly into fists. His eyes shut and then open, like he’s physically restraining himself. “That’s not why I’m here,” he mutters, composure so obviously cracked at the thinning edges. 

You cross your arms. “Then why?” 

“I came here because I wanted peace, too,” he says, his voice rough with frustration. “Because this is the one place where I thought I could breathe without feeling like I’m drowning. But apparently, even here, I can’t escape your assumptions about me.” 

He sounds so bitter that you blink, startled by his sudden tone. 

“My assumptions?” You laugh, poking a finger to your chest. “You’re the one who up and left!” You shove a finger into his chest. “You’re the one who made me not even worth a proper fucking goodbye!” 

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow and you immediately know you’re close to crossing some sort of line. “I left because of a reason, Y/n.” His voice is so calm still, compared to yours, that it stokes the fire of your anger.

And there goes his utterance of your name again. 

“Ha!” You laugh, slapping the bookshelf. The sound rings loudly against the quiet privacy of the library.

Wonwoo swallows. “You mean so much more to me than-”

You stand facing him, heart racing again as you feel the word prod at your tongue. “-Don’t do that,” you snap, stepping closer to the Archduke. “Don’t stand there and act like I mean something more to you when I’m simply a solution. You don’t need me, your grace. You need a wife, your title, to make the king happy. Me?” You laugh, and even to your ears, it sounds relentlessly bitter and sharp. “I’m the convenient solution for an inconvenient situation.” 

For a moment, you think your words have actually hurt him, because his face falters. But he quickly masks his expression. However, his lips tug down. Almost as if you had gotten some miniscule detail wrong in the fine print of your words. “Y/n, that’s not-” 

“-Then answer me,” you interrupt, sharp with accusation. “Where do I lie in your list of priorities, Wonwoo? Right after the organization of your troops? After Capital Estate renovations? Or am I closer to the bottom, near the niceties you need to uphold for society?”  

As you stare, the silence is almost deafening – suffocating – with the weight of your question. And you can physically see the guilt that finally swims in his eyes. And he goes to open his mouth but it falls shut soon after, almost as if he does not have anything else to say. And to you, that in itself is answer enough. 

“Exactly.” Your voice is uncharacteristically venomous and Wonwoo’s lips press into a thin line. “You know I’m right. I’ve always been second, or third, or fourth to you and your duties.” Your words whip glass shards into the air. 

However, Wonwoo looks at you with a hardened expression, almost as if you had just insulted his honor – his pride. A flicker of pain flashes across his face. He steps closer to you, tone sharper than ever. “You think it’s easy for me?” The intensity behind his words catch you off guard. “You think I can’t– don’t think of you every waking second? That I go a day without regretting every single mistake I’ve made?” 

It must be the distance between you two, because you feel your defenses falling. “Regret isn’t enough,” you retort, mind made up. “You can regret every single thing in life all you want but it doesn’t change anything. Your regrets don’t change how easily you left – how you prioritize everything else over me.” You know. You know how selfish those words sound, but you can’t help them from leaving your mouth.

He flinches hard. The next words that come out border a frustrated yell. “I didn’t have a choice! You think I wanted to leave? To leave you? That I wanted to-”

“-Yes.” Your singular response makes him stop completely, pale cheeks flushed and body stiff. “You chose duty, responsibility. Your perfect little archduke life you always wanted. And now you want me to give back the pieces you shattered? Pieces I’ve spent months gluing back together?” Your voice trembles with anger and you don’t think you’ve ever been this angry. Or frustrated. “Don’t you even dare. I’m done.” 

Wonwoo closes the distance between you two, his breath fanning over your forehead. His fists are curled at his sides, and you know he’s holding back every word he wants to hurl at you. He doesn’t know this, but his emotions are almost palpable on his face whenever he gets worked up. Whenever he thinks the other person is wrong. And right now is no different. You can visibly see his expression change from frustration to desperation to some sort of in-between. 

“You’re done?” he repeats, incredulous. His voice is quiet, sharp, and edged with an unmasked pain. He scoffs. “Is that what you tell yourself to make it easier? That you’re done with me? That you don’t care anymore?” 

He almost leaves you speechless, words cutting into you. A pot of rage – more at yourself than him – slowly bubbles because how could he have figured you out? His stare into your eyes almost makes you give in. But you steel yourself, standing up straighter. 

“I’m done,” you state. It’s such a lie. It’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told, probably. Because if it were up to your heart, you would beg him to stay and stay and stay. Tell him how much you missed him these last few years. Tell him how much he meant to you. But you can’t. “I don’t care about you, us, or what we could have been. So just leave me alone, please. Let me forget you.” I can’t forget you, are the words you whisper to yourself in your head. You wish he could keep coming back. Over and over and over and kiss you under the darkness of the night again and again. But you don’t think you can handle the pain a second time when he leaves. 

Wonwoo stares at you, jaw tight, eyes dark with something now unreadable. You both just stare at each other, caught in the thick tension in the atmosphere. You refuse to back down from his stare, even though every passing second makes your breath come out in harder pants, even though it makes you dreadfully aware of your strangled breaths. Then, as if he’s forcing his entire body to retreat, Wonwoo takes one step back. Then another. Then another. 

“Whatever you want,” he says. His voice is cold, final. 

You try desperately to ignore how his words chill you to the bone. “It is,” you whisper, voice distant. Every word coming from your mouth feels like a big fat lie. 

Wonwoo exhales sharply, hand raking through his dark hair. You think he’s about to argue, but he doesn’t, instead turning to leave. And a small part of you shakes in fear because what if he’s giving up. But then the rational part of your mind hits it over and over until it is semi-buried inside your memories. His boots echo every step and the sound rings through your entire being. Just as you think he’s leaving, he stops, hand resting on the archway. 

“I’m not giving up on you – on us,” he states with so much confidence you might as well think you are already married or something. His voice is steady, filled with some sort of intensity that makes your heart ache desperately to run into his arms. “No matter how much you push me away and lie to yourself.” 

Then he leaves through the archway, down the hall and out the door. The oak doors slam shut behind him, leaving silence in its wake. Your chest heaves with anger, confusion, and something else. Something that feels too much like grief or regret or another one of those feelings. 

You stand there, rooted to your spot, forcing each breath out of you, but the chaos inside your mind won’t settle. Even after everything, all you can think about – wish about – is how much easier it would be if you would just let him back in. If you could just forgive him – him and everything he ever did. If you could just (keep) love (ing) him again. 

But you won’t. You can’t. Not when you know right now that he’ll always leave you behind. Whether or not the reasoning is chivalrous or not. 

You wake up the next morning to sunlight streaming through your curtained window and puffy eyes. Nai is already busy in your room, tucking the curtains out of the way of the streaming sunlight with practiced hands and tidying up the room. You eye your clothes strewn on the floor – the ones you had thrown off after going back to your room late last night from a long frigid walk in the royal gardens – with guilt as Nai picks them up, throwing them in the hamper she carries. 

“Sorry,” you sheepishly murmur, sliding out of your bed legs-first. Your feet immediately touch the fur slippers Nai had put out for you. 

Nai just looks up, a radiant but confused smile blushing her lips. “Your grace?” 

You sigh, padding over to the loveseat by the window, a blanket draped over you. “You know, for the clothes, the mess, everything,” you hum, forehead meeting the cold glass pane. You can hear, distinctly, the clangs of swords coming from the sparring grounds. Your fingertip draws small animals onto the frosted glass, fogged over by the juxtaposing warmth and coldness. 

 Nai laughs. “My lady, this is a rather trifling matter to apologize for. And I will need to not take up on your apology for that reason.” 

Your heart warms at her words. “Thanks, Nai.” 

Nai stands a few ways from you, and you know she’s studying your face – puffy eyes, dry lips, tired cheeks. “My lady,” she murmurs, stepping closer, taking one of your hands in hers. Her hands are soft – uncharacteristic of the work that she did for you. “Shall we go down to the South for the rest of this winter season?” she suggests. It catches you off guard. It was usually you who suggested leaving the Capital early because Nai had always loved the Capital. 

Your head swivels towards your maid, eyes wide. “What?” 

Nai frowns and you notice she has her brown curly hair in a braid today. Her fingers smoothen over your soft hands. “I feel as though the Capital has taken away your entire youth and color,” she admits, looking down, averting her gaze. “Especially…” 

You gently smile, pulling Nai to sit down on the loveseat. “Especially what?” 

When Nai looks back up at you, she looks almost indignant. “Especially that Archduke Jeon, my lady,” she huffs, arms crossed. “I think that dreadful man causes you much pain. I suggest you leave this season early, leave that man forever waiting for you, my lady,” she announces, hand coming down to slap her thigh. 

There’s a pause of silence and then you splutter out a laugh, hunching forward. The sound shakes through your body and your lungs finally feel a little bit empty. “Nai!” For the first time in days, you feel like it is a genuine laugh – not forced, not practiced. “How did you come to this conclusion?” 

Nai pouts, bringing her knees to her chest. “I’ve been observing, you know, my lady? I think you are much too good for that man. Even if he does send over flowers in the morning.” 

You blink at her words. Flowers? “What flowers?” You had never gotten flowers from Wonwoo before. At least not since his return to Society. 

Nai suddenly gasps, springing up. “Oh my gosh! Look at my attention span! I completely forgot to tell you, my lady!” Before you can even question her words again, she’s up and off the loveseat, almost running to the other side of the room where your delicately set-up tea table and lounge chairs rest. At your next breath, she comes running back, a large bouquet of flowers in her hands. 

Something tight entangles around your chest and you can feel the thing fill up your lungs again. 

“What- who is that from?” you ask, swallowing. To be honest, you don’t want to know. 

Nai simply shrugs, handing you your bouquet. “No idea.” Her words change into something much more casual – a tone you are familiar with from when you two grew up together. “It came with the sunrise, but I think,” she dramatically pauses, making you giggle a little, “it’s from that Archduke.” 

Her words completely stop you. Archduke. Of course. Of course he would send you flowers after last night. When Nai hums, stepping back to admire the bouquet, Wonwoo’s words come crashing back down on your briefly-empty mind. I’m not giving up on you – on us. You want to break down into tears. Really, you need to get a hold of yourself these days. You think you’ve cried more these past few days than you ever had in an entire year. No matter how much you push me away and lie to yourself. His words enrage you still. How dare he figure you out. How dare he march back into your life like he has you all planned out, your relationship all already mapped out inside his brain? How dare he make you fall for him again, just as you thought you had forgotten him entirely. How dare he send you flowers in the morning without even a thought of how you might have felt? Why you are pushing him away. Why you are forcing yourself to go to these lengths. Because you aren’t sure you can make it out alive if he up and leaves again. Because you aren’t sure if you can come out of another relationship sane if it ends in a fiery mess, let alone ends. Because you aren’t sure if you can trust yourself, let alone him, enough now to let your heart make the decision for you – the first time you did that, it ended with you in the Capital, not knowing what had hit you, and him on the battlefield, fighting it out with some enemy for a duty you knew not. 

“My lady,” Nai calls softly. 

When you look up to meet her eyes, her hazel orbs swim with a worried flurry of emotions. You crack a smile. 

“Irises and tulips, huh?” you mumble, tugging at a tulip bulb that stands up straight amongst the irises. “What a man.” Your voice sounds so bitter even to you and you wonder if Nai pities you. If she finally looks at you with the emotion you hate the most. 

“My lady,” Nai repeats. Her hand comes up to rest on your shoulder and it feels almost grounding, in a way, knowing that you at least have her by your side. “A note.” Her finger points to the side of the bouquet, in between the creamy pink parchment and the fresh winter flowers, where a off-white note card sticks out. 

You pluck the card out of the bouquet with almost trembling fingers. You aren’t ready to see – to read what he might have poured out onto a singular small note card. You anxiously fold and unfold the sharp corners, not able to turn the cardboard around from the backside, where the store name of the Capital’s most expensive flower shop glints in gold leaf. 

You sigh, closing your eyes briefly. When you open them again, you stare at the words on the front, written in almost perfect calligraphy with dark ink. You let out a laugh – though dry and humorless. “Thought of you,” you muse, repeating the three words on the card to yourself. Your fingers grip the edges of the thick paper until it crinkles. “Thought of you,” you mumble again, head dropping against Nai’s arm, eyes closing. 

The card doesn’t even need a signature. Neither does the bouquet. There is only one person who would meticulously remember all your favorite seasonal flowers, who would look back at his stupid book of flower languages you had written for your final Botany project during your years at the National Academy. There is also only one person who would be this infuriatingly obsolete with you – who would write his stupid three words on a stupid thick note card and send it over casually with the sunrise to your palace room so secretly even your maid has no definite idea of who sent it. And you would recognize the curve of his ‘f’ anywhere. 

You’re not quite sure if you’re more furious or in disbelief. Perhaps both? No, more so furious than in disbelief. Of course, in disbelief of his sudden profession of his thoughts to you, maybe. But more so furious in the aspect of the audacity of him. And you really can’t help the way it gets a little harder to swallow your spit. Wonwoo’s sheer audacity to come back into your life just to mess it all up. Just to maybe stir up some sort of hope in you until he leaves again for another one of his duties. You can just feel it. It’s like this bubbling pot of emotions you’re trying desperately to push down just in case Wonwoo actually does come too close and gets a peak at the bubbles. 

Your hands clench. 

“They’re lovely,” Nai comments, picking up the bouquet again. “The flowers fit perfectly with the season, my lady,” she adds, fingers the petals. “So fresh.” 

You prod the inside of your cheek with your tongue. “Yes, what a perfect fit,” you mutter, glancing outside. 

“Shall I set up a place for these in the drawing room?” 

“No!” You clear your throat, eyes wide at your own quick reply at Nai’s question. “No,” you repeat, this time less hurried. “Just set it up on the table here.” 

Nai raises a surprised brow at your words but does not argue, simply bowing and heading out, bouquet in hand, to find a vase big enough to fit the entire fistfull of flowers. 

When the door clicks shut behind her, you finally glance at the note again. 

Thought of you. 

You wish he could stop thinking of you. Then, maybe, you could finally erase memories of him too. Give yourself the chance to move onto perhaps bigger problems in your life (or perhaps problems you wish were bigger in your life). 

Thought of you. 

Your heart involuntarily pounds at the image of him hunched over at his desk, detailing his uselessly pretty calligraphy, just for you. Perhaps this was part of his plan? Maybe this was his tactic – the trick up his sleeve for when he wanted you to swoon for him. 

You shake your head, standing up from the love seat and heading over to your bed again.

“No, no, no,” you mumble to yourself, tongue swiping across your teeth. “Forget him, y/n. He only causes you pain.” 

But for some reason, your hand slips the note into a drawer, storing it for safe keeping with the hundreds of other letters and notes from your painfully naive youth. Even though you knew you could never go back – to then, to love, to him. 

: ̗̀➛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ @syluslittlecrows @gaslysainz @meowmeowminnie @luvjichang @peachytokki @nicoleparadas @haneulparadx @mj-szaa @lilylikesthat @ppaia @ameliamirabela @tearsdntfall617

[teethondafloor]

Bill Kaulitz x gn!reader ~ Taking off Bill's makeup after a show.

________.✮.________

Year : 2006

Summary --

You and Bill have been best friends for over three years now and are completely inseparable. You two are partners in crime, ready to mock and poke fun at each other any chance you get, and even more ready to comfort each other right after. Tonight, the band happens to have a gig in your hometown, where you and Bill first met. You attend the concert and text Bill after, thrilled by the band's electric performance, when Bill has other plans in mind...

Bill Kaulitz x gn!reader

Cute friends to lovers arc

Warnings --

basic fluff (touching, kissing, etc)

Note --

This took me way too long to write but IM SO EXCITED TO POST IT AA. this is my first tumblr fanfic (I'm sadly a wattpad user) so sorry if it's bad :D

________.✮.________

{{y/n}} : dude! That was awesom! You rocked!

{{BILL}} : I hope. My throat hurts lol. Where r u?

{{y/n}} : headin home. U?

{{BILL}} : WTF no! I want to c u b4 u leave!

{{y/n}} : cope. Where r u??

{{BILL}} : backstage dressing room. I can sneak you in!

{{y/n}} : I will get caught!

{{BILL}} : no! I am comin for u. Where r u?

{{y/n}} : at the exit doors :P.

{{BILL}} : STAY.

{{y/n}} : OK.

________.✮.________

Standing near the exit doors of the venue, I wait for Bill to emerge from his post-show hideaway as I look around the empty room, which just moments ago was overflowing with screaming fans. I gaze up at the dim lights above, now painting the room in a slight yellow wash which my eyes peer at weakly after standing in the dark for almost 3 hours. The air-con is blasted through the room, the cool air brushing up against my bare arms and slapping me in my face momentarily as it passes me and continues lingering around the room.

After spending some time taking in my surroundings, I snap out of my thoughts and feel the hair on my arms rise, reacting to the cool air circling the area. At the other side of the room near the stage, I hear a sudden rummaging sound coming from the corner, casted with a dark shadow. I squint my eyes a little, wondering if it's Bill that's making all the noise. From the loud clanks and banging sounds, I can tell that the person is struggling through their journey. Must be him, I smile to myself. I slide my hands into my front jean pockets, continuously glancing over to the security who are stood by the doors, surprised that they don't hear the ruckus. I look back at the noise, which now grows fainter as I hear soft footsteps tiptoeing into the concert venue.

As I hear this, I notice a tall, dark figure slowly emerging from the dark corner, the black fog lurking behind it. I smile and take my hands out of my pockets, knowing that its Bill from his giant spiky hair sprouting from his head, which is the first thing I see as he steps into the room. He takes a few light steps closer, just enough to keep himself hidden from the security guards scouring around the area. As he comes closer, his face is lit up by the soft lights above us, making the ends of his dark hair glow beneath the light, and revealing his wide smile as he sees me at last. He's so bad at sneaking around, I scoff gently.

Not wanting to be seen by the employees, Bill stays behind the stage and out of their sight. I look up and see as he nods to the ground beneath him, signalling me to walk over to him. My eyes widen and I look over to the security, trying to communicate to Bill that I can't just walk up to him without being stopped. A puzzled look washes over his face and he bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. I point at the watch that's tied to my wrist, knowing that the doors will soon close for the night and I will be kicked out of the building if we don't hurry. Bill looks down at the ground before turning back to me and nodding, determined to get me backstage with him. At once, He runs back into the black void behind him, leaving me alone in the room again. I inch forward a little, wanting to run after him, before I stop myself, trusting that he has a plan.

One of the security guards at the doors notices me when I shuffle forward and calls to me form afar. "Excuse me, we need you to leave right now." Shit, I think. I freeze up for a second as he calls to me, glancing over to the corner for any sign of Bill one last time. Agitated that he fled, I look down at the floor and back at the guard. "Yeah sorry, I thought I lost something." I lie as an excuse for my long stay. Just as I'm about to take my first step towards the exit, all of the lights in the room shut off by the click of a switch, the dark swallowing everything and everyone in the room. All of the sudden, I hear firm and heavy footsteps running towards me from the opposite side of the room. Before I can even put my other foot on the ground, the footsteps are cut off and I feel as someone grabs my hand and pulls me, running back with me latched onto them. As I feel their hand in mine, I instantly know it's Bill, his many bracelets which cover half of his forearm rubbing up against my wrist as we sprint ahead and disappear behind the stage. The security guard is left clueless when the lights shut off, and speaks to the black void, only getting the sound of his own echo in response "...did you find what you were looking for? Excuse me?..."

________.✮.________

With a tight grip on my hand, Bill leads me into a tight alleyway, between the back of the stage and the dressing room which he climbed through before. The space is shielded from any light and trashed with clutter from previous bands performing at the venue. We giggle as we stop before walking through it. "Hey" he says with a smile, huffing from laugher. I can tell he is facing me, even in the complete darkness that surrounds us. "Hey" I say, lightly breathless from the excitement. We both peer through the tight gap, trying to spot an obstacle to look out for from afar, however, the shade absorbs any object inside, turning them invisible. I hear Bill turn to me again, his breath on my forehead. "Follow me, come on!" He giggles as he lifts up our hands which are still in a warm clasp. "Go!" I whisper whilst still laughing, nudging him forward playfully. Bill starts taking long and cautious steps through the alleyway, hesitating a little when he hits any object beneath us. I follow his lead, being cautious myself. I run my hand across the wall as we walk to keep myself balanced. Halfway through the black tunnel, I hear as Bill kicks an object at his feet. Still walking, I bump into his back, causing me to flinch a little. "Dude. what is it?" I whisper to him. I hear Bill rummaging gently through the junk with his feet, clearing a path for us to walk through. He laughs "I don't know, it scared the shit out of me" We both try and hold in our laughter and continue through the gap.

As we reach the end of the alley, a streak of light peers through a crack in the wall, revealing some of the junk that is spread out on the ground around us: Magazines, cigarettes, a white laced bra....I turn my head to the back of Bill's as I speak. "What is this? your sex dungeon?" I say, smiling with sarcasm in my voice. I hear Bill scoff and smile. "If it is, it's definitely not mine." We both giggle quietly. At last, we reach the end and I step back as Bill lets go of my hand and starts messing with the crack in the wall, which to my surprise, turns out to be a secret doorway to the venue's dressing room. He pushes on the heavy object which blocks the doorway, sliding his fingers under it, trying to shuffle it to the side. Seeing him struggle, I step forward and push the object forward to help, successfully forcing it out of the way.

Before stepping into the dressing room, we take a minute to catch our breaths; I lean on the wall next to me, and look at Bill as he pants. We lock eyes and burst into quiet laughter, still a little breathless. "I need to see this stupid fucking room" I say, smiling. I step away from the wall and finally enter the dressing room. The overhead lights gleam, almost blinding me as I step in, forcing me to raise my hand and shield my eyes from them. I look around, never had been backstage of a concert venue before.

A faint smell of cheap makeup and pungent nail polish lingers in the room, the sharp chemical scent burning my nostrils as I inhale it. I admire the lit up mirrors lined up along the wall, covered in stickers left behind by other musicians however long ago. Bill's and his bandmates' belongings are spread across the room, creating a small pile of clothes and bags on a large bean bag, pushed into the corner of the room. "Where are the others?" I say, referring to his bandmates. I turn my head to look back at Bill who steps into the room with his head titled down, before looking around the room himself. "They're at some party right now." He slides his hands into his pockets.

"They went without you?" I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion, knowing Tom would not leave him out like this. "no no...I didn't want to go...I don't even know where it is, and I'm exhausted." He says as he stretches his arms out gently. "Dude!" I exclaim "We could've went there!" I punch him on the shoulder playfully, causing him to shoot his hands up to his face in defence. "You can go! I'm not going" He says with a judgemental look, teasing.

I hover around the room and view the splash of graffiti on one of the walls, seeing the signatures of hundreds of bands and musicians from the past, piled on top of each other into a barely legible scribble. "How did you even find the sex dungeon?" I'm still looking at the wall when he takes off his leather jacket and throws it at me without warning, as he says with a smile "I got bored waiting for Gustav to set up." a look of surprise bursts onto my face as I catch the jacket in my hands, which I then throw onto the pile with the rest of their junk, laughing.

"So, how do you like my dressing room?" He gestures his arms, showcasing the space and waits for my response. "You are really living the life here...I mean damn. "My eyes follow the walls, stopping to observe the space again. I raise my eyebrows. "You can't help but make it a shithole though." I say sarcastically, picking up a pair of boxer shorts I saw hanging from a chair next to me. He gasps and laughs, stepping towards me and snatching his boxers from my hands before throwing them onto the pile in the corner. I snicker when I see his red cheeks, blushing furiously from embarrassment as I infect him with my laughter. "Shut up! They're gonna hear us in here!" He whispers with a smile stretched wide across his face, still blushing. He walks over to me and gently grabs me by my shoulders, shaking me to stop me from laughing. As he holds me, I put my hand up to my mouth, covering it and muffling out the sounds of my giggles. I then push him away playfully, to which he steps back. "Stop touching everything, you're gonna break something." He whispers in a joking tone.

"Especially not your trunks." I huffed from laughter. Bill blinks slowly, visibly annoyed from my teasing. "I'm serious though, don't break anything because they'll make you pay for it." I notice how he avoids my eyes and tries to change the subject. "Oh come on...I'm not that clumsy. They should make you guys pay for trashing this room so bad." I smile. He looks down, smiling at my comment, his red cheeks growing fainter.

Bill walks over to the vanity across from us, cluttered with his makeup and endless hair products. He sits down, adjusts himself on the chair slightly and looks into the mirror, which reveals a tired face, caked in makeup and hairspray, looking back at him. I walk over to him and sit on the counter next to the mirror, kicking my feet which hang from the tall surface. I take a moment to look at him, as the vanity's warm lights glimmer in his eyes.

"The concert was unreal." I say, breaking the thin silence between us. "I'm glad you came back to play here. You're everything anyone talks about round here since you got so famous." I look over to him, rubbing my arm that is propping me up on the table. I feel a little bitter-sweet about Bill's fame. On one hand I am so proud of what him and the boys have accomplished, in like what...a year? It's insane. Though, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss just hanging out. Being able to sit for hours and do nothing together. They always have something to do now, with no time to sit in the moment. The guilt of this pools inside me. It makes me feel like a brick wall that's cutting him off on his path. My biggest fear however, is Bill not knowing how to break down this wall, quietly tolerating my burden instead. "Really? I noticed so many people from school there, I really didn't want to fuck up." He says, now looking up at me with his head resting on his palm. "I'm pretty sure I saw Leon all the way at the back, poor guy got pushed out of the crowd." We laugh.

"As much as I like traveling around and playing, this feels better. I can't explain it." He smiles as he begins to stumble over his words. "I don't know, it only feels right to perform here you know?" He looks to me.

"Nah I get you, and we're glad you did." I smile at him and my eyes are suddenly drawn to his eye makeup, now rubbing off on his cheeks after every blink. "What?" He says and quickly turns to the mirror, now seeing his smudged eyeshadow. His eyes widen in shock, seeing how messy he looks after a show. "Dude, you look insane." I burst out laughing, placing my hand over my mouth as I holler. "Shut up!" He groans, laughing with me "I'm too tired for this".

I control my laughter and wait a moment before nudging one of the chairs at the vanity with my leg, sliding it closer to Bill. I hop onto it, now directly facing him. "Come here." I say. He turns away from the mirror as I grab a dry cotton pad from a pack on his desk and drip some makeup remover onto it, watching it absorb the chemicals. He inches towards me, pushing his hair away from his face to help me, and closing his eyes slowly as the cotton pad touches his cheek, working away at his pale foundation. We sit in silence for a few seconds, enjoying each others company while I scrub at the cosmetics, washing away the excitement and fatigue of the long night that has soaked into it. "Did you really want to go to that party? We could still go if you're desperate." Bill says quietly, breaking the silence.

"Nah..." I whisper "I'd rather be here with you." when my hand grazes over his face, I feel a thin smile spread across his cheeks when he hears my words. He peers at me with his eyes half shut and backs away a little. "Look at you being all sappy..." he smiles.

"Shut up and give me your face." I say, taking a hold of his jaw and pulling his face closer to my reach. He lets out a short exhale, charmed by my boldness. I run the cotton pad across his face, quickly rubbing it over his lips playfully. He smiles again now with his teeth. "That was so on purpose..." He says with his eyes still sealed shut. "What?...no.." I say sarcastically.

After dirtying the cotton pad with his foundation, I grab a second one and move up to his shadowed eyes. "Keep your eyes closed...I need to sort all this out." I scoff, laughing as I poke fun at the mess painted on his eyes that has now somehow travelled up to his eyebrows. I take the pad and a wet wipe for good measure, massaging his eyelids. He swallows quietly "I've really missed you" he says out of nowhere. A little stunned, I continue cleaning him. "Me too." My tone suddenly shifts and you can hear a faint sadness in my voice. "I'm sorry I've been going away all the time, I would take you with us if I could..."

"Don't worry about it...I'm always back here if you need me anyway."

"Well I...don't want you only when I need you, I want you everywhere with me." I'm shocked by his sudden sentimentality, not really knowing how to respond since our usual way of showing love is by bullying each other until one caves in. "I know I know, that's not what I meant." I reassured him.

"I know, it's cool." he whispers "You know...sometimes I wish we wouldn't have to travel for so long, I've missed this." he pauses "Y/n...what if I stay?" He falls quiet, waiting for me to say something to fill in the silence. I look to him, a subtle face of worry crossing my face as I pull myself together. "Dude, stop." I say "Don't be stupid, this is...a crazy opportunity. Getting to travel around Europe and sing, that's nuts....don't let me hold you back...please."

"You're not "holding me back" y/n-"

I cut his sentence short "But what if I am? And you're just not realising it?...I don't want to be that." I blurt out.

"What?..." He opens his eyes, takes me by my wrists and holds me, preventing me from moving. His eyes glare at me. "No...don't do that. You're not in my way, do you understand?" His tone turns more agitated, worried that I'm giving myself a hard time because of his absence. A sudden silence falls between us like a transparent wall piling up and separating us, numbing me to his touch. This time, I'm not the wall. "Have you been worrying about this while I've been gone?" he looks to me hoping I'll say no, but already knowing the answer before the words leave his mouth. "Yeah...a little....a lot." I correct myself "You can't blame me though...I don't see you for weeks, sometimes even months. I know that's not your fault, but I'm allowed to be upset." I say, standing my ground.

"I know, it upsets me too." He lets go of my wrists and slides his hands down to mine, gently holding my hands with care. He smiles softly as he holds me, rubbing the top of my right hand with his thumbs, which makes both of us smile. We take time to comfort each other, acknowledging how hard the situation is for the both of us, yet we pull through. "Well you're here now." I sigh "You're stopping here for a while I heard, aren't you?"

"Yeah, we're taking a break here until we tour in the East." He says "And I'm glad I'm spending it with you." His eyes admire me as he speaks. I shift my hand a little, making him let go, and I return to his smeared eye makeup.

"So how's life without me at your hip?" He smiles as I exhale and roll my eyes, teasingly. "Better than ever." I say, with a sarcastic tone, making Bill gasp. "School's ok I guess, it's a teensy bit more bearable than last year at least." I take a short pause "...I won a writer's award two weeks ago..." I hold my breath as I wait for the buckets of Bill's compliments and praise to flood the room when he hears of my accomplishment. His eyes shoot open and his neck tilts forward in awe, his lips apart. "Are you kidding? That's amazing y/n! Why didn't you tell me??" He pushes me lightly on the shoulder.

"You expect way too much of me..." I shake my head and smile.

"I knew you would win! I told youuu..." he makes sure to rub the fact that he believed in me in my face before congratulating me "Well done, I'm really proud of you y/n..." He gazes into my eyes and gently places his hand on my knee. I observe his movements and quickly glance away, smiling. "Ok you can shut up now."

"Never. How can I when I'm being taken care of by a future author! Maybe I'll let you write my biography when you're as famous as me ;)" He teases, knowing I don't know how to handle compliments, yet he never fails to praise me anyway, just so I know. "Ok enough! Fine, I'm... proud of myself too I guess!"

"That's the spirit!" he taps my knee lightly, taking his hand away and resting it back onto the arm of his chair. I smile and shake my head, a little flustered from his admiration which, I hate to admit, I secretly love. "So how's tour so far? Are you eating well?" I ask with nurture in my voice as gratitude for his compliments. "Of course I am...you care way too much." He smiles.

"And you're right." I reply, playfully.

"I love that you care so much...even when you pretend you don't." His voice quietens.

"What does that mean?" I scrunch my eyebrows at his words.

"I don't know...you're just so...thoughtful. You always know what to do and say and-"

"Yeah right." I smile, a little overwhelemed by the flood of compliments. "Thanks though, I really do try my best."

"And that's enough for me." He whispers, his cheeks turning a faint pink. "You make me good...or feel like, at my core, I am good. I love it." without teasing or poking fun at him for once, I let him spill his emotions out onto the table where we both can see . I sit and listen, gently wiping his eyes with care. "It's so hard to leave you here, stuck in this village. It's so hard to not hear you laugh and sing and dance beside me... It's so hard not to love you for all thise things" I feel his tender fingertips brushing against my knee as he talks, slowing my pace. Before I can reply, his other hand shifts to my second knee and he holds it delicately. "Bill..." I whisper, with a little confusion but an unexpected sprinkle of excitement rushing through me. he bites his lip, pondering what to say next and trying hard not to stumble over his words. He opens his eyes and gazes directly into my mine, seeing all of me. He takes my hand. I feel butterflies nibbling on the walls of my stomach, their fluttering wings tickling me as they desperately want to flee and touch and love. In the moment, I don't know if it's wrong to feel so much love and desire for him, this ravenous craving that eats me from inside. I can only do what feels right, and so I let the butterflies feed.

He swallows gently "I want to care for you just like you do...I want to..." His hand raises to my face, holding me and caressing my cheek with his thumb in small circles. My hand laches onto his wrist gently, weak to his tender touch. The room falls silent, the only sound in the room coming from the lights above us, buzzing, humming on one note to our intimate moment. "Can I..." His voice fades out slightly and cracks from nervousness. "Can I kiss you?"

His words ring in my head, bouncing off of my ear drums and into my throat, leaving me speechless. I hold him for a while, our hands sharing each other's warmth through touch. I glance down at his lips that are slightly open, breathing in the little air between us; inhaling the glass wall that not moments ago parted us. With desire and lust, my eyes look back into his, and I nod gently. He takes a second to process this, before cupping my face in the palm of his hands and pulling me closer to him, until the wall turns to paper and our lips are inches away from each other. As I close my eyes, I feel his plush lips on mine, sharing our sweet taste. The butterflies in me settle when we collide, and the walls around us feel as though they are caving in, trapping us in each other's arms. As he holds me, I feel cared for. Safe. Warm.

He kisses me delicately and then again with more passion, before pulling away to let me breathe. As he leans back, his mouth curves into a sweet smile, his lips now stained with my light lipstick. I laugh as I notice his red tinted lips, stained with my evidence. I take his hand again, locking my pointer finger with his. "Looks like I'll have to clean you up again..."

"What a shame..." Bill whispers sarcastically, a wide smile pulling apart his rosy cheeks, now matching his lips.

________.✮.________

Tysm for readingg :)) <3 this was so much fun to write

I'm currently working on a 12 part Bill Kaulitz x fem!reader fic on wattpad and I've published the first part!

teethondafloor on wattpad

Zuźka

[fandoms-writings]

For your requests, how about "You're not as bad as everyone says you are."  with biker!Bucky? Only if it sparks ✨ inspiration ✨ for you my love ❤️❤️

I know this prompt was under fluff but this turned out wayyyy more angsty than I intended - i'm sorry lol

Pairing: biker!bucky x reader

Word count: 1.2K

Warnings: angsty, a look at bucky's internal turmoil, they're going through it right now, descriptions of the aftermath of the nefarious things bucky has to do but nothing too descriptive. bucky's really sad in this i'm sorry

Masterpost || Bucky Masterlist || Event Post

When Bucky had to do the unthinkable for the club, he had a certain 'ritual' to help him cope with it. 

You'd come up with it actually, something to help him not spiral into the self hatred that his actions could bring. Keeping his head above the sea of nasty words his self conscious liked to try and drown him with.

He'd come home, his choices from the day wearing down his shoulders, making him drag himself into the bedroom where he'd peel off his leather cut and toss it to the chair in the corner. Usually he'd sit there hunched over his knees for hours, stuck in a mental spiral, replaying the events from the day. Screams echoing in his ears. A stickiness to his fingers, his nails and knuckles stained red. 

But in times like this, when you weren't speaking to him, he'd remember what you would do.

You'd pull him into the shower, washing the day off of him before making him eat a sugary snack, something sweet to get the endorphins going again. Then you'd sit him down on the couch with the show he loved watching with you and you'd snuggle up to him, combing your hands through the length of his hair, scratching his scalp. 

He looked around the room, traces of you still there. Your necklace on the nightstand. A sweater discarded in the same chair his cut lay. One of your bandanas that you'd wear under your helmet tied to the bed frame. 

And your helmet. 

It sat out on the dining table, untouched in almost two weeks - since you went back to your place saying you needed time. 

He understood. You had every right to be mad at him, he just wished he knew how to fix it. 

But being late to date night and showing up a bloody mess is kind of hard to fix. 

So, he sighed, gathering himself before he stood and headed to the shower. He peeled his clothes off, leaving them in a mess on the floor while he got under the water - he would deal with them later, it was one thing at a time right now. 

With you not being here, he liked using just a little bit of the soap you'd left, it being the only way he got to smell you until you came back - if you came back. He stood under the water, watching the suds and pink droplets swirl down the drain as the look of disappointment on your face flashed in his mind. 

He hadn't meant to forget about date night, he really didn't. He'd just gotten roped into some club business, and when he tried to explain it to you, you shook your head. The anger in your eyes was unlike anything he'd ever seen - he'd never see you mad before and it'd frozen his feet in their place. 

"If this is going to work," You'd gestured between the two of you, throwing your bag over your shoulder, open, "you need to figure out how to balance club life and our life. I'm not going to be the girl waiting for you to come home in one piece, if at all." 

"I can't just not handle business when it needs to be handled," He'd argued, his tone rising in his heart's cry for you to put your bag down and stay. "I can't abandon the club when they need me." 

"That's not the problem," you pushed past him, "You didn't call, you didn't text. I was at the restaurant for two hours, James. Two." You turned and pointed to him, "You abandoned me tonight."

"I'm sorry, okay?" He followed you around the house as you gathered random things of yours, shoving them in your duffle bag, "I'll make sure to call next time." 

"Next time?" You spun on him, a look of bewilderment in your irises, "You're assuming there's a next time?"

Dread filled his chest as he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. Suddenly, it didn't matter what he was going to say. He just wanted you to stay, not to leave. Not to leave him. 

"Bucky I was left at that table, in the dress you picked out," You shoved a finger in his chest, "for two hours while you were off doing whatever it is that you do." Your hand gestured to the red stains on his pants. "And you'll never tell me what you're doing out there, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out it's dangerous." 

He waited as you took a breath, zipping up your bag with a huff as your shoulders shook. 

"I'm sorry," He muttered again but your head shook. 

"I don't care," You turned to him with tears in your eyes, "You can be sorry all you want. But I didn't even know if you were coming home at all tonight. Or if you were headed to the morgue in a body bag." 

It was that comment that punched him in the gut, and still replayed in his mind when things were too quiet. You weren't really mad about date night. He was supposed to be your calm, your safe space. He wasn't supposed to cause you anything but happiness and pleasure. But he hadn't even given you the courtesy to call you and tell you what was going on. 

You walked out after that, saying you needed time to figure out if you wanted to come back at all, and as the days passed, he was starting to think your side of the bed would remain cold forever. 

You were it for him, he didn't want anyone else, and he never would - he knew that.

But on nights like this, while he scrubbed the blood out from under his nails, he wondered if you knew it. 

Did you know how far gone he was for you? How he'd do anything for you, that if it wasn't you in his life, it was no one. 

He wondered if he could have both. You and this life he'd created. You, in your tender adoration. The way you cared for him. Loved him. And his life with the club. Being part of a stronghold like that. Being a nightmare for some. Seeing the things he did. Doing the things he had to. Making the necessary decisions no matter how morally questionable they were.

He knew people talked badly about him around you, warning you to stay away from him. That he was dangerous. A bad man. And he knew some of it was true. 

He was dangerous, not trusted by most. 

But you told him something once, the first time you'd seen him come home from club business covered in bruises and blood, seeing the internal turmoil those choices caused him. 

"You're not as bad as everyone says you are."

With those words replacing the agony that had been swirling his head, he gets out of the shower, drying off and getting dressed with a purpose. 

He was going to see you, and make sure you know you're it for him, no matter what. As long as you know that, your choice is yours.

But first, he needs to pick up a sweet treat. He decides he'll pick up your favorite. 

Maybe, if things work out, you'd share it with him. 

[wooahaeruby]

Chapter 31: Shot For Shot

Chapter Word Count: 5435

TW

Mouse being taught bad coping skills People suck at communicating I blame Jeonghan Someone gets their ass beat

I am so up my own ass that I forgot to post this here, I am an air head recently and busy so :D enjoy!

Master List | Prev | Next

You had been doing a really good job avoiding Seungcheol. 

Well, to be fair, you had been busy between calling your insurance, going to your apartment to clean, and taking stock of what was missing – or well, realizing nothing was missing. 

You were lucky to keep a log of the things you bought of the years, especially for your electronics that were destroyed. Sending a very large email file to your insurance representative was a pain, but the woman you spoke to was an absolute joy to work with. She was very understanding and thorough with what she needed from you, even sending the first email so you didn’t have to stress too much. The police officer was just as confused as you were when informed that nothing was missing, but she said to call her if you later realized something was missing. 

Jeonghan and Joshua didn’t leave your side much when you had to go back to your apartment. Your anxiety was through the roof the entire time you were there and in the end you half moved into the penthouse because the thought of being alone in your home was off putting. With Seokmin being your immediate supervisor, he easily had you take the week off, knowing you needed the time to handle everything. 

You saw many of the guys in passing when they stopped back at the penthouse to shower or to catch up on a little sleep. Jeonghan and Joshua had to be pushed out the door to get to work, wanting a little time to yourself to organize your things.

The last few nights had been rather sleepless, but you haven’t had a good night's rest since the night of the ball. Each time, you’d slip out of your significant other's' arms, Jeonghan would wake up, growing more and more concerned by the day but you only brushed him off, lulling him back to sleep with sweet kisses and carding a hand through his hair. Tonight was no different, Joshua was out, leaving you and Jeonghan to curl up for the night. 

“Baby…?” Jeonghan grumbled out the question, lifting his head as you tried to get up. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m gonna get some tea, go back to sleep.” You pulled the covers up over him, making sure he was warm. 

He grumbled something else, eyes closed but a frown spread against his face. You gently pushed his head down to the pillow, continuing to hear the muttering before you stepped out of the room. The hallway light was off, but you could see the small light over the stove was on, something you’ve started to leave on whenever you were in the house alone. 

“Tea then back to bed.” You mumbled out loud, pushing your hair back from your face and stepping into the living room. 

The sound of the fridge door closing had your eyes snapping up, meeting the tired, wide eyes of Seungcheol. He was frozen in place, a pint of ice cream and a spoon in hand, clothes rumbled from probably laying in bed. The dim light of the kitchen was enough to show the last stages of the yellowish-purple bruise on his face.

“Uh…hi.” He cleared his throat, almost hugging the tub of ice cream close to his chest.

“Seungcheol.” You flattened your expression, walked to the kitchen and put the electric kettle on. 

You could feel his eyes following you, moving away from you but not leaving the kitchen. 

“Can we-” He started but you were quick to cut him off. 

“No we can’t.” Pulling a mug down from the cupboard, you gently placed it down to limit the clanking against the counter before grabbing the tea tin Minghao always kept full. 

You heard the clanking of the spoon being placed down before the pint of ice cream followed. “Mouse, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” 

“And you still said it.” You sighed, placing the tea tin back, turning off the kettle, and putting the mug away. “Goodnight.” 

“Mouse-” Seungcheol called out but you walked away, managing to crawl back into bed with Jeonghan.

“Why are you here?” 

Staring out the doors to the penthouse, Siyeon stood, dressed more casually in some dress pants, a french tucked button up, and a jacket resting over her shoulders. You checked your phone, not seeing a notification from her, but there she was in front of you. 

“Get dressed.” Stepping around you, Siyeon looked around curiously. “Huh, this is a lot cleaner than I thought.” 

“Where are you taking me?” You closed the door, raising a brow. “Please don't be anywhere fancy.”

“Fancy? No, I just came from work, I want food, and we are getting pizza.” 

She shooed you down the hall with a wave of her hand, crossing her arms over her chest to wait patiently. With the weather continuing to grow colder, you pulled on some leggings and one of Joshua’s sweatshirt over your t-shirt, grabbing one of Jeonghan’s puffy jackets to throw on over everything. 

Siyeon was quick to hurry you out, scowling at the guard posted standing at the elevator on the garage level. “Asshole tried to stop me from getting in like I’m not part of another big group.” 

“He is doing his job.” You hushed her, following quickly to get in her car. “They posted someone there when I’m here alone.” 

“I know, Jeonghan told me to come over and get you.” 

“Sometimes I forget the two of you are friends.” 

“You and I are friends too so get used to having your best friend and boyfriend also being friends.”

Buckling up, you laughed. “We are best friends?” 

Siyeon gave a fake gasp, placing a hand over her chest. “Don’t tell me that 99 line are your best friends.” 

“They aren’t, but Seokmin is.” 

“Betrayed for a man once again.” 

The pizza place was small, a few tables up against the window but rather empty mid-day. Siyeon had you sit while ordering after hearing what you wanted, coming back with the drinks and grabbing the paper plates of pizza not long after. 

She asked how everything was with the apartment, knowing some things from Gahyeon but otherwise in the dark since you didn’t text her back much in the chaos. You gave the rundown of your last couple days, annoyed as you bit into your slice of pizza. She asked you if you needed money but you waved her off, having already been offered so much from the guys even if you don’t want it. 

“Why did you even go home that night? Weren’t you staying at the house?” 

You set your jaw, letting out a harsh sigh through your nose. “Cheol is a fucking asshole, that’s why.” 

“Asshole?” She put her slice down, raising a brow. “I thought you two would end up realizing something that night.” 

Furrowing your brow, you bulked at her in confusion. “What do you mean ‘realize something’? He was such a dick when we left and when we got back, he was saying I was flirting with Joong and asked if I cared about the guys and basically saying I was just sleeping my way to the top-” 

“Wait wait wait-” She waved her hands in front of herself to get you to stop, taken back. “He said what ?” 

“ Do you even care about SVT or are you trying to work your way to the top wherever you are?” You mocked his tone, taking an angry bite out of your pizza. “I slapped him.” 

Siyeon looked speechless, mouth hanging open. She closed her eyes tightly before shaking her head. “Fuck, this is my fault.” She reached into her pants pocket to get her phone, typing something quickly out. “I fucked up.” 

“Siyeon, you didn’t do anything, Cheol was just a dick that has anger issues-” 

“No, Mouse-” She sighed, pushing her hair back. “It was my idea to get Joong to hog you for a while to make Cheol jealous because he fucking likes you.” 

“Oh yeah, the guy that basically insinuates that I’m sleeping around likes me, nice joke.” Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms, sitting back in your seat. 

“Mouse.” Siyeon leveled you with a serious stare despite her eyes being wide. “I’m not joking.” 

Staring back at her, you frowned, furrowing your eyebrows together tightly. “I don’t believe you.” 

“Mouse, I might be a lesbian, but I know someone has a crush when I see it. It’s how I got Hongjoong on board so easily because he could see it.” 

“I think you both are mistaken.” Shaking your head, you finished off your pizza. “Even if you were right, why the hell would he, in short, slut shame me?” 

“Because Cheol is the biggest idiot on the planet, that’s why.” Pointedly, Siyeon rolled her eyes. “He is such a stubborn, idiotic man child at times that he talks out of his ass and instantly regrets it. The day I met him and the rest, he basically asked how my girls and I can make it in this world. I had a great time kicking his ass because he wasn’t as built as he is today.” 

“Still makes zero sense.” 

“Ask Joong if you don’t believe me, hell, I’m betting you that Jeonghan knows.” 

That caught you off guard slightly. “If Hannie knew, he would have told me.” 

“Probably, but I’m not lying. I promise on DC.”

“Hello, my gorgeous girl.” Stepping into the living room, trailed behind by Minghao and Seokmin who gave a wave, Jeonghan scurried over to where you sat on the couch, placing a kiss to your forehead and lifting your head gently with a finger under your chin. “What has you frowning like that?” 

You didn’t even realize you were frowning deeply. Giving a shake of your head slightly, you peeked over to Minghao and Seokmin, both browsing through the kitchen quietly. “Promise me if I ask you something right now, you will be honest with me.” 

“Promise? I’m always honest~” He flirted, half lidded eyes full of mischief. 

Pushing his hand away gently, you leaned back on the couch to make some space between the two of you. “Jeonghan, I’m serious. I need you to promise me.” 

Holding up your hand, you extended your pinky to him. His gaze flitted between your face and your hand before he locked pinkies with yours, all playfulness leaving his expression. Curiosity now danced in his eyes, head tilted to the side. 

“Do you want to talk in private?” 

With a nod, you stood, keeping your pinkies locked as you quickly went into your (Their? Shared?) bedroom. You sat down on the edge of the bed, letting Jeonghan place himself at your side. 

“I went to lunch with Siyeon today.” 

“Ah! Yeah, I texted her and asked if she could-” 

“I know.” You cut him off, sighed. “We were talking and she let something slip and I need you to be honest.” 

Locking eyes with him, you could see confusion in his expression, eyebrows furrowed together and a continued tilt of his head. He said nothing, letting you continue. 

“She said that Seungcheol likes me.”

Some of the color in Jeonghan’s face drained away and his limbs went rigid. 

“Before you jump to any conclusion, I was going to tell you-” He stated, shaking out of the shock and taking your hands tightly into his. “I…had this feeling that he did but I didn’t get any confirmation until you walked out of the house.” 

“When did you start to know?” 

He tilted his head back and forth in thought. “I had a weird feeling around the time you and him went to dinner to talk about the ball. It was mainly after you called him and we all showed up after the letter. Then the little lunch dates before the ball…and he admitted to it when you left.” 

“Well for one, those weren’t dates.” 

Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “Yeah sure. He asked you to lunch almost everyday for a week. Totally weren’t dates.”  

“Okay, well I didn’t consider them dates.” You defended, scoffing. “And even if they were for him, I didn’t get any indi-” 

“Mouse, baby, I’m sorry but I was flirting with you for weeks and you didn’t even know.” 

“To be fair! I had a lot going on!” 

Jeonghan let out a sigh, a small smile spreading on his lips. “Okay, but back to the topic at hand. Yes, Seungcheol does like you. It’s surprisingly more than I expected and he feels like absolute shit for what he said.” 

“Good!” You huffed in annoyance. “He should feel like shit for being a jealous piece of shit! I want to beat him up! Why are all of you bad at communicating!?” 

“I know! I know.” Your boyfriend whined, leaning forward and resting his head on your shoulder as he laughed. “The only one maybe good at it is Minghao and that’s just because he meditates.” 

“Do the other guys know?” 

Lifting his head, Jeonghan gave you a sympathetic look and you stood up quickly, hurrying out of the room. Minghao and Seokmin were still in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen island eating whatever leftovers were in the fridge. You hurried to get to the other side of the island and faced them, slamming your hands on the counter, enough to have them both look at you in confusion. 

“Did you both know? About Cheol liking me?” 

Minghao snorted, continuing to shovel food into his mouth, saying nothing. Seokmin…he didn’t make eye contact with you. 

“Mother fuckers.” You were exasperated, huffing and cursing under your breath. 

“To be fair, Mouse, the sign was bright and blinking.” Minghao commented and you grabbed a stack of napkin and tossed it at him. “Why do you throw things when you are mad!?” 

“Because I’m mad! What do you expect?!” 

“I expect words!” 

“Fuck words! I’m mad at you! You both are my friends! My best friends! But not my best friends anymore!” 

Seokmin gasped, clutching his metaphoric pearls. “ After all I've done for you!” 

You pointed at him, shooting a glare that could kill. “You brought me into this mess, if you didn’t get me into this-” 

“Wow, wait a minute!” Seokmin was trying not to laugh. “ You are the one that snuck into a building when I said not to!” 

You paused for a moment, still glaring across the kitchen island. Minghao looked between the two of you with a playful gaze, curious of what would happen next. Seokmin smirked at you, one you knew when he was being an asshole. 

“Seokmin Lee…You better fucking run.” 

And you were charging around the island to get him, but he was faster, springing down the hall into one of the rooms. The door slammed and you banged your fist against it. 

“Open the door!” 

“No! You’re gonna kill me!” 

“You deserve it!” 

“You’re being a bitch!” 

“You’re being an asshole!” 

You could hear Jeonghan laugh from behind you. “Wahh, calm down, Mouse. It’s okay!” 

You paused once more, looking over your shoulder. “Do you wanna die?” 

His laugh turned awkward, scratching the back of his neck. You could see his cheeks flushed. “Uhhh, no, ma’am.” 

“Jeonghan, where are you taking me?” Sitting in the passenger seat of your boyfriend’s car, you crossed your arms, glaring into the makeshift blindfold he managed to get you to where. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He answered, but you sank into the passenger seat. 

“You made me put on athletic wear. I might work out but you don’t exercise.” 

“Mouse, that’s rude!” He laughed. “And stop pouting, it’s a surprise.”

You huffed, curling in on yourself. “I don’t like surprises.” 

Jeonghan laughed once more. “Yes you do, shut up.” 

The car was soon blanketed in silence, hearing the hum of the engine as he drove through the streets. You didn’t know how long you were traveling for, only continuing to pout and huff, hearing a snicker every so often from your boyfriend. 

When the car finally stopped and the gear was shifted, Jeonghan told you to wait so he could help you out. He was gentle when helping you out, leading you quietly through a set of doors. Each step was unsure and you nearly stumbled when he went a little too fast, but he quickly apologized before stopping. 

“I’m going to take the blindfold off.” He placed his hands on your shoulders before he reached around to take the scarf around your head away. 

Blinking to adjust to the lights, you rubbed your eyes, taking a moment to hazily look around before you began to recognize your surroundings. 

It was the fighting ring, but unlike your previous experience here, it was relatively quiet. You spot the guys sitting on some of the bleachers, drinks and snacks piled around, either chatting or glancing over to you and Jeonghan. Joshua looked apologetic, standing off near Seungkwan and Vernon. Seungcheol was leaning against the side of the ring, arms crossed and head hanging down, dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants. 

“Why are we here?” Turning to Jeonghan, he simply placed a hand on your lower back and led you towards the ring. 

“What an amazing question, love.” He hummed, a smirk spreading wide across his face. “I have come up with a wonderful plan to fix at least one issue.” 

“Jeonghan…” 

Chan was linking arms with you the moment you were within reach, leading you towards the ring and helping you inside. You tried to question everything but he was quickly joined by Mingyu and Wonwoo. Mingyu was talking fast, taking the jacket you had over your t-shirt, reminding you how to punch properly and how to not hurt yourself. Chan was joining in with him, reminding you of what he taught you in your training sessions. You could feel your head spinning as Wonwoo took your hand, starting to wrap your fists tightly. 

“What the hell is going on?” You asked them, but Mingyu and Chan brushed you off and Wonwoo worked quietly, eyes focused on the task at hand. 

Mingyu started on your other hand, checking both when done to make sure you weren’t going to hurt yourself. 

Stunted silence, you watched them give you a pat on the shoulder before stepping out of the ring and sitting on the stands with the rest. Seungcheol stepped in, keeping his gaze low but looked to Jeonghan who stepped up and into the ring. 

“Welcome everyone to the fight of the century!” He threw his hands up, with a few of the guys cheering. “Tonight we have a once and a lifetime fight between two newcomers to the ring!” 

Your boyfriend pointed to where you were. “In this corner, with a firecracker personality and unending potential, Mouse!” Seokmin, Mingyu, and Jihoon gave the loudest cheers, but everyone was relatively loud at your introduction. “In this corner, we have an idiot with too much pride, King!” 

You were able to hear Seungcheol mutter a ‘ Really, asshole?’ under his breath, but he didn’t move. 

“Now, this is going to be a little different. After a series of events, I have decided that King doesn’t get to return a punch, leaving Mouse able to wail on him as much as she’d like.” 

That was news. Peering over at Seungcheol, he didn’t have any padding on like Chan did when you trained, nor was his fists wrapped up like yours. 

“Wait- Time out, I’m not just going to fight him.”  

“Oh yes you are.” Jeonghan shot at you but turned back to the rest. “All bets have already been placed-” 

“You bet-” 

Jeonghan cut you off, ignoring your comment. “Some rules! For one, of course, King can’t hit her. Number two, Mouse can hit him anywhere, no limits with punching, kicking and all. Number three, it isn’t over until one of them taps out. No time limit.” 

“This is stupid.” You complained, punching the bridge of your nose. “What is this going to solve?” 

“Your anger that you’ve been holding in.” Minghao hollered, sitting back on his hands. “You look ready to burst a blood vessel.” 

“I’m with him.” Seungkwan raised a hand, sitting down beside Chan. “Snappy.” 

You rolled your eyes, a bite to your tone. “I don’t know, guys, maybe getting my apartment broken into, basically getting slut shamed, and being anxious to go back into my home is making me angry.” 

Seungkwan only repeated his last comment, sending you an unamused look. 

“Do it.” Seungcheol called across the ring and you shot him a glare. “Hit me.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Why? You are mad partially because of me. Hit me.” He was serious, opening his arms and motioning to himself. “I deserve it, don’t I?” 

Jeonghan was scrambling out of the ring, standing off just beside Joshua and Vernon. 

“Hitting you isn’t going to have you taking back what you said.” You were trying to keep your temper under control. Balling your fists at your sides, your jaw tensed, shooting a glare towards him.  

“Maybe it won’t.” He took a hesitant step forward. “I said something really fucked up.” 

Scoffing, you gave a low rumble of a laugh, shaking your head in annoyance. “You know, I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but somehow you saying that hurt more.”

“Hit me.” He was egging you on now, it was evident with each step towards you, enough to make your blood boil in your veins. “Or are you a pussy?” 

It felt like a switch flipped within you. One moment you were standing still in your corner and the next you were charging at him. He was fast to retaliate, raising his arms to defend against the punch you were aiming for the side of his face. He grunted at the impact to his forearm, giving you an opening to swing at the side of his abdomen with your other hand, landing the hit easily. 

Seungcheol let out another grunt and pushed you back, making some distance between the two of you. He held his hands up in defense, bouncing on his feet, anticipating your next move. If there was anything Chan taught you was to think a step ahead. You’ve worked against Mingyu before, knowing he favorited his left side from being left handed. You knew Chan favorited protection of his core. Soonyoung was spry, always moving, analyzing. 

You threw some punches, wanting to get a feel of what he did and how he moved. Keeping a level head was difficult, able to land a few hits when there was an opening, though those chances were getting few and far in between. 

“Come on, Mouse!” You surprisingly heard Junhui shout over the blood rushing through your ears. “Knock him out!” 

An opening to swing towards his face showed itself once more and you took it, watching his eyes and arms follow you in defense. With his opposite side open once more, you planted your foot and raised the other to land a kick to his side. You heard him groan out in pain, wincing at the unanticipated strike. 

“Why did you say it?” You gasped for some air, knowing you were running out of energy. Wiping some sweat from your face with the back of your hand, you could see his face twist. 

“I was talking out of my ass.” He huffed, watching as you went for a kick that he just barely dodged. 

“You know what I’m asking.” You faked a kick to his side, only to land a punch to his other. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Seungcheol dodged another punch. 

You threw a few punches in quick succession, landing one to the center of his chest, knocking him back to wheeze a breath. Shaking your hand out, you winced at the vibration of pain that shot through your arm. 

“It does fucking matter if it’s the reason you are being the biggest ass wipe on the planet.” 

Seungcheol paused his twitchy movements, giving himself a moment of reprieve from your onslaught of attacks. He caught his breath, eyes flicking from you to the guys then back to you. You took deep breaths, regulating the rapid beating of your heart from the physical exertion. A few feet separated the two of you, but neither made an attempt to move. 

“I was jealous.” Seungcheol said calmly, swallowing nervously. “Really fucking jealous.” 

“Say it.” You didn’t break your eye contact, biting the inside of your cheek. A low fire burning inside of you in displeasure. 

There was a moment where the rest of SVT were quiet. You and Seungcheol were in a standoff with it being more of you waiting for him to say what you knew needed to be said out loud. 

“I was really jealous because I like you.” 

You moved quickly, landing a punch to the side of his face, not far off from where Joshua hit him a week ago. Seungcheol stumbled back and fell on his butt, a hand coming up to hold the side of his cheek. Wide eyes stared up at you, Seungcheol’s mouth hung open in shock from the sudden blow. 

“Don’t ever talk to me like that again. Understood?” 

Seungcheol gave a nod of his head and you stepped towards him, holding out a hand to help him up. It took some time for him to process your offer before taking your hand, accepting the help as you pulled him up. Once he was on his feet, you moved away, getting out of the ring as you started to unwrap your hands and wrists. 

“That was awesome!” Chan threw his arm over your shoulder, grinning wide. “The last hit to the face was perfect! Maybe we can get you training with Junhui and Hao now.” 

You snorted, shaking your head. “Maybe…help me get this stupid wrap off.” 

With skilled precision, he unwrapped your hands, allowing you to stretch and curl your fingers to rid yourself of the tension and soreness that was starting to set in. 

“Great fight.” Seokmin tugged you to his side with an arm around your waist, smiling brightly. “Really showed Cheol.” 

“Barely a fight, more of a punch bag session but sure.” 

“Ah, still a good one, and he’ll definitely have another bruise from the punch you gave him.”

“Ahem.” Joshua approached you and Seokmin, Jeonghan trailing behind with a dopey grin plastered on his face. Seokmin, though it was reluctant, removed his arm from around you, sticking his tongue out at Joshua. 

“Wah~” Jeonghan nearly skipped to your side. “First Joshua decking him and now Mouse? You two really are made for each other.” 

“Why are you dating him?” Joshua directed the question at you and you raised a brow, side-eying the both of them. 

“Why am I dating either of you?” 

“Damn, she hit you good, man.” Jihoon sounded amazed, checking Seungcheol’s face. You peered over, seeing an ice pack in Mingyu’s hand being passed over to the leader. He looked grumpy but accepted it, wincing when he pressed the cold pack to his cheek. 

Mingyu snickered, “Here's to hoping no one needs to see your face for a while.” 

He grumbled something you couldn’t make out, a pout pushing his bottom lip out. 

“I’m hungry. I want hot pot.” You called out, taking your jacket from Minghao when he offered it. 

And hot pot you got. You got a private room at a place in the city, squishing all fourteen of you into the room with mountains of food cycling in and out. Placed between Joshua and Jeonghan, you ate happily, letting the boisterous atmosphere pull you up from the unsteady emotional state you’ve been in the last week. 

Across the table, you could feel a pair of eyes on you. You saw them when you pointed at Wonwoo to pass you the plate of assorted vegetables. You saw them when you leaned to look past Joshua to speak to Vernon. Seungcheol was quietly through the majority of the unplanned dinner, on and off cooling his cheek with a glass of ice. He looked forlorn, eyes wandering occasionally around the room in thought, but each time they always ended up gazing back towards you. 

“I think you guys should talk.” The whisper of Jeonghan’s voice beside your ear had you flinching away. He looked apologetic before flashing a glance to Seungcheol before giving a lopsided smile. 

You cringed, nose scrunching up. “Do you think it is a good idea?” 

“It can’t hurt.” He shrugged, giving you a peck on the lips, continuing to whisper. “He has been sulking all week, asking me what he could do to make up for it. Shua is still pretty mad at him, but that is more of a defend your honor type shit which is annoying.” 

“What if I don’t forgive him?” 

Jeonghan snickered. “You and I both know you might have anger issues, but holding a grudge isn’t that big a thought. Plus, you already beat the shit out of him. At this point, I know you aren’t angry with him anymore, you are just angry at everything going on.” 

“Stop reading me like a book.” Give him a slap to the arm, he laughed, leaning into your side, which had you leaning into Joshua. 

The third of your trio gave you both a confused look, but easily supported the weight as he tried to eat. “You’re pretty easy to read, Mouse.” He adds, catching the tail end of the conversation.

[Evil #3 1:57 AM] Are you up? Wait, you usually are. Insomnia. Office, ten-ish minutes.

The office? 

Sitting up on his elbow in bed, Seungcheol stared down at his phone screen, brows furrowed together. It was the first text from Mouse since before the ball and the implication of it had his stomach flipping with anxiety. 

She just wanted to talk, right? 

Looking down at himself, he quickly stumbled out of bed to get some clothes on. Junhui was knocked out in the other bed, peacefully oblivious to the commotion he was causing. In his distracted state, he ran into the doorframe of the closet, biting his lip to hold in the groan that threatened to come out. He grabbed a shirt to throw on, caught himself in the mirror and paused to look himself over. 

The bruise on his face was starting to set in once more, the once red mark already transitioning to the early states of a blue-ish/purple bruise. With the few kicks Mouse landed to his side of his abdomen, he was sore and similar bruising was blooming. She had hit hard, he had to admit that Chan trained her pretty well so far. Just going against her was enough to convince him she was ready to start with Minghao or Junhui as the youngest suggested earlier in the night. He was definitely gonna be bruised for a while, but impressed overall. Seungcheol pulled the shirt over his head, getting himself situated before he ventured off to his office. 

The hallway was quiet, undisturbed outside of his careful steps. He could see one of the kitchen lights they always kept on giving some break from the darkness, but the light coming from his office was more noticeable. The door was cracked open just so, with light spilling into the hallway. He peeked inside, seeing Mouse sitting at his desk, wrapped up in a blanket, with one of his picture frames in hand. He knew the picture well, it was one of all thirteen of them from last Christmas with their big tree behind them. Jeonghan and Seungkwan had ‘forced’ them into matching holiday pajamas to open presents, complaining that they hadn’t got a good picture in a while at the time. He smiled to himself at the memory of the chaos, Christmas always brought the children out in their hearts. 

“You’re staring.” His eyes fell on Mouse’s watching him now, her eyes tired but awake enough as she tilted her head. “Care to join me?

Pushing the door open, Seungcheol slinked in, placing himself down on the couch. He tried to hide the smile on his face, letting a small laugh out from his nose.

“What’s funny?” She tucked her legs up to her chest, getting comfortable in his leather chair that he had fallen asleep in many times. 

“Roles are reversed compared to the first time I met you.” 

He watched Mouse frown before her brow softened and a laugh left her. “Yeah, I guess they are.” 

“So…You want to talk?”

Tag List is Open! Comment on the BSH Master List to get added!

Tag List:

@unlikelysublimekryptonite @iiaweirdo @aurorajoye @gaslysainz @sarcasticsagittarius1998 @vanteel @clownprincehoeshi @kpopandbookschild @honeybunchcrunch @black-swan-blog27 @peachie-wonu @kpopsimpsblog

[pinkmoondoll9shihtzu]

Quitting Weed Day 9 Status Report 📝

to start off , i'll say, i do indeed feel like Ass ! this post might get a tad emo. regretting my life choices to smoke for as long as i have 😕 But then again, maybe that's harsh, cus i was just doing the best i could with the circumstances i been dealt in the past.

i couldnt just quit cold turkey cus every time i try that its way too intense and i alwaus end up going back. So the past 9 days i've been hitting my (extremely weak) weed cart a couple times a night, only after 9pm, just to help me sleep. Before that i was smoking probly like. 5-8 bowls a day, followed by hitting the weed pen RELENTLESSLY all night until i passed out. So its still been a huge change lol. From tonight onwards tho i'm done w the weed pen and ready to try 0 thc 🙏

kind friend @palmceader sent me a CBD tincture made for sleep (thanku again 🥹) which im sure has a TINY percentage of thc, but nothing even close to how much im used to.

i cant even imagine how fried my dopamine receptors are, cus honestly, i feel Fucked. spaced out is an understatement. i cant focus on anything and its kinda driving me insane. it feels impossible to read or draw or do any of my hobbies.. my body feels heavy and depressed. No motivation. its kinda the opposite of what i was expecting. i can barely keep my eyes open during the day..

on a brighter note i havent been struggling too much with sleep or appetite. i think sleepy time tea + the tincture + magnesium is rly helping. my dreams recall is already improving so much, and the times i have nightmares arent as bad as its been previous times i tried to quit. i havent rly struggled with cravings at all either, which used to be a huge obstacle for me ! im just so over it now. i was starting to get chest pains and coughing a lot, which was taking any joy out of the act of smoking for me.

morbid to say but I often think of my father and how his rampant addictions directly lead him to such a painful and horrific early death. its a rare perspective of imagery so disturbing , i know i can't go on in such a manner. Like, what a fucking fool i would be! For others i can understand it but for me, no. it has haunted me for a long time to know i'm letting myself go down that path, even with all my insistent self-justification that his death is what brought me to this in the first place. deep down ive been knowing i need to break the cycle like i have the choice and the power, im still alive im still here ..

Sorry if thats depressing to bring up! i do feel depressed tho. i cant use weed to hide from my pain anymore.. i have to rewire my whole ass method of coping with stress at age 30. i know i can do it but its gonnnna be a long winded process full of ups n downs. Running away is no longer an option and thats a lot to face! a lot of old wounds i never rly dealt with, cus i kept my head in the 💨clouds💨 for so long.

i promise not to give up this time tho no matter how hard it gets 🙏 i want to set a good example too like indunno a lot of younger ppl follow me now i dont wanna feed into narratives that may influence them in bad directions. i have a responsible heart. i rly dont think weed is cool i havent since i was like 16. i was just dependent on it so i tried to romanticisze its role in my life. its silly.

im kinda laughing now cus im like god, i initially felt like the reason im quitting is so i can be more active in my dream world, but the more i think about it the more i notice MANY many more reasons to quit that go way deeper.

All in all the reason im talking about it is to maybe inspire other ppl who have been on the verge of quitting but too afraid to rly take the plunge-- Ur not alone, ur not weak for being addicted, if u need to reach out to me u are more than welcome.

Ppl rly downplay weed addiction cus the withdrawals arent life threatening like other substances, but that doesnt mean its a walk in the park. Most ppl i know who are stoners have never been able to quit for similar reasons as me. It takes a major psychological hold over u. if u ever need to vent about it or need advice, im here!

if u read all of this, pls dont worry abt me xD Even if it feels miserable rn i have faith things will improve, the heaviness and brainfog will lift, the emotions will be purged, i am excited for my future. One day at a time....Dont giving up 🙏

Signed, PMD9

[happilylovingchaos]

Music and Fic Monday for @lonestar-s5countdown

Sorry I’m late-ish! I’ll give a combination of recommendations for music and fanfics today (which is almost over where I am). And wow, there’s a lot involving TK (I’m getting concerned about how much he and Carlos get whumped, I don’t really care if it’s just me 😰).

([Re-])Surfacing Dive for Beginnings and Ends:

Beyond a lot of the stories written by @carlos-in-glasses, @paperstorm and @lemonlyman-dotcom that I think are also beautiful character studies of the Lone Star characters may not get explored enough (and in some cases even exploring parts of the characters that get most focus in-show), I wanted to give a few shout-outs to other, older one-shots/ full-length stories.

Lonely eyes, you don’t have to be alone tonight by @wwasted: A coda that takes place in between the bar scene and the end of 1x03. It’s very cute w/o dragging out too much of either man’s angst, which I liked.

The elephant in the juice bar by @taralaurel: Where Tarlos begins for real after 1x10, and TK tries and fails to keep a metaphor steady as he decides to take a chance.

Getting better by @lonestarbabe, Pigeonsplotinsecrecy: This fic really plays with the meaning of the words “begin” and “end”, especially with a mental health recovery arc and especially with TK. It’s not for everyone, but it describes how relatable, tedious, solitary and multicolored the process can be.

Rosa mundi by fiddlersgreen: A one-shot where TK, Owen, and Carlos make it to New York without incident and properly mourn for Gwyn… and it’s quite a spiritual experience.

You were the greatest thing by hoodieweather: TK is mournful after the events of season 2 as he goes to visit Gwyn and Jonah, but re-learns something important about life. Takes place in the breakup era. Before the ice storm? Actually def before the ice storm.

First aid by @heartstringsduet: I like to call this the gritty version of “Tarlos Begins”, only both characters have more fragile coping methods of surviving life in New York City. When those methods gradually fall apart and threaten to completely implode their lives, they have to face their respective truths and learn how to live— both with the people around them, the real versions of each other, and with themselves.

Not really bridal style by paperyowl: Tarlos begins again immediately post-3x04— with some relationship negotiating required. The author really nailed Tarlos’ voices for their first fic in the 9-1-1: LS fandom!

Haunted by the ghost of you by @strandnreyes: A sad and hopeful combination of 3x04 and 3x08, where Tarlos begins again with an unexpected end.

I’m not mean enough to fully recommend hurt no comfort Tarlos fics, or hurt no comfort fics in general (and I’m still less than a year into using Tumblr anyway), so for a definitive “end” fic in that category, I may direct you to MissPudim’s works where the issues with the whole Iris arc is addressed and Tarlos handles it Extremely Badly. Or this fic called Gone where… it’s… okay, hell. They still handle it bad, it’s still kind of an end and it’s a bittersweet end, albeit in an AU. And another one by bythebry, Ain’t got no tears left to cry.

Where all this love comes from by @carlos-in-glasses: I think I’m not the first one to recommend this story but I think it counts as a general “begins” for both TK and Carlos (mainly for Carlos, though). And I’m listening to Postmodern Jukebox while trying to re-recommend it… if you’re curious, I put one of their cover songs on the bottom of this post. Needless to say, I loved this fic!

TK (Begins):

Jewish for Himself by 7ate9: I felt a sense of completion to read a fic that goes into TK’s POV about how the religion Gwyn wanted to raise him under is, in a word, complicated (as hell). Yes, just as much as his career and gay identity. For that, I’m thankful to the author! (And not just because so many opportunities for TK’s Jewish rep was wasted…)

TK begins by writedontfight: Exactly what the title says, with a plausible and saddeningly real scar of loss in TK’s life.

Numb and Thirty days by come2gusu: TK begins again, and good GOD I’M SAD ABOUT 3x08 AGAIN nooOOOOOooO….

Carlos (Begins):

Duality of a day by @marjansmarwani: I loved this exploration of how double-edged the wedding day would feel for Carlos— the beginning of a new chapter in his life with TK, and the punch-to-the-face end of Gabriel’s own life (spoiler alert).

to build a home by @freneticfloetry: This story was the first “Carlos Begins” story I’d read. I thought I wouldn’t like the canon divergence that happens at the end, but I was pleasantly surprised!

Dancing, happy, seen by @endlesstwanted: Carlos’ POV as he falls in love at first sight with TK.

Silver lining’s gold and shining by @paperstorm: “Carlos begins”, with a little help from Iris. For me, it also parallels “Chimney Begins”.

I fell for you like a child (oh but the fire went wild) by ellay_gee: Told in a 5+1 format about Carlos’ experiences with love. It was so cute!

Tender eyes that shine by @alrightbuckaroo: Much like “to build a home”, this fic exuded “Carlos begins” energy with more focus on how the Reyes’ “identity” shaped Carlos, and him focusing on unlearning the emotional repression that comes with that ideal.

Music Recs for @tellmegoodbye:

If the Lone Star music team uses this cover of AC/DC my country-music side would be tickled. Just thought that a down-South version of a rock song would be a cool bookend to the pop collab “Old Town Road.”

Postmodern Jukebox is one of my favorite cover bands, and they’ve made a lot of songs I’ve heard of really appealing for me— retro takes on pop songs! This one cover of Oasis’ songs brought to mind another procedural spinoff, NCIS: New Orleans, for the jazz funeral feel added to apparently hotly-debated interpretations of the lyrics (I only just looked on Reddit, so…). But considering what’s happening, hearing the song in the context of Lone Star breaks and warms my heart.

[mandareeboo]

For a Moon Girl Drabble Prompt: Casey finding ways to cope after nearly losing Lunella. With maybe help from her dads?

There were times, of course, when Lunella had gotten injured. Casey and Lunella had made it into a sort of running gag, totaling it up on a little whiteboard decorated in stickers of band-aids. Nothing bad. Nothing serious. The running leader is Rockin' Rudy for giving her road rash during a high-speed chase. Little thing. Scratches and streaks that can be buffed out.

Casey adds Morlak to the list, right underneath a pretty purple bandage, and puts down a single point.

Because she's okay! It's something Casey has to remind herself constantly. Lunella is alive and breathing and she wasn't even gone that long. Broken glasses on her face as she flinched away, hand shaking where they'd interlaced their fingers. Lunella came home, but that meant Lunella was gone.

Casey almost lost her best friend.

She throws herself hard into the Moon Girl tweet feed that night. Retweeting and posting selfies left and right. Look at Moon Girl, it seems to say. Moon Girl is amazing! Moon Girl is definitely a-okay and doing her magic! Moon Girl never vanished for two hours that accumulated into two days for Lunella. Moon Girl didn't shake and shake and shake on the long ride home.

The problem is that it's the official webpage, and that means her dads follow it. It isn't long before there's a gentle rapping at her door. "¿Mijita?"

Casey chucks her phone under her pillow and tries to look reasonably slumber-y. "Sorry, Papa, I'll go to sleep."

Antonio peeks his head in and frowns. "You've got puffy cheeks, mi vida. ¿Qué pasó?"

"¡Nada!" she says fruitlessly. Antonio is already in her room and sitting on her bed, gently picking hair out of her face. "I just had a long day. I promise."

Tutting, her father gently tucked some hair behind her ear. "Did something happen to Moon Girl?"

No way, she'd say, like a liar, if not for the simple fact that she immediately bursts into tears. It's Casey's turn to tremble uncontrollably as her father gathers her into her arms, rocking her gently. She forgets, sometimes, that she's still a kid. That Moon Girl is still a kid.

"She got lost," she manages to choke out. "She- she didn't have her tech and she got lost. And it's, like, not even a big deal. But it's also a huge deal because she could've gotten hurt! And she was alone, and scared, and- I almost lost her, Papa!"

"¡Ay, dios mío!" he uttered. "How about you sleep with Dad and me tonight, huh? And tomorrow you can invite Moon Girl over for a sleepover."

Casey snorked back some snot. "You know I can't do that! What if you find out her identity?"

"Then dinner, then! She has a mouth, don't she? She can eat."

"Sure, Papa," she said, hiding the last of the trembles in her tight grip on his shirt. Antonio picked her up like she weighed nothing and took her into their room.

Issac looked up from his ipad. "What happened?"

"Long story," Antonio replied, gesturing with his chin to Casey. It was dad-talk for 'wait until she's asleep'. "Scooch over, honey."

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia

I'm so sorry you've been experiencing difficulties recently. I'm sending all my love and light your way and hope you start to feel a little less shitty soon.

P.s - Do you mind sharing your tiktok so we can follow you there too? Or is it a private acc?

Lots of love to you <3

It's not private! It's just not updated very often. Overall I'm more active on Instagram. But neither are private. The Tiktok is very art-focused so it might not be what you're looking for. But it's also pretty harmless overall.

And thank you anon <3

The last few days I had to stop writing and like...quickly redo my schedule for December and cut it back a little, which always makes me sad, but I'm trying to conserve my mental health as well as my physical. I realised I met all the criteria for a pretty serious depressive episode late last week (I have, alongside severe PTSD, Major Depressive Disorder, which is the one that will kill me if I don't keep an eye on it -> though I'm happy to report I'm not like in a very like 'I don't want to live' space right now, I can just tell I'm feeling / experiencing a lot of the red flags that go in that direction), and if I don't act now, that tends to lead to pretty bad places.

So I've redone the schedule for December and that will come out likely on Friday or Saturday. And then I'll only be posting during January for half of the month, and not the whole month, and taking off two weeks re: posting. Hopefully these are the sorts of things which will head off me needing to go into hiatus because I desperately don't want to do that <3

I can already tell I'm doing a little better after being a lot firmer with some boundaries, and also just...with myself re: taking more time off. I wish I didn't feel so guilty about it? But that's not anyone's fault here, that's shit to work on with my therapist/s, lol.

Today I spent around 3 hours researching a response to an ask (whoops), and then realised - not through any one person's actions but a bunch at once - that I need to kind of stop engaging with facecast stuff (nothing wrong with facecasting, the problem is wholly on me there and I wish I'd seen that sooner and saved people some pain and saved me from some rudeness).

I put away the shopping (we have a really good grocery delivery system here which is great for my disabilities etc.), and had some raspberries, and put on the Christmas tree lights.

I was so tired at lunch that I could only manage a bowl of cereal (and couldn't eat breakfast. I think my therapist would be like 'why are you putting three hours of research into responding to something instead of focusing on eating food' but well, whoops? Lol. To be fair I thought it would be way easier to answer, but Tumblr's search function is SO broken).

I fed my wonderful cat, Maybe, and got some sleep in the afternoon and then did some writing (1,200 words) on Palmarosa. It's like 7.00pm right now, and I'm going to put up some chapter commentaries on Patreon and Ream.

Tonight I might do some watercolour art, and I'm hoping to finish Palmarosa tomorrow.

December is actually a hard time of year for me anyway. It's the month that has the most chronological / time-based triggers, and my therapists know this and I'm hearing a lot of 'how are you in the lead up to December' which is about to become 'how are you coping with December.'

I'm grateful for small pleasures. Like my dahlias are looking pretty awesome right now. Here's some photos of this week (some art I'm working on, Maybe being cute, or screm, dahlia, Christmas set up, T-Rex ornament, Santa Platypus ornament):

[the-kettle-whistles]

(out of context) things my younger sister has said

y'all I have been compiling this since last year :")

“give me the crog"

“I never said an 8 ton baby could do my job”

“o̷̢̦͐̑͝ͅw̸̢̪̟̖̏a̷̲̩̮̒͋͆ ̷̼̐͝o̷̧͕̪̠͊́̚w̴̩̙͑̅̈́ḁ̷̢̾̽̋̔ͅ”

*panicking* “Why My Bed Crispy”

“She like that cheese stank”

"Why is everyone named ‘Guy’ ugly”

“I hope you explode. It infuriates me that there’s still air in your lungs”

“It’s holding on by the butt stick”

“I’m trying to reminisce on phone guy memories”

“My foot is baby sized compared to your giant man feet”

”imagine being named Mark. Like it’s so embarrassing you’re name is Markus”

“What Do You Mean I’m A Threat To Human Civilization”

“You have Walter White’s hairline”

“You just have me a glaucoma test with your mouth”

"i almost broke my toe. slay"

"i'm trying to enjoy the scenery but you just keep giving me free glaucoma tests"

"the dog is knocking. let them in"

*scooby doo voice* "come here"

“I just had a terrible vision of a ferret-rat-shark and it looked at me and smiled with human teeth”

*screams* *burps loudly*

"I want a frickin' boiga"

"You dummy, we all know it's swipe left for love!"

"my hands smell like a boiga"

"I've killed millions"

"I love it when machines do my dirty work"

"I'm stuck in a heck hole"

"It feels like I'm listening to smooth brain Christmas"

"Dude I ate like 9 enchiladas over the past 2 days"

"My spicy zinger for tonight is asbestos"

"Yo yo yo, chancy bust a move"

"This tastes like grass but with out the "g r""

"Men will be like "I'm such a gentleman" and then ruin abunch of people's lives"

"One of us is dumber and it's not me"

"You got a boy? How many you pullin'???"

"You look like baby Gabriel in those Jesus things"

"'Never have babies' that's what i always say"

"you can't have an overpopulation of 8 legged friends on your skin, you know that, right?"

"he did. he wanted me for real"

"men with beefy forearms. they're like crossfit gods"

"men are beautiful. and women, too. women are also fine" *a moment of silence* "sorry that sounded kind of sussy"

"You can find gay people in the wildest places. Just like pokemon"

"You look like a drown teddy bear"

"Thanks. I feel less evil"

"That's really ugly but there's such a beauty in things that are hideous"

"Urine throne of mass destruction and sewage carnage"

"I want the tickle me elmo so bad it makes me sick"

"This is all hypothetical. You guys are insane"

"Sometimes the world doesn't give you what you want and you have to cope with it by smelling my cheesey breath"

haha decided to post this at 11 at night and kind of sick on a whim

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Hydra Sanatorium"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Word count: 5297

Tags: a/b/o, medical institutionalization, cognitive disability, made up kinky medical things, diapers, catheters, non-con medical procedures, restraints, forced wetting, hurt/comfort, humiliation, kind!Careworker Steve, bratty!Patient Bucky, alpha Steve, omega bucky, dry humping, forced orgasm, masturbation, implied self harm, orgasm therapy, age difference (19/30), omorashi

Summary: Bucky is a troubled teen coping with the traumatic transformation of late-onset omega puberty. Steve's the care worker who's been developing too much of an attachment.

A.N. I will no longer be going to the trouble of posting extensive warnings, cautions, "Minors DNI", "smut below the break", or extra trigger warning outside of the story tags etc., like I used to. Because the staff troll has targeted my account and held it to standards that virtually no other explicit fanfiction authors are consistently held to or follow on this platform, I will now only be tagging major themes above the story summary, and other than that, the only warnings you'll see from me are the "mandatory" (🙄what a joke) community labels: mature. Sorry, but I'm not going to bend over backwards to please a bunch of antis and an illiberal, vindictive child who works at Tumblr with zero accountability for their abuse of their position. Troll: grow the hell up, and PLEASE for the love of God: never go into politics.

So here is my new sign I'm so excited to introduce!🥳Feel free to use it - no need to give credit. As Mr. Mackie likes to say to the nitwits: "Baby I'm a grownup."

Wait! I think I missed a previous chapter! Series Masterlist

Chapter 6: Inflation Therapy

Previously:

"It’s going to be okay, Buck. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice dull. “I know.”

It’s not the tantrum Steve was expecting, but somehow it feels just as bad. Because rather than reacting, Bucky’s just withdrawing. Steve watches him pick at his meal for another half an hour. With some gentle encouragement he’s able to get the kid to eat the majority of his protein, but he’s obviously getting no enjoyment from the food, his mind a mile away as he chews mechanically. It’s depressing. Steve goes into bossy alpha mode to try and give him some direction, make him feel a little more secure. He tries to show Bucky that he does have an alpha who cares about him, however temporary it may be.

“Throw your trash away, bub. Put your tray over there. Good job. C’mon now, let’s go do an activity. I’m leading art tonight. You want to give that a go?”

Bucky seems docile enough, following Steve into the art room and sitting on the carpeted floor with one of the lap desks for drawing circle. A few other patients trickle in, until they’re a group of ten. Steve hands out paper and cups of colored pencils, and takes up a spot on the carpet. He tries not to be obviously over-focused on Bucky, figuring that the kid needs his space to process the news about his parents relinquishing custody. “Okay everybody," Steve greets the group. "How are we doing?”

He gets friendly answers from the other patients, then guides them through a few warm up exercises. They do some rapid-fire sketch associations, where Steve throws out words like “recreation” and “comfortable,” and “dread,” and everybody has to sketch the first thing they think of in ninety seconds.

Then Steve tells the group they’re going to be doing a “Now and Then” project. He asks them to draw a picture of how they see themselves and their lives in the present, and gives them twenty minutes to work without scrutiny. “Try to pick one word or phrase to focus on. You can draw anything you like, to express it,” he tells them. “Something literal, or something abstract. Anything that you feel depicts your current emotions, state of being, how things are going for you in the world or simply in your head. Anything goes. Get as far with it as you can, but don’t feel like you have to rush with coloring it in or anything, if you’re trying to make a masterpiece.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly at his own drawing board. “You can always add details later if you’re as nitpicky about your art as me.”

“We can draw anything?” one boy in the circle asks. He’s not Steve’s patient but Steve knows his name, knows he’s there for treatment following a miscarriage. Steve nods and gives him a gentle look. “Yeah, Daniel. That’s right. Anything goes.” Across the circle, Bucky glances up and meets his eyes. Steve smiles sadly. “If anybody needs to draw violence or something that depicts self harm, this is a safe space to do that. You won’t get put on protocol for it, as long as you’re willing to join in the discussion portion and explain your drawing.”

Bucky and one other boy look like they’re relieved to hear that, and Steve gives them both encouraging looks before turning his attention to the sheet of paper he’s got on his own lap desk. He’s always been good with a pencil—had even considered going down the art-therapy track, back when he was in college. The only reason he hadn't wound up pursuing it was because he didn’t want to turn his passion into something he had to do for a job. But he still loves leading art sessions for the omegas on-ward. Figuring that powerless is a pretty good focus word for his 'Now' drawing, Steve picks up a mustard yellow pencil and begins to sketch.

“Okay pencils down.”

Twenty minutes later, everybody takes turns showing what they’ve drawn. Unsurprisingly, five of the boys have drawn something literal from their current stay on-ward. Two others have pictures of their families. One boy has chosen a forest scene to depict his feelings of uncertainty about an upcoming heat, and Daniel talks about his violet-hued sketch regarding his feelings over the recent miscarriage. Bucky is the last to volunteer to talk about his piece, and in fact Steve has to prompt him twice before he’ll turn his lap desk around to face the circle.

He’s drawn a person—presumably himself—in thick, brown lines. The person is sitting and hugging their knees to their chest, contained in a tiny space like a box. It’s a scratchy drawing but rather well-done, and the instant feeling Steve gets from it is isolation. Outside the box, it’s bright and colorful with a lot going on, but inside the box it’s muted and still, with heavy olive and brown lines. “What does this represent for you, Bucky?” Steve asks, forcing himself to do his job rather than crawl across the carpet and wrap Bucky in his arms the way he really wants to. “Hm? To me it feels rather lonely, looks isolated.”

Bucky shrugs, not looking up. “I guess.”

Steve asks if anybody has positive comments for Bucky’s piece. Daniel ventures, “... The lines get messier on the dark side. On the bright side, they’re all neat and specific, but then they get kind of scratchy on the other part.”

Steve hums, glad to at least have a couple people willing to participate in art tonight. Usually patients just sit around grunting and rolling their eyes at it. “Good point. I see what you mean. What do you think that technique could communicate?”

Daniel hesitantly meets Bucky’s eyes from across the circle before saying, “Um. Like … it’s more chaotic, on the scratchy side.”

“Yeah. Kind of gives it a distressed feeling, doesn’t it?” Steve looks at Bucky and gently prods, “Buck? Why do you think you chose those colors?” He gets nothing from Bucky besides a mumbled, “Dunno,” and forces himself not to push him on it. He talks to the group as a whole about colors and what they can represent. “Most people know that darker colors can indicate a sense of foreboding or depression,” he says. “But lighter colors aren’t always ‘happy’ per se. Take mine, for example.” Steve shows the group his drawing of a bear sitting on the side of a road with cars. “You’d think this should be in greens and blues, yeah? A nature scene. But I only used taupes and yellows and a little brown and olive. I think it looks kind of sallow, gives it a feeling of melancholy.”

“Why’d you draw a bear?” Daniel asks.

“Well, I’ve been feeling sad this evening. Kind of helpless, you know?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bucky’s head lift up a little. “And I remember seeing this clip once on Facebook or something. A bear that’d been separated from its cubs across a busy highway. And it just seemed so sad.” He shrugs, feeling silly but knowing that he needs to be open and honest if he’s going to expect the same from his patients. “So that’s what I drew. That feeling of powerlessness that the video made me feel.”

“Why do you feel powerless?” Daniel asks.

This time, Steve does let his eyes slip over to Bucky—who is looking at him, but who quickly flicks his eyes away. “Because I’m worried about somebody I care about,” Steve says. “And I’m not sure I can help them the way they need. I’m not sure how much they’ll let me help.”

Bucky’s lips part, and for a second Steve really thinks he’s going to reply to that, but then he clams up again and looks down at his drawing board, not saying a thing. Steve swallows down his disappointment. “Okay guys, now we’re going to do a second piece, and I want everybody to try and make this one as literal as you can. Let��s all draw a depiction of what we’d like our lives to be in the future. You can draw something you’d like to have happen tomorrow, or something you dream of happening in a year, or ten years, even how you picture the perfect life when you’re old and grey. Really dig deep and think about what you want your life to be like, in a perfect world. It doesn’t necessarily have to be realistic, just so long as it represents what would make you happy. Kay?”

He watches as everybody gets new paper and starts drawing. Bucky, he notes, stares at his paper for a long few minutes before he ever picks up a pencil. He looks lost.

Steve gives them thirty minutes for their second drawings. When time’s up and everybody discusses what they came up with, Bucky has drawn a beach scene. It has a little blue bungalow in the background and a family on the sand. There’s an umbrella and a person lying on a beach towel whom Steve can tell is supposed to be Bucky. He’s surprised though, because that person is also visibly pregnant, and there’s a little kid right next to him, wearing water wings and building a sandcastle. There’s a dog next to the kid, and another person in the picture sitting in a beach chair who looks suspiciously like Steve, but no way in hell is Steve going to point that out. The Steve-person is blond, and Steve knows for a fact that Bucky’s family all have dark hair.

“Buck,” he prompts. “You drew yourself at the beach?” Bucky just shrugs, and Steve tries to draw more out of him. “... Is that one of your favorite places?” he asks.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’ve never been to the beach. But growing up, everybody else’s families would always go somewhere in the summer. Up to the Hamptons or down to Jersey, you know? Stay at a beach house, eat crabs, go to the boardwalk and get saltwater taffy and shit, ride the rides. It always seemed nice. Like something real families did.” His lips twist ruefully as he traces his finger from the lines of the pinwheel beach umbrella, over to the black and white dog that he drew. “... And I never had a dog. I like dogs.”

Jesus, God, Steve wants to kidnap this kid and take care of him forever. “Is the person on the beach towel you?” he asks gently. Bucky shrugs again, but then he nods. Steve nods too. “It looks like you’re pregnant in the picture. Is that what you were imagining when you drew it?” Bucky doesn’t say anything, and Steve feels absolutely pained, trying to force answers out of him like this. Across the circle, Daniel has made a little whimper and put his hands on his stomach, and Steve knows it’s time to abandon that point. “Okay,” he says quietly, moving past that little detail. “Um, what about the other people in your drawing?” he asks instead. “What part do they play?”

Bucky looks down self consciously at the paper. “They’re not real,” he mutters. “I don’t have anything right now. And I don’t even know if I want kids, but … I dunno. I drew it with a baby, and an alpha. Cause maybe that’d be nice, even though I don’t think it’s ever gonna happen.”

“Why couldn’t that happen?”

Bucky’s eyes flick up to him, reproachful. “Nobody wants me,” he says. “I just don’t see the point.”

Steve has to swallow past the horrible lump that’s formed in his throat. “Having a family of your own is a totally realistic goal, Bucky. Having children and a partner? Going to the beach with your family? Those are great things to imagine for the future.”

“I don’t have a family,” he says dully.

Steve is about to address that, but before he can, Daniel bursts out into tears and starts ripping up his paper, upset about babies and the pregnancy he miscarried a few weeks ago. Steve has to put all his effort into calming him down and escorting him down the hall to the soft room so that he can calm down. And by the time he returns to the art room, Bucky has left.

Steve sticks around for an hour afterwards, making sure nothing spirals out of control. He was prepared to spend the night on-ward if he had to, but Bucky’s behavior remains rather tame. He wets himself rather abruptly after art therapy, and Steve helps him get changed with no issues. Bucky tells Steve that he’d like to be alone, and Steve can’t force him to talk if he’s not ready. So he just watches helplessly as Bucky retreats to the soft room and curls up in the same corner where Steve found him that morning, face buried in a pheromone-treated plushie.

Steve has a talk with the overnight orderly on duty, making sure that the beta man knows to keep an eye on Daniel and on Bucky. Then he clocks out and heads home, feeling like the most useless support alpha to ever exist.

The next day, he arrives on ward to find Bucky in an unresponsive state, and the soft room having been cleared out to accommodate him.

“Moved everybody else over to the Phys-ed room,” the on-duty orderly mutters with a grimace, as they both stand in the doorway watching Bucky’s behavior. “He doesn’t answer when we talk to him. And he’s tried to bite when we go to grab 'im.”

“How long has he been like this?” Steve asks, concerned.

The beta man shakes his head. “He seemed normal when he woke up. He didn’t talk, but he wasn’t like this. We let them wander around for their AM free time, and then when I came to move everybody to breakfast, he was rocking. He won’t even look at me. Acts like he doesn’t even hear.”

In the padded far corner of the room, Bucky is sitting huddled over one of the foam rocker forms, naked, his knees planted to either side of the form and his thighs gripping it hard in stress. He’s shed everything from his body, including his diaper, and has his head resting on the front piece, his eyes staring sightlessly to the side. His thumb is in his mouth and he’s sucking it while he rocks compulsively. Steve nods grimly at the sight. “He can hear.”

The orderly looks dubiously from Bucky to Steve, and then back. “Um ... are you sure about that?”

Steve inhales deeply. “Yeah. This is a stress reaction to some traumatic news he got yesterday.”

“Oh.”

Steve goes over to kneel beside the rocker to try and get Bucky to respond to him. But when he has no success, he goes back to tell the orderly to watch the room for a minute while Steve consults his boss.

“I think he needs a course of hormones,” he tells Christina, standing in the doorway to her office because he’s too antsy to even sit down for a proper conversation. “Will you sign off on it?”

Christina nods. “Of course. What method of delivery?”

My dick, Steve thinks, though of course he’d never say that. He’s just frustrated is all. He just wants to make all of Bucky’s pain go away. “Inflation session,” he suggests, receiving a nod from Raynor. “We’ll do sense dep. after, hit him with some ASMR, some tactile stim.”

“Sounds about right.”

Steve turns to leave.

“Rogers?”

He looks back over his shoulder to see Raynor staring him dead in the eye, and gets an uneasy feeling. “What?”

“Once he’s out of this episode, I’m telling the doc to go ahead. We’re castrating him.”

Steve’s heart sinks. “Christina, please, no.”

“We should’ve done it a long time ago and you know it. The only reason we didn’t was the parents, and they’re not in the picture anymore. Steve—don’t look at me like that, Rogers. You agreed when the recommendation came down. It’s what’s best.”

Steve looks down at his feet to avoid glaring at the woman who is directly responsible for his employment. She’s not wrong, which is the worst part. Bucky’s so unbalanced, he should’ve had a therapeutic castration years ago, but his parents have always refused and Bucky’s been none the wiser. Quietly, Steve grits out, “He can’t even take the news of his folks giving him up, how do you imagine the conversation about his nuts being chopped off is going to go?” It’s snarky and unprofessional for him to talk that way to his boss, but he’s emotional.

Miraculously, Christina doesn’t call him out on it. “Not well, I imagine,” she drawls. “But what has ever gone well with this kid? After today, I want you to think about your long term care recommendations for him.”

Steve suppresses a growl. “Long term?” he repeats, and she nods solemnly. He feels dread fill his gut at the look that’s on her face. “We can keep him on ward,” he insists, hating how much it sounds like a plea. “Extended stay, and then maybe—”

“He’s not improving here. It’s been three years. He’s nineteen now. We need to think about his future. He’s in no shape for independent living, and you know it,” she says.

Steve huffs, knowing where this is going. “His family dumped him, Christina. He’s got no one. What do you expect me to do?”

“Long term care recommendation, on my desk by the end of the week.”

Steve grits his teeth, knowing there are only a couple of options there. Bucky can either be institutionalized, or sent to a group home, neither of which is promising. Steve knows Bucky, goddammit. He … he cares about him. And he knows that that’s not what Bucky needs. Bucky just needs someone to ...

To love him.

“What if I found him an alpha?” he asks, ignoring his better judgment. “Somebody who was a good fit, who could take him on?”

“By the end of the week?” Christina looks dubious, and rightfully so. She sighs at him, exasperated. “Rogers, you and I both know that nobody is gonna—”

“Just say that I did,” Steve snaps. “Would you approve it?”

Maybe she can tell what he’s thinking, or maybe she just thinks Steve’s venting and throwing out hopeless ideas. Either way, Christina nods reluctantly, her lips pressed thinly together. “Sure,” she says, obviously not believing that Steve can find someone to take Bucky on in such a capacity by the week’s end. “If you found someone who was actually suitable, I’d sign off on it.”

Steve isn’t even sure why he’s posing impossible hypotheticals, but Raynor’s agreement makes him feel relieved anyway. “I’ll need the bathroom isolated for our session,” he tells her, in lieu of a response. “And then the soft room for the rest of the afternoon.”

Christina grunts and waves him out of the office. “You got it. Now go on, get outta here.”

Steve goes.

“Buck? Hey. Hey Honey.” Steve approaches Bucky like he would a wild animal, wary of the possibility of him lashing out. Not that Steve has to worry about being physically overpowered or anything like that, but even he can take a surprise fist to the face, and he’d rather not have a bloodied nose or a black eye today.

Bucky doesn’t get violent. He seems to register Steve’s presence, as his scent shifts to something slightly more eager and his hips start rocking harder on the foam padding of the form. But his eyes don’t track Steve’s movement when the alpha kneels down beside him, and he doesn’t talk. He just keeps making these little stubborn grunts as he works on stimming himself up to another orgasm.

There’ve been several already, if the state of the rocker is anything to go by. Its red vinyl covering is shiny wet between Bucky’s thighs, making squeaky-slick noises as he moves. Steve reaches out and tentatively touches Bucky’s back. The boy’s nostrils flare and he grunts, rocking harder.

“Shh. Okay, Sweetheart. Okay. I’m gonna help you feel better, Alright bub? Just gotta let me move you around a little bit.”

‘Sexual catatonia’ is the technical term for what Bucky’s experiencing. His brain has gone into protection mode and his body is seeking out the most basic of comforting stimuli as it tries to reorient itself. He’s regressed, only able to process a certain level of input right now, and he’ll stay that way until his body receives enough signals that he’s safe and protected and wanted.

So Steve’s job is to make him feel all three of those things.

He gathers Bucky up from the rocker, shushing him and holding him in a basket restraint position until his few seconds of reactive thrashing stop. “Okay, okay. You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, keeping a low purr going in his chest for Bucky to hear and feel against his back. “Shh sh sh. Okay now. Here we go. Come on over here with Alpha.”

He all but carries him out to the hallway and into the bathroom. The nurse is already in there, setting things up. Bucky’s like a blind and deaf animal, staring aimlessly and making upset noises as he scents another person in the room with them. The orderly keeps a wide berth, but nods at Steve as they enter and points to the equipment he’s had set up for them. “Three bags there for him,” he says. “Just in case.” He heads for the door. “Push the button if you need anything else. I’ll be on station for the rest of the morning.”

Steve nods, depositing Bucky on the treatment bed. “Thanks.”

Bucky’s already naked, so that much is taken care of at least. He’s grunting a little more angrily now that he’s been taken away from his rocker and brought somewhere unfamiliar, so Steve moves around in a hurry to get them all set up. The colonics bed is shaped to cradle him in the correct position while he lies on his back. Steve guides his legs over the incline, then goes about setting up the machine.

‘Therapeutic pregnancy’ isn’t much more than a medicated retention enema, but it can help with bringing omegas out of severe emotional and psychiatric episodes. Obviously, it’s not an actual pregnancy. It’s just that the patient’s body is temporarily tricked into thinking it’s pregnant. And that’s what the nurse was referring to when he said he’d set aside “three bags” for Bucky. On the machine’s hook hang three heavy bags—all full of synthetic alpha semen.

Steve pulls a warmed blanket from the electric cabinet and drapes it over Bucky’s upper body. The omega’s eyes flutter closed as he immediately starts purring in pleasure. Steve smiles tenderly and comforts him, even though he knows that Bucky isn't to aware of his surroundings right now. “There ya go, bub. Just gimme a sec and we’ll have you feeling real good, okay?” He rolls the cart over and hooks up the bags. The machine will warm it to the natural temperature of semen as it moves through the tubes and into Bucky’s body, but first: the apparatus.

An average adult alpha knot is about the size of a regulation baseball, and the artificial knotting apparatuses that hospitals like Hydra Sanatorium use are thus sized. Uninflated, however, the diameter is small—no more than Steve's own thumb. It’s very easy to lube the thing up and slide it inside of Bucky. The omega is already aroused, lax, wet and swollen, and Steve feels his dick start to get interested when he glances down to watch the rubber nozzle slip past Bucky’s pink and pulsing rim.

If you were mine … he thinks covetously, Bucky’s plaintive whimpers echoing alongside the treacherously unprofessional thoughts in his head. If Bucky were his, they wouldn’t be in this horrible, institutionally puke-green tiled bathroom right now. They’d be in Steve’s home, in bed or in some little space in the apartment that Bucky had chosen to nest. Steve would be fucking his mate naturally instead of using all this artificial crap.

If Bucky were his, he wouldn’t even be regressed like this in the first place, because he would know down to the marrow of his bones that he was loved and wanted. Steve would make sure of it. He’d keep him healthy and happy and satisfied. Maybe Bucky would even be pregnant for real, bred up all fat and happy with Steve’s pups. Steve can’t stop thinking about the drawing that Bucky did in art therapy, how he’d drawn himself pregnant in the picture. He’d expressed uncertainty about pregnancy, but maybe if it were Steve’s pup inside him, Bucky wouldn’t mind it then. Maybe everything would balance out in his system, if Steve put a litter in him. Maybe it would make Bucky happy if he—

On the bed, Bucky whines, and Steve shakes his head and huffs at himself. If, if, if. Too bad he doesn’t get paid for Ifs. “Get it together, Rogers,” he mutters, and reaches down to grind the heel of his hand punishingly against his trapped dick—It helps, somewhat. He grasps the hand pump for the knotting mechanism and squeezes it, observing Bucky carefully as he slowly but surely inflates the rubber bulb to its full size inside the omega’s body.

Bucky’s unseeing eyes blink up at the ceiling, glossy with unshed tears. “Ahn, ahn, ah,” he grunts softly. “Ugn, ugn, ah …”

Steve uses his free hand to rub over his lower belly. “You’re okay. It’s okay, Buck. S’that feel nice? I bet it does, huh? Don’t worry, Sweetheart. You just relax now for Alpha, mkay? Alpha’s gonna make it feel good.” He’s sure it’s not the actual words, so much as it is the sound of his voice that Bucky recognizes, but even still, it’s nice to see the way that Bucky responds to him. “That’s right,” he soothes. “Good boy. You’re such a good boy for Alpha, Buck. Alpha loves you.”

He starts the flow, remaining at Bucky’s side and massaging his tummy gently while the machine begins to pump.

The therapy mimics a pregnancy in that it fills the patient’s body with a physical weight. It inflates the colon and the uterus and mimics the influx of hormones that a growing fetus would create. These physical cues help to trick the brain into thinking an actual pregnancy is taking place, and it’s that input—in addition to the naturally calming feeling of the knot itself—which forcibly tells the omega brain that it is safe and bred, wanted and protected. Only a strong and dominant alpha can keep an omega successfully bred up, after all—that’s what the basest parts of a regressed omega’s mind hang onto. And Bucky is currently fully regressed.

His thumb is back up in his mouth already, sucking away. Steve rumbles in his chest in answer to every grunt and moan that Bucky makes, rubbing his tummy for him as he slowly but surely fills out from the liquid. Steve’s sitting on a stool beside the bed, down by Bucky’s bottom where the warm blanket doesn’t cover, so he can clearly see the twitch of the boy’s taught little sac, the way his shrunken prick is getting chubby underneath the swell of his belly. He frees one hand up from the belly massage and rubs him there, smiling tenderly at the pleased chirp he gets for his efforts. “Yeah,” he whispers, working the head between his fingers like he would a female patient’s clit, nice and delicate, gliding gently from the precum his little dick keeps blurting out. “S’that feel nice, baby?”

Bucky grunts in an adorably demanding way and shoves his butt down against the knotting mechanism to stimulate himself harder with it. Steve chuckles and uses his other hand to tug on the nozzle, rocking the inflated rubber knot nice and steady against the swollen glands inside. Bucky makes a very happy noise at that, and when Steve looks up at his face, he sees the omega staring at the ceiling with bleary eyes, hand fallen away from his mouth as he pants open-mouthed and drools. A wave of renewed want hits Steve so hard, he almost feels like he’s taken a punch to the gut. “Oh, bub,” he whispers, feeling his eyes start to heat with the threat of tears. He wants to take care of Bucky so bad that it hurts. Just absolutely fucking aches. He thumbs under his cockhead a little faster, and is able to pull the next orgasm out of him within seconds.

Bucky sobs, voice caught high and pleasure-pained in his throat, still non-verbal and lost in his own head. Steve swallows heavily and glances over at the enema bags. “Almost there,” he says, forcing himself to go back to rubbing Bucky’s belly as the boy takes the last quart of semen inside his body. “Doing so well, Buck,” Steve praises, running both of his big hands over the swell of his belly.

Fuck, he really does look pregnant. With his muscles all lax from the regression, and a couple liters of cum inside him, he’s filled out enough that he looks like he could be about four months pregnant. Steve eases him through the rest of the remaining bag, praising him with a bunch of rambling words when the machine cuts off from its pumping cycle. He removes the tubing from the knot and rolls the machine back out of the way, goes to grab another couple of warm blankets from the cabinet and drapes them over Bucky’s midsection and legs so that he’s totally covered and encased in warmth.

The boy sighs and grunts happily at the sensations, and Steve smiles down at him. “I know, Love, I know. That feels really good, huh? That’s what we want. Need to show your body that everything’s okay. Make you feel like a mommy for just a little while.” Bucky’s not really hearing him or seeing him, but Steve refuses to believe that the sound of his voice doesn’t have any effect. Bucky knows his voice, he does. Steve knows he does.

Bucky’s eyes are barely open. The tears that’ve been glazing over for so long have gathered at the corners and trickled down his temples as he lies there and feels his body telling him it’s pregnant. The knot is keeping him plugged up and the liquid will have made it past his cervix by now, filling him up with a warm, heavy pressure. Steve remains close and rubs his bloated belly from overtop the blankets, maintaining a steady stream of praise in his ear.

When it’s been a good half hour or so, Bucky begins to show signs of emerging from the fugue. His eyes seem to track Steve’s movements more, and he starts to become more aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t have his words back yet, because he looks to Steve and whimpers and whines little helpless sounds, rather than asking questions about what’s going on or what’s happened. Steve hurries to hold his hand and reassure him. “Shh sh sh. Hey, you back with me, Sweetheart? Hi.” He smiles gently and pets his face. “You’re doing great. Took your treatment so well, Baby.”

Bucky wiggles in place, and Steve can see the moment he recognizes the heaviness in his belly. His hands go there, touching the swell of himself, and Steve nods and places a hand on top. “Yeah, that’s right. We’ve got your tummy all filled up. It’s okay. Just a little inflation therapy. S’it feel nice?”

Bucky looks shocked, and incredibly vulnerable, but not upset. His eyes still leak sluggish tears as he nods at Steve. “...‘pha?” he warbles, the tail end of what is probably the only word he’s capable of articulating right now.

Steve’s face pinches and he smiles and nods. “That’s right, bub. Alpha’s right here takin’ care of you. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Bucky whimpers, dazed, and his eyes slip closed again. But down below, on the distended curve of his belly, he hooks his pinky finger over Steve’s.

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[omnitricks]

this is a bunch of nothing but i made it so im going to post it somewhere. but its for me first and foremost

and for your reading pleasure im going to post a bunch of shit under a readmore

okay so, if you know me, you know that i have some level of bipolar disorder. i was tentatively diagnosed by a therapist i went to when i was about 17, and while i never got that formal diagnosis tattooed onto my body, it, frankly, was kind of fucking obvious in retrospect.

i have talked.. a LOT. about how my teens were filled with a near constant level of homicidal anger. a lot of it was comprised of your standard teen loneliness, going through the wrong puberty, and maybe a sprinkling of childhood emotional abuse, but. whatever. you get it.

i am also autistic, which is fun. the two are.. 'comorbid,' or something, maybe thats the wrong term, but i dont care. nobody is reading this. anyway. basically this means whenever i do feel something, which isn't always, i feel it in a Fun and Unusual way. so far i have been able to cope with my fun and unusual emotions by rationalizing them, or like.. anthropomorphizing them, but in reverse. i dont know. i am angry a LOT, and i form that anger in my head as a smilodon. again, autistic. not the point.

but i've never really thought about what my bipolar disorder itself felt like in my brain. until, y'know, this. this inexplicable thing i can't get rid of but makes my life harder. you know how it is. but.. anyway. back to the near constant level of homicidal anger.

im not going to blame the myriad shitty things i did as a kid exclusively on my mental illnesses, and how poorly they were managed, but im confident i wouldn't have been nearly as bad had i gone to a proper psychiatrist. and gotten medicated, probably. but then again i probably would've done better with *no* mental help considering the first therapist my parents took me to essentially pushed me back into the closet for a few years. that was fun.

point is. i've come to terms with a lot in the past few years, but only recently have i been able to like.. help with it? i have a very supportive partner and she helps so much in calming me down. but its still, yknow, a mental illness that i have.

which is why it's so upsetting to me when people refer to intrusive thoughts and become upset with you if you talk about yours and they're not fun and innocent and quirky enough. people with intrusive thoughts about murder rise up. 'eww theres something wrong with you' WHAT DO YOU THINK MENTAL ILLNESS IS, *CORBYN.*

sorry to any corbyns in the crowd tonight i bet you're a great 17 year old trans boy who hangs out in your high school's library during lunch.

this is a lot of rambling. but like. point is. i have bipolar disorder and it makes living hard and i never feel properly 'safe' in my own home. because, though i know this isn't true, i feel as if i could at one random moment just snap and enter another one of those white-hot rage states where i do something ill regret for the rest of my life. you know?

but all in all, im a lot better than i was. im not great *now* but im a lot better too

[loveinhawkins]

Sorry I just like bombed your blog lol but there's something different about the way you write. There's so much love in it the way they all just love each other so much without having to say it explicitly. I'm just 💞

Also I have a question about Self Sacrificial Steve 👀. Is there any plans/ideas of Eddie kind of telling Steve how bad it was when he left? Like Steve keeps doing this he doesn't matter and it would've been just fine if he was gone routine. And meanwhile it really almost killed the group. Like Eddie straight up didn't halfway remember what happened after and screamed so much he almost lost his voice. Nancy kinda just locked down. Robin screamed and had to hold Eddie back. Like I know he kinda showed it in one of the newest chapters but like 👀. I dont think Steve is really grasping yknow?

oh please never say sorry for that, i love seeing people enjoying my stuff, thank you ❤️ (also a side note to anyone who has sent me a message ily & i often hoard it in my inbox like a little treasure ❤️)

& yes the next part (all going well should be posted at some point tonight) will address more of what they need to process (if that sounds vague… uh it is. hehehe). & yeah i’m nodding along at your thoughts on Steve. rambling some more about his psyche under the read more.

imo Steve rationalising that him dying would’ve been the best outcome in a dire situation is partly a coping mechanism but also like… his fear over losing anyone outweighs his own self-preservation. while i think he understands in theory what everyone went through after he died, i think the full impact only starts to hit him when he sees Eddie struggling to recount how quick it was when he asks “how long did it take?”; when Eddie cries without realising & after Eddie’s nightmare. even after all that, i think Steve would still conclude that a reverse situation with Eddie or Robin or Nancy or any of the kids would be unthinkable. yeah, he’s still terrified throughout everything (him sobbing, “Eddie, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to die,” is that fear finally breaking through just before the end, he’s been trying to hold it back the whole time), but the greater fear & the one Vecna exploits is that he cannot keep everyone out of harm’s way, even by sacrificing himself. 💔

[ourceliumnetwork]

I am working on acceptance.

I gotta be real with y'all, thought i had this one down. we were working through the anger and the denial and the depression and the other things, but... acceptance, man. that one sneaks up on you.

because there's a difference between saying you understand that this is the way life is and these are the things that have happened to you and this is where you're at now and how you're going to move forward.

and actually understanding it.

because intellectually i am more than fully aware that there are limits to my abilities, there is pain i will have to endure in order to experience good things, things have happened to me that i should not have had to go through but i did it anyway and now we're here.

and it's another thing altogether to go "and the entire rest of my life will be spent working around these things."

I got to go on an Ooting today, and i enjoyed it. I knew it was happening, I was as prepared and well-rested as i could be, and I made sure i brought everything i could possibly run into needing while out and about. It means bringing along a huge bag, and having to take a seat on a bench every so often, but it's fine.

And i'm still in immense amounts of pain just getting up to go to the bathroom. and I will be, probably tomorrow and Saturday too. i did it right, i did everything right and knew my limits and worked only within those and i still...

I wish I felt less like I was being punished, and I think I've said that before. That this just feels like punishment for having a good time, for enjoying myself. And it always has, and it's the most Catholic thing about me tbh.

I wanted to cry again, slightly earlier. we moved past it, but... it's still there. lingering. it'll probably happen later tonight, and that's... expected.

Perhaps this will be easier to deal with when I am home and no longer masking the fact that i'm at minimum 17 possums in a trench coat. i've been doing amazing at it, i hardly even noticed it was happening until i couldn't anymore while we were out. Thankfully it was just with G and Vx so it was safe, even though it was in public, but it...

sorry. my brain is kind of everywhere. i think what i used to believe was brainfog due to Exercise (a thing i assumed everyone had a struggle with post exertion) might actually be associated more with the pain post-activity and that realistically what's been happening this whole time is i've just been in so much pain i can't string words together in a... coherent way. I mean i can, obviously since i'm writing this, but like. it's hard. is the point.

everything is hard. all of the time. even on easy days things are still hard. and that... that sucks. I think part of the issue with acceptance is that i.. don't want to think about that. About the fact that every. single. day. for the rest of my goddamn life (and up until this point too, let's not like...let's not forget i've already been doing this for several decades now) it's just going to be difficult to do things.

i don't want that to be the case. of course i don't. who would?? who would want life to be exponentially harder day after day after day with no end in sight?

but... i'm going to have to live with it. and part of learning to live with it is accepting that it's real. that there might not be an end until the day i die.

that every joy will come with a price of pain. that every moment of happiness is because i am sacrificing something - or had something sacrificed on my behalf years ago.

one of the way's i've been coping is by framing myself as the Fantasy Protag Who Got To Retire. you get picked for your adventure as a kid, maybe as late as a teen, you go and you get beat up and you get back up and you beat the bad guys. You win. You've survived.

Now what?

your war wounds, your battle scars, your injuries and your mental health don't heal right. Can't heal right - you were doing triage on the field, and never had time to go to a proper healer before it was too late. now all you can do is Manage the Pain.

So i'm managing. I'm 31, about to be 32. there are no more adventures for me unless someone's willing to carry me, or push me. And maybe I'm too tired for adventuring anyway.

idk the metaphor isn't perfect yet, i'm still workshopping it. but... it helps. not a lot, mind. but enough. most days.

i don't have a conclusion here. i just... idk. if you're reading htis and going through the same stuff, hey. i'm sorry that happened to you. i'm sorry this is how things are. come sit in the rocking chair on the porch with me, we'll have some tea and lemonade and we'll watch the adventurers leave town for their quests and remember when we were them. And we'll have quieter adventures in books and art and music and pain. and it'll be okay.

you're not alone and neither am i. Be kind to yourself, you deserve that.