#this might also have something to do with how it breaks a plot point in one of my aai2 fics

[fir-fireweed]

trying to build up a complicated relationship with violence for my mc, in the sense that she has grown up with the idea that violence is only acceptable against those who deserve it, but she also firmly believes that she has no right to decide who deserves it. now, after coming to terms (sort of) with the attack on her home, she appears to be more accepting in terms of violent acts she may need to do for survival, (and the ones that are done to her) and im thinking that from an outside perspective, her doing something violent with little/no outward reaction to (letsgooo repressing emotions) comes as a HUGE surprise, based on how calm she is. I imagine it would make people see her calmness in a new light, sort of?? i dont know, im just ranting about my mc because i love the opportunity that i've gotten in terms of customization here.

my MAIN point is what would the RO's and maybe evelyns reaction be to an mc thats outwardly very calm, stoic, maybe even charming as a way to ward off their inner very disturbed thoughts (regarding the perpetrators of the attack, and other things in general), but in a rare moment those thoughts shine through? sorry if this ask is too specific i just imagined this

Heya! I love receiving rants about MCs! It’s impossible to account for every personality iteration a reader could want. So it feels like a small victory when readers take those building blocks and make an MC uniquely their own. ☺️

Your question is fairly specific and was a little tricky to wrap my head around, but here you go…

Calliope would be very upset; she’d want to comfort MC but she’d be a little scared, too. Calliope wants to be happy and trust people, but she’s also conflicted over what happened with her father, which she hasn’t fully come to terms with. An MC breaking like that strikes a little too close to home.

Corinne knows that feeling all too well. She’s been there before, probably will be again. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t reprimand. She’d ask you what you need? An extra axe to help break stuff? A moment alone? Whatever it is, it’s valid.

Vicente would say you’re doing it wrong. If those emotions shine through in rare moments, you haven’t killed them sufficiently yet. There’s no room for emotion in plotting revenge, because then you’ll make mistakes. They may be a little jealous, though, that MC still has the capacity to feel.

Bayram would be deeply saddened—not so much that MC is having murderous thoughts, though he would frown upon that, but because he’d sense it’s against their nature.

Tellus would feel extremely conflicted. He’d tell MC they have every right to want to hurt those responsible, he might even encourage it. But deep down, that’s not what he wants. It’d hurt him to see that in MC, knowing the way they were before.

[no-name-omo]

Can you do a Miyabi x S/O where they force her to have a day off to relax. She does too much training to the point of making everything into it. I don’t remember the exact lines from Dragon Ball but Goku mentions that there’s such a thing as too much training. The body needs time to rest or else you face diminishing returns. I think those would be words of wisdom to convince Miyabi.

[A/N] we need to show our favourite Fox girl how to relax and I hope you enjoy

[word count] 1,210+

[Type] imagines

[Summary] teaching your fox wife how to relax

[Genre] fluff / reverse comfort / relationship / hurt to comfort if you really looked at it

[Paring / Characters] miyabi x gn! Reader

Hoshimi Miyabi

You’ve been with your wife, Miyabi, for a while now, and if there’s one thing that never changes, it’s how she turns almost everything into training. Whether it’s eating, cleaning, or resting, she finds a way to make it a lesson in discipline. It’s just how she’s wired. Relentlessly focused.

Miyabi takes everything as a chance to train. Holding chopsticks? She’ll redo it until her grip is perfect, like it’s a martial art. Cleaning? Not done until there’s not a single speck of dust left in sight. Even avoiding certain tasks, she sees as discipline, resistance training for the mind.

To her, everything is an opportunity to improve, to be sharper, more efficient, more prepared. It can be overwhelming, sure, but it’s also part of what makes her who she is. And yet, there’s one thing she never turns into training, loving you. That, she gives without rules.

So you took it upon yourself to help your girlfriend relax but it’s turning out to be way harder than you expected. Suggest watching a movie or series? She treats it like a speedrun challenge, determined to finish the entire thing in the shortest time possible. Introduce her to a video game? Suddenly she’s obsessing over completing it 100%, tracking achievements like they’re battle stats. Even hanging out with friends becomes a “bonding exercise” with planned objectives.

Miyabi means well, this is just how she operates. But getting her to truly unwind? That might be your toughest mission yet.

You brought it up one quiet evening, though “quiet” was always relative with Miyabi. The two of you were supposed to be watching a series, just something light to unwind with. But she was barely paying attention. Her eyes flicked to the screen like a hawk scanning for patterns, mentally tracking plot threads, character arcs, anything she could analyze.

You leaned back with a sigh. “Miyabi.” She didn’t look away. “Yes?” “We need to talk.” That got her attention. She turned to face you, calm and alert like always. “What about?” “You know you treat everything like training, right?” Her expression didn’t change. “I don’t follow.”

You gestured vaguely at the TV. “This show? You tried to finish the entire season in one night just to ‘get it done.’ You came grocery shopping with me and turned it into an efficiency drill. Even last week when we were just strolling through the park, you paced it out like a footwork exercise. Love… you don’t know how to relax.” She was quiet for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, not in annoyance, but in thought. “It’s all practice,” she said at last. “Discipline, awareness, timing. Isn’t that worth maintaining?”

“Sure,” you said gently. “But too much training can be a bad thing. You gotta rest sometimes too.” She looked away, jaw set. You could tell she didn’t like hearing that. Not because she disagreed but because some part of her knew it was true.

You continued, softer now, “Even the strongest fighters need to take breaks. You can’t grow if you’re always pushing too hard.” Her shoulders shifted. Subtle, but telling. “If I stop,” she said, “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

You smiled. “That’s why I’m here. You don’t have to figure it out alone.” For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, she turned toward you fully, and leaned against your shoulder, not tense, not bracing herself. Just still. “…Alright,” she murmured. “But just this once.” You chuckled, wrapping an arm around her. “That’s a start.”

Now, finally, you have her on board. She agreed, at least in spirit, to the idea of resting, of taking moments just to breathe. But even with that, it hasn’t been easy. She still slips, turning relaxation into another form of discipline, counting steps on a walk, critiquing her own posture on the couch. Still, she’s trying. And when she forgets, all it takes is a gentle reminder from you, a soft word, a small nudge and she lets go again, even if just for a moment.

She began to enjoy walks without her weapon, without any pretense, and without setting goals. No drills, no footwork practice, no scanning the streets for potential threats. Just simple, quiet steps. For once, walking felt like peace.

She’s also grown fond of tea, sitting quietly, hands warm around the cup, watching the world drift by. It’s even better with you beside her, the silence comfortable, the moment slow and gentle in a way she never knew she needed.

She’s grown incredibly relaxed by the sound of your voice. It’s become her new favorite thing to hear, calm, steady, familiar. Sometimes, she’s not even listening to the words themselves, just the rhythm of you talking. It soothes her, like waves on the shore, grounding her in a way nothing else does.

She realized she hadn’t been paying enough attention to you that month. It wasn’t because she didn’t care, she loved you, more than anything, and she was loyal to you in a way that ran deep. But maybe she hadn’t shown it as often as she should. And now, she was ready to change that, little by little.

You sat beside her on the couch, the soft glow of the room wrapping you both in quiet warmth. Her tea sat untouched on the table, yours halfway gone. She hadn’t reached for a blade, hadn’t mentioned posture, hadn’t turned on a timer. For once, she was just… still.

You smiled and leaned your shoulder into hers. “You know, we’ve really come a long way.” Miyabi glanced at you, calm as ever. “What do you mean?” “I mean us. Our relationship. You’ve changed a lot. In a good way.” She blinked, thoughtful. “Have I?”

“Yeah,” you said, resting your head lightly against her arm. “Back then, you wouldn’t sit down unless it was for stretching or maintenance. Now you’re here, doing nothing with me. That’s huge.” Miyabi hummed softly. “It’s not nothing. I’m spending time with you.” You laughed under your breath. “Exactly. You’re finally letting yourself enjoy that. Not as a duty or an exercise. Just… as it is.”

She was quiet for a moment, then shifted slightly so your head could rest more comfortably against her. “I didn’t think I needed this. Still not sure I deserve it.”You looked up at her. “You do. Always have.” Her eyes softened, and she leaned into you, her head tilting until your foreheads nearly touched. You felt her exhale, slow, real, at ease. Then, her ears twitched. You grinned. “Your ears are moving again.”

“They do that,” she muttered, not pulling away. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” you said, raising a hand to gently stroke behind one. “Soft. Warm. Kinda twitchy when you’re relaxed.” She let out a quiet, almost embarrassed sound. “They’re sensitive.”

“I know. I love them.” You paused, fingers moving with care. “I love you.” she didn't reply right away. But as her face had a slight dust of pink, and her ears pressed back just slightly, shy, affectionate. “I love you too,” she said quietly. “More than anything.”

You pulled her closer, arms wrapping around her waist, her head settling against your chest like it belonged there. And for once, there was no tension. No silent countdown to the next task. Just the sound of her breathing, and the faint twitch of her ears every time you whispered something soft into her hair.

Zenless Zone Zero x reader taglist List: none

[maccakgae]

seeing this comment made me realize how utterly... boring a mil*ven endgame would be.

isn't it just odd for all of the romance subplots of the series to just get resolved in the fourth season out of five, way before the climax of the story, making them completely detached from its thematic framework?

stranger things is a coming-of-age story, just as it's horror and sci-fi, it's character-driven and character-focused, its supernatural elements mirror and support internal and interpersonal struggles of the cast. finishing off all the romance this early without weaving it into the overall plot would render it all obsolete — they'd be better off not including it to begin with. having romance nothing to do with the literal climax and resolution would mean all of the romantic subplots of the previous seasons were just meaningless filler, drama to keep the audience entertained. it would mean that for four seasons straight, they've been focusing on inconsequential fluff, wasting screen time and not developing parts of the narrative that actually have something to do with what the story is about.

it's shit writing, period.

+ also

you might ask, why can't established mil*ven be its own romance plot? simple! if we assume that mil*ven are not heading towards a break up, they've had their climax already. if mike's declaration of love is to be taken at face value (and that's the only way to view it that supports mil*ven endgame), it's the highest point of their subplot. what else is there to come? mike proposes to el? let's not be ridiculous.

s4 had created a conflict in their relationship that came to a head in the finale and culminated in mike's monologue. so either it has fixed things and mileven enter s5 solid and secure, and their plot is done with, or it hasn't. if mike literally professing to el that he loves her didn't get rid of the issue at the root, not much can be done for them.

(side note to add that i'm not insinuating that saying ily is a fix-all. it's entirely possible to tell a story about a couple learning to communicate better or whatnot, but mil*ven is not that story. they are two teenagers in their first romantic relationship fighting ancient evil that hates them personally, figuring out their love language and healthy boundaries is NOT a good fit for them thematically)

nancy and jonathan have some unresolved issues, that's true, but nancy and jonathan are also not the main characters. they have a lot of screen time, for sure, but they are supporting characters narratively speaking. the main characters are and always have been willelmike, and let me remind you that for the last two seasons both will and mike have been locked into the relationship drama plot. it's especially apparent with s4, they have almost nothing to do but talk around their feelings — meaning it's vital! it's a setup for the next season! it is their plot, and in s5 all of that will get a resolution! no matter how it ends, endgame or not, season 5 is about byler and there's nothing that can be done about it.

[elyvorg]

The Most Significant Change in AAI2’s Official Localisation (according to me)

Ace Attorney Investigations 2 finally has an official localisation! This is kind of mind-boggling to those of us who played the fan translation and have loved it in that form for years, never expected an official localisation to happen, and now suddenly have to get used to everything about it being Just Slightly Different.

Having played the official localisation in full, I can say that for the most part, it’s even better than the already-excellent fan translation! Most of the lines have just a little bit more colour in them now, and there’s a bunch of small nuances that went over my head before that are emphasised better in the new version. There are some lines I prefer in the fan translation, but they’re vastly outnumbered by all the lines I prefer in the official version. All in all, strongly recommend fans of the fan translation to check out the official version in some form.

However, among these minor lines here and there that I prefer in the fan translation, there is also this one small but much more significant thing from the fan translation which is not present in the official version. I happen to care about this small-but-significant detail a lot, so here is a post explaining exactly why this is a Thing that Matters (to me, at least).

(This will mention major spoilers for the game! Do not click the readmore unless you have experienced the entire story of AAI2 in some form.)

The Thing is this: In the fan translation, Simon refers to his friend as “Knightley”, all the time. Meanwhile, in the official localisation, Simeon always calls him “Bronco”.

Now, I get why the localisers did this. It’s a Japanese cultural thing – in Japanese, it’s common for even close friends to address each other by their surnames, and indeed, Sim(e)on referred to Knight(ley) by his surname in the original Japanese game. This is usually changed into friends using each other’s first names in English localisations, because it feels strange in English to see two close friends addressing each other in what feels like a distant and formal kind of way.

(For example, in The Great Ace Attorney, Ryunosuke and Kazuma addressed each other by their surnames in Japanese, and this was – very correctly – localised to them using each other’s first names in English. It would feel wrong to an English speaker for these best friends not to do that, even though they are still characters from Japan.)

So it just makes sense as the obvious localisation choice to have Simeon refer to his friend with his given name, rather than his surname.

However! In this particular instance, I firmly 100% believe that this was the wrong decision.

See, Simon calling Knightley by his surname in the fan translation isn’t just an awkward holdover of a somewhat more direct Japanese translation – it actually means something. It’s a subtle hint that Simon doesn’t actually see Knightley as the friend he supposedly is; he’s distancing himself from his friend by talking about him in this more detached way.

This is subtle enough that it isn’t a spoiler, either! On my first playthrough of the fan translation, I never batted an eye at Simon using his friend’s surname. Some people in English-speaking countries do just prefer to go by their surname, even to their friends – particularly when their first name is kind of awkward. It felt perfectly natural that Knightley might prefer to be called just that even by his best friend, instead of “Horace”, which sounds somewhat old-fashioned and dorky.

(And this would go double, surely, for someone whose first name is freaking Bronco of all things. It’d make plenty of sense that he’d rather be called Knight!)

Knightley himself probably didn’t even question it. I imagine Simon would have called him Horace while they were kids at the orphanage, but then when Simon reappeared in his life years later after his disappearance and was calling him Knightley instead, Knightley probably shrugged and figured, yeah, Horace is kind of a dorky name, he’s not a kid any more, “Knightley” is way cooler. (Especially with his obsession with chess, not to mention his whole white-knight complex towards Simon.)

The biggest reason why this means something is that Simon calls him Knightley almost the entire time, with one single exception. In the flashback to their impromptu nighttime meeting in the prison, in which Simon knows he’s about to get his “friend” killed and this is the last time he’ll ever see him, the final thing he says to him is, “Goodbye, Horace.”

He uses Knightley’s first name, for the only time in the game’s present. And so, precisely because he’s used his surname every other time, this simple line becomes an achingly telling sign that Simon still cares about his best friend despite everything, despite the fact that he is literally getting him killed. It’s like he’s remembering the happier times they had being friends at the orphanage before everything turned sour, like a part of him wishes they could still have that, and it breaks my heart.

(This is the same in the Japanese, too – he uses his friend’s given name, which is a sign of extremely close friendship in Japanese and would have even more of an impact to Japanese-speaking players.)

This implication isn’t there in the official localisation, because it can’t be. Not when Simeon calls him Bronco all the time anyway, even when he’s revealed his true colours and is no longer pretending for the sake of Edgeworth and company. Which means that he simply did call him Bronco the whole time, even after they reunited, even while secretly wanting him dead. In that context, using the name Bronco when saying goodbye to him in the prison means nothing in particular. It’s just the name he always uses.

…Okay, granted, it’s not like that flashback scene has no emotional weight in the official version. It still is Simeon coming to talk to his friend one last time when he doesn’t really need to, which still means a lot on its own. But the final line itself isn’t a particularly notable part of it. In the localisation, it’s “Goodbye, Bronco. …And farewell.” The added “farewell” mostly just serves to make it obvious that he knows this is the very last time they’ll meet, but I suppose there is at least something to the fact that you wouldn’t usually say that to someone you didn’t care about. I don’t think it hits nearly as hard as calling him Horace for the first and only time in twelve years, though.

It seems like either the official localisers didn’t notice the significance of the given name in that line there, or they did notice it but they decided that localising Simeon to use his friend’s given name the rest of the time, like localisers normally would, was worth losing the impact of that line. And I firmly disagree that this was worth it. There’s nothing inherently wrong about Knight going by Knight even to his best friend, even if it might feel a little awkward in principle, and the emotional impact of the final thing his best friend says to him would have absolutely made up for that.

[universalthaumaturge]

so. chapter 5 huh.

[robinavich]

godlight

jack abbot x f!attorney!reader ao3 content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, brief mention of alcohol, co-opting christianity for my benefit (sex), being mean to robby but like lovingly. like ur brother, gingko trees as a plot device, tom cruise mention words: 16.7k sry i <3 dialogue and write it before the rest of the plot a/n: the backpack thing actually happened to me before and also idk how to write synopsis: It’s routine. The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the door with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his. Routine.

You’ve never seen a grown-ass man leap, but when you materialize beside Michael Robinavitch, ready to take advantage of his daily five minutes of quiet and drink his rapidly cooling coffee before he got down to business, with a stack of papers in hand, you think his skeleton might break from the violent flinch that racks his frame.

“God, what are you, a kamikaze lawyer? Are you heat seeking?”

“Why, you offering?”

It’s routine.

The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the stairs with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his.

Routine.

So, like clockwork, the first Friday of the month rolls around, and with it comes you, metaphorical sunglasses on, sauntering off the elevator like you love the emergency department. Like you can’t wait to run around roleplaying Bolt from the titular Bolt to beg for signatures. Like this is exactly where you were hoping to be.

You click your pen, the sharp sound a tiny gavel sealing his fate.

“Come down to reject another insurance claim?” comes from your left.

“God forbid a woman have hobbies, Dana,” you scoff.

“Jack’s busy, ain't around for you to longingly gaze at.” 

“I do not gaze at Jack,” you say defensively, hands abandoning the file they were holding on the desk to fly between your eyes and hers as you try to stress your point. “I look.”

She lets out an unimpressed mhm, her unconvinced eyebrows twitching in doubt at your self-proclaimed non-gazing status.

And you know that you really need to get these papers signed, but Dana sprang this on you out of nowhere, so now you have no choice but to pivot to a time-sensitive Gazegate investigation. Your mind begins to sift through all the evidence. You don’t gaze. You are totally in control of your physiological reactions to Jack.

Your face drops marginally. It’s not your fucking fault that you want him. As if it’s your fault that all you can think about some nights is his voice gasping out your name.

Minor desperation overtakes your frame and bleeds through your hushed words as you imagine Jack Abbot clocking you gazing at him.

Just embarrassing. Your lust is sickening.

“I don't gaze," you insist before dropping your voice and glancing at the attending. "Do I gaze?”

Robby’s eyebrows involuntarily shoot up, transforming his frozen, resigned face into one of are you fucking kidding me?, the statement making him consider whether he needed another cup of coffee or, maybe, a different career altogether.

Perhaps one without insurance claims.

His lips part around a question he doesn’t quite ask—words rising, then retreating as his throat bobs with the effort of swallowing them back down. Robby glances at Dana for a lifeline, but she's bloodthirsty for drama.

Robby finally exhales a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Do you... do you want me to answer that?" he asks, his voice laced with cautious amusement, hesitant to step in the trap you lay at his feet.

You’re silent.

His head drops into a single solemn, affirmative nod—your judge and jury. “You gaze.”    

And there’s something on the tip of your tongue, locked, and loaded, and ready to fire—something connecting the word gaze to Myrna’s little nickname for him.

It doesn’t make it out.

Instead, you pick up the cup sitting to his side—the one patiently saying drink me, Robby! before it totally becomes cold—and silently reclaim it as your own, drinking the burnt coffee in one long, resigned sip.

Robby doesn’t speak.

It’s at that moment, of course, that Abbot appears—steady footsteps cutting through the low hum of the floor.

Jesus Christ. His hair was disheveled, curls sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through them all night and his black shirt, lacking any scrubs censoring the offending article, clings to his biceps like it was divinely tasked with ruining your concentration.

Your eyes catch there, unwilling to move, like staring is involuntary. A distraction you feel in your teeth. One you’d like to feel in your teeth.

As he approaches the desk you’re situated at, his eyes flicker up from the tablet in his hands just long enough to take in the scene: Robby’s flat stare, and your glare as you stand there, empty cup in hand.

“Robby,” Abbot drawls, loaded with the kind of dry amusement that suggests he’s made peace with your brand of destruction long ago.

His gaze slides pointedly to the cup, then back to Robby’s face.

Your victim looks up at him, forlorn, and mutters, “Can you just…?” His voice is flat, resigned—tinged with a special kind of despair reserved for the aftermath of you. Morosely, he half-heartedly gesticulates in your direction, trying to tell the man to control his animal. 

Robby sets the cup down on the counter and picks up your pen, scrunching the sleeves of his hoodie at his elbows, wanting to end this.

Aforementioned animal owner has the audacity to smirk—half-awake and still deciding if he should be charming or infuriating—rolling his shoulders and then sighing before moving toward the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He watches Robby for a moment, then shifts his attention to you.

“Any chance you’ll let him live to see tomorrow?” Voice dry but not quite masking the very real curiosity beneath it.

You shrug and slowly narrow your eyes as though the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. “Depends.”

Typical lawyer.

“Get to him before that coffee does,” Jack advises like he’s giving medical advice, and Robby levels him with a flat stare because he knows that with you around, he is never going to get coffee, let alone have coffee get to him.

Jack huffs in amusement, shaking his head as he moves to join the taller man, tablet tucked under one arm.

“Still have a couple things to do,” Jack grunts to you lowly, and you glance down at your watch because surely you have the time right.

His shift should be ending.

And yet.

“What idiot starts his little tasks at shift-change?” you laugh, enjoying the unamused glance thrown your way from still-on-the-clock doctor—unimpressed, deeply earned.

“Wait for me?” Jack asks, already knowing the answer.

A small smile teases the edge of your lips in response. “Was going to anyway.”

With a low, reluctant breath, he straightens up, scraping a hand through his hair. He turns on his heel and strides through the department.

Dana looks up from behind the desk. Her gaze briefly meets yours, right eyebrow perched slightly above the left, as if to say not gazing, huh?, before she turns her attention back to the task at hand.

Jack’s off doing end-of-shift stuff, Robby is signing his life away, Dana is doing what Dana does, presumably—Christ, you would think these people were employed.

Floundering, you look around. So, no banter? 

You’re already bored. You glance down at your watch, hand exasperatedly waving in the air as the numbers register. You'll have to act like you're employed soon, too. Your carefully structured morning—insurance claims, harassment, fifteen-minute break—crumbles before you.

God, so bored.

Eyes drifting around the department, your fingers start drumming an erratic rhythm on the surface of the desk, rebelling against the feeling of being out of place. Fingers dance along, down the length, adjusting a stack of papers, nudging them at an odd angle just to see if anyone will notice. You move on to your next victim, Dana’s hand quickly behind yours, returning the papers to their rightful place without so much as a glance in your direction.

Fluorescent lights glare down overhead, highlighting everything in a blinding white that dulls your senses.

You let out a low sigh, turning a tablet upside down in its dock. It’s not even fun.

Purposeful activity swirls around you in a slow tempoed symphony, a rare lull settling into the emergency department. To your left, Robby curses the claims in front of him in a hushed voice—and it’s a nasty, personal beef between him and that paper—pen scratching along the documents with resigned effort.

“You always act like I’m asking you to sign a voluntary execution agreement,” you sigh, a note of exasperation creeping into your voice. “I just need your signature, not someone to rewrite the Ten Commandments.”

That poor pen, you think, watching his reluctant grip tighten around it, the pen enduring its fate like a prisoner of war. Nowhere for it to run.

You lean on the counter and your head tilts, arms giving way and your body sliding an inch closer, observing with interest that his signature is essentially just a line. M——. You so could have done these yourself, if you really wanted.

You force yourself to choke back a laugh as expression tightens with each flick of the pen, the simmering annoyance contained just beneath the surface begging to be released.

Fingers beat slower this time, cadence matching the melody around you, watching as the charge nurse moves to undo your minor disruptions.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Time passes slowly.

This hospital should have more legal issues. You wonder who you have to talk to about that.

Robby flips the page.

And from across the room, you hear it. It’s soft, and warm, and, honestly, you have no idea how you hear it over the clamor of the emergency department, but it always lands on your ears deafening, like a clap of thunder.

And you have no reason to be jealous. Jack is, by all relevant and up-to-date nomenclature, your friend.

You trace the sound to the origin, and there he is, emerging from South 19, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.

And, sorry, but that is your laugh. That’s the one you hear low and throaty in your ear when you’re walking too close, and you say something that catches him off guard. The one that haunts your dreams and wakes you up, the sound echoing in your ears. The one you would make a homily of, listening to it day in and day out, saying amen with devout obedience at every pause.

You blink, zeroed in and always devastatingly dramatic.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe the whoring out of his laugh—because apparently everyone gets it these days, because apparently, he feels magnanimous in the same way Oprah does—is his way of politely rejecting you.

Maybe it’s time to dedicate yourself to some religion somewhere and spend the rest of your life on your knees, lest another man tempt you.

Feigning nonchalance, your hand comes off the desk, very chalant eyes still fixed on Jack as you lean towards the blonde opposite you.

“Dana, you’ve lived here a while, right? What’s the convent scene like?” Robby lets out a snort at your question and the tip of your index finger firmly taps the papers beneath his palm three times to refocus him. “Sign the fucking documents, Michael.”

He obediently turns to the next page where you had so painstakingly and lovingly flagged exactly where his signature was required, and a mix of amusement and mild exasperation creeps across your cheeks, pulling the corners of your mouth into a small smile as he scrawls his indignant line across the pages.

“How about you go tell someone their insurance doesn’t care about their life. You’ll see how easy it is to sign these things then,” he says, turning to the next page.

“Are you kidding? I know you heard what happened to that UnitedHealthcare guy,” you click your tongue. “I ain’t doin’ all that.”

Robby doesn’t dignify your callus comment with a response, attention fixed firmly on the paper, willing it to absorb his frustration. The scratch of his pen dissolves into the steady drone heart monitors and residents trying their hand at cheating death. He flips the page, and his broad shoulders raise with his frustrated inhale, posture betraying his mounting irritation as he methodically—mechanically—works through the stack of forms.

The muted scuffle of boots against the ground alerts you of his presence as Abbot settles behind you, close enough his body heat warms yours.

“Free Luig, man,” he gruffly throws his two cents in.

“Luig?” you twist around, words laced with faint incredulity. “Y’all on a nickname basis?”

“Always have been,” he shrugs with such nonchalance that, for a second, you’re almost convinced they have always been.

You nod. Free Luig.

Caught in the crossfire, Robby closes his eyes momentarily and chokes back a groan. The headache was coming on already. It was way too early in the morning, and he was accosted before you even let him get his coffee, and now he has to listen to the two of you engage in what he and Dana and the rest of the staff with money in the pool could only assume was foreplay.

His pen etches into the paper one last time, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips as he finishes the final signature, his annoyance pooling into a little storm cloud over his head. He shoves the pages toward you with a motion that could rival a cat knocking a glass off the counter, his expression tortured, and you reverently accept the signed stack with flourish, a holy scripture freshly inscribed by a weary messenger of God. 

“Thank you, sir,” you chirp, gingerly shuffling the papers and bowing your head.

“You’re too good to him,” Jack says, as if he genuinely expected better from you, nodding toward the older man, already rubbing his temples and back to pretending the two of you didn’t exist.

“He deserves a treat.”

He can’t take it anymore. Robby bolts—bolts—into the chaos of the department like a petty villain in the night.

You don’t even get a chance to double-check that his ridiculous little M—— is scrawled on every line it’s legally required to be on. He knows exactly what he’s doing, too—that smug twitch of his mouth giving him away as he disappears behind a random curtain.

What in the hell.

You tuck the files under your arm and slip a hand into your front pocket. Just as you’re about to let the let’s fly, Abbot roll off your tongue, your hand freezes, strangely empty.

You’re missing your pen.

That bastard still has your pen.

You inhale, long and tempered, because you don't want to be overly dramatic.

You don’t want to be overly dramatic because, okay, you get it, it’s a pen.

But pens don’t last down here in the emergency department, and every time you materialize, you end up giving Robby a pen, and you never get that pen back. And then Jack comes complaining to you because every time they work together, despite the growing number of pens you’ve surrendered to his cause, Robby never has a pen and then expects a pen from him. But the pen that Jack gives him is also your pen. So, then he’s asking you for a pen—which, really, no biggie, you’ve already looked up how much it would cost to buy Pilot so you could give him unlimited pens—and then you’re giving Jack a pen and then you’re also giving Robby a pen and then Jack is giving Robby a pen and you’re freaking hemorrhaging pens on three fronts.

You’ve Pavloved the poor men into carnal pen desire.

So, you stop yourself in your tracks, glancing towards your companion just enough to catch the angle of his head and smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Your shoulders shake as a huff of laughter leaves you.

There is no pen in his pocket, either.

Routine, you suppose.

“Anyone know where Robby went?” you ask, eyebrow arched, back to surveying the faces around you.

Jack nods over your shoulder, once again directing your attention across the room and you follow his line of sight, eyes landing on Robby’s stiff frame, hiding in plain sight. Two steps from him, a woman is standing way too close for his comfort, hand on his arm, the recipient of a very intense one-way conversation.

You’re so going to make fun of him for this later. Maybe even in the emergency department group chat that you’ve weaseled your way into.

“Explain,” you demand, ravenous for the gossip.

“Guy came in last night, not doing great. Advance directive on file, medical POA too—directive was signed after. The kids are pissed.” 

He lowers his voice, conspiratorial, and you reflexively shift closer to hear him.

“Now they’re trying to bribe half the staff with Daddy’s things for comfort treatment.”

The word daddy leaving Jack’s lips makes your eyes freeze in place, the only visible crack in your armor. This is really not what you need to be thinking about this early in the morning. You give a sharp shake with your head, trying to physically eject the thought.

Man, that family is totally legal’s problem.

You deflate. Which means that’s your problem, really, and you know as soon as you get back to your office, you’ll be losing a game of rock-paper-scissors for who has to be on the way back down here, and you hate ancillary document infighting.

“Okay, well that’s…” Your eyes narrow slightly, contemplating. “…awful?”

“Was that a question mark?”

You shrug. Maybe.

“Any chance you think I can get his attention?” you question, acceptance of the fact that a new pen is about to be classified as missing in action settling in your pocket.

And then Jack forces you to look at him, hand slowly curling around your bicep, and you’re struck by the inexplicable, primal urge to flex to show him, hey, I could hunt and gather. I could do anything you need me to do. 

And then you have to fight the other urge to check your watch, because God forbid you give the impression that there’s anywhere else you’d rather be, but you are positive now that it’s barely seven in the morning and you stomp that primal urge down because you cannot start your yearning and lusting this early. Especially with this new legal problem on your radar.

“Looking for something?” he says, and somehow it sounds like an insult. 

“Theft charges,” you reply dryly.

His mouth twitches.

“If I am ever in that position,” he commands, voice gentle but unmistakably pointed as he tugs your focus back from Robby. Selfishly, Jack wants all your attention on himself. “Just put the pillow over my face, and press—”

You blink, drawing back. “Goddamn.” 

“—create an airtight seal—”

“Just sign the POA, girl.”

“Bet you used to charge a premium for those.”

“Just, like, two thousand. That’s, like,” you expel a dramatic breath from your lungs, feigning introspective mathematical precision, and rock back on your heels. “Twenty beaver pelts back in your day.”

“Twenty?” His head reels back, his voice fading out at the end in an octave that you’re not quite sure he possesses, and the commitment to the bit makes your chest tighten. He leans forward again. “Real proud of those autogenerated documents, huh?”

“No one used to copy-and-paste like me, baby.” You bite your lip.

A beat passes.

He demands your gaze, insistent, possessive.

You suck your teeth and lower your voice, a teasing lilt rising to suffocate the longing that tries to break through. “So, I’m in your deathbed fantasy, huh?”

Enraptured by the way the left side of your mouth starts to smile before the right follows suit, he allows his eyes to flicker to your lips, too quick for you to catch. 

He doesn’t even blink. The hand on your arm tugs you forward, gentle but certain, and you stumble closer to his body. Your tongue, usually razor sharp and biding time until the next joke, dulls.

You blue screen.

Why is his hand big enough to wrap around your arm like that? Dear Lord, has he always been this warm? You can’t remember. Whatever used to be where your brain was immediately betrayed you and fucked off, leaving in its place a panting dog. Does he need you to bark? You could bark. You have no qualms with barking.

He leans in close, voice fighting to be heard over the crackling PA system probably calling for an attending in some fucking room, and then you were no longer in the emergency department. Ringing overtakes your ears and you imagine the hand on your bicep somewhere a little higher.

“Sweetheart,” his drawls, sinfully wrapping around each letter, like he knows exactly what it does to you. The word drips from his lips with maddening ease, dragging down your spine like molten lava. “You’re in my every fantasy. Welcome to the conversation.” 

You blink again. The PA system calls out another pleading demand for whoever was listening at this point, effectively eliminating you and Jack, and his voice—steady, warm, smug—fills your brain with cotton, making it hard to ration, or think, or breathe. 

You’re what?

His eyes dance around your face reverently while the slightest ghost of a smile takes residence on his lips, memorizing the subtle flush traveling across your cheeks and your wide eyes—no longer the color you were born with—blinking uncomprehendingly up at him. He tucks some things away for later, too—the way your breath hitches in a shallow, uneven burst, and how your lashes flutter like they can’t decide to stay open or not while you process his words. In the back of his mind, he decides he likes making you speechless. He tucks that away for later, too.

Then the corners of your lips twitch, your voice slipping out before you could stop it, soft but teasing, “Careful, old man, lest someone label you a poet.”

His responding laugh is quiet, low, self-satisfied—just for you, as it should be, thank you. And when his hand loosens its grip on your bicep and trails down to brush his fingers against yours, your breath stalls.

For the first time, you realize that you’re not in control of anything here at all, let alone your physiological reactions to his proximity. Jack Abbot holds all the cards in a perfectly imbalanced stack against his chest, and, despite your best efforts, you’ve never been good at poker.

And then you feel it.

You are fucking gazing.

You very explicitly recall your job description reading: Hours: 7am-5pm, Mon-Fri.

So why, then, do you find yourself swiping your security card back into the stairwell, beginning your ascent just as the numbers on your watch creep to 6:48am on a Sunday. 

Actually, you know why. A text.

You were tucked in bed, comforter woven from warm springtime sunbeams, thoroughly enjoying the walk on the fuzzy line between waking and slumber. And then, without warning or pause, your body was violently ripped from the veil like a loose tooth at a little kid’s freaking birthday party, phone buzzing, SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D. plastered across your screen and, below it, a text.

Roof, it read.

Well, yeah, Jack, you thought blearily. Roof. Of course, roof. 

You say bark, I bark.

Your comforter was off, and shoes were being tugged on before the screen even dimmed from inactivity, the rational thought of changing out of your sad excuse of pajamas nowhere in sight. Heading into work on a Sunday before the sun was even up.

Nothing wrong with getting a head start on next week, you hum to yourself as you wait for the elevator to ding at the twelfth floor, and then you pause, disgusted with the stray thought. Since when did you want to willingly participate in capitalism more than required?

All because of a man?

Mental You takes the cookies out of the oven and giggles and twirls her hair and dreamily sighs out a yeah.

You step off the elevator and immediately cross the hall, shoving the door to the stairwell open, feet trudging up the steps.

At least you’re also getting paid for it. Not that you need to be paid to see Jack.

I’d pay to see Doctor Abbot, Mental You giggles.

You finally get to the roof, thighs burning, though not as much as they used to—shoutout to Andrea at the gym—and push open the door.

Or you would. 

The door jams, halting your hand mid-motion, and you sigh. 

Without thinking, you wind back and slam your shoulder into the damned thing. It flies open with a dramatic groan and you’re all but launched forward, right shoe catching awkwardly on the ledge. Gravity seizes the opportunity with enthusiasm, zealously pulling at your body, and you guess that your bag must want in on the action too, because it shifts the weight of everything inside, throwing you off balance, the momentum carrying you in a parabolic arc directly into the path of the bloodthirsty door, who vengefully desires nothing more than to claim your life and perhaps its rightful resting position in the frame.

And then time is slowing down in that unique and humiliating way it does when you realize with horror that you’re doing something that would land you on TikTok. 

And then there’s another moment, fleeting but vivid, where you register how ridiculous you must look: clad in pajamas, bag swinging, your body a perfect picture of chaos. 

And then it happens.

You collide with the door in a graceless, full-bodied tackle that rattles the hinges and might as well announce your presence to the entire city.

By the time you stumble away from the ring, vehemently declining another round with the door, your legs stinging where the exposed skin met the cold metal, you notice Jack already leaning against the far side of the railing, figure outlined by the slowly rising light of the sun.

At first, you think he hasn’t noticed your grand entrance, but Jack has always had the uncanny ability to see everything you don’t want him to see, and also you would have to have been dead to not have heard all that. It’s the single shake of his tense shoulders that betrays him, and, really, you have to give him credit where credit’s due, because he’s trying.

He’s trying so hard to not make fun of you right now.

You can feel it.

You straighten up, and you’re of half a mind to try and salvage the scraps of dignity you still have left, but, ultimately, you find that you just don’t care that much. You also find that it was so much colder than you thought it would be, given your current attire.

A coat, you think miserably. Anything. Anything at all would have been better.

“I swear it wasn’t like that a couple days ago,” you huff, brushing invisible dust off your sleeve as you lick your wounds.

Abbot finally allows a single soldier through the front lines in his battle against laughter, letting out a sharp chuckle that cuts through the cold morning air.

“You always know how to make an entrance,” he observes, similar to the way he’s observed cloud cover.

His eyes drag down to your legs and his brow subtly creases, trying to conceal the way his brain short-circuited for half a second.

“Shorts,” he mutters, blinking slowly, shoulders rising in a steep inhale. “That’s…a choice.”

"Yeah, well, you know..." you wave a hand in the air dismissively. "Sleeping."

And you realize, fuck, you really don’t care about your wounded dignity and stupid outfit if it makes Jack Abbot look at you like that.

A comfortable ease settles over you while something warm settles in the pit of your stomach, one that only he seems capable of conjuring. You take a deep breath, the cool air biting at your lungs, the tension from your stairwell match melting away as Jack’s presence steadies you.

“Wait, you come up here without me?” He clarifies, voice a little rougher than he means it to be, unwavering stare locked on you. “But it’s—this is mine.”

“I really don’t think you can have, like, a monopoly on the roof, Jack.”

“I was hired first,” he argues, like that alone justifies his claim to the space. 

“Jack, how is it a monopoly if you let me in?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at you flatly like that answers it.

“I literally work, like, eight feet below where we’re standing right now,” you stress, foot tapping against the ground in emphasis. “You understand that, right?”

He shrugs, corner of his lips creeping up. “You don’t have to beg, kid. I’ll let you use it,” he says, smug. “I’m magnanimous like that.”

You don’t even know where to begin tearing apart the words that just exited his mouth. But your mouth, your traitorous mouth, does. “I’m not begging.”

He leans in then.

“Do you want to?”

He knows it’s the only way he can throw you off the same way you so unknowingly do to him.

Sure enough, you lag behind his response, mouth parting as power is diverted from mandibular control to turn the gears in your brain, each one creaking with effort as they try to process what the fuck just came out of his mouth.

And he says it to keep your blinders on, to distract you from the way he almost said ours instead of mine, and to distract you from the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like they want to reach for you but are stuck in purgatory, unsure if they’d be welcomed.

But Jack notices it too much.

He notices his twitching hands, and the way your laughter lingers in his chest longer than it should, and the way your voice threads through the spaces of his day and ties his heart in knots in ways he doesn’t even know where to begin untangling. He doesn’t say anything, but he feels it, thick and unyielding, curling around his ribs and threatening to suffocate him whenever you’re near.

So, his arms fold over his chest, absently creating a protective barrier, his eyes falling somewhere distant.

And then cut to you sideways, softening despite himself, cracking through the flimsy pretense of just-friends banter you both cling to like it might protect you from the inevitable. It’s a game you keep playing, tossing a live grenade back and forth.

But he won’t drop it.

If there is one thing that Jack Abbot has in abundance, it’s patience. He is patient—he learned it long ago under the blanket of gunfire and the oppressive heat of the sun, and mastered it with bodies bleeding out beneath his hands. And he is tenacious. He is so fucking tenacious it would make your head spin. And he would toss that live grenade days, months, decades until you reacted too slowly and it went off.

And then the moment is gone and you’re dancing back over the line to friends. He punches your arm lightly, the movement too calculated to be casual, his fist moving forward unaccompanied by the fluidity and self-assuredness you’ve seen him possess with florescent lights above him and a body below. His knuckles burn your arm where they glance across it, and your eyes whip between the afflicted site and him, mind already curating a scathing retort.

He waits, daring you to notice how long he lingers in moments like this, how he drags out conversations just to keep you tethered here next to him, close enough to pretend you’re his.

But you step closer, eyes taking in the way his shoulders seem to be pressed down by an invisible weight—one that you wish you could become Atlas to alleviate, if just for a moment.

Bad night, you observe.

Bad night, indeed, Jack’s body screams in reply.

When the shrill alarm alerting him of 5pm pierced the fragile fog that had settled on his brain, it felt as though the world was gunning for his sanity. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on his chest, and his body, tangled in sheets that seem to have turned into chains and a sweat-soaked shirt plastered to his body, drags heavily, joints creaking as he began to extract himself from his fabric prison.

Thirty-three minutes of deep sleep, Jack’s watch spat in his face.

Kill yourself, watch, he grunted back.

But time, relentless and indifferent and, in the back of his mind, named Gloria Underwood (no relation, you tried to convince him during one of your rooftop meetings once. It’s a common name, Abbot.), marches forward, dragging him along with its cruel cadence and another hellish shift in the books.

And presently, you see his tense body standing—like the soldier he’ll probably always be—at attention, shoulders rigid, chin tilted defiantly as if daring the universe to shove him just a little further, just until the ground beneath his feet disappears, and hands clenched so tightly at his side that you think you should take him downstairs to check for open wounds.  

The thing about the veteran that you clocked long before the start of soft smiles, and the banter, and the myriad rooftop rendezvous is this: when he has a bad night, he gets philosophical.

“Do you think God cares?” he deadpans—which is insane to you, because who opens like that?

You gently lean your demon-possessed bag against the AC unit and walk forward to settle beside him where he leans heavily against the opposite side of the rail. “Like, in general, or…?”

“The death,” he lists, ticking it off like it’s a mildly interesting footnote. “The helplessness.”

“I don’t know. Kinda used to want to ask God that,” you admit, your energy shifting to match his vaguely existential one. You try kicking at a rock to diffuse some of the tension and somehow miss entirely. “‘If you’re so loving, why do you allow so much suffering and injustice.’”

“Don’t question it anymore?”

The question makes you pause. You guess you didn’t question it anymore. You were surrounded by it every day, as was he—the predatory insurance companies and the maladjusted American healthcare system. It wasn’t as though you’d been exposed to the trademarked horrors, but the past six years were taxing enough. Year after year, case after case, you internalized the knowledge that the things meant to help you weren’t really there just to help. And that knowledge takes its toll.

So, no, you don’t really question it anymore.

But you do let it steal parts of you. It isn’t outright draining—more like a faucet that didn’t shut off completely, allowing a single drip to escape at a time, every couple seconds, every day, for years. Not something someone immediately identifies and fixes, but something that, when you do notice it, you kind of throw your hands up in the air like, well what the fuck now?

That’s where you’re at. Well, what the fuck now, indeed.

You laugh, the sound unbidden and a touch more bitter than you want it to be. “No, it just became a pride thing.” 

And then the soft confession escapes you before you could beat it back with a bat and send forth some retort that would get you a huff of air through the nose at worst, and a scoff and shake of the head at best. The words cross your unspoken boundary of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual—they toe the line of being vulnerable. “I guess now I’m afraid that he might ask me the same question.”

Part of you really hopes he ignores the words. Part of you hopes that the words would fall on deaf ears and any response would die on mute lips. Part of you hopes that the world would open up and pluck those drifting words right out of the air before they could reach him.

But Jack is there. Jack is always there, and Jack always fucking saw you before you saw you, and he always heard what you said before you knew what you said.

And he would always be there throwing you a life-preserver, a way out.

He tries to salvage what’s left of the levity from your grand entrance and nudges your shoulder with his.

“It’s a really stupid question, anyway,” he utters softly, gently, the understanding of a man who has seen worse draping over the words.

A life-preserver that you would enthusiastically grab like you’ve asked for one every Christmas for the past thirty years. His eyes head turns, and his eyes lock on to yours, inviting and warm, and you realize you’re so fucked.

You swallow, the familiar teasing expression reappearing on command, the left side of your mouth coming up in a smirk and your right eyebrow raising fractionally.

“Yeah. We should really be focusing on big picture stuff,” you agree. “Like, ‘How does Tom Cruise do all that?’”

“That’ll blow God’s freaking mind,” he grumbles.

You nudge his shoulder back.

Cold wind nips at your skin, and you shudder, your arms drawing in to aid your body in retaining heat. Your eyes dart to the side hoping you were as subtle doing that as you thought you were.

Definitely not, you assume. The troubled man’s fingers tighten on the railing as he wordlessly swings himself under to the other side, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. 

You begin offering up a weak protest, barely more than a whisper, until Jack’s eyes snap to you, cool and amused. 

“Don’t get used to charity,” he murmurs, voice like velvet on steel. “Just say thank you, Jack.”

A meek thank you, Jack takes its place. A hum, noncommittal—casual—fills the space between you in reply.

The weight of it presses down, swallowing you whole. It’s warm from his own body, and it smells vaguely of the antiseptic you’ve come to accept as his cologne, and God, and it’s heavy. Not because of the fabric itself—that’s actually rather light, it’s still early in the season-change—but because it’s his. An ever-present fixture that emerges as soon as the temperature drops.

A constant.

And now it’s on you and it feels almost too personal, and you shift slightly trying to shake the intimate feeling off and just enjoy the moment as a girl with a crush on a man fifteen years older than her, but the bastard clings to you and settles into your heart.

“We should get you a new cologne, by the way.”

You said we. You had said we and Jack’s brain immediately latches onto the promise of something so domestic with you.

“Are you saying I smell?” he asks, expression unreadable but amused.

“Every day I sit in my office and pray you’ll take a shower.”

“You don’t have better things to pray for?”

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s on a roll.

“World peace,” he supplies, like it was the obvious office prayer.

It’s a good office prayer, you have to admit.

“I can’t wear cologne down there. Liability or something,” he continues dryly, and the next words seek out your pride with surgical precision, making a single, tiny cut. “You of all people should know that.”

He got you there again—you should know that—and that’s like three times in the span of ten minutes that he’s got you. You’re not quite sure what’s happening right now.

Deafening silence concedes the argument.

But as far as you’re concerned, you’ll let him have it. You have Jack on one side of you and the warmth of his jacket protecting you against the cold creeping in. You’re content.

And you thought Jack was content, too.

But apparently, he isn’t.

Can’t let the silence just freaking do its thing.

“Can I ask you something else?” he says, like the answer to that has ever stopped him before, “Why do you care?”

And the parallel between this question and the one about God makes your eyebrows furrow a little because, what does that mean? What does ‘why do you care about the suffering of human beings,’ mean?

“About suffering?” you say slowly, trying to find your footing.

“No.”

Your mouth opens a fraction, perhaps wide enough for a fly to be caught, while you work to follow what path his mind went down.

What, like, The Yankees? Yeah, you care about them. Obviously, because you love them. Any team that happens to be playing against Jack’s beloved Pirates, of course care about them, because you hate whatever team Jack loves. Annoying Robby? Sure. About Jack himself, absolutely. Fucking definitely, even. 

You tick the entries off in your mind: career, first and foremost; your friends; Jack; your family that hasn’t talked to you in years; Dr. Abbot down in the ED; crippling debt payments from law school; that matcha place Samira showed you; the socio-political landscape of the world; former army medic, Jack Abbot. 

You can’t imagine that Jack’s unprompted and vague question was about any of these things.

Your eyes squint not of your own volition. “What?”

“Yesterday,” he clarifies, tone clipped, ever a man of many words. 

“What?” you try again.

“About that woman.”

You’ll shove this fool off the roof yourself, you decide. “What?”

He leans back, knuckles white from gripping the rail to anchor him, sighing that you’re the crazy one right now sigh—like he can’t believe he has to spell it out for you, word for word. “The one that was flirting with Robby.”

You actually look over at Jack then, confused. He’s not looking at you, his back now ramrod straight and jaw reflecting his fists, clenched so tightly you're surprised his teeth aren’t shattering from the pressure.

The woman that you had a very long, very tense, conversation with—brother’s presence intruding like a serpent in the garden, begging you to sin—about pulling her father off life support?

A laugh almost escapes you. You’re not sure he realizes how stupid he sounds thinking you cared about anything in that moment other than the way his hand wrapped around your bicep and the way he laughed, low and ruinous and lethal, and called you sweetheart.

Light and sexual, you chant to yourself.

“The one that wants her dad dead?” you bluntly ask—whatever, who needs light, anyway?

His shoulder draws up in a half-shrug, mouth opening in a wordless response. Finally, he settles on, “I’m just saying you seemed… very interested—”

“What, in my job?” your confused tone betrays the half-smile on your face.

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

"I mean, it sounds like what you're saying—"

"No, you looked upset at her—"

"—and it's definitely what I'm hearing—"

"Well, get your fucking hearing checked—"

“Are you jealous, Jack?” you press, cutting him off, pointed and a little smug.

“Yes.”

He says it so simply, and his voice is so soft, so confident, and it lands with decimating impact. 

What happened to light and sexual, Jack?

It just swan dove straight over the ledge, Jack.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Your next thought slams through you, so loud and so out of pocket, and you’re a little pissed because last time you had this thought, you told it to at least give you, like, an ETA next time. Your heart jumps a little in your chest. Maybe you don’t have to call that convent, you think. Maybe he isn’t a fan of polite rejection.

And then the third thing you cared about in yesterday’s interaction strikes you. Obviously.

“Jack,” you enunciate. You want your next words to be explicitly clear. “The only reason I was even looking for Robby was because he still had my pen.”

His jaw twitches. “What?”

“Holy shit, can we stop with the whats?”

“Okay, look, sorry if I need to make sure that my friend,” he spits out the word, duplicity-soaked label coating his mouth with a bitter aftertaste. “Isn’t pining over my- my fellow attending.”

“First of all, I would never pine,” you note. “I’m a maple, and I want that on record.”

For a turbulent second, Jack wants to grab you by the scruff of the neck and manhandle you like a misbehaved chihuahua because he’s serious and you make jokes when you’re feeling defensive—something that he usually finds endearing but simply can’t find it in him to do right now.

He doesn’t want you pining over Robby, he wants you pining over him.

And so maybe his response is fueled by jealousy, okay, sue him. He’ll bring it up to his therapist and then apologize to you, and you’ll say something like, I should invoice your therapist myself for emotional labor.

So, he digs in, tone sharp but surgical, and says something that he knows will get a rise out of you because he knows you—he knows everything about you.

“Maple? You’re so obviously an oak—you’ll never be a maple,” he fires back, voice incredulous, volume subdued, eyes narrowed in outrage. “You’re not even close to maple-level, be fucking for real.” 

A strangled sound makes its way out of you, shocked that he would even think such a thing. “Of course you would say that you fucking ginkgo,” you snap.

“Gingko?”

You inhale sharply and force yourself to rein in your next sentence because there’s a feeling in your chest—one slowly rising, and it suspiciously feels like anger. Why the hell is Jack acting like this at seven in the morning on a Sunday, especially about someone that the hospital would sell out in a heartbeat over a wrongful prolongation of life lawsuit?

Pining over Robby? Is he fucking stupid?

Well, two can play this game.

You can be fucking stupid, too.

You can be fucking stupid, and—you want it known, labelled, and presented before the new J.D. recipient, prosecution attorney Jack Abbott, M.D., as Exhibit A—you’re not remotely capable of even pretending to be normal in a competitive situation.

“Sorry, Abbot, I didn’t realize you could even clock my pining over the volume of your giggles,” you counter hotly, throwing a trembling finger in his face at the scandalized look that crosses it. “Yeah. Giggles.”

“So, you were pining over Robby?” he confirms, and it lodges itself under your skin. 

You’re sure if you looked down at your watch it would tell you that you have a heart rate of at least one hundred and eighty.

“Why the fuck do you care who I’m pining over?” you hiss, your voice dripping with frustration.

Jack opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then tries again—lighter, a silent prayer that maybe the joke can diffuse the mounting tension.

“I don’t care, but Robby is built like one of those car-dealership inflatables, and—” he shifts his weight to the left, leg aching.

But it’s too late. Your eyes narrow.

“Built like a car-dealership inflatable?” you echo in disbelief, hoping the words will help Jack realize the incredulousness of the statement. “What the hell does that even mean?”

That’s a great question, the prosecution thinks. He doesn’t even really know, but it’s out now and he has to roll with it.

“That’s your friend and now you’re being fucking mean,” the words press out through gritted teeth, humor long gone. “You’re just saying stuff.” 

He agrees with you, he is just saying stuff, and Jack will apologize to his friend for the stray when his mind is clearer and blood pressure lower, even though the other man won’t have any idea what he’s talking about.

“Yeah,” he bites out, stepping closer. “But you kicked this shit off with your stupid maple thing, and now I’m stuck defending myself against a guy who walks like life’s spine-optional and he’s not sure how gravity works—”

“Shut up about Robby’s walk!” you yell in a rush, your voice shrill and piercing, the sheer absurdity of the argument making your hands fly into the air. “This isn’t about him! Or his- his saunter. This is about your—”

“This is not about me,” he cuts you off, too loud to be convincing. “I just think you deserve better spine-to-surface ratio, is all—”

“Because your body has such a perfect there-to-not ratio, right?”

“Ohhhhh, you wanna go there—?”

“No, actually, I don’t,” you snap back. Then, sharper, “Listen, Abbot—”

“No, you listen,” he grounds out, your name a heated whisper snapping against its leash. “You’re the one who made this weird. You got all defensive and—” Jack gestures around like it personally offended him, “And then you’re calling me a gingko. A gingko. Like that’s a thing regular people do in arguments.”

“Oh, I’m sooo sorry, Doctor,” you draw out the syllables in mock-sympathy. “Would you prefer that I use military metaphors? Would that make baby feel more emotionally validated?”

“Yes, it would!” the doctor hisses back, mouth a breath away from yours. “Maybe at least then I would know where the hell I stand in your metaphor jungle!”

There’s a beat—one that coils the tension tighter, and tighter, and tighter—and Jack’s eyes, always attuned to your body, snap to the frustrated pinch of your mouth. Then back up. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts, a wild fire burning behind your glassy eyes, gravity giving up on strands of hair where you ran your rands through them.

Not for the first time, he thinks that you’re beautiful. Your beauty was noted and neatly filed away long ago at your first meeting, shelved next to other invariably true things like death, and taxes, and a subscription he forgot about charging his bank account.

Eyes snap back down again. 

And fuck he wants nothing more than to slam his lips against yours, to win, to derail the argument—to get you to stop arguing for maybe the first time in your life.

You clench your jaw, and you take a deep breath. 

Neither of you move.

Don’t even shift your weight.

Almost nose to nose.

Of course, you weren’t pining over Robby, he knows that.

Because in Jack’s mind, it’s simple.

You’re his.

And sometimes he forgets that this thing between you has never been verbalized and linguists and English majors around the world are probably still scrambling and conspiring to combine words and build syntax trees that won’t even scratch the surface of explaining how deeply you’re seared into his soul.

And he certainly forgets that in your mind, he’s not yours.

Then, of course, there’s also the fact that he hasn’t done this in years, not since his wife—so, admittedly, he’s a little rusty. He tried practicing, but this conversation isn’t going at all how he painstakingly and methodically rehearsed with Robby in the breakroom.

And then somehow trees were pulled into it, and he doesn’t know anything about trees—he could name maybe four types. He can’t even tell you what a gingko is. He honestly thought it was a lizard. He probably would have put money on it.

And also he loves your metaphors, you know that.

“There was a woman in South 19,” he starts slowly, forcefully controlled. The first words in an unspoken sorry. His hands twitch by his side. “She was eighty-two years old and told me I was too handsome to be a doctor. That I should be on the cover of Vogue.”

Your brain, which has been running on pure spite and cortisol, fumbles.

Silence presses down over you once more.

The roof is too quiet now.

Too stupid.

You’re angry and a little hurt. Jack’s angry and, you think, probably a little hurt, too—at the very least by the body-ratio comment and definitely by the gingko comment.

And you feel even more stupid because, through it all, you’re still swimming in his fucking jacket.

Unfortunately for you, you agree with the eighty-two-year-old woman in South 19. He should be on the cover of Vogue.

It’s your turn. You press your hands into your eyes hard enough you see stars, taking a small step back.

“Robby had my pen,” you mutter, reprising the explanation you started before the argument spiraled out of control.

Abbot blinks. “What?”

You sigh, loud and theatrical, hands dropping. “Robby had my pen, okay? And it’s—just—it’s always like this. I show up. He needs to sign. He never has a pen. I give him one, then you give him one, but it’s also mine, because you got it from me, and then I give him another, and it’s like—I’m hemorrhaging pens. I am singlehandedly keeping Pilot in business because of this freaking guy.”

He just stares at you.

You gesture helplessly. “So, yeah. I was looking for Robby. To get my pen back.”

Another beat.

Then Jack, flatly, “You picked a fight with me because of a pen pyramid scheme.”

“Okay, um, actually, you picked a fight with me,” you object, your mind scrunching up its sleeves and waving its fists in the air, ready to go again. Ballpoint trauma massages its shoulders, egging it on.

He watches you and shakes his head imperceptibly.

He’s in love with someone who’s bleeding office supplies.

The man runs a hand over his face, palm dragging slow, and when it drops, there’s something soft and aching behind his eyes. Not pity. Not amusement. Just this quiet, stunned affection like, God, it’s you. Even when you’re arguing over trees and tube men, it’s you.

Your shoulders start to slump, and you scuffle your shoe against the gravel, eyes fixed on the ground like you’re trying to disappear. All the fire from earlier is gone, and somehow that’s worse. He watches you there, wrapped in his jacket like it belongs on your shoulders, drowning in the sleeves, collar brushing your cheek a little every time you move. It’s recklessly easy to forget what started this fight—to forget that he can’t do anything in this moment but watch you shrink before him.

He wants to take your face in his hands, thumb the curve of your cheekbones and tilt your head up. He wants to bend down and let his lips press into the corners of your eyes, catching the unshed tears. He wants to press kisses to every inch of your skin—your temples, the tip of your nose, the crease between your brows—murmuring I’m sorry between each one like a prayer, drunk on adoration of you. 

In a pathetic attempt at casualness, your voice breaks through his fantasy, “I’m ‘friend’ and Michael’s relegated to ‘fellow attending,’huh?”

Jack exhales, controlled and slow, not meant for your ears.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” the veteran says quietly.

“I would argue what he doesn't know appears to hurt him the most,” you breathe a laugh, eyes still downcast.

He inclines his head and forces a gruff chuckle quietly to escape, the sound landing gently on your ears. Your traitorous heart stutters in your chest at the sound. And then his laugh pauses, and eyes narrow. He nods because, actually, you’re right about Robby. He should really ask him about that tomorrow.

All at once, in the back of your mind, you start to feel guilty.

You know that your friend had such a bad night and, presumably, a bad shift, that he asked you to come to the roof on a Sunday. And then you just called him a gingko and that was so fucking far from cool. The lump swelling in your tightening throat starts to teeter on impossible to swallow around. The tears you never learned how to suppress in an argument burn the back of your eyes.

But the sound has already burrowed into your heart once more and you can’t even remember why you were having a hissing match with Jack Abbot about trees and car-dealership inflatables. His stupid fucking laugh took your composure by the ear and shot it point blank in the back alley of a Wendy’s all within the span of three seconds.

You can’t help it.

“Hey, Jack,” you begin, your voice floating out and dying in the air as the sounds of the street rise to battle them.

You’re silent for a second.

You know you should quit while you’re ahead and leave down the stairs with a thumbs up and one last joke about returning to the door for seconds, but the words hey, Jack are already out, and true to the name, this is Jack, and now he’s looking at you with such affection in those confusingly beautiful eyes that all you want to do is tell him how, most days, he is the only thing keeping you sane, and how when you imagine your future, you imagine the calluses on his hands and arms wrapped around you from behind. And you want to tell him that you want nothing more than to see him every day, hell, you’ll take seeing him off hospital grounds. And, God, you want to text him the stupid updates throughout your day—that your matcha sucks today and you think the barista wants to set you on fire.

You want this nearing ancient, active suicide risk in your life beyond insurance claims, and Rooftop Club, and stupid fucking fights about pens and eighty-two-year-old women in South 19—even ones that are now confusingly flora based.

I think I love you, you want to tell him.

And for a moment you’re genuinely worried that you might say something conveying anything of a remotely similar sentiment—something definitely not light and sexual.

But then you hear yourself softly admitting, “For the record, you’re my best friend.” 

The vulnerability makes you feel like you’ve been cut open, heart on display for the medic’s steady hands. The guilt gnaws at you, and you resign yourself to feeling like a fool, a lumbering joker standing in Jack Abbot’s jacket and your pajamas.

You start picking at the loose threads on his jacket sleeve.

His hand moves, slowly, the same way a cowboy would approach a skittish horse, and settles over yours, gently stopping the movement.

 You drift your gaze up, just enough to catch his eyes with yours.

“You’re not a gingko, by the way,” you mumble, words barely making it past your lips.

His hand tightens on yours. It’s so marginal that you’re sure you’ve imagined it. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“Kid,” Jack says, and when he leans in, his voice drops, soft and steady and sacred. “Maples wish they had what you do.”

He angles his head just as the morning sun—surely a paid actor—breaks from behind the skyline and cascades over his face, bathing him in gold. For a fleeting second, the words of your mother ring in your ears and you think you finally understand what she spoke of when said that human beings are made in the image of God.

Slowly, your eyes begin to wander over the gentle slope of his nose, cataloguing the constellations of freckles across his cheeks, finding respite at the corner of his eye where his crow’s feet deepen as he squints, lashes battling the intruding light.

You agree. Surely something so beautiful couldn’t be anything short of divine.

The newborn light catches on what’s left of the copper stands in his salt and pepper curls and dances on the unshaven stubble dusting his face, and you decide that God was taking his job as Artist very seriously right now, pouring gold down from heaven and letting it mend every chip and heal every break, sculpting a kinutsigi statue before your very eyes. 

The gravel crunches as he shifts, the sound effectively restarting your brain, your head whipping towards the skyline before he could comment on your very clearly and pathetically waxing poetic gaze.

What the fuck was that?

But you know exactly what that was, and it was not something that fell under the umbrella of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual.

You shift your weight anxiously.

“And you know Robby can’t help that he’s built like a broad scarecrow,” your quiet voice drifts into the air.

“I know, sweetheart,” and God his voice is so soft, somehow so steady, that you’re not sure how it has the ability to cut through you with such sharpness. “Still wouldn’t trust the integrity of his core.”

You nod. You could get behind that.

“I like your body ratio the way it is, Jack.”

He brings your hands clasped in his to his lips.

You had the first Friday of every month circled multiple times on your calendar. It was routine, one that Gloria knew and that Gloria respected. Which is why, you couldn’t for the life of you discern the reason you were thrown into the lion’s den of not routine when she decided that, actually, these insurance claims needed to be signed at this exact moment on some random ass Monday or, as far as you could gather, the entire hospital would crash down to the ground with everyone inside it and then the rubble would catch fire, too. 

But you don’t argue. A trip down to the emergency department was always a joyous occasion in your book, and so you hoped it would stay.

And you stumble into the elevator, cup of coffee in a mug that reads soy milk on the front and hola milk, soy tu padre on the back in one hand, and a bundle of papers flagged for signature in the other. Your hips angle towards the paneling on the wall and you all but ragdoll your body into the buttons, aiming for the bottom floor and, regrettably, hitting the bottom three.

God forbid you have an easy start.

The elevator doors open with a groan, and the controlled chaos of the emergency department whirls around you, and you duck and weave around rogue employees, making your way through the halls, sniffing the air like a bloodhound in search of Robby.

“Jesus Christ,” vibrates out of his chest, eyes landing on you as you turn the corner. “Once a month isn’t enough for you people?”

“You people? Do you mean women?”

His hands come up and pull at his hair.

You take pity on him.

“Hey, Robby, don’t shoot the messenger.” You shrug, eyes already wandering around the floor looking for their natural target. You slide the cup of coffee in his direction, a silent peace treaty. “You don’t like it? Sue.”

Robby sighs and takes off his glasses as he watches your pathetic scan of the department. After the conversation he and Jack had after he came down from the roof yesterday—which was essentially Robby asking if he finally asked you out and Jack just grunting at him and leaving—he knows he should handle this with kid-gloves.

And he tries. He swears he tries. He would testify, hand on the bible, that he tried.

“He’s gone.”

And for a moment, the doctor almost feels bad because your head whips towards him and you resemble an abandoned shelter dog, eyes sad and brows furrowed. He makes the split-second decision to grab the cup of coffee and place it under his protection before you can do something drastic.

“What?”

“He’s gone. Day off. Today and tomorrow,” Robby declares, using his free hand to make grabby motions at the file he sees tucked in your arms.

His eyes squint in thought. “Yesterday and today, I guess, technically,” he revises.

You try to process the words, wondering why it didn’t occur to you that Jack might, like, not only exist in this building when it coincides with you.

You pull out your phone, eyes pausing momentarily on the coffee that Robby’s safeguarding before deciding it isn’t worth it. The screen reflecting your sad expression, you scroll to Jack’s number, thumbs tapping out a message, short and sweet.

And then you pause before hitting send, your gaze flickering up to Robby, who seems to be the poster child for enjoying himself, mouth greedily sipping coffee and lanky frame folded back in his chair. You tip your head to the side at the odd angle of his spine. Jack was right, he should do more core work.

“Are you lying to me right now?”

Robby looks up, head moving in a tight, rapid shake that screams exasperation with you. "Yeah, Jack’s actually fishing over in Trauma 1 right now.”

Jack hates fishing. Checkmate.

Ignoring him, you return to your phone, the message awaiting your command to go forth.

Jack was so going to hear about this.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: so u hate me now?

You pause for a second, wondering if the two of you were at harassment level.

The way his lips seared into your hand flashes through your mind.

You decide to full send.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u hate me so much u quit ur job so u never had to see me again

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: is that it

And you don’t expect an immediate response, you just want him to know you know about the self-conjured hatred and you’re not happy about it. It was 8am on a Monday—a Monday that Jack freaking has off, apparently—and by all accounts, he should be in bed, snug as a bug. 

But your phone vibrates in your hand. You look down.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: If you wanted to see me all you had to do was ask

What the—? The audacity stops your thumbs in their tracks.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im a very busy woman abbot

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u dont even know what my calendar looks like abbot

And then before you know what you’re doing, you’re sending another text reply.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: can i see u

Was that too desperate?

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im waiting for u to return from way

Deliberate typo.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: war

Nailed it.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Way

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: kill your self

Three dots appear and then disappear as you see him try to formulate a response. They appear once more.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: I want to see you too kid

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Not on the roof I mean

You have to fight the smile that tries to overtake your face, eyes glued to the words on your screen, not even looking up when Robby’s hand enters your sight, snapping in an attempt to bring you back to earth. 

But you, with days that start when Jack’s ends, and Jack, who seems to spend most of his free time in the emergency department whether he’s supposed to be there or not, have schedules that rarely align. As lamentable as it is, you both settle for a professional backdrop for your interactions.

Maybe God heard your plea from the rooftop and decided to have mercy.

I want to see you too, kid.

And so that night you find yourself at Jack Abbot’s fucking apartment, perched on his couch with his legs stretched long in front of him, ankles crossed, prim and proper, and yours tucked neatly to the side, body twisted towards his. Every once in a while, his knee brushes against your thigh. You have a Coke Zero in your hand—taken from his fridge after you showed up with a case that he immediately scoffed at—and a very manly beer is in his. The Pirates game plays forgotten on the TV. There is a pizza on its way with your name on it, which, really, should have been here, like, an hour ago, but neither of you really remember or care.

You’re mentally planning which route you’re going to take home—God forbid he lets you go home—so you could stop off at whatever church you pass first and throw up a thanks, Christ, owe you one also sorry for not visiting in a while.

“Why don’t we do this?”

“What do you mean?” you question. “We hang out all the time.”

“No, you asked me to come over once because you burnt yourself making cookies and you said that your arm resembled raw chicken.”

“Didn’t it though?”

He cocks his head to the side, bringing his beer to his lips, and his eyebrows move up in agreement. It did look like raw chicken.

“And wasn’t it the sexiest piece of raw chicken you’ve ever seen?” you press.

The natural banter presses deep and steady beneath his ribs. Silver curls tip back and his body shifts forward after it, a little closer to yours, as he laughs, and you catch a whiff of something unfamiliar, brief and blinding. 

It’s going to be a good night, you decide.

Jack’s stare softens, tender and warm.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“I’m gazing,” he stresses.

And you knew that son of a bitch Robinavitch wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

You’re going to kill Robby. And maybe Dana, you’re sure she was in on that. And you’ll include Princess and Perlah, too, just to cover your ass.

You made it this far into the night, you suppose. Nice while that lasted.

The beer rests forgotten in the attending’s hand, condensation slipping down the glass. The game on the TV recedes into static. Your silence echoes in his ear and his arm shifts along the back of the couch behind you, fingers flexing.

“You don’t have to get defensive about it, you know. Whatever… looking. Gazing,” he shakes his head, while he sets his beer on the table, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t mind.”

That smell enters your senses again, there and gone before you could focus on it, and you start to think that maybe you’re having a stroke. It’s the only logical explanation—it licks up your spine slowly, spreading over you and burning through your body, and holy shit how is he completely unaffected by this?

The crowd cheering quietly on the TV from a home run—which you’ll be pissed about later—the condensation from your can pooling in a puddle on the coaster, the older man’s body pressed to yours enough to throw you off balance. His arm, strategically placed behind you, is close enough for you to feel, and his legs, once prim and proper, have separated, thigh pressing against yours.

You’re about to lose your fucking mind.

And like always, Jack notices. He notices everything about you.

You press the cold can against your cheek as you groan, trying to ground yourself, but the metal does nothing to cool the heat building low in your spine.

And then that scent teases you again, barely enough and gone before you get a chance to pin it down to anything beyond Jack Abbot’s Natural Pheromones, and you can’t take it anymore.

“Okay, what is that?” you demand. “Is that you?”

Before he has a chance to respond, and before your brain can tell your carnal desire to, like, chill, you’re in motion.

Your first movement is sharp, and deliberate, and probably warranting the intervention of a priest, head snapping towards his as you push off the couch cushion and lean over him, trying to identify the scent invading your brain. Your left knee leverages you by his leg as your right moves behind you for balance.

And you pause.

Your second movement is slow, and hypnotic, and cautious, head dipping to allow your nose to hover above the column of his neck. Belatedly, it occurs to you that you might be crossing the boundary into territory you hadn't realized existed until now, one beyond banter and jokes loaded with yearning. Which is also a crazy thought to have when you’re almost straddling your friend, because obviously that crosses a boundary.

But the heat radiating off the body in front of you is searing.

You know you’re too close, the space between the two of you thinning to a thread, but you don’t think that even God himself could pull you from your place.

His body is firm under you as you trail your nose down, following the flow of blood from his jugular, so close you’re not sure if you’re hearing his heartbeat or yours. You tilt your head slightly, tracking the faint whisper of finally identified sandalwood and tobacco that lingers in the dip where his shoulder comes to meet his collarbone. The scent is intoxicating, earthy and bold, and mixes with underlying sting of antiseptic and of something so fundamentally Jack Abbot. 

It clings to him like an omen, sealing your downfall. Head swimming, you decide you would go to war for that combination—you were ready to lay your life down, to become a faithful martyr to his cause.

Jack freezes so imperceptibly that someone less attuned to him might not notice. But you do. You notice the subtle, sharp exhale, the way his shoulders tense and slowly fall just a fraction more sharply than before. His head turns towards you marginally, one hand twitching where it rests on the couch, but not saying a word, and you freeze too because what the fuck has possessed you?

But then you catch the scent again and it feels like stepping directly into the fire, the tension surrounding you, poised and ready to suffocate given the order.

“I’m serious,” you murmur, your voice quieter now. “What is that?”

You’re close now enough to feel the rasp of his unshaven jaw against the soft curve of your cheek.

Jack finally turns his head fully and his piercing gaze drops, catching yours, demanding and unreadable, pinning you in place. And then, with the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips, his reply cuts through the tension like that stupid-ass tactical knife he keeps in his pocket, sharp and teasing, his voice gravelly and steady and casual, “Cologne.”

And fuck him because cologne? 

But the way he says it, words low and rough, and the way his body coils, daring you to break first—something that you were more than willing to do, you would do anything he said right now, anything to ensure that not a millimeter of space came between the two of you—robs you of any oxygen that probably at some point surrounded you and feeds it to the embers, leaving none for your taking.

Your lungs constrict, desperately seeking out the air that seems to be in short supply, and a soft gasp is all you can manage. Pathetic, you think.

In front of you, you feel Jack’s muscles tense, pause in measured contemplation. 

All at once, he pushes you backwards, crowding you couch, his body closing in like it belongs there. One hand clamps around your waist, dragging you tighter against him, the heat of it searing straight through your clothes and skin and bones and sinew to directly brand your soul. The other trails up your side, singeing sensitive skin, until his thumb hooks beneath your jaw and his fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you there.

He slowly and cautiously leans in, his grip on you tightening. The distance—which you suspect he somehow invented, just to steal it back—shrinks. It could no longer be designated as platonic in any meaning of the word, though you’re starting to wonder if anything was ever platonic between the two of you.

Your voice sounds far away and foreign to your ears, lips barely moving and lungs barely containing enough air to get the word out, “Cologne?”

He hums and leans down further. His nose barely brushes yours and you’re certain the skin melts off of your bones in his wake, “It’s sandalwood and tobacco and called Cowboy,” he whispers, breath intermingling with yours.

And while the space around your bodies seems suspiciously devoid of any breathable air, every breath leaving his lips enters into yours, leaving you lightheaded. Jack’s unwavering eyes drop from where they burn into yours down to your lips.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and, Jesus Christ, his eyes are sliding shut and he honest to God groans, the talons of desperation clawing up his throat and shredding him from the inside. It escapes low and taut, as if only the only thing holding it together from crumbling under the weight of longing are the last vestiges of his frayed restraint which, admittedly, don’t seem to be faring much better. And then it travels, and it might be the lethal combination of lack of oxygen and too much anticipation and most importantly of Jack, but you think you can see the soundwaves vibrating the air as it advances towards you.

You’ve never heard an angel, but you have never heard a sound so holy.

A traitorous synapse fires and a rogue thought populates in your mind. You gasp as you try to catch your breath, “I thought you weren’t allowed to wear cologne?”

Jack’s eyes stay closed while he releases a slow, resigned sigh. “There is something deeply wrong with you.” 

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The world outside drops away, and all that’s left is the two of you, suspended in a moment so thick with tension, you’re briefly reminded of that Steve Spangler cornstarch experiment.

But the heat between you sharpens, hovers, coils tight in your gut. Your skin prickles, your breath catches, and you can feel him watching you—his gaze heavy, unapologetic, dark with intent. Every brush of fabric against your skin feels louder, every breath sharper.

That the only thing left is to decide who breaks first.

You’ll be damned if it’s you.

Jack just looks at you, eyes dark, jaw tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.

One hand comes to grasp your hip, firm and possessive, and he leans in close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, stealing the oxygen back from your lungs and returning it to his own. His mouth doesn’t find yours right away. It just hovers, lips brushing but never meeting. 

His half-lidded eyes flick to your mouth, then back.

You try to breathe, try to say something, anything, but your body betrays you—something it seems to do a lot when it comes to the veteran, and maybe you should talk to a medical professional about that—hips shift without thought, chest rising with a quiet desperation to meet him.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he presses forward—his body flush against yours, the unmistakable growing hardness at your stomach drawing a sharp breath from your throat. A thigh between your legs like it has every right to be there. 

His mouth finds your jaw, barely skimming it as he pulls the pin on the grenade you toss between one another, “Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because your pulse is pounding, and if he doesn’t touch you properly in the next five seconds, you’re literally going to set his apartment on fire.

And Jack knows it.

He’s the proud policy owner of renter’s insurance and he’s savoring every fucking second of it.

Throwing up a quick sorry, God, damnation it is, you fumble. You move a second too slowly, and that grenade, square in your hands, goes off. You break first.

Your lips brush his and time stops.

His eyes find yours, heavy and half-lidded, and somehow miraculously refocus on you, and you’re looking up at him and the words kiss me for real? drip like honey from your lips and when has he ever been able to deny you anything?

A large palm comes up to cradle the back of your head while he pushes you into the cushions, boxing you in, and then he’s kissing you—fucking finally—trying to make up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself, making up for every minute that he held himself back with the restraint he’s been choking on for months.

And, like everything Jack Abbot does, you’ve come to find out, he crashes over you like a wave. Movements clumsy, he moves to balance one knee between your legs, the other moving to the floor so he can put both hands on you. Without hesitation, his other hand comes up to cup your face, the movement surprisingly gentle compared to the way his lips move over yours, desperate and raw. 

He doesn’t even give you a chance.

Another thing you’ve learned about Jack Abbot tonight was there are no such thing as half measures.

His tongue darts out and he swallows the soft moan of surprise that escapes you, and you feel Jack’s grip tighten, his fingers pressing into your skin, anchoring himself to you. The sound seems to rip whatever restraint he had left to shreds, a hunger that was so carefully veiled now spilling forth like the first crack in a dam. His lips trail down and find the hollow between your collarbone and neck, and every sound that you make in response to the deliberate press and drag of his mouth against your skin urges him on, nipping and biting, stealing the taste of a forbidden fruit.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his lips ghosting along the column of your neck. “How much more can I pull out of you?”

His hands shake as they move from your waist, the small of your back, your neck—searching, anchoring, pressing in and testing the limits of the physical world because he thinks that whatever close this is is not close enough.

And then demonic, disgusting, monkey-brained Mental You whispers in your mind, he should never be pulling out, and you’re batting her away. But it doesn’t help that you agree.

You gasp, and he swallows it whole, palm skating down to grip your thigh as he presses you hard into his couch, his own between your legs flexing, shooting sparks dancing up your spine, the aching between your legs growing unbearable.

None of it is enough.

Not after the way you just fucking sniffed him like a freak.

Not after the way you said his name like a sin he should feel lucky to commit.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed, lips parted and swollen. He stays close, eyes burning, and brings his thumb to trace your lips.

“I’ve been trying,” he says, breath ragged, “so fucking hard to be patient with you.”

You fuzzily blink, no thoughts, head only full of anticipation and him. “Huh?”

You really try to make sense of what the man above of you is saying, but all he’s done is kiss you, and it’s so unfair because you can feel you soaking wet, and you’re over here in sensory overload and he’s over here trying to speak full sentences.

The response almost makes him laugh, and he probably would have, had the situation been any different. But you’re looking up at him with blown-pupils and shiny lips, and the last of his control shatters.

Warm hands smooth around the sides of your neck, gently yanking you up to him. His mouth descends to yours. Teeth nip at your lips, sharp and possessive, and you can’t help the desperate moan that escapes. He slowly thrusts against you, the motion making you lightheaded.

Suddenly, he’s pulling you off the couch and pushing you toward the bedroom like the demon in you left and entered him, barely keeping it together, and Jesus Christ who designed the floor-plan for this apartment? You’re going to sue the fuck out of them because the space between rooms is offensive.

He finally kicks the door open, half-collapsing onto the bed with you beneath him, and the second the mattress dips beneath your weight, his mouth is on your neck, your chest, your collarbone—biting, licking, tasting everything he’s been fantasizing about. His hands push under your shirt like he’s starving, dragging the fabric up your body with a kind of reverence that borders on desperation.

“You have no idea,” he rasps against your skin, voice shaking, “how many times I’ve pictured this.”

You arch into him, breath catching. “Who are you, Picasso?”

That’s all it takes.

He tears the shirt over your head, mouth following the trail of skin like a man on his knees in prayer—hungry and grateful and, honestly, a little bit unhinged.

When he settles, Jack blinks up at you and freezes.

It’s not lace, just solid black cotton. It shouldn’t punch the air out of his lungs.

But it nearly destroys him.

The way it clings to your skin, simple and unpretentious, it’s so you. If medicine doesn’t work for him, maybe he would go into art, just so he could paint strokes on canvases, not one coming close to capturing your beauty. It makes his heart clench in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. His hands twitch, desperate.

He bites back a groan, head dropping to your hip as if grounding himself, but the ache in his chest only deepens. 

“You know,” Jack grunts, voice low and rough, struggling to hold himself together as he unbuttons and yanks your pants, blindly throwing them. “I’m oddly surprised by the amount of muscle you have.” A kiss is pressed right above your knee in emphasis, his tongue slowly moving over the small patch.

His hands don’t hesitate. Fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, he peels the fabric down your hips with forced, deliberate slowness, savoring every second. The cool air rushes to kiss your skin, and the contrast against his heated touch makes your breath hitch.

“Are you kidding?” you stutter out, almost insulted, and then you pull together whatever composure remains in your trembling body. “You know I go to the gym—I can’t be embarrassing myself.”

He drops the fabric somewhere forgotten and leans down, lips grazing along the curve of your thigh, sending electricity lancing through your body. His eyes flick up to meet yours. Too much composure remains in your body for his liking.

His left hand pins your thigh to the mattress, spreading you out, his thumb pressing so close to where you need him.

Slowly, keeping his eyes on yours, he leans in a breath away from your slick heat. 

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smile.

“No, you embarrass yourself in other ways,” he agrees, eyes shining up at you.

He finally has you where he wants you.

Laid bare at an altar for his worship.

He closes the distance, licking a broad stripe. Slow. Deliberate.

Holy shit, his mouth is a slick furnace between your folds, it has to be because that’s the only way molten iron could be flowing through your veins, and his tongue comes out and flicks your sensitive nub, humming as he feels you clench.

Your back arches, hands fisting in the sheets or his hair—whatever in your reach, really—breath coming in shuddering waves, every nerve ending lighting up like a struck match. You reach for him—fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp—and he groans against you, the vibration rocking down your body.

“Jack—” you gasp.

He glances up, mouth slick. “Something you want?”

He ceases all movement, eyebrows raising in mock question.

You blink, not quite comprehending. “You bastard—”

“What happened to please?” he interrupts smoothly, hands flexing against your thighs. 

“What happened to don’t get used to charity?” you snap, or try to, but it lands breathless and woefully unconvincing.

His thumb dips down, and his eyes follow, glued to the sight. The thick digit slowly sinks into your wet heat, before unhurriedly pulling back out. And again. And again, and you think that his degree is actually in ending lives.

Dark eyes flash back up. “Say please.”

You bite down on a moan, retort dying on your lips. Hips thrust, chasing the pressure, shame long gone.

Burned up by the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And his stupid fucking hands. You used to love those hands.

Silence stretches between you, taut and breathless.

Then you cave—because you were always going to. Because he knows exactly how to break you apart and make you beg for it.

“…Please.”

His mouth curves, satisfied.

“That’s better,” he murmurs.

His head dips back down, tongue skimming over your pussy, and his eyes slide shut. Groaning, he flexes his arms around your legs, opening you wider, pushing closer, and taking everything your body gives him. A holy communion for his taking.

Your back arches, tension drawing tighter and tighter. 

Drawing your clit into his mouth, Jack sucks softly. Blinding pleasure rushes through your veins and your hips buck upwards, seeking out his tongue, clenching on nothing. A soft moan leaves your lips, desperately begging this piece of heaven to never leave your body.

Without mercy, he sinks two fingers into your cunt, draws them back, and slams them in.

“Jack—fuck,” you breathe. “Jack, I-I’m gonna come—”

A gentle encouraging hum fills your ears and you clench down on his hand, fingers curling, pressing against something absolutely fucking devastating deep inside you, and all you can do is gasp his name as burning ecstasy washes over you. You took some science classes back in school, but nothing could have prepared you for the nuclear fission—or, maybe fusion, the classes weren’t that good—that washes through your veins.

You can’t even fucking see. Or hear. The only sense you have is touch, specifically where Jack’s mouth continues, tongue gently flicking your swollen clit, working you through your orgasm.

Dude, what the fuck? you think as he kindly returns your eyesight to you.

He crawls over you, suspiciously absent of clothing, your soft thighs moving to bracket his hips.

“That was a lot of exertion,” your mouth says of its own volition. “Sure you don’t need a break, old man?”

“You’re the one coming apart, sweetheart,” Jack raises a brow, his voice low, the thick head of his cock catching against your entrance and pulling back, teasing. “A challenge, or you just stalling?"

“No idea, can I,” you gasp, breath hitching as the sensation sets off every nerve ending like a chain reaction, “Ph—fuck, phone a friend?”

Jack pauses just long enough to smirk, his breath hot against your jaw, his voice dropping to a rough whisper in your ear. “You really think anyone can help you right now?” 

And before you can respond, he shifts his head slightly, his breath dipping lower, and then he bites down. A gasp breaks loose from your lips, sharp and involuntary, as he takes the skin between his teeth, and you whine, high and needy. The arm not supporting his weight snakes around and presses into your lower back, lifting you slightly off of his bed, smearing his precum on your stomach. He wants to hear that sound again, and again, and again.

He wants to see the way your sharp tongue stalls and your words falter and crumble beneath his touch.

It doesn’t matter if it takes all week, he has sixty days of unused PTO and willpower.

But your lips are moving, loaded with a different one. “I’m starting to think you’re stalling.”

“Can’t you just let me enjoy the moment?” he huffs out, already sucking a new blemish into your neck.

“Pretty sure you’re enjoying it enough for both of us.”

“Damn right I am.” Teeth graze the mark he’s just made, tongue following like an apology he has no intention of meaning.

“I’m gonna need an alibi, at this rate.”

He groans against your skin, begging you to stop talking.

Nipping the cord of muscle where your neck meets your shoulder, he mumbles, “I’ll write your statement.”

Your fingers thread in his hair and tug, hard enough to remind him you’re not completely helpless under him and it takes everything in him not to snap. He finally retreats from your neck, lips trailing up and capturing your lips with his.

You push him back with a soft grin. “Just make sure you spell vampire right this time.”

Jesus Christ.

He flashes his teeth at you and drops his head back down. Seeking out an unblemished spot on your neck, he bites down. The pain blooms hot, chased immediately by a wave of heat that pulses low in your body.

He slowly pushes into you with a broken groan, burying his head in your neck. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, sparks shooting up and down your spine. Your hands scrabble at his back, gripping hard, needing more—needing him. He holds you there, slowly stretching you open, and you seize in his grip, mouth open in a soundless cry as the all-consuming feeling of fucking finally crashes over you both.

He’s trembling. You feel it in the tight line of his body, the way his breath stutters against your neck, and then he exhales, guttural and wrecked.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel—fuck—you feel like heaven.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and hot between you. The cool drag of his dog-tags skims your chest with every sharp exhale. He wants to take his time—to drag this out until it’s unbearable. He wants you below him and moaning until your vocal cords don’t have anything left. He wants to burn every second of this in his memory.

“Jack, please,” you whisper, voice already frayed at the edges. You’ll be angry at yourself about this later, about Abbot making you so needy that you can’t even speak. You need him to fucking move, to do something, anything. “God, please.”

You say it again, and again, each repetition thinner, rawer. Like the word alone might crack him open, might finally tip the scale in your favor. “I need—” You break off with a gasp, hips shifting in a silent, wordless demand, but he still doesn’t budge.

“Please,” you try again, throat tight, lips brushing his. “I can’t… I need you to move. I need you.” It tumbles out now, shameless and urgent. “I want you. I’ve been good, I’ve waited—”

He stills like he’s savoring every syllable you offer up like prayer—like penance—his body tensing against yours, hand tightening its grip on you. He hears you.

He just wants to hear more.

“Please.” It’s broken now. Desperate. “Don’t make me beg—” but you already are, and you’d do it again, if that’s what it took to get him to fucking move.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” he breathes into your lips. “I’m magnanimous, remember?”

And then his hips snap forward, rough, and your broken moan ricochets off the walls of his apartment. He’d be very, very shocked if there weren’t a noise complaint tomorrow, but he couldn’t care less. He wants fifty noise complaints by sunrise, minimum.

You gasp, sharp and shuddering, clawing at his shoulders like the only way to stay grounded is to anchor yourself in him. Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, dragging him closer, and the new angle presses him deeper, stars dancing behind your eyes. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, each one more brutal than the last, making up for the torturous stillness that came before.

Your back arches, trying to take more, begging him to give more, and he meets you there—half-growling into your neck, hands mapping, afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish. Like this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you, and he’s determined to make it count.

He drags a hand down your body, teeth scraping against your shoulder as he mutters, “You asked me to move, sweetheart.” But he’s already unraveling too, eyes dark and unfocused, pace punishing. You don’t know where you end and he begins—all you know is the burn, the ache, the obscene need spiraling tighter and tighter between you.

There’s nothing careful left in him. Just possession. Just hunger.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “That’s really all you needed to stop talking, huh? Just needed me to fuck you?”

Your answer is a gasp, his name falling from your lips like a prayer—cracked and corrupt. He drinks it in like it’s holy, like the sound of it is sacred when it’s coming from you in this state—wrecked, open, begging. He groans, deep and guttural, like the name alone nearly breaks him. “Say it again.”

“Jack—” breathless, sobbed, nearly swallowed by the slap of skin and the scrape of his breath at your ear.

He could die like this. Right here. Right now. Buried in you, name on your tongue, legs locked tight around him like you’d never let him leave. He’d march into hell for you.

“God—fuck,” he pants, losing rhythm for a moment, hips stuttering. “L-like you were made for me.”

You tighten around him at that, a pulse he feels in every nerve, and he shudders like it’s too much, like your body’s trying to drag the soul from his chest. And maybe you are. You probably will.

He brings your wrist clasped in his hand by your head, the other slipping between your bodies to find your clit, rough fingers moving in tight circles, aching to push you closer to the edge with him.

“You feel that?” he growls, almost desperate now, voice roughened by strain. “You ruin me.”

“Jack—” you cry out, high and trembling, and that’s all it takes.

He’s relentless now—driving into you like he’s chasing something only your body can give him. Each thrust lands deeper, harder, pulling broken sounds from your throat before you can even catch them.

You try to focus on anything—the iron grip of his hands on your wrist, the cool scrape of his dog tags between your breasts, the hot press of his mouth at your neck—but it’s all a blur. Nothing anchors you. Not when your body’s burning up from the inside out, tightening around him with every punishing roll of his hips.

“Look at me,” he grits out, voice ragged, pleading. “Come on, baby—look at me.”

You do, barely, your vision swimming, and the second your eyes meet his—dark and wild and so fucking gone—you snap. Your body seizes under him, climax crashing over you like a wave with no warning, no mercy. You cry out, shattered and gasping, every nerve ending alight and pulsing.

“That’s my girl,” he pants.

Your responding Jack is high and needy and he didn’t think his cock could get any harder but he swears to fucking God he almost blacks out.

He growls your name like a curse, and then he’s gone—hips snapping forward one final time as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a sharp, strangled moan. His whole body seizes against yours, trembling with the force of it, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing holding you to earth. His whole body trembles, breath tearing from his throat like he’s breaking apart inside you.

He stays buried deep, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Like if he moves too fast, it’ll all come undone.

His weight presses down on top of you. The furthest thing from holy, your muscles still twitching from the aftershocks, his softening cock still in you, and you think you might start begging again, this time to never move from you. He inhales in your neck, slowly his lips find yours once more to press a kiss—slow, reverent—to the corner of your mouth.

It must be holy to feel so pure.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into sweat-damp hair. 

He sighs, low and wrecked. “Jesus Christ, kid.” 

You’re still trying to find your fucking lungs and tell them get it together, we have work to do, as you scratch your nails on his scalp. 

Eventually, you whisper, lips barely parting, “Jack, where is that fucking pizza we ordered?”

[luna-azzurra]

Types of side characters

(because your MC is not the only one who matters lol)

ok look. not every side character needs to have a tragic backstory or some deeply poetic reason for existing. but if all your side characters feel like blank gray blobs floating around your protagonist like NPCs in a bad video game, your story’s gonna feel... empty. like, cool, the main character is Doing Important Things, but who cares if literally no one around them feels real?

.......

☾ The foil This is the character who exists to make your main character look like... more of themselves. like if your MC is all soft and hopeful, the foil’s the sarcastic realist who thinks feelings are a scam. or maybe your MC is arrogant and the foil is humble in a way that makes everyone notice how full of themself the MC is. they’re like a mirror but more passive aggressive. they don’t even need to say much, just being there makes the MC’s traits pop. kinda magical. kinda annoying.

☾ the mentor/guide/wise cryptic grandma type not always old. not always wise, tbh. but they know stuff and are weirdly good at giving advice that sounds vague until it suddenly makes sense three chapters later. usually shows up right when your MC is about to give up or do something dumb. sometimes they die (sorry), sometimes they vanish, sometimes they stick around and just make tea while the main character unravels emotionally.

☾ comic relief the one keeping your story from being a depression spiral) they’re dumb on purpose. or smart but act dumb. or just weird. but either way: they’re hilarious, and your readers will love them more than the protagonist and you’ll be mad about it but also proud. their jokes land at the best times. or the worst. either way, they matter. and sometimes they end up being the most emotionally grounded character in the entire cast. funny how that works.

☾ the love interest (hot plot complications) they kiss (eventually). or they don’t. maybe they break your MC’s heart. maybe they make them a better person. either way, they’re here to add feelings and force your protagonist to confront things like vulnerability and trust and whether or not they even know what love is. also probably hot. if they’re not hot, they better be interesting as hell.

☾ the antagonist/villain-but-not-always-the-BIG-bad not every villain needs to be some shadowy overlord. sometimes it’s your MC’s ex. or a rival. or their mom. the point is: they make your protagonist’s life harder. they should have actual motivations (please god do not make them evil just because they’re evil). bonus points if your MC kinda agrees with them but hates it.

☾ the bestie/the sidekick/the moral support we love these ones. they’re the ones who show up with snacks or bail the MC out of jail or send them that “are you ok??” text. maybe they’re a little messy themselves, but they care. they’ll fight for your protagonist, or at least keep them grounded when they start spiraling. they’re not always 100% loyal though. and that makes things interesting.

☾ family (the emotional landmines) parents. siblings. cousins. whatever. whether your MC is close to their family or totally estranged, the people who raised them (or didn’t) are shaping them. even if they’re not in the story much. even if they’re dead. family shows up in flashbacks, in trauma, in habits your MC doesn’t even notice they have. don’t sleep on this.

☾ background characters (world texture) these are the baristas, teachers, the guy who always jogs past the house with a weirdly aggressive dog. they don’t have arcs. they just exist. but the way they exist says a lot about the world. don’t overdo it, but don’t ignore them either. they're the difference between a story feeling like a play on an empty stage vs a real, breathing world.

☾ the rival not the villain. but they’re in competition with your MC. they might be better at everything. or worse, but way more charming. rivals push your protagonist to be better or to absolutely lose their mind. they can be friends! or lovers! or just that one guy who keeps showing up and being mildly infuriating. delicious tension. inject it directly.

☾ the observer these are the people who are on the sidelines but they see things. they might be narrating. or maybe they’re the little sibling watching all the drama unfold. they notice stuff. they comment on stuff. they ground the reader or give us another lens to view the story through. they’re kind of like the audience stand-in. or the narrator with opinions.

[stoop-fairy]

“tough luck” — op81

summary — joe won’t be missed, you’re glad to see him go!

fc & cw — laufey. idk how i feel about the written part.. uhm, no joe shade that man is fiiiine. for the plot, bewitched was release in december 2024 and u met oscar in february! also i got kinda lazy in the end so ignore that.. there’s only so much i can do with a limit of pics 💔 & let’s imagine joe isn’t 28 pls

liked by yoursister, alex_albon, taylorswift and 782,629 others

yourinsta so excited to say that bewitched is now yours!!!! will do a little listen party later tonight, stay tuned 🤍

see comments

yoursister proudest proud of all prouds!!!!

user7 joe hasn’t liked her posts since 3 weeks ago.. fuck that men

user18 im literally crying what did u put in promise????? ugh

yourinsta fairy dust & broken trust 👼

user27 she’s achieving another milestone and joe can’t even congratulate her??? she’s been to most of his games since they started dating and he’s barely there for her shows, talk about a bad boyfriend :/

taylorswift SO proud 🥹 and so good too

user14 this girl is holding onto that men so hard it’s embarrassing LMAOO he doesn’t want you anymore

you stopped asking him to come.

it started with little things, shows he said he’d try to make it to, songs he said he’d heard. he never did. you clapped for him on the sidelines, smiled through press, wore his jersey, posted him on your stories every time even if he lost.

you called again, hoping that for once he’d actually show up, but instead he said, “I’ll try, but you know how it is.”

you did know. and you were done pretending it didn’t hurt.

so you showed up at his place, the same day your album had dropped.

he opened the door and confusion immediately became evident on his face, “hey, babe what are you—” you cut him off immediately, pushing past him to walk to his living room, the one you knew so well.

“let’s break up” as soon as the words left your mouth, joe furrowed his brows as if your words weren’t the consequences of his own decisions. “i think it’s very obvious that this relationship, if we can even call it that, has hit a wall”

he shook his head, kneeling down in front of where you were sitting on his couch. he tried taking your hands on his but you immediately pulled them back “what do you mean? i think we’re okay”

“what?” you asked in pure disbelief. ‘okay’ you were not okay, hell you weren’t even something at this point “joe you barely show up for me, and it’s honestly getting tiring. i’ve been chasing you around like a lost puppy and i’m tired of that! every single one of your fans thinks that, and they make it very clear but you never stand up for me!”

after that, you left his apartment feeling relieved, as if some weight had been lifted off of your shoulders.

but still, the silence felt heavier than his words ever did.

no footsteps behind you, no ‘wait’, no ‘don’t go.’

just nothing.

you sat alone in your car for a while, fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, watching the city move like none of it mattered.

your album had dropped that morning.

your name was trending.

your voice was everywhere.

but the one person who should’ve heard it, didn’t even press play.

liked by landonorris, yourinsta and 206,890 others

oscarpiastri today was a good day

see comments

user62 OSCAR IS A YN FAN????

landonorris 👍

mclaren you bewitched us

yourinsta i see you have good taste

oscarpiastri what can i say? i’m a man of culture

user78 didn’t oscar only listen to house music???

user29 he might wanna impress her..

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, alex_albon and 539,620 others

yourinsta it’s been a good good week 🧡

see comments

user18 we need a tour please asap im begging

user14 now that she broke up with joe she’s gonna move to the next man that pays the smallest attention to her lol

oscarpiastri good number

yourinsta what if i liked 4 more?

oscarpiastri absofuckinglutely not

yoursister guess who’s who

user9 sometimes i forget theres two of them..

user75 AHHHH YN + OSCAR

user26 is this soft launching or hard launching..?

user88 the only thing that’ll be launching is your ass if you make them uncomfortable and they stop being friends

user26 girl calm down they’re grown ass people they won’t stop talking just because of a comment lol

lilymhe sweet sweet angel girl 👼

yourinsta baby love 💕

liked by oscarpiastri, yoursister and 762,902 more

yourinsta it is with great pleasure that i let you guys know that the bewitched tour starts in just 1 month, can’t believe it. go to the ticketmaster website for info on your dates and more 🤍

see comments

user90 my wallet will be in fact crying but it’ll be soooo worth it!!!

user20 no argentina dates.. i see how it is 💔

oscarpiastri miss worldwide

yourinsta that’s me! 🌎

user27 i wonder if oscar will be in any of the shows..

user69 probably when she’s in austria, the austrian gp is just some days after!

liked by oscarpiastri and 719,730 others

yourinsta today, for the very first time, i performed my song ‘tough luck’ now out in all streaming services! hope you guys enjoy listening to it as much as i enjoyed writing it

see comments

yoursister the shady shade you just shood

yourinsta whatever the fuck that means 🔥

oscarpiastri just listened to it on all platforms available yup

yourinsta thank you mr pastry i am very hungry and i need the money ☺️

user68 the joe shade.. i love her

user70 oscar and her have to be dating, he’s been on a lot of her shows even if it’s race week .. mans in love fr

user52 unlike.. others

landonorris what do i get for streaming?

yoursister a cookie in the shape of a fish

landonorris stay the fuck away from me.

liked by yourinsta, yoursister and 288,629 others

oscarpiastri yet another good weekend, see you soon silverstone.

see comments

user78 so he’s just not gonna acknowledge the fact that he kissed yn as soon as he saw her???

user70 I KNEW THEY WERE TOGETHER.

yourinsta 🧡

landonorris papayita

liked by yourinsta and 720,739 others

oscarpiastri she’s currently selling out venues and somehow still manages to send me good morning texts, voice notes, and bad airport selfies (she looks amazing in all of them)

she deserves everything good this life has to offer, and then some.

if you ever get the chance to see her live, do it.

if you ever get the chance to love her, don’t waste it.

see comments

yourinsta who knew you were soft

landonorris didn’t realize this was a fan account

yoursister proud of you both 🧡

user76 he said “you fumbled, joe” without saying it

user1 so we weren’t delusional

user72 “if you ever get the chance to love her, don’t waste it” JAIL.

user47 sir this is a public platform.

yourinsta don’t know what id do without you, i love you 🧡

oscarpiastri i love you more 🧡

yourinsta i will eat you up mr pastry

[httpknjoon]

wanna try out some freaky positions? | myg

plot | that time popstar!yn is on her tour's day two in paris, and fans are wondering if she's finally doing the most requested position of all time. the one that may require her bassist (and rumored boyfriend), yoongi.

w.c | 1980

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | fluff, humor, enemies to lovers, slow burn

note | i'm still calling it twitter

main masterlist | series masterlist

DAY 301: PARIS, FRANCE

It's everywhere. Predictions about your possible Juno position for your second performance night in Paris are all over social media before you even officially land in the said country. It didn’t help that you and your band members are active on social media, alluding that something is happening behind the scenes. There were also sightings of your close friend, another celebrity, who you knew was staying in France for his vacation. Your fans, who were already elated with the upcoming performance later tonight, flooded you with mentions on Twitter, which resulted in a short and unplanned Q and A.

You were in the middle of your rehearsal break when you finally got hold of your phone after posting that late IG story hours ago. Knowing how excited your fans are at the moment, you reinstalled your Twitter app just to have some interactions with them. It has been so long since you opened your account there, since you were avoiding seeing any tweets about your breakup from last year. You smiled as you typed in your tweet, along with a photo you prepared for today, swaying your feet as you sat at the edge of the stage.

While you have all of your focus on your phone, you didn't even notice Yoongi, who's sitting on one of the empty seats in the area where the VIP audience usually sits. He cannot help but smile while he sips his Americano, looking at you. He wondered what made you so giggly and smiley on your phone. Meanwhile, his phone kept on vibrating in his pocket, which made him reach for it. That’s when he got the answer to his curiosity. Notifications from your Twitter account popped up one after the other. He chuckled before clicking on the app to read more of your tweets.

You giggled at the friendly banter you had with one of your fans. Scrolling down the tag, you smiled even harder when you found an interesting question to reply to.

Yoongi had to laugh with that one. Hearing that, you turned your head up, finally seeing him sitting alone just a few feet down the stage. Your left eyebrow raised, wondering what made him laugh on his phone.

“Where are the others?” you asked all of a sudden, just to get his attention.

Your bassist looked up and met your gaze. “They went out for snacks. I got your coffee here.”

He points out the still-warm takeout coffee cup he has on the empty seat next to him. You smiled before reading yourself to jump from the stage rather than taking the stairs. Seeing that, Yoongi immediately stood up.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’ll jump,” you replied, already inching yourself at the edge.

He clicked his tongue while shaking his head, “No, just take the stairs.”

You pouted. “This is easier. I hate the stairs.”

“You might get hurt. Art and Cal will both kill me if I let you do that,” he said while walking towards you. He then stood just a few feet lower than you.

From your point of view, he looked nonchalant, yet he opened both his arms.

You squinted, “Are you gonna catch me?”

“Nope, I just like opening my arms at random times like this,” he scoffed. 

You rolled your eyes. “And I like jumping from high places.”

He shook his head again before telling you sternly, “I don’t care. Just jump, diva.”

So you did. Even though you would have loved to continue the childish banter. And he did catch you, helping you carefully land your feet on the ground. Steadily and easily, he got you with one hand, holding you up against your back. Unconsciously, your face is almost buried in his neck, like you were magnets, they just connect instantly. Maybe it was because he still wore the familiar scent that makes butterflies stir in your stomach.

And maybe that’s why you didn’t pull away right away.

With how close you are, you can feel his heart beating almost at the same pace as yours. Fast and loud. Slowly pulling away, your eyes interlocked with each other. It was a heavy exchange of stares, anchored with something heart-fluttering that you two didn’t have to label anymore. A small smile tugged at your lips as you noticed his eyes moving down.

“Thank you,” you whispered before stepping back.

Yoongi followed behind you, trying not to put his hand over his beating chest. He sat in a seat apart next to you while you took a sip of the coffee. The much-needed caffeine helped you feel warmer and comfortable in your baby blue sweatshirt. 

“You liked it?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.

“Yep, I needed that. Thank you,” you replied, putting down the cup. You turned to him.  “Why are you here, by the way? You don’t want to explore the city in your free time? We’re only here for a few days.”

He shrugged, “I don’t know, I just had this gut feeling that you will do something reckless and I need to stick around.”

It was your turn to scoff, “Yoongi, just say you stayed behind for me. It’s okay.”

He looked at you, brows furrowed, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

And he didn’t even deny it, you thought to yourself.

As soon as everyone got back, the rehearsal resumed. This time, it was a dress rehearsal. So you had more time and room for errors and adjustments. While Art is talking with the band about something related to your time on stage, you take a quick scroll on your phone. You instantly took notice of a certain tweet getting a lot of attention. You laughed at it as it sparked something in your brain. You swiped up your finger on the app to see more tweets from your fans, but a notification from a verified account popped up. You turned around to see Yoongi raising his brows. You typed in your phone before giving it to your very pregnant assistant, Cal.

The fishbowl method.

That method is known to be Yoongi's greatest enemy. Whenever any staff member of your tour brings out that glass bowl that was filled with rolled papers, he just knows he will hear his name from that staff member’s tongue. And today is no different day.

It was during the second rehearsal break of the day when Cal came in holding the infamous transparent bowl.

“So, everyone, this is for the Juno performance. We need two people for tonight,” she said it like it’s gonna be something fun.

Although Yoongi literally had no idea why, everyone seemed to be excited upon hearing Cal’s instructions as they cheered, including you. Fred, who is happily married and permanently removed from choices for the Juno performance participants, sat along with you and your dancers. He was cheering too. For more variety, the fishbowl included the names of your band members and dancers.

“YN, will you do the honors of picking two names in our bowl of names?” Cal called you up. 

“Okay, here we go. Drumroll, please,” you quipped, but Fred followed, running to his drums and playing them.

Knowing his fate, Yoongi was not surprised anymore when he heard his name after Noah’s. He is not even disappointed or frustrated. He just accepted and expected that the fishbowl method loves him. But what he did not expect was the reason for today’s fishbowl method. While you explained your plan for tonight’s Juno performance pose, Yoongi just shook his head with a smile as he was already used to your straightforward poses. He just didn’t expect that you could be this creative for positions.

“So, do you want to be at the back or the front?” Noah asked, which can sound strange without context.

Yoongi blinked, “What?”

He was obviously dumbfounded, making the others laugh. You tried not to laugh while you bit off your inner cheek.

“He means for the Eiffel Tower,” you explained, which didn’t really clarify anything for him.

Noah cuts in to help, “We are basically the tower itself, while YN is the centerpiece. She will bend forward, and we-” he clasped his hands together, “Are gonna high-five over her.”

“That’s your Juno position for tonight?!” Yoongi looked at him, then to you.

You nodded enthusiastically, “Yeah, the Eiffel Tower!”

When it finally registered in his head, everyone can see Yoongi’s shoulders deflating as he shakes his head with a smile. Just smiling over how stupid yet creative this whole thing is. His defeated stance made Fred and the dancers laugh. 

“I swear, we should change that fishbowl method,” he muttered, pushing his hair back.

“I think the fishbowl likes you a lot,” you teased him.

“I don’t think it was just the fishbowl,” he replied, making you pause while you three walk to the heart-shaped center stage.

Noah, who did not hear that last line since he walked faster, snapped his fingers, “Catch up, lovers. Let’s do this test run for the Eiffel Tower. I’m honestly starting to feel like the third wheel here.”

He said the name sarcastically, which resulted to you rolling your eyes and Yoongi scratching the back of his neck. You get into the position. You have your sparkly mic in your right hand, singing the last line before the pose. 

“Wanna try out some freaky position?” 

The guys stood on your front and back. Noah was on the front, while Yoongi was behind you.

“Have you ever tried… this one?” 

You bent forward as Yoongi and Noah high-fived over you, which instantly earned some whistling and cheers from your tour staff and dancers. You laughed, making you lose balance and accidentally grind against Yoongi. You only snapped out of it when he instinctively gripped your hips to steady you in place.

Noah, who saw this happen, gaped, “Oh my god, someone wash my eyes with holy water.”

Being the dramatic one, he threw up his hands and walked away in exaggerated disbelief. You and Yoongi, on the other hand, seemed to be in your own little world as you looked over your shoulder to look at him.

“Oops, sorry,” you said without really meaning it. 

He raised an eyebrow, “Really?”

You shrugged, standing back up, “Eh.”

Noah groaned from afar, leaning on one of the big speakers near their instruments, “Where is the HR for this tour?! I need to report something!”

The joke made everyone laugh. Akio, being the second most dramatic one in the band, dramatically consoled Noah. You stifled a laugh, turning around in their direction.

“Oh my god, you’re making me look like I’m a problem here.” you fed into their little bit that was going on.

Your best friend accusedly pointed out his finger, “You are the problem, and so is Tower B over there.”

Mr. Tower B, who stood next to you, remained casual as he muttered, “I don’t mind what’s going on. I kinda liked the view.”

The subtle smugness in his statement got a loud reaction from everyone. Fred laughed. The dancers howled. Akio and Noah groaned. The rehearsals are getting a little messier so Art had to step in.

“Okay, everyone. Let’s go rehearse the performance from the top again,” he signalled the dancers to stand up before turning to you and Yoongi. “And less thrusting, this time.”

You gasped even though you knew he was just teasing you, “There was no thrusting! I accidentally ground against him, that’s very much different!”

Art gave you a look that said, “Uh-huh, sure.”

Yoongi remained unbothered, “Yeah, thrusting is different. It requires intent.”

With that unexpected remark, the room erupted with laughter. All while your eyes widened, feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks.

“Yoongi!” you scolded him through an embarrassed gritted grin.

He looked at you, nonchalant as he blinked innocently,  “What? I was just explaining!”

SERIES TAGLIST

@busanbby-jjk @jimingirl95 @treacherqus @jajabro @marnz1990 @ktownshizzle @notarshia @m00njinnie @thelilbutifulthings @tarahardcore @livisdoingfine @jungshaking @eridanus-lynx @enthralled-bandit @goodnight-n-go-home @ronyiboniyy @jimeg629 @lveegsoi @madussthoughts @jalexad @ryryvna @kiki-zb @kam9404 @rtyuy1346 @esam28

PERMANENT TAGLIST (CLOSED)

@dunixxd @cixrosie @jksjx @embrace-themagic @buttvi @starbtslove @missseoulite @vanntaesworld @kenqki @imajinthis @stopeatread @seolaquotes @greyrain23 @chimchimmarie @petalsofink @jayhope88 @moonchild1 @laylasbunbunny @nikkiordonez12 @misshale21 @marblemoonstones @butnotmontana @mar-lo-pap @ficluvr613 @senaqsstuff @stars4kooo

[lily-jaxk]

MC Twin AU - RAFAYEL'S Muse

"Please?"

"No."

"Pretty pleaseeee?"

"No and that's final!"

MC pouts making you roll your eyes at her, pushing around your straw that was in your drink. You place your chin on your palm and sigh. "Look, it sounds fun don't get me wrong, but I'm not really an art person you know? I wouldn't understand anything going on!"

MC raised a brow and pointed at your computer. "Isn't writing basically an art form!? So that makes you an artist as well!"

You could only deadpan at your twin. "Writing fanfiction is not something I typically boast about."

"But you display them publicly, like an art gallery! Hence, you are perfect for this!'

You stared at her and loudly slurped up your drink, then raised a brow at MC. "Ok, let's recap." You say, letting out a small sigh. "You got invited to this huge gallery thing, but you were also assigned to be security by the Hunter's Association for the very same gallery. So the person who gave you the invite said to not waste it and invite someone else, am I right?"

"Basically yeah."

"Ok. Next question before I decide to go or not. Why me-"

"Oh? If it isn't Miss Bodyguard~"

You pause when you hear a strinkingly familiar voice, then glance up when you see him.

Holy shit. He looked even hotter in reality.

"Rafayel?" MC blinks with confusion, placing the spoon she was about to put in her mouth back on her plate. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be preparing for your art show?"

You freeze at her words. Art Show? Rafayel? His Art Show!?

You should have known! How many fucking artists did your sister know except for him!? Of course, the art show she was bugging you to attend was his own! How could you be so stupid!?

You flinch slightly as Rafayel lets out an amused laugh, waving his hand nochantly. "Thomas has everything under control. All I really have to do is just show up and smile a bit. How boring."

Alright, [Name], this was NOT the time for simping! Sure, the man you wasted so much time and energy on was right next to you. Sure, the man you actually spent money on was breathing the same air as you, but crush down those hopes and dreams of seducing him! You weren't MC, and that was fine.

When they get married, at least you can stuff yourself full on the seafood that no doubt will be there. Mhmmm, you couldn't wait!

"Oh, Rafayel. This is my twin [Name]!" MC's voice breaks through your mind, and you blink back into awareness, then shoot a panicked, wide-eyed look at your twin, which she easily ignores. "[Name], this is Rafayel, the person whose art gallery is putting on a show for his works."

You finally raise your head to look up at him again (when had you lowered your head?), and your breath stutters. Fuck him being a mermiad, he was a gosh darn Siren. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Rafayel." You give him a small smile, trying your hardest not to squeal with excitement as he gives you a smile back. "I've seen some of your artwork. It really is beautiful."

"Hmm. I know."

Brat.

"So, will you come?" MC demands, reaching over to tap your arm. You let out a long sigh, rubbing your forehead. Alright, what were the pros and cons of going to this art show? Pros! You get to see Rafayel's work in real life since the game wouldn't show you anything. Pros! There's bound to be good food there since the little fishie is so rich. Pros! Hot Man In Sight.

Cons: Hot Man In Sight. Cons: It might disturb plot. Cons: Even though you loved your twin, jealousy was an ugly thing.

. . . . Damm. The pros outweighed the cons. You let out a tired sigh and glare at your sister. "Fine. But! As soon as you're off the clock, I'm out."

"Yay! Thank you!"

Hours passed, and you found yourself in the art show. You take a bite of the shrimp you had snatched from the table and stare up at the painting before you. The beautiful blues of the ocean, the little pink and orange jellifishes, and a colorful school of fish swam around the huge white clam that had a beautiful pearl in the middle. You swallow your shrimp and tilt your head to the side, trying to imprint the painting in your mind.

"I saw those little fishies in a dream." A voice whispers next to you, making you almost choke on your shrimp. After you had finished dying, you turned your head to see Rafayel standing next to you, his gaze completely on the painting. "In my dream, a silly fish let his friends so he could try and get that pearl. But he failed in the end."

Hot man talking hot man talking hot man- "The fish sounds very brave." You inwardly panic as he turns his head to silently stare at you. "Even if he failed, at least he tried! Most people, or well, fishes in this case, would rather let their desires fester back to the bottom of the sea."

Wait a second. Was Rafayel talking about how he represented the fish and how MC was the pearl? Goodness gracious, you were about to scream. You clear your throat and quickly toss another shrimp in your mouth to try and calm your thoughts. "My sister is still busy."

"I knoow," he sighs out, and you can't help but let out a small laugh. "And this art show is so boring. So, tell me about yourself."

Huh? "What?"

He leans closer to you, a smile on his face that makes your heart beat faster, blood rushing in your veins. "Tell me more about yourself," he says again. "I want to know more about Miss Bodyguard's twin."

. . . . You know what? Fine. It wasn't like you were actively trying to romance him! You could be friends! "Sure! What would you like to know?"

"Everything and anything." he smiles wider.

Prologue | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier | Rafayel | Sylus |

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Rafayel | 18+

Happy Birthday, Rafayel! I hope you have a wonderful day with MC

[itslifetreesworld]

My favorite Benthan looks in M: I (5/8): Rouge Nation!

M:I 1-3 are here

Ghost Protocol

Did I say I would pick one set of looks from each of the films? I lied. /unapologetic

Again, the following would be the costume analysis and my ramblings and some excuses for breaking my rules, and because I REALLY LIKE Rogue Nation this is going to be a long one...so if you are ready let's dive straight in:

Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation

Ok so first of all,

I love you. Thank you so much for literally everything I'm crying

Secondly, this time, there's no thinking process at all. The car chase looks were actually what made me want to do this challenge in the first place, and then I quickly realized that there's no way I can let the Ethan certified Nice Tux™ go away.

But before we go straight to the two I picked, we can first have a look at the other costumes that pique my interest:

The record shop Ethan

This one is quite interesting for me because it's uncommonly casual. It's not the usual utilitarian bomber jacket and sweater combo that Ethan usually goes for, but a pretty casual olive green jacket that's slightly crumpled. Considering the context, I would even say this might be Ethan's personal clothing when he's not on a mission, as this was supposed to be a simple information pick-up.

2. The CIA Benji

So in the CIA, Benji was wearing a light grey jacket (hanging on his chair) and a slightly blue shirt with a striped tie. I am just putting this here to complain that both the CIA and the IMF have the most boring dress code of all times.

But in this scene, it was the first time Benji's wearing less than every other person in the room. My explanation is that he and Ethan probably did a lot more missions together before the demolition of the IMF, so he is in better physical condition, which also explains how relaxed he is in Vienna compared to Ghost Protocol. Speaking of Vienna...

I just want to point out what a shape he is. Just look at that.

Another detail is that his shirt is not even a simple white shirt; it's a slightly pleated(?) one that looks more expensive than my kidneys or something. I guess at least the CIA is paying him well

While Ethan looks like he's going to a funeral (which is not entirely wrong...you know)

He removed the tie shortly after going backstage but I kept the tie on, because it's also rarely he keeps the thing on at all so why not?

Btw I realized only as I'm writing this analysis that the lapel of Ethan's suit is actually peaked plus it's silk. That's why you should always do the research before instead of after everything. (I KNEW he's too dramatic to go to an opera with basic black suits goddamnit)

Another thing I quite like is Ethan's hair length in RN; it was something shorter than mi2 and GP but definitely longer than most others, which gives this lovely fringe and a slightly puffed feeling, which is really cute.

And before I started with the second outfit that I chose, let's have a look at these:

At first look I thought Benji's suit was the same as the CIA one, but then on a closer shot I realized that this one is striped and more of a tan color while the CIA one is simply grey. And I have no idea why Ethan decided to wear all dark colors under the burning sun of Casablanca, this guy is insane

Also I don't know if you noticed before because I haven't, but Benji was wearing these blue sneakers

I kept thinking about the costumes in Casablanca because I think in terms of plot, these are supposed to be Benji's personal clothes when he came to Vienna, so these are the clothes he wears when he travels! I will go into details about this when we talk about the car chase look very soon, but before that I had to put Ethan with this purple silk shirt here.

I don't think Ethan cared much about his outfits during the six months' run from the CIA, and judging from his line in Vienna that he prepared Benji's change of clothes, I'd say he got all of these ready before the opera. (I don't know mate but for six months he's been very unkept but the moment he knew he was going on a mission with Benji he got these fancy suits and purple silk shirts I mean there's got to be a reason for that. Plus in this shot he literally walked away from Ilsa to stand next to Benji. You can draw your own conclusions.)

FINALLY it's the lost tourists' look! I love these so much that I literally started this entire challenge for them:

I'm convinced that Benji prepared the clothes for both of them (I'm biased but yeah). I'm about 99.99% sure that Benji's wearing his own clothes, I've also considered if Ethan was wearing Benji's travelling shirts but this one could or could not be Benji's style, not super sure. Anyway if this one is from Ethan's then he picked something to match with Benji's.

Edited: I forgot to mention this but the dark patterns on Benji's shirt are also a matching shade of Ethan's burgundy shirt

Benji was wearing a different sneakers, an orange one to go with his T-shirt.

From here we know that Ethan is not totally mad, the inner layer is still a T-shirt, and from another shot we can see it's with prints, which is not common for him.

Edited: The amazing @waywardmillennial sent me this pic which shows the print on Ethan's shirt:

There are more details mentioned in here plus in the comment section about the shirt!

(Btw just slightly off track again. When Ethan literally just woke up from death his hands were on Benji's chest for quite a while, and Benji was definitely noticing)

We talked about Ethan's hair before now let's talk about Benji's. THIS is my absolute favorite part of Benji's look in RN. *chef's kisses*

...and I've definitely written too much this time. To wrap this one up I am nominating one last candidate:

I just love the color and the vibrancy of this red jacket and the cute shirt, alas the competition was simply too great this time

And that's all for Rouge Nation! Phew it was taking me much longer than I thought to get this out, but I am having so much fun. I hope you enjoyed it too!

I'm also putting the link to the analysis of MI1-3 and Ghost Protocol here for a quick refresh if you are interested.

The one for Fallout is also out!

Again thanks for reading this much and see you next time! :D

[maelancoli]

Adding Tension After the Ship Happens

i feel a lot of slow burn ships lose steam after the characters finally get together, whether it's just from sleeping together or them actually engaging in a relationship, so here are some ideas for how to maintain steam.

their problems are not solved now that they've crossed the thresh hold

first things first, the plot itself i'm sure has other details than just their relationship. even the most fluffy of fluff has other things going on than kisses and giggles. don't abandon these details once the relationship truly begins. and if there was any kind of unresolved tension point or previously mentioned ex/trauma/insecurity/fear bring it back! bring things back around that might put a strain on a new, tender relationship. this can either make them have problems or be a way to develop their bonds and *show* it in action. any of these foreshadowing/resurrected points can be added in edits if you didn't start out with them or with retconning if you're writing rp/fanfic. all the writers do it. we see it in tv everyday it's ok if u gotta pull a rabbit from a hat.

their relationship will not be suddenly smooth and solid as if they have been married 20 years

okay they kissed/fucked/agreed to be together. now what? what circumstances kept them from getting there sooner? are those circumstances still present and how will they deal with it as a team? you also don't have to have characters officially together once they've done something physical. there is still discussion to be had and boundaries/expectations to establish. those conversations could be interesting to explore. and, even more-so, this is the perfect point for plot to happen and keep them from being able to have those conversations when they should. you can add angst, you can add miscommunication, you can add anything that tickles your fancy. especially a perfect time to have an ex return to cause some tension and uncertainty if they haven't made it official. they don't know what they are yet and that uncertainty is a delicious point to write it and really give the characters a hard time

utilize the main plot's tension

again, if you're writing more than just a contemporary fluffy romance, the romance should enrich the main plot. the romance as a subplot should be a component which merges with the main storyline and does not take away from it. if you don't want to milk the will-they-won't-they anymore than you already have it's time to build the relationship up in the midst of OUTSIDE conflict. let them disagree about how to resolve problems. let them butt heads. let them be scared and do and say stupid shit because they're scared. let them be worried or angry or frustrated and have to figure out how to balance their newfound vulnerability with who they are and were before that point. let them hurt each other a little so they can come back together stronger.

utilize the characters around them

if it is a plot which is mainly romance filled, then think about the tension from the lives around them. think about their loved ones and how their own issues could influence the plot points the characters have to face together. this could be a time for them to be introduced to loved ones. you could throw in a group trip with silly mishaps and shenanigans. you could even have loved ones try to break them up or doubt the love interest. navigating new relationships while also dealing with friends and family can be a source of plot and tension in and of itself. this can be a point to let love interests reassure each other and prove their salt. it can help them grow closer. it can be the heroic moment for one of them to stick up for the other or prove they're there for them no matter what.

overall if you're struggling with what to do after the slow burn feels like it's sizzling out it's time to zoom out. make sure you are not losing the whole picture of their environment or steamrolling past the real development of new relationships.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Villains vs. Antagonists (Guide For Writers)

Hey there, fellow writers and wonderful members of the writeblr community! 📚✍️ It's Rin here and...

Today, we're diving into a topic that's close to many writers' hearts: villains and antagonists. These characters often steal the show, driving our plots forward and giving our heroes something to push against. But here's the thing – while these terms are often used interchangeably, they're not quite the same. So, let's unpack this, shall we?

First things first, let's break down the difference between a villain and an antagonist. It's a distinction that can really elevate your storytelling game!

An antagonist is simply a character (or force) that opposes your protagonist. They're the obstacle, the challenge, the thing standing in the way of your main character achieving their goal. Here's the kicker: an antagonist doesn't have to be evil. They could be a rival love interest, a stern parent, or even nature itself.

A villain, on the other hand, is a specific type of antagonist. They're the bad guy, the evildoer, the character with malicious intent. All villains are antagonists, but not all antagonists are villains. Mind-blowing, right?

Let's look at some examples to make this clearer:

In "Romeo and Juliet," the feuding families are antagonists, but they're not villains. They oppose the protagonists' desire to be together, but they're not evil.

In "Harry Potter," Voldemort is both an antagonist and a villain. He opposes Harry (making him an antagonist) and he's also evil (making him a villain).

In "Cast Away," the island and the challenges of survival are the antagonists. There's no villain in sight!

Now that we've got that sorted, let's dive deeper into how to create these characters and use them effectively in your writing.

Creating Antagonists:

Define their opposition: What specifically does your antagonist do to oppose your protagonist? This could be physical, emotional, or ideological opposition.

Give them a reason: Why are they standing in your protagonist's way? Even if it's not justified, there should be a reason that makes sense to the antagonist.

Make them strong: Your antagonist should be a worthy opponent. They need to pose a real challenge to your protagonist to keep things interesting.

Consider their perspective: Remember, your antagonist is the hero of their own story. Try writing a scene from their point of view to understand them better.

Create contrast: Your antagonist should in some way contrast with your protagonist. This could be in values, methods, or personality.

Creating Villains:

Establish their evil: What makes your villain "bad"? Is it their actions, their beliefs, or both?

Develop their backstory: How did they become evil? A compelling villain often has a tragic or twisted history.

Give them dimensions: Pure evil can be boring. Give your villain some complexity – maybe they love their cat or have a soft spot for classical music.

Create a strong motivation: What drives your villain? Greed? Revenge? A twisted sense of justice? The stronger and more relatable the motivation, the more compelling your villain will be.

Make them smart: Your villain should be clever enough to pose a real threat. They should be able to anticipate and counter your protagonist's moves.

Now, let's talk about how to use these characters in different genres. Because let's face it, a villain in a romance novel is going to look very different from one in a fantasy epic!

In Romance: Antagonists in romance are often rivals for the affection of the love interest, or perhaps societal norms or family expectations standing in the way of true love. Villains are less common, but when they appear, they might be abusive exes or manipulative friends trying to sabotage the relationship.

Tip: In romance, make sure your antagonist's motivations are clear and relatable. We should understand why they're opposing the main relationship, even if we don't agree with their methods.

In Fantasy: Fantasy is ripe for both antagonists and villains. You might have a Dark Lord seeking to conquer the world (classic villain) or a rival magic user competing for the same goal as your protagonist (antagonist).

Tip: In fantasy, world-building is key. Make sure your antagonist or villain fits logically into the world you've created. Their powers, motivations, and methods should all make sense within the rules of your fantasy realm.

In Mystery/Thriller: In these genres, your antagonist is often the perpetrator of the crime your protagonist is trying to solve. They might not be evil (maybe they committed a crime of passion), or they could be a full-fledged villain if their crimes are particularly heinous.

Tip: In mysteries, your antagonist needs to be clever enough to challenge your detective protagonist. Leave subtle clues about their identity or motives, but make sure they're smart enough to almost get away with it.

In Literary Fiction: Here, antagonists are often more abstract. They might be societal expectations, personal flaws, or even time itself. Villains in the traditional sense are less common, but morally grey characters who oppose the protagonist are frequent.

Tip: In literary fiction, focus on the nuances of your antagonist. They should be as complex and flawed as your protagonist, with their own rich inner life.

In Sci-Fi: Science fiction offers a wide range of possibilities for antagonists and villains. You might have alien invaders, oppressive governments, or even well-meaning scientists whose creations have gone awry.

Tip: In sci-fi, make sure your antagonist or villain is consistent with the technological and social aspects of your imagined world. Their methods and motivations should make sense within the context of your sci-fi setting.

Now, let's dive into some tips to make your antagonists and villains the best they can be in your novel:

Make them believable: Whether you're writing a mustache-twirling villain or a morally grey antagonist, their actions and motivations should make sense within the context of your story and their character.

Give them a personal connection to the protagonist: The conflict becomes much more engaging when it's personal. Maybe your antagonist and protagonist used to be friends, or they're fighting over the same goal.

Show their impact: Don't just tell us your antagonist is a threat – show us the consequences of their actions. Let us see how they affect your protagonist and the world of your story.

Give them wins: Your antagonist or villain should have some successes along the way. If they're always failing, they won't seem like a credible threat.

Humanize them: Even if you're writing a truly evil villain, give them some humanizing traits. Maybe they have a pet they dote on, or a tragic backstory that explains (but doesn't excuse) their actions.

Make them adaptable: A good antagonist doesn't stick to one plan. When the protagonist foils them, they should be able to come up with new strategies.

Give them their own character arc: Your antagonist or villain should grow and change throughout the story, just like your protagonist does.

Use them to highlight your protagonist's strengths and weaknesses: Your antagonist should challenge your protagonist in ways that force them to grow and change.

Consider their presentation: How do other characters react to your antagonist? How do they present themselves to the world versus who they really are?

Don't forget about henchmen: If you're writing a villain, consider giving them some underlings. This can add depth to their character and provide more challenges for your protagonist.

Remember, whether you're crafting a dastardly villain or a complex antagonist, these characters are crucial to your story. They're the ones who push your protagonist to grow, who raise the stakes, and who often drive the plot forward.

But here's a gentle reminder: while it's important to make your antagonists and villains compelling, be mindful of the impact your writing might have. If you're dealing with heavy themes or traumatic events, handle them with care and sensitivity.

Now, I know we've covered a lot of ground here, and you might be feeling a bit overwhelmed. That's okay! Writing complex characters is a skill that develops over time. Don't be afraid to experiment, to try different approaches, and to revise and refine your antagonists and villains as you go.

One exercise I find helpful is to write a short story from your antagonist's or villain's point of view. This can help you understand their motivations better and ensure they feel like real, three-dimensional characters.

Another tip: watch movies or read books in your genre and pay special attention to how they handle antagonists and villains. What works well? What doesn't? How can you apply these lessons to your own writing?

Remember, there's no one "right" way to create these characters. What matters is that they serve your story and engage your readers. Trust your instincts, and don't be afraid to push boundaries or subvert expectations.

As you work on your antagonists and villains, keep in mind that they're not just there to make life difficult for your protagonist. They're an integral part of your story's ecosystem. They shape the plot, influence character development, and often reflect themes or ideas you're exploring in your work.

And remember, writing is a journey. Your first draft of an antagonist or villain might not be perfect, and that's okay. The beauty of writing is in the revision, in the gradual sculpting of characters until they leap off the page.

Lastly, don't forget to have fun with it! Creating antagonists and villains can be some of the most enjoyable parts of writing. Let your imagination run wild, explore the darker sides of human nature, and see where your characters take you.

I hope this deep dive into antagonists and villains has been helpful and inspiring. Remember, you've got this! Your unique voice and perspective will bring these characters to life in ways no one else can.

Happy writing! 📝💖 - Rin. T

Before you go, why not join us at The Write Right Society? We're a supportive Tumblr community where writers lift each other up. Whether you're a newbie or a pro, we'd love to have you! Share your work, get feedback, and connect with fellow wordsmiths, writers and aspiring authors. 

[icantbelieveitsnotbutler]

How Tight is Sebastian's Collar?

When Ciel "breached" the contract by briefly giving up on revenge, the contract didn't automatically end. In fact, there was no indication that a breach had even occurred until Sebastian brought it up. If the contract doesn't automatically enforce its terms, does Ciel have to be aware that Sebastian is violating a rule and explicitly accuse him in order for the terms to be enforced?

Manga spoilers.

Despite Ciel's efforts to make them watertight, none of the contract terms are as straightforward as they might seem. The first rule, to not lie to Ciel, is immediately complicated by what Sebastian says after:

Does this mean that the contract doesn't automatically filter or check everything Sebastian says and that Ciel has to do something to enforce the rule? Does Ciel have to expose the contract mark and explicitly tell him to not lie every time he asks a question? Or is it enough to ask directly?

Maybe the contract does automatically detect/prevent lies and Sebastian's comment about the contract seal means either that as long as the contract mark is on Ciel, Sebastian won't be able to lie to him, or that Ciel will be able to sense if Sebastian is lying and then use the seal to either force the truth out of him or end the contract.

In the worst-case scenario, Sebastian's offer of three wishes in the contract scene was actually a lie and the terms and everything after are all lies. Only the initial condition (Ciel's soul in exchange for the power to take vengeance on those who caused the twin's month of suffering) was real. In that case, the answer to "how tight is Sebastian's collar?" is that it doesn't matter, because the collar isnt attached to a leash.

In the best-case scenario, the contract makes it so that Ciel would be aware if Sebastian lied to him or outright prevent him from lying, which means that Sebastian has never lied to anyone during the duration of their contract, at least up until the last time he told Ciel that he doesn't tell lies. This is because if he can't lie to Ciel, when he tells Ciel that he doesn't lie, with no qualifications, everything he has said before that is retroactively verified as not a lie.

So what was the point of limiting his required truthfulness to just Ciel? I think Toboso either decided to change the rule for plot reasons that have yet to be revealed, or the rule has always been that he can't lie to just Ciel, and he somehow managed to forget the qualification by the time they left the church.

Something to note is that this rule is not to lie, which is different from simply always telling the truth. A lie is not just false information: it must be deliberately false with the intent to deceive.

Things said to deceive are not lies, if they're technically true:

He can say things that he knows aren't true, as long as he makes sure that the other person knows he's joking/sarcastic.

He can say things that are factually wrong, as long as he believes what he's saying to be true. We see this when he tells Ciel that the dead can't be brought back to life, only to find out later that it's possible. Here's an instance where Ciel proves him wrong in a shorter time frame:

The other two rules also leave an uncomfortable amount of wiggle room for Sebastian:

The official manga translation of 絶対 (zettai) is "without question," but the word more literally means absolutely or unconditionally. Ciel ends up having to immediately add a corollary condition to this rule.

(I think "I need a break" could have been translated differently to better reflect what's happening in this scene. The verb form Ciel is using here is called the causative, which is translated as 'make' or 'let', depending on the context. It's obvious that he's only telling Sebastian to let him rest for a bit, but Sebastian, because he's spiteful, chooses to interpret it as 'make me rest for a bit.')

They establish that Sebastian only has to follow orders when Ciel says "命令だ (meireida)," literally "It's an order" but frequently translated as "I command you." However, there are situations that raise questions about how strictly Sebastian must follow these orders.

In the circus arc, Ciel explicitly orders Sebastian to go to the heraldry office AND find out the identity of the circus troup's "father."

When Sebastian was unable to leave the circus grounds, he found another way to identify the man with the signet ring. He accomplished the essence of the order, but what if Ciel specifically wanted him to go to the heraldry office because it would be the most trustworthy source of information? And then when Ciel directly asks him, Sebastian basically lies by omission.

It all works out in the end, but if Sebastian were in a less cooperative mood, he could use this sort of wiggle room to cause trouble for his master. In the next arc, Sebastian seems to disobey a direct order, but it's just another limit of the translation.

At first I thought this was evidence that an order requires intent and that the contract could somehow sense that Ciel didn't actually want Sebastian to get up. However, in the original Japanese, Ciel orders Sebastian to 起きる (okiru), which means to get up OR to wake up. Therefore, Sebastian was technically obeying the order because he was already awake.

When Ciel says "It's an order," he usually exposes the contract seal on his eye, but not always. Sebastian said that the more conspicuous the location of the contract mark, the more power Ciel has access to. I'm assuming this means Sebastian is required to follow all orders, but orders made with the mark exposed allow or force him to draw on more of his power.

Ciel usually keeps the mark covered for lower-stakes commands:

In emergencies, he takes off the eyepatch when he wants Sebastian to put everything he has into following an order.

The name "Sebastian" also seems to be tied to the contract.

Ciel uses it to summon Sebastian, without the need to say "it's an order."

In Kelvin's manor, Sebastian uses it to summon Ciel back from his panicked state.

Outside of explicitly labeled orders, Sebastian does seem to try to be obedient to his master's commands, compelled by the contract or his personal or butler aesthetics.

However, this contract term can at times conflict with the third rule and with his aesthetics, in which case he goes with whatever option he wants while still technically following a rule.

He disobeys a command (albeit not a 命令だ command) in order to protect Ciel's life.

Agni convinces him that it's okay to disobey an order to preserve his master's physical or mental well-being. This isn't because of the contract rule about protecting Ciel, which seems to only cover life-threatening threats (Sebastian has allowed Ciel to be kidnapped and beaten). He disobeys Ciel's orders (again- not a 命令だ order) and "betrays" him in order to indulge his butler aesthetics.

Ciel's orders and wishes can also conflict with eachother. In Kelvin's manor, Ciel's order to burn the children goes against what Sebastian knows to be his wishes: to complete the case assigned to him by the queen. Sebastian doesn't follow the order until Ciel makes it absolute by saying "it's an order."

When Sebastian encounters the same conundrum in the green witch arc, Ciel doesn't say "it's an order," so Sebastian chooses to follow his wish (to finish the case), rather than his spoken order (to go home).

I fear that Sebastian's collar is loose enough that he could slip it off at any moment, but he chooses not to because he's having fun playing the butler game with Ciel. Alternatively, the collar is tight, but it doesn't matter because Ciel doesn't have the strength to control the leash.

[2000sangel]

Hi! Can I request Tenna with a reader who loves talking about their favourite shows? Like, if nobody stops them they could spend hours talking about what they liked/ disliked, theories about the plot, their favourite characters, etc? Though they might stop because they're afraid of being annoying

Hey there! Sure thing! I wrote this on my phone for a change, because man it's getting hot…especially in my room where my PC is. I hate summer sighs. Anyways, because of that the formatting miiight be weird…? Not sure, hope it's not and that you enjoy!!

And my apologies if you wanted a fanfiction and not headcanons! I thought they might fit better!

★ — ★ — ★

Tenna x Reader who's passionate about their favorite shows - Headcanons!

★ The first time you end up rambling about your favorite TV shows with your then close friend Tenna is because of a misunderstanding; he was admittedly feeling somewhat insecure that day, all thanks to viewer counts dropping, so he needed reassurance that at least you liked his show…but he felt rather weird asking you directly, for some reason. He always felt a bit nervous around you before you eventually started dating, and didn't love making a scene around you or moping around.

★ So the next best thing to do was asking you a very vague question hoping you'd give the right answer while you were chatting on break; “Say! There must be a show that no matter What, no matter where you are, keeps you on the absolute edge of your seat…No?” he had asked, wide smile ever present on his screen though one of his antennas appeared to be a bit droopy. 

★ He had asked the wrong vague question, apparently, because you started going on about your favorite shows for so long that you almost made him show up late on stage…and because of this misunderstanding, he performed quite poorly while on air, too! He had hoped for you to answer that your favorite show ever was TV Time, not to stay sat listening to you ramble on about how much greater and more entertaining these other shows must've been!!

★ This did not lead to a fight, because you quickly realized the situation and immediately apologized for missing the point of the question as soon as TV Time was over for the day. Still, you asked to please be more direct whenever he was feeling insecure about something, so you could answer his questions properly…! You Loved your friend's work, you just had been waiting for the chance to talk about the other shows you liked to him for a while!

★ Thanks to this small incident, Tenna became more attentive when it came to your interests; now in a relationship, he doesn't mind you bringing up other shows anymore, unless it's to compare them to his…but you would never really do that. You mostly like shows that have a cast of characters and a plot anyways, so a completely different deal than TV Time. 

★ Of course he knows the television world like the back of his hand! So sometimes, he can even discuss things such as theories and favorites too, if it happens to be a show he's also quite interested in and knowledgeable about! He tends to like comedic relief characters, he finds them silly, and quite enjoys Sitcoms, so if you're also into that you two might end up chatting about those for hours!

★ Tenna is a sweet talker, really; if you tend to apologize for talking too much or because you're afraid of coming off as annoying, he stops you right then and there, asks you to pause, rewind, and perhaps switch your channel to one that's airing ‘(Y/N)’s Outstanding Standings’ or whatever silly title he might give it to encourage you to keep talking instead!! If it's late and he has somewhere to be or something to do, he urges you to continue your rambling later on, and reminds you of it himself as he cares a lot and genuinely wants to hear it all.

★ He definitely surprises you by hosting a TV Time episode completely centered on your top favorite show, with themed quizzes and challenges! If you're the type to join as a contestant if he asks, he’s eager to have you on stage; but if you don't, he wants your reaction and thoughts immediately afterwards. Whatever kind of person you might be, he tries to keep it a secret until the end…acting Very suspicious, begging you to either participate or tune in for this very specific episode…you know from the start that he has something planned, and when it's all revealed, you just can't wait to plant a big kiss on his screen as soon as you can be back into each other's arms! 

[ven0moir]

Will had hope ... and then lost it.

He had hope that maybe, just maybe, Mike and he felt the same way. And I think it started here:

Mike expressed relief at the idea of Will not joining another party. And Will's look seems ... surprised but joyful? Like he's picking up on Something the audience is not.

Then we have this:

I know a lot of people say he meant this in a friendship way. But I don't think he did entirely. I think he was 'testing the waters' so to speak, to see Mike's reaction to him asking something like this so forwardly--an action driven in part, possibly, also by frustration. Of course their friendship was his priority but he was also Sending Mike a Message. Speaking in code, if you will. And I'm not sure if Mike picked up on it or not, but he knew what he was doing when he used the word 'us'.

Then of course we have Mike's speech to Will in episode 4. The way he slightly tilts his head to the side inquisitively after Mike said 'It's Hawkins, it's not the same without you', as if he's thinking "am I dreaming? Is he really saying this?" And not to be meta but he might even be wondering if he's being delusional here.

On top of that, the speech prompted him to gather the courage to do this:

hope again. But then his arc culminated in this:

Will's facial expressions when Mike is self-depricating ... he seems so sad. In the second one, even Mike notices and cuts himself off to apologize for bringing up this subject.

I think he, sadly, realized Mike did feel the same way as him, but not in the way he had initially hoped. Mike, like him, is struggling with not feeling good enough for the person he loves.

And Will did not want Mike to feel the same way he did. So he did what we saw him do and give the painting to Mike, which symbolizes his love for DnD, for what they do together, for their friend group, for him. His intention here was to make Mike feel better. Important. Seen. Even at the cost of his own heartbreak.

"Every smile you fake, I'll be watching you."

So to recap, at the beginning of the season, Will had been acting weird and painting for someone he liked ( according to El ). We find out very quickly that the recipient of the painting was intended to be Mike. I don't think Will ever intended for the painting to be a full blown love confession--but a start. A continuation of the 'hint dropping' they started doing at the end of S3. But of course, the whole world went to shit, and his feelings got amplified to the point where the painting's meaning took a different turn. And it became the basis of a veiled love confession.

I think this is devastating because the narrative forced them, once again, down a different path from the natural progression this would've been had Mike been allowed to enjoy a nice spring break in California.

I do believe by the end of S4, Will has completely lost the last vestiges of hope he had left that Mike would ever reciprocate his feelings, especially after Mike's love confession. I think he feels stupid for even allowing himself to believe there was a chance.

I mean, look at him. And, terrifyingly, I feel like that is exactly where Vecna needs him to be at the start of S5.

Sprinkle in some #birthdaygate and voila ... we have the perfect recipe for a horrible Vecna vision.

I don't know how they'll resolve this, but it does feel to me that the intention of Will's S4 arc was to get him to a point of loss of hope, which signifies the death of his dream.

Going into S5, he probably sees this dream now as stupid and childish--an impossibility. Adding to this, there's no way in hell Will is going to confess. Not when this happened and it was never resolved.

The ball is on Mike's court, for better or for worse.

And I think this is also another plot twist we will find out through Vecna: the fact that Will had hope that he and Mike could be together and felt the same way. And that honestly makes whatever Vecna does to Will 10 times worse because if Will had NEVER had hope, then there's nothing new there. But having hope and then having it crushed to the ground? Yeah ... my heart hurts as I type this.