#you can fix the past but the past still happened

[beloveds-embrace]

Sooo much angstttttttttttt 😭

I need the boys to wake up and do whatever it takes to fix it, please, I can't take the angst 😭😭😭

Does this count as fix-it? 🤔 hope you enjoy, anon! Also this turned out far longer than i thought it would lol

First Part

Another shift slowly happens within the duchy, palpable. The whispers of servants echo louder than ever, growing sharp and cutting in the empty halls you once used to frequent. They still avoid you, but now they wonder and whisper of your health. It’s not just them; the men you’d once hoped you’d at least be on an amicable basis with slowly change as well, the longer your absence haunts the halls and galas.

John is the first to act. It’s hesitant at first, awkward even, as though he can’t figure out how to approach the shattered remains of what he’s ignored for so long. He stands outside your door one evening, his shadow stretching under the flickering candlelight, fist raised to knock. But he doesn’t. Not at first. He falters, as if the weight of his guilt roots him to the spot.

When he finally does knock, it’s tentative, barely audible.

“…Are you awake?” His voice carries a softness you’ve never heard before, but it grates against your numbness.

You don’t answer. Your eyes barely flick towards the door, not moving from where you are curled on your side.

He lingers, sighs, and leaves.

You had intended to let yourself waste away, in all honesty. Only your mother doesn’t let you; she bursts into your room one day, sneers at the miserable sight you make, and insults you to the high heavens. Nothing new, even if her digs hurt, even if she says she isn’t surprised by no one loving you when you are like this, but she forces you to eat some nibbles and then into a shower; she doesn’t care. She is simply tired of having you be an embarrassment and hiding away from the public eye.

Thus, you no longer stay in your room. You don’t bother with jewelry, with heavy gowns or complicated hair styles or even clearing the layer of dust off your furniture, you just leave your room. Thankfully,

Unfortunately, that means passing by the maids and servants. It means passing by them. It means interacting with them again, though no longer initiated by you.

Simon is the second, and less direct. He lingers in places you begin to re-frequent; the library, the gardens, the corridors near your room. He doesn’t speak, just watches from the periphery, eyes heavy and intense. Once, when you brush past him without acknowledging his presence, he mutters something under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides. But he doesn’t try to stop you and you don ask what he said.

He probably didn’t mean you, anyways. You doubt he wants to speak to you, the obstacle.

Johnny falters the most. Though your interactions with him were few, you’d occasionally hear from the servants about how fun he is in general. His smiles, though they’ve never been aimed at you, look quite fake to you, jokes half-hearted and dying on his lips whenever you pass on rare occasions.

One day, he brings a tray of food to your room himself, hoping to coax you into eating with something he’s cooked just for you. You answer the door, see him holding it, and shake your head without a word. Even if it looks delectable, like the dishes John would get.

“Please,” he says, his voice cracking. “I- just try a bit, hen.”

But you close the door before he can say more. He will try again and often, sometimes just leaving the tray, but you never touch it. You’ve lost weight, you know, and the only reason you are getting some nutrients at this point is because you occasionally sneak into the kitchens late at night for tiny snacks to tide you over. If Johnny knows it’s you, he’s never said anything.

Kyle is quieter, yet more present. The guilt eats away at him the most; he knows that his lack of care and respect had a part in the way the rest of the maids and staff treated you. He spends his evenings pacing the hall outside your room, his head bowed, mumbling apologies that you’ll never hear, wondering which one is best.

Once, he catches you in the garden alone, his mouth opening as if to speak, but you pass him without so much as a glance; you already know he won’t care for you have to say or ask for, he’ll just say he is busy, so you just don’t bother.

He stays frozen in place, his hand half-raised, the words stuck in his throat.

The servants, per Kyle and John’s orders, begin to change. Their guilt is slower to manifest, but it’s there and it’s evident in the way they rush to fulfill your needs despite your reluctance. They clean your room with quiet efficiency, no longer treating you like a burden, even though you hadn’t asked it of them. They leave fresh flowers on your desk and vanity, extra blankets on your bed, and freshly pressed gowns in your wardrobe.

You ignore all of it. It’s a waste of everyone’s time snd effort. You aren’t worth it.

Yet despite their heavy guilt, they return to and continue serving you.

But nothing changes the heaviness in your chest, the emptiness that refuses to leave.

One day, closer to the date of the annual winter gala hosted by the emperial family, you step into the dining room unannounced, your presence startling them all. It’s the first time you’ve joined them in weeks. You move slowly, your posture rigid and tired, your expression unreadable.

“Duchess,” John starts, his voice uncertain, rising from his seat.

“…John,” You sit without meeting his eyes, your movements slow and deliberate. The table is silent, the tension suffocating as John, Simon, and Kyle exchange uncertain glances.

John clears his throat. “It’s good to see you, wife.”

You don’t respond.

The meal is awkward, stilted, but it’s necessary for you; you need to get reused to John for your eventual reappearance in high society. Johnny offers you dishes with a hesitant, hopeful look in his eyes, and Kyle pours your wine with an unsteady grip. John and Simon try to start a conversation, but their words falter and fade when you don’t reply.

Still, they try. Over the following weeks, their efforts grow.

John begins carving out time to spend with you, awkwardly hovering near your door, waiting for even a crumb of acknowledgment. He starts leaving small notes for you- apologies and quiet promises to be better. They pile up on your desk, untouched but not thrown away. You want to believe, but you feel jaded and tired.

Simon offers you quiet companionship, instead. Standing at your side in the garden or library, saying nothing but ensuring you’re not alone. He speaks softly when he does talk, a one-sided conversation with only the occasional hum or noise from you, but he’s undeterred.

Johnny keeps cooking for you, leaving trays of food outside your door with little notes attached: Eat a bit, bonnie. Just for me. You don’t eat much, still have very little appetite, but you do start taking bites here and there, and it’s enough to keep him trying.

Kyle offers small acts of service- holding doors open for you, keeping anything you might need available at hanf, ensuring your rooms are kept warm and comfortable. His words are rare, but his actions speak of endless guilt and the quiet hope that he can earn even a sliver of forgiveness.

The maids and butlers follow suit, their movements quieter, their service more thoughtful. They stop muttering, their eyes full of remorse whenever they see you. They bow in respect, and no longer treat you as if you aren’t a part of the duchy.

But you keep them all at arm’s length. Their guilt is evident, their efforts genuine, but the wounds they’ve left on your heart are deep. Forgiveness, if it ever comes, will not be easily earned. For now, you let them try, watching their clumsy attempts with a mixture of numbness and quiet satisfaction (that you do feel guilty over, but truly can’t help).

Several weeks before the gala, John comes to your office. He sits down, and waits until you are finished with your paperwork before he speaks. You are in a beautiful dress- Simon’s gift- and your hair is in a delicate style, done by your maids. You look pretty. You feel nice, even if the numbness remains. These days, it’s less.

“Duchess, I was thinking,” he began, voice soft and patient. “it might do you some good to get away for a while. A change of scenery.”

You turned to look at him, the suggestion pulling you from your numb reverie. His blue eyes searched yours, and for once, there was no coldness, no distance. “Somewhere quiet,” he continued, “where you can rest… away from all of this.”

The idea of leaving the suffocating walls of the manor, and the heavy tension of the duchy was tempting. And yet, you hesitated, unsure if you could trust the gesture or if it was just another attempt to smooth over appearances.

“I’ll take care of everything,” he added quickly, as if sensing your doubt. “You won’t have to worry about a thing. You can choose who you’d like to go with, or even if you want to go alone. It’s entirely up to you, Duchess.”

Johnny and Kyle appeared in the doorway then, Kyle holding a tray with a steaming cup of tea, Johnny with a small, hopeful smile and a plate of your favorite biscuits. Even Simon lingered near the threshold, his gaze steady but tinged with something softer than usual.

They were all waiting for your answer, their expressions almost pleading. You could feel the weight of their guilt and the sincerity of their offer. It wasn’t much- not enough to erase everything that had passed- but it was something. A step forward.

“…I’ll think about it.” you said at last, your voice quiet but firm. And for the first time in a long while, you saw a flicker of relief in their eyes.

[deliciousangelfestival]

You're the One - 2

Summary: A daughter uncovers the wild, untold story of how her parents’ marriage began—and it’s way better than any romance movie she’s ever watched.

Character: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Genre: Romance, Comedy

Words Count : 1,654

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , -

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Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

“So, that’s it,” Bucky finished, leaning back in his chair.

Jade sat frozen, her mouth slightly open, her hand hovering over the popcorn bowl she’d forgotten about entirely. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “Hold on, Dad!” she blurted out, breaking the silence. “You can’t just end the story like that!”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. The way she said it—the tone, the determination—it reminded him so much of you that it gave him chills.

“Clark Jordan?” Jade said, her voice rising. “That Jordan? Oh my God, Mom was actually going to marry a conglomerate heir?” She gasped dramatically, throwing her hands in the air.

Bucky groaned and rolled his eyes. “Excuse me! Your father also owns a successful business, you know.”

Jade couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just a joke. Don’t get all defensive.” She rested her chin in her palm, tilting her head as she studied him. Her expression softened. “But seriously… if you loved Mom so much, why did you two break up?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he looked down at his hands, which were fidgeting with the label of the water bottle he’d grabbed earlier. He let out a slow sigh before answering. “I can’t explain it,” he said quietly. “We were young and stupid… Well, I was the stupid one for letting her go.”

Jade nodded slowly, her face thoughtful. “Yeah, I can see that,” she said, her tone teasing but not cruel.

Bucky shot her a pointed look, but his lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.”

Jade shrugged, grinning now. “Anytime.”

“What happened next?” Jade leaned forward, her curiosity growing. “Did anyone chase after you two?”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s a lot to unpack,” he muttered.

🔔💍🔔💍

Flashback

The church erupted into chaos. Gasps echoed through the hall, bridesmaids huddled together whispering in disbelief, and the Jordans were already barking orders at security. The bride was gone—snatched right out of her own wedding.

You were still reeling. Sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of a moving car, your hands gripped your bouquet so tightly that the petals were beginning to wilt. Your heart pounded against your ribcage as you stared out of the window, the landscape blurring past.

In the driver’s seat, Bucky’s grip on the wheel was steady. His expression was calm, almost infuriatingly so, as though he hadn’t just crashed your wedding and whisked you away in front of hundreds of people.

Your voice finally found its way out. “Why are you doing this?”

Bucky didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Turn this car around, Bucky. You don’t understand the trouble you’re in.”

He ignored you, his jaw tight, and your frustration bubbled over. You knew exactly what kind of chaos this would cause. Your parents, already controlling, would unleash their full fury, and the Jordans—especially Clark—wouldn't take this humiliation lying down.

Suddenly, the car jerked to a stop. Your body pitched forward slightly, and you braced yourself against the dashboard.

Bucky turned to you, his movements deliberate. His gaze locked with yours, intense and unwavering. Leaning closer, his presence filled the space between you, and instinctively, you leaned back.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he said, his voice steady, his words slicing through the charged silence. “But the biggest mistake I ever made was letting you go.”

You froze, the weight of his confession catching you off guard.

The breakup had been mutual—or at least, that’s what you had told yourself back then. The truth was, Bucky had been the one to pull away. It had hurt, but you’d respected his decision, thinking he had his reasons. You never imagined he’d regret it.

“Then why did you suggest it?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze flicked away, focusing on the distant horizon outside the windshield. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, tinged with something raw.

“When we were together, I felt like I wasn’t enough for you. You deserved more—better than the life I could give you at the time. So I thought… if I let you go, you’d find that ‘better.’”

The weight in your chest grew heavier as you listened. His words didn’t erase the pain of the past, but they unraveled pieces of the mystery that had lingered for so long.

He continued, his voice steady but quieter. “And then I saw that article… the one with you and Clark. That photo of him holding your hand. I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try one last time.”

You turned to look at him, his profile outlined in the faint light of the dashboard. His hand on the wheel was steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders, like he was bracing for rejection.

“One week,” he said, breaking the silence. He held up a finger. “Give me one week to prove to you that this”—he gestured between the two of you—“is worth fighting for.”

You blinked, the audacity of his demand rendering you momentarily speechless.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe,” he said, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk. “But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life wondering what could’ve been. If I can’t change your mind in a week, I’ll take you back. No drama. No excuses. I’ll even apologize to both families.”

His words hung in the air, daring you to respond. The car was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the sound of your shallow breathing.

"You can't just barge in and demand a second chance, Bucky," you snapped, your voice sharp as you yanked the veil from your head. The delicate lace caught briefly on your hair, but you didn’t care. “If we’d never broken up, none of this would’ve happened.”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His jaw clenched as he glanced at you, his voice calm but with an edge of frustration. “Both of us agreed, remember? You kept walking that day.”

Your mind flashed back to that day—the one that had changed everything. The apartment you’d shared was nearly empty, save for a few boxes. You had been standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other clutching a bag.

“I didn’t want to walk away!” you shot back, your eyes blazing as you turned to him. “I was hoping you’d stop me. That you’d chase after me.” Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed through. “But you didn’t. You just… kept walking.”

His breath hitched at your words, his body stiffening as though they’d hit him like a punch to the gut. The realization sank in slowly, and he sat there in silence for a moment, staring at you with wide, almost vulnerable eyes.

“Wait… are you saying there was still a chance back then?” His voice was quieter now, almost disbelieving.

You crossed your arms and looked away, unwilling to give him an easy answer. The memory of that day was too raw, the hurt too deep.

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed your words. Slowly, a flicker of hope sparked in his expression, something unspoken but undeniable.

Without another word, he started the car again, the engine humming to life.

“You said once that you wanted to try skydiving,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the tension. “Let’s do that together.”

Your head whipped around to face him, your eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “Oh, it won’t just be skydiving. We’ll do everything on your bucket list. Every. Single. Thing.”

Your bucket list? You blinked, caught off guard. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” he said, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the road. “I’ve always remembered.”

His tone was softer now, almost wistful, and you hated how much it made your heart ache. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, unsure of how to respond.

“You’re not saying no,” he added after a beat, his smirk returning. “Does that mean you’re having second thoughts about this wedding?”

Your glare snapped back to him, but you didn’t have the words to argue. Instead, you crossed your arms and said firmly, “Be quiet and drive.”

Bucky’s grin widened as he looked ahead. “Yes, ma’am.”

Present Time

"I never knew Mom had that side of her," Jade said, her voice full of surprise. "It’s pretty obvious she was having second thoughts about marrying Clark."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking a little smug. "I did the right thing."

Jade nodded, then her expression shifted. "But what about grandpa? Was he mad at you? Because right now you and grandpa were pretty close."

Bucky chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Well, if I could change your mom’s mind, I figured I could convince him too." He laughed again, but it was a little forced as he rubbed his back, probably remembering that time. "Let’s just say, he wasn’t thrilled about me stealing his daughter."

"You already know how this ends," Bucky said with a chuckle. "Your mom and I ended up together."

Jade leaned in, her eyes full of curiosity. "But I want to know the full story! How did she end up giving you a second chance? Please..." She gave him her best puppy eyes, the kind she knew always worked on him.

"Come on, Dad, you’re holding back! Did you two really go skydiving? What happened next?"

Bucky leaned forward, a sly grin on his face. He paused for a second, clearly enjoying the suspense. "I’m not spilling all the details just yet."

Jade groaned in frustration. "Dad!"

Bucky just winked at her. "You’ll find out eventually. But trust me, that was just the beginning of the adventure."

Author Note: What do you want to see next between the reader and Bucky?

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[holysmokesblog]

The Gray Reunion

Vi x reader

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: Violence, mentions of illness, blood, slightly spicy kisses ;)

Summary: In the midst of the chaos, you struggle to help the people of the Lanes. The truth behind the disaster sparks a confrontation that will test your bonds

Note:English is not my first language, sorry

In the past few hours, your modest apartment had turned into chaos. At least a dozen people had knocked on your door seeking help, intoxicated by something you hadn’t seen in years.

They could barely fit into the small living room, which also served as your kitchen and bedroom, waiting for you to help them, coughing out toxic fumes. Everyone expected you, just as your father had done in the past, to help or offer a solution, but you were completely lost, fumbling with medical supplies that had been stored away for years.

"The gray," murmured an older woman who was holding her husband as he struggled to breathe.

"That’s impossible," you replied. "We haven’t had problems with that in years, the ventilation system..."

"Then there must be a leak," she interrupted, raising her voice before a violent cough cut her off. You watched as her hand was splattered with blood. She inhaled deeply before continuing, "I’ve been through this before, but we don’t have the years on us anymore. Your father treated it countless times. Doesn’t he have notes somewhere?"

You sighed in defeat. "I’ve lost most of Dad’s things over the years. All I have left is what you see." You placed the stethoscope on a child’s back to listen to his breathing. "There’s nothing I can do. We just have to wait for the lungs to clean themselves... and stay far from the leak."

A collective groan arose from the people packed into your small space. "And how are we supposed to do that? We live there! Where can we go?" Various complaints began to rise.

"I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t. We just have to wait until they repair the leak."

"They’re not going to fix it! It’s those damn enforcers! They’re killing us to get to Jinx!" Another wave of murmurs rippled through the room.

You tried to remain calm. Could that be true? Were the people above really capable of poisoning everyone just to catch Jinx? Those above had taken so much from you already that it seemed entirely plausible. But then an image came to mind—Violet. She was in Piltover now, and she would never let this happen, not to the place that had been her home for so many years and still was yours. Right?

You continued your work, trying to calm the rebellion brewing in your living room, tending to the most severe cases of nosebleeds and eye hemorrhages. But there wasn’t much more you could do. Around three in the morning, the last person finally left.

Exhausted, you collapsed onto your bed, utterly defeated. Chances were, all the patients you’d seen today would return tomorrow with new symptoms. It was impossible to recover from the gray while constantly exposed to it. You knew that if it was a crack, it would take years to fix. And if it was intentional, if they were hunting Jinx... that would also take time. There was no way they’d catch her.

A knock on the door kept you from falling completely asleep. You cursed under your breath—new patients. Your father’s voice echoed in your mind, reminding you how he wouldn’t rest until he’d helped the last person who needed him. You repeated the phrase to yourself before getting up to answer the door, only to be met with a great surprise.

Vi stood there, but the most shocking thing was her outfit. She was dressed as a full-fledged officer, an enforcer. You couldn’t suppress a gasp of utter disbelief. You had spent years of your life together; you knew her story as well as your own, and never would you have imagined the possibility of her wearing something like that—not even as a joke.

"I’m truly surprised," you murmured. She scoffed in irritation. You stepped aside to let her in, and she dropped her new, heavy gloves onto your floor. You bit your lip to keep from scolding her.

The past few days had been madness: Vi’s return, the search for Jinx, and your responsibilities trying to honor your father’s legacy had left you with barely a moment to breathe.

"Lots of patients?" she asked, trying to start a conversation.

"Too many," you replied, collapsing onto the bed again. She still stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. "You can lie down if you want... Unless you’re scared of dirtying that pretty uniform." She let out a short laugh before lying down next to you.

"I’ve barely seen you since you came back... I don’t think I ever got to tell you how happy I am that you’re here... Despite everything."

"Yeah, I suppose the first hug you gave me said it all."

"I mean it, Vi," you said, turning to face her. "Everything got so hard, but now you’re here, and I feel like things will get better."

She smiled faintly. "Yeah, we just have to fix a few things, and everything will improve." She propped herself up to sit beside you. "You look really pretty," she added. "Those dark circles suit you."

You couldn’t help but laugh. For just a moment, all the bad things disappeared. It was just the two of you in your small apartment—no Jinx, no gray, no problems in the Lanes. Just you two. Without thinking, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. She froze for a moment.

"I thought you missed me," she teased.

"I did."

"That’s not a reunion kiss. This is." Without warning, she leaned over and kissed you deeply. You welcomed her eagerly—it was like a breath of fresh air, something rare where you’d grown up. The kisses grew more intense, and your hands wandered over her torso and back. Vi positioned herself on top of you, using her hand for support on your pillow. But she quickly pulled it back.

"What’s this?" she asked.

You looked to the side, confused, and saw a large bloodstain. You hadn’t even noticed it. You sighed. "I’m really sorry." You sat up slightly, but Vi didn’t move off you. You grabbed the pillow and threw it to the other side of the room. "It’s been such a complicated day with the ventilation cracks."

"Yeah, don’t worry. I’m not at my best, either."

"Doesn’t seem like it." You kissed her intensely again, and she adjusted immediately.

"When all this is over, we should go on a real date. Like dinner and all that cheesy stuff."

You laughed against her lips at her failed attempt at romance. "I just hope it’s soon."

"It will be," she declared confidently. "Once they catch Jinx, everything will get better, and life in the Lanes will change—just like Vander always wanted."

Vi’s hands slipped under your shirt as you shared another passionate kiss, but her words lingered in your mind.

"Wait, wait, no," you said, pushing her slightly so she moved off you.

"Oh, do you want to take control, doll?" she teased.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" She looked confused, so you pushed her again to sit beside you. "The gas? Was it you?"

Vi stayed silent, hesitant to answer.

"Is this some kind of joke? You’re poisoning us just to catch your sister?" you shouted, furious.

"Hey, hey, it’s not like that... I mean, yes, but not how you think."

"You bitch," you spat, jumping out of bed. "Do you even understand the damage you’ve caused?"

"Listen to me. We used the gray to clear the streets, to keep people safe," she tried to explain.

"Used? Who’s ‘we’? You and your new enforcer friends? Well, you didn’t protect anyone!" You exploded. "Do you have any idea how many people you hurt? At least fifty came here today!"

"She’s a murderer! She killed half the council, she—"

"She’s not a traitor," you cut her off sharply.

The room fell silent as you watched Vi clench her fists in anger. You’d struck a nerve.

"Did you really do this for her? Or did your new enforcer friend convince you?" you spat, unable to hide your disgust.

"Don’t call her that!" Vi’s hands grabbed the collar of your shirt, pushing you against the wall.

You stayed inches apart for what felt like ten seconds before she let go, though she didn’t step back. Her heavy breathing mixed with yours, and you could smell the perfume from her uniform—a scent impossible to find down here.

"Get out of my house," you whispered.

"You have to understand—"

"Get out!"

Vi sighed loudly, grabbed her heavy gloves from the floor, and walked to the door. You opened it for her, stepping aside. She crossed the threshold without meeting your gaze but stopped in the doorway.

"I hope your new friend is worth it." She didn’t turn around, just kept walking down the dark street, away from your home.

You couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

What had you expected? Nothing had stayed the same over the years.

You locked the door before collapsing into bed. Tomorrow would be another hard day in the Lanes.

[ostaramoon]

rainy nights + dingy motel beds 𖤐 dean winchester

【 pairing 】 dean x fem!reader

【 summary 】 you’re a hunter and occasionally you’ll help the winchesters on a case. this time, things don’t end the way you would have liked them to. dean, albeit awkwardly, consoles you. but it’s dean so he can’t help but start flirting after you’re done crying.

【 genre 】 fluff - hurt/comfort, a pinch of angst, intimate kissing + touching, mdni

【 wordcount 】 1.8k

the evening’s frigid breeze and heavy rainfall reflects tonight's hunt — cold and disappointing. it was supposed to be an easy case, a few werewolves hell bent on creating a pack in this small town, all you had to do was take out the monsters and move onto the next. but there was a small oversight, unbeknownst to you, the leader had kidnapped a high school girl and ripped her heart out before you, dean, or sam could stop him. 

now, the three of you quietly exited the impala, exhausted and lost in your own thoughts. you head towards your room, next door to the boys, without stopping to say goodnight. as you pull the room keys from your pocket, unlocking your door, you notice his presence behind you. 

turning to dean, you stare up at him blankly, “what?” you ask, not in the mood to converse after such a shit night. 

the man sighs, stepping past you and into your room. with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, he just stands in your room rather awkwardly. it kinda pisses you off, as you usually hunt on your own so you don’t have to deal with conversations after shit goes sideways. wash off the pain, crawl in bed and shove those terrible feelings aside while you search for the next case. it works. but this, the man you don’t mind working with every now and again, standing in your space like he can fix the hurt does not work. 

“dean,” you sigh, shedding your coat and shoes, letting them fall onto the floor without a care for the mess, “i’m really not much of a talker after a hunt like this, you should know that by now.”

he nods, carding a hand through his damp hair, “yeah,” he laughs through his nose, “me either. but i can’t let you put this all on yourself.”

you roll your eyes, walking past him towards the beat up duffle sitting on your bed. pulling out sleep clothes you start changing, not really caring what dean sees. you haven’t gone there with him, but you’ve never been shy about him seeing a little more skin. “not in the mood, winchester.” he watches you change, not with the usual glint of flirty amusement but with a pained indecision as he looks between you and the door. 

“look,” he starts, moving to sit on the bed in front of you, “i’m not good at this, but i can’t have you sitting in here alone, blaming yourself for what happened. we couldn’t have known she would be there.” 

you glare with a scoff, “that’s literally our job to know those things. we research, talk to the town, stalk and hunt to make sure no one else is hurt while we’re around.” you take a deep breath, trying to steady the rage rolling inside. “that little girl is dead,” your voice cracks, “because we missed something.” with that your hands go to your face, rubbing at your temples but also to hide the few tears that break past your usual stoic hunter mask. 

“hey,” dean whispers, a gentle tone you aren’t used to hearing from him. sam, sure but dean? not quite his forte. his calloused hands finding your hips and pulling you between his legs. but you remain still with your hands covering your face as the dam breaks and the tears flow, “will you just let me console you, dammit.”  

maybe it’s because he used his stern voice, the one you’ve grown to trust and listen to without question. or maybe it’s the quiet yearning inside that tells you to give in, either way in one swift movement, you let dean pull you into his lap. you bury your face into his chest. he smells like the earth, leather, and sweat. a smell that is as close to home as you can get in this life, a familiarity you’ve started to miss when you’re on your own. 

dean secures one arm around your back, rubbing your arm while his other hand snakes it way under your hair and to your tear stained cheek. “i’m just so tired, d.” you whisper. 

“i know,” he responds, placing a kiss in the top of your head, “we can’t save them all. but we took out those bastards, think of how many people we did save.” and he’s right, you know he’s right. but priding yourself on being the hero against the darkest part of the world makes a loss feel heavy on your shoulders. 

being vulnerable isn’t something you do often, especially not around dean winchester. you’ve certainly been close in the past, a friendly hug here and there, a drunken make out session once or twice. but crying in his lap is entirely new territory. but it doesn’t feel wrong, and you’re too tired and too weak to think any further into this newfound intimacy. 

“will you stay with me?” you ask, lifting your head to look into those sad green eyes. you’ve never let him or anyone see you with your guard down like this. and honestly, this isn’t how you pictured your first night sharing a bed with dean winchester. 

dean gives you a grin, the sadness evaporating from his eyes, now glowing with mischief as he looks into yours, “are you asking me to sleep over, sweetheart?” you fight a smile with a poorly crafted scowl.

“not like that, perv. besides, i can’t be very enticing with my pj’s and puffy eyes.” you laugh. the hand that was respectfully rubbing your arm falls to your waist as dean playfully pinches the skin peeking from the top of your pants.

“oh, you’re always enticing.” he retorts, “but i’m not really into the using-a-sad-girl-to-get-laid kinda thing. i’ll stay with you for as long as you need and i promise to keep my hands where you can see them.” you can’t ignore the small part of you that feels disappointed by his pledge to be respectful, now isn’t the time you remind yourself.

with a sniff, you give a weak smile “thank you, d.” 

“it’s what i’m here for, right?” his lips pull up into that signature charming smile. he gently places you on the bed beside him, and you’re instantly wanting to be close to his warm body again. unaware he was watching you, dean chuckles as he stands. “don’t start pouting at me, sweetheart. i just have to take off some layers. unless you like sleeping next to a dirty coat and boots?” he teases. 

you roll your eyes, “shut up.” slightly embarrassed he noticed your change in demeanor when he removed you from himself, you slid up the bed and under the uncomfortably thin motel blankets. sinking into the pillow, you can’t help but seriously look forward to having dean’s warmth to cozy up to on such a cold night. with a tired sigh he joins you under the covers, wordlessly grabbing your waist so that your bodies are flush against each other. his jaw nestles itself in the crook of your neck as you entangle your limps with his. that’s when you notice he also discarded the jeans he had on. “i did say sleep over, not sleep with, didn’t i?” you tease, snapping the band of his briefs earning a small grunt in response. 

“you’re crazy if you think i’m sleeping in those jeans.” he says into your ear, his voice raspy as it radiates through your bones. you try not to think of all the places that grow warmer just from being so close to him.

it’s almost instinctual at this point, to tease and pull away each time dean starts to think he’s close to catching you. even if he quite literally has you in his arms at the moment. “i’ve seen you sleep in jeans, even with your dirty ass boots on the bed.” you retort.

“yeah,” he chuckles, his hand traces shapes on your back, little strokes of heat follow each lazy movement his fingers make, “but that’s when i’m not in bed with you.” 

“mhm,” you hum, slipping a hand up the back of shirt. for warmth, you convince yourself, nothing more. “which brings me back to my original question.”

“says the woman with her hand up my shirt,” he teases back, pulling his face back so that he can look down at yours, “if i didn’t know any better i’d think you were trying to cop a feel, miss.” his voice is so deep you can feel it vibrate from his chest into yours. that kind of warmth does wonders for forgetting what you were upset about in the first place, which you take note of for the future. being close to dean, like this, is something you should do more often. 

“mm, no,” you grumble, feigning innocence as you bat your eyes up at him and let your hand move further underneath his shirt, to his chest, “you’re warm.” your eyes flick between his, then down past the freckles and to his plump pink lips, and when you return your gaze to his half lidded eyes his internal torment is obvious. his tracing hand stills before grasping your hip with a warning as he sighs. gotcha, you think to yourself. playing into dean’s flirtatious teasing and winning one over on him is incredibly satisfying.

“sweetheart,” he warns in a low tone, lowering his head until his lips brush against your ear, while he paws at the skin on your waist, “i can’t keep my promise if you look at me like that.” 

with a giggle you cross the unspoken barrier, pulling away just enough to catch his lips against yours. a quiet groan escapes his lips as you deepen the kiss. his hands have lost any regard for decency as calloused skin explores your body. he finds his way to your thigh, hiking it up around him and giving your ass a needy squeeze. your hands go up to his jaw, that budding stubble scraping across the palms of your hands and making the heat growing inside feel hot and unbearable. 

just as you start rocking your hips, in a selfish search for release, he stills you at your waist and pulls away from your lips. he locks eyes with you for a moment. needy, lustful eyes staring back into yours. instead of jumping back into the heat, he places a gentle kiss on your forehead and pulls you underneath his chin. you’re caged under his strong arms, holding you tightly. 

“i was serious about the no-crying-girls thing,” he says, “not much fun if i get you that easily, sweets.” 

you can’t deny that you enjoy dancing on the line, so to speak, with dean. the constant ‘will they, won’t they’ is a charming aspect of your relationship. but you agree, now doesn’t feel like the time to cross the finish line. there’s always the next hunt, and with that your mind drifts into sleep surrounded by the smell of earth and leather. 

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omfg i haven't written fanfic in like 6 years, i'm rusty so bare with me while i get back into the game lol

[sweetimpurity]

I Think I'll Keep You 5

a/n: Thank you again for your patience! I hope you guys enjoy and the next chapter is already underway and will come very soon! And some more art and bots coming out as well so look out for that!

w.c.: 10.2k NSFW MINORS DNI

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

“...accurate and efficient methods of decoding… further aiding us in understanding… um… complicated genetic codes… pushing preservation and conservation. Uhh… yeah.” Miguel sighs, sitting up in his seat and peering over your arm as you type away on his laptop. Sitting at a table in the middle of the library during tutoring hours. Your fingers typing for him as he speaks what he wants written. He can’t type. Not with his right hand totally out of commission. So he’s come to your open tutoring hours. And now you have a student to work on so you can get paid and he can get help with his work. It’s Saturday and the two of you have been practically connected at the hip for the past two days.

You woke up beside him yesterday afternoon after that late night emergency room run. Lazily, sleepily taking the rest of the day slowly. Walking across campus to get food since all you both ate the whole night was a few pieces of candy. Smiling and talking, shoes splashing in shallow puddles along the concrete. A refreshing feeling having moved on from the mess of the last few weeks. The bubble has popped. That bubble of sex and ignorance that felt so great for the both of you. Sitting in the dining hall, among the hardwood and tall, ancient windows of your old university; looking over the school grounds turned fall shades and the autumn breeze blowing in through the window. Trying to talk about anything that won’t add any more stress or tension. No talk of friends, or family, not even school. Really just talking about whatever comes into your mind. And the conversation is just so easy. It’s different to spend time with him outside of the dorm room. It didn’t happen very often before. A lot of your conversations were pillowtalk. It’s different talking about the other parts of your life that don’t take place right after doing the deed. Miguel is funny. And he’s a good listener when his mind is clear and he’s focused on you. Only you. 

Feels like things are going back to normal. Well not how it was before. A new normal. 

“I think it sounds good… it’s a little awkward in the intro still but we can fix it up later…” You assure him, fixing a few typos and reading it over. The library is nice and quiet as always. You didn’t have any other students come this afternoon so you have time to focus on this and help Miguel since you know he can’t really do it himself right now.

“I don’t know… feels like I’m missing something. I’m gonna include the research but it doesn't feel like enough.” He sighs, leaning his elbows on the table, pushing his frames further up the bridge of his nose and looking over the notes in his hand. His knee is bouncing under the table and you can feel the vibrations of it in your seat. He’s applying to the Alchemax grant program. A huge grant with a long essay to go with it, multiple letters of recommendation and a personal profile piece. Tens of thousands of dollars for his research project. And he’d basically be an intern there. Able to use their facilities and labs to complete the job and create a brand new study of his own. It would start right after graduation and almost definitely lead to a great job at Alchemax Industries. He sighs, leaning back in his seat, draping his arm over the back of your chair. 

“You okay?” You hum, observing his clearly distressed behavior. His knee bouncing, his brow furrowed, the sighs. He looks over at you, in your eyes. Don’t lie. “Yeah I’m fine… just… want to get this right.” 

You nod. Knowing that’s not all there is to it. But accepting it for now. “Well, maybe you should include some of your… personality…traits…” You suggest with a small smile, knowing that it will be like pulling teeth with him, clasping your hands in your lap and looking over at him next to you. 

“Like what. I mean… Tyler knows me. He’s the one that told me to apply.” [Tyler Stone. President and Ceo of Alchemax Industries.] He sighs, pushing his glasses up on his head, his dark curls becoming a little messy with the metal pushed through them, and rubbing the sides of his nose with his fingers. The ache of wearing his glasses for a while when he usually doesn’t like wearing them at all. But he’s worn them more often the past few days. He can see you more clearly now.  

“Yeah but he’s not the only one who’s gonna be working with you or deciding if you get the job or not. You want people to know who you are… know the kind of person you are. More often than not, that’s more important than the research when it comes to something like this. I mean, you’re not just applying for a grant, you’re applying for a job…” You explain kindly. He looks up, in your eyes, his eyes raking over your pretty face. He loves feeling like he can be close to you again. He loves feeling like he knows what’s going on in your head. Or maybe that’s just his need for control seeping in. Like venom in warm blood. Just sitting next to you like this. Even if he hasn’t so much as kissed you since everything went down. It’s only been nearly two weeks but it feels like an eternity. He wants to so badly. But he reminds himself that this is how things are right now. He messed up and he’s getting a second chance. He won’t take your forgiveness for granted. “Yeah, you’re right.” He admits, dropping the graphs and charts on the table.

“Maybe talk about family… inspirations… personal goals. People like that kind of stuff. People also want to know that you can be a part of something bigger than yourself…” You say, fingers brushing over the keys and ready to type what he says. “Uh…” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, trying to pull this out of his brain. He doesn’t really want to talk about his family. Doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of being considered inspiration. But his upbringing and his parents’ names alone have opened a lot of doors for him in the past. His fingers fidget on the back of your chair, catching a few strands of your hair, playing with it so softly that you don’t even feel it. And he watches the side of your face to make sure you don’t notice, your eyes focused on the computer screen. Curling the strands around his finger and getting lost in touching you. Hanging on desperately to this morsel of touch. Knowing he probably shouldn’t but he just can’t help himself.

“I guess… we could say I grew up watching my parents with their business. But that’s more… financial services. When I was born, OLI was just taking off and now… I’ve watched them build it into what it is today.” He explains. You keep typing, writing it down in the notes to keep it straight. You can hear the sigh in his voice like he hates to be talking about it. You don’t know why. Mostly because he’s never spoken about this before. But if he’s applying for such a big opportunity then it’s important to include.

“OLI, I’ve heard of that, I think…” You look over at him, unsure what that stands for but you know you’ve heard that acronym before, or maybe you’ve seen it somewhere? 

“O’hara Legacy Investments.” He says with a nod and sigh, a level of disdain in his tone. He leans forward, his mind still on this essay. On beefing it up with info that might secure him this grant. Even though he’s confident his connections will get him in. There’s always a chance things might not go his way. He wants to prepare for every possible outcome. He hates to feel out of control. You stop typing. That sounds like investment banking. Like the kind of thing that makes people billionaires. 

“Is that the… that tall building downtown?” You ask, looking over at him and he nods, a blank stare in his eyes as he’s looking down at the research notes. “Your family runs that?”

“Yep.” He sighs, not offering more information so you don’t ask for more.

“Okay sooo… how would that influence your work at Alchemax?” You prompt, trying to veer back on course. You can tell he’s losing steam, you’ve been at this a while. 

“So I guess it’s not really the same as what I would be doing at Alchemax but… Watching how that runs… how many people it takes to keep something running like that. I guess something about leading teams of people working towards a goal…” He keeps thinking out loud and you keep typing, interpreting his words into organized notes and ideas. “So.. maybe about you as a leader? You think you can be a good leader…” 

“Yeah. I think so… and soccer, we could include that too.” He says, perking up and sitting up a bit straighter. Although the topic of soccer does bring his anxiety levels up a bit. Watching you type while playing with a piece of frayed material on his cast. “Yeah, captain of the soccer team, sports is always something they want to hear. If you’re a leader… organizer. And coming from SU especially, they love to see it.” You agree, typing and compiling the thoughts that come to mind. “And to know you can work in a team…” 

Miguel nods. Feeling relieved that you’re able to help him with this. He did all the more technical notes for it over the past few weeks. Organized lots of thoughts and data to start the writing process. Then he broke his fingers and that put a wrench in the process. It’s due next week and without you he’d be screwed. But it works out sort of perfectly, and a little selfishly, that now he’s spending more time with you because of that. “I think also…” 

He starts. You look over, ready to type whatever he suggests. “I’m an older brother too… that’s… I don’t know…” He mumbles. You find yourself smiling. “I feel like… maybe being a leader in that way is different.” 

“It’s very different, yes…” You nod, looking back at the laptop screen, a smile dancing on your lips. “Maybe something about… protecting… looking out for those that are important to me. Or being a good role model I guess…” He sighs. Thinking. About Gabriel. About you. Pretty much the two most important people in his life. I guess I haven’t been a very good role model as of late. 

“Loyalty… role model…” You say and nod. Typing those words in the compilation of notes you’re making in the margins. His knee is still bouncing.

“I also think you’re very passionate…” You say. He looks over at you, the side of your face, watching you type more things in the notes. Trying to create a section of his essay that can portray him as not just another applicant. “I think I’m just generally angry… I don’t really think before I do things…” He scoffs, shaking his head and leaning forward, his arms on the table, his head resting down on his forearms, looking at your pretty face from this angle. You grin and nod, giving him a look. “Yeah but we don’t have to include that… passion works…” 

He laughs through his nose, blinking softly and admiring your face. Watching your pretty eyes, the light of the computer screen reflecting in them, making them especially sparkly. It’s quiet for a moment, just the clicks of keys and fingertips. He thinks, reflecting on all that’s happened in the past few weeks. That thing with Dana keeps coming to mind. That was really a moment of lost control. Is that the passion you’re talking about? That he loses control and can’t get it back until it’s almost too late? He worries about that. Not remembering most of it because he was so angry. It sort of feels like a dream. Especially since he fought with you right after that and then everything went right to shit. 

All he knows is that Dana made it back to his dorm. He knows for a fact nothing happened. He wouldn’t have wanted it anyway because he despises her and she was drunk off her ass. But she did lie on his bed. Her perfume was all over him. And he remembers standing over her and wanting to make her hate him. Just so that she would leave him alone. That’s a level of anger he never wants you to witness, or anyone really for that matter. It scares him a bit now to think of it. All he knows is that if you think he’s loyal, he’ll be loyal as a dog. If you think he’s passionate, he’ll be a raging, burning fire to keep you warm. You think he’s anything, he’ll be that. If you want him to be. 

He fidgets with the fray on his cast. Coming off the blue material. His gaze caught on the little cursive “mine” you wrote. That night in the drug store. When you were both so deliriously tired, sitting in the middle of the floor. Having this on his arm is like a reminder. Or a promise. That maybe you’ll be his or he’ll be yours again. He’ll just have to be patient. His thumb brushes over the word, like making sure the letters won’t fall off, making sure they’re stained into the blue permanently. Do you even remember writing this? He thinks. Or were you so tired it feels like a dream? His bouncing knee still vibrates against your chair. 

“Anything else for today? We did a lot…” You ask, looking over at him. Bringing him out of his thoughts. “No, I think that’s good, thank you… but maybe next week we can finalize things and you can help me edit it?” He asks hopefully. “Yeah definitely, I’ll block out some time for you…” 

He nods, sighing and pulling his glasses off his head. Folding them up in his hand and collecting his papers. You just save the document, debating in your head the words on your tongue. Closing the laptop so he can pack it up in his bag. 

“So… you wanna tell me what’s stressing you out?” You ask, turning in your seat to face him and leaning your elbow on the table, head in your hand. He stops what he’s doing, putting down the stack of notebooks. “You can read my mind…” He smiles. 

“No, you’ve just been bouncing your knee against my chair for the past hour.” You sigh, smiling soft but sympathetic at him. His shoulders slump. “Oh sorry…” He shakes his head, feeling embarrassed for being so obvious, pinching the bridge of his nose in his fingers. 

“It’s okay… Is it the grant? I think your essay will be good enough…” You hum. Noticing all of his distress and not wanting him to be freaking out over something he’s already spent so long working on. “No it’s not… I… I’m really glad you can help me with it. Thank you… I’m just worried about the game tomorrow…” He nods. And it dawns on you. “Ohh…”

“I actually should get going… have a meeting with the coach. Figure out how we’re gonna pull this off…” He sighs, getting up from his seat to gather his things. He’s been wracked with anxiety about the game ever since putting two and two together that he’s out for the next few weeks. It’s against the rules for someone to play with a plaster cast on and he’s nowhere near getting that removed. So the team will have to supplement him. 

“You’re not gonna play are you? You shouldn’t… not with your hand like that.” You insist, watching him get up, pulling on his jacket precariously with his one working hand. He can hear the concern in your voice. “I can’t. It's an instant disqualification… so I have to talk to Coach and maybe I’ll just assistant coach tomorrow, I don’t know…” He sighs, knowing it’ll be a struggle for the team to play without him. And they very well might not win. This is a university proud of its win streak so far. 

“If it hurts, let Coach know… you don’t have to do anything that’s uncomfortable.” You advise softly. Wanting him to be comfortable. Always. That look of care on your face makes him feel a little warm. Making him feel a little soft and fuzzy inside. He can’t remember ever being worried over like that. He clears his throat, trying not to let that feeling get to him too much, shoving his laptop in his bag and zipping it up. “I will… don’t worry about me…” 

He says it but he doesn’t really mean it. Although he doesn't want you to be anxious; he definitely doesn’t need to inflict any more emotional pain on you, he’s done more than enough of that over the past few weeks… he does want you to care. Or it’s more like… once he realized you actually do care, now he doesn’t want to lose that. 

“Just be careful… I know you’ll do well and the team will be fine…” You smile gently. Clicking your pen and watching him getting ready to leave. His bag slung over his shoulder. “Thank you… yeah I just need to chill.” He sighs, moving his hurt hand around absentmindedly to soothe the ache. “Well… the feeling you’re having just means you care. It’s a good feeling, even though it’s scary…” 

He looks in your eyes, down at where you’re still sitting. Feeling struck by your words. You’ve always been so good at that. You always know exactly what to say when he needs to hear it. He hopes to do the same for you one day. If only he can figure out how you manage to do it every time. He just nods in thanks, a renewed sense of relief inside. 

“Dinner later?” He inquires, brow raising as he’s starting to walk away. Walking backwards away from the table, his eyes on you the entire time. 

“Sure, I’ll meet you there…” You rest your head on your hand, watching him go from where you’re sitting. Watching that look on his face. A sort of satisfaction in that he’s leaving but already thinking about when he gets to see you next. He nods. Turning towards the library doors and smiling to himself, making his way out. Sneakers tapping on the hardwood floors of the academic building, sparing you one last glance. Finding your eyes still on him. A stupid sort of giddy feeling in his chest. Lopsided grin on his lips as he leaves the library.

“O’hara! Dude.” Peter’s voice brings him out of his flurry of thoughts. Watching his friend march down the rest of the hall to him. “Where you been? You disappeared again…” Peter chuckles.

“Oh yeah I‘ve just been… busy in the lab and stuff… and my application.” He lies. While it’s true he has been working on his application and piles of homework, he’s also been actively avoiding all of his friends ever since your fight. Unable to handle even the slightest of social interaction. His mind set on you and only you. But he won’t tell Peter that. 

“Dana said you were being crazy or something…” Peter huffs, his brow quirked in disbelief. Miguel’s heart starts to beat a little harder at that. Did Dana tell everyone what happened? Or her version of what happened? “What did she say?”

“Well… she’s kinda implying that you two hooked up after the party last week…” Miguel’s eyes widen at that news. It’s just not true. But that seems to be the story everyone believes so far. “MJ thinks she’s full of shit bu-"

“She is full of shit.” Miguel sighs. Pinching the bridge of his nose. Or trying to with his cast. It was a foolish thing to give into his anger and take Dana back to his dorm. But he didn’t sleep with her. He’s not surprised though that she’s spreading that rumor around. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Shit, what happened?!” Peter flips, looking down at the cast engulfing Miguel’s forearm to the tips of his fingers. Looking at the seemingly broken hand, his eyes scanning over Miguel as a whole. Feeling like he has no idea what’s going on with someone who’s supposed to be his closest friend. “I broke my wrist but it’s fine, doctor says it’ll be fine even without surgery.”

“It’s fine?! What about the game?” Peter asks in panic, running a hand through his previously neat light brown locks. It’s against policy rules to play with a hard plaster cast for the safety of the other players and teammates. But Miguel’s the captain, their top offense and shooter. 

“I’ll be on the sidelines and Miller and Durante can take care of it.”

“It’s Princeton, Miguel. We’re gonna get fuckin’ smoked out there…” Peter huffs, going on and on but Miguel just shakes his head, feeling that anxiety rising again. The anxiety you were able to dampen only moments ago. “I know it sucks… I know. But those new drills have been helping… I’m gonna talk to coach.” 

“Alright… but Marco and Santiago need to get their asses in order before tomorrow. I’m not playing defense because they can’t pay attention to the fucking ball.” 

“I know, I know…” Miguel sighs and nods. Knowing this is all bad timing. They’ve been preparing for this game for a while now and it’s a pretty big spectacle. The stands will undoubtedly be full to the brim. It makes him tense and anxious to think about.

“Okay…” Peter huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Well, text me what Coach says…” He sighs, lifting his fist. Their knuckles colliding as he’s starting to walk off to where he’s going. “No more disappearing…” Peter chuckles, looking back as he starts walking down the hall, pointing a finger at his friend. “Yeah, yeah…”

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” Peter says with a nod, his hands in his pockets as he rounds the corner, walking into the library. Miguel sighs, feeling that tension, that tomorrow might not go well and it’ll be all his fault. Because he can’t do more to help the team he’s supposed to be leading.

He jogs down the stairs, down another hallway and outside. The fall breeze and smell of the trees and crisp autumn air flows past his cheeks, blowing back the little curls by his ears. Hunching his shoulders up when the brisk air cools his neck, pulling his collar up and walking across the commons to get to the athletic building on the other side of campus. To meet with Coach about the game plan for tomorrow. 

“Come on guys, one more time!” Miguel calls out to the team. Dressed in his uniform, dark blue and silver stripes, school colors with the Sterling University crest on his arm, a C on his chest. Number 99 on his back. Cleats and his cast to match. It does suck he has to miss out on actually playing but he does a lot of assistant coaching as captain anyway so it’s nothing he’s not used to. Coach Dean is talking with the referees anyway. Schmoozing on the sidelines, convinced it’ll earn them less whistles through the game. 

Miguel sighs, anxious, shaking his head and directing his attention to the mobs of people filling the stands. The sun is setting, the field lights coming on and a slight chill filling the air. A buzz with that too. College soccer fans here as well as lots of students from both universities. People are excited. The team is excited as well as anxious without Miguel playing beside them. Knowing they’ll have to supplement him being out. Miguel huffs, stretching his arms and wincing slightly at the remnants of ache in his wrist, his breath fogging in the cold air.

“Come on… si yeah! ¡Mantén la posesión!" He shouts from the sides, watching the team warming up with the drills and keeping order, following them up and down their half of the field. “Marco!¡Sigue presionando! Call for it!" A mix of Spanish and English naturally leave his lips. Dark eyes follow their form and technique. Keeping everyone in order. They’re doing really well as always. But Miguel would prefer perfection. “Good! Alright break!” He shouts.

The team all relaxes, sighing in relief and collecting on the sidelines near the bench. Some passing the ball back and forth. The goalie is doing some technique in the practice nets with Durante and Miller. Others glancing at the opposing team warming up on their side of the field. “Marco, you’re gonna break you’re fuckin’ ankle doing that. Keep it light, it doesn’t have to be so fast. Slow down and go through the steps, alright?” Miguel instructs calmly, grabbing a ball and demonstrating on the turf by the benches. Marco nods, wiping his brow with the edge of his jersey. 

“Just like that… keep it loose and look at Miller, he’s the one you’re paying attention to. Don’t look at Durante, he’s gonna be looking at Miller for that pass down the field. But that was still good, keep it up..” 

“There’s a lot of people here…” Peter comments, squirting some water into his mouth, catching his breath. Miguel walks over from helping Marco, standing beside his friend and looking out at the people in the stands. It’s a little more than they’re used to. Little intimidating considering this stadium seats thousands of people.

“It’s a big game…” Miguel huffs, grabbing his water bottle. Wish I could fucking play… he thinks. Glancing at Coach, still talking to the refs near the midline. They have a little while before everything starts.

It’s the end of the first half and it’s been a good game so far. Princeton is good but so is Sterling. They’d be better if Miguel was on the field to help them. He finds himself getting frustrated on the sidelines, disagreeing with the refs calls and calling out to his teammates, trying to lead and instruct. The whistle blows and the team finally relaxes. Panting and walking over to the sidelines. 

“They’re fast…” Marco pants, plopping down on the bench to catch his breath. “We have to be faster… but we’re holding our own…” Miguel says, hands on his hips and looking over the team, trying to keep the edge from his tone. He’s here to lead, not berate.

“You good?” He sees Peter covered in grass stains. Peter’s the one that’s been scoring pretty much all the goals so far. Princeton’s defense is good. It’s one of those games where no one’s going to score very many goals, it’s all about making sure the other team doesn’t get too close. “That was really good, keep doing that. And if it works better for Marco to go up the right side, then do that.” Miguel says. 

“I will… they’re so fuckin fast…” Peter pants, grabbing his water bottle and squirting some in his mouth. Breathing heavy through his nose. The team takes a few minutes at halftime to refuel and plan for the second half. Peter and Marco will have to be smart about the next plays. They’re down by two and the other team just keeps getting closer and closer. 

“I got a girl in the stands…” Peter says with a lopsided smile, still out of breath, spraying some more water into his mouth. “Yeah?” Miguel’s brow quirks at that information. He knows Peter has a lot of girls around him and friends that are girls. Makes sense, he’s very smart, an athlete, loud and the life of the party. Everyone always trying to get a piece of him. Not a foreign concept to Miguel himself. Miguel grabs his water bottle too, raising it to his mouth. “Who is she?” 

“Her name’s y/n…” 

What?

“...yeah you should meet her… she’s really pretty and smart and funny...” 

What?

Peter keeps talking, tossing a ball to someone else across the bench. Not even registering the look on Miguel’s face. Like shock and something else. Something Miguel himself can’t put a finger on. And Miguel can only half listen to Peter’s words. “She’s head of the tutoring club… did I tell you I started doing that? Dude, I’m getting paid to do some freshman’s homework and get course credit. It's like the easiest shit in the world…” Peter laughs, talking on and on. 

Miguel doesn’t understand. It’s like his brain can’t process this. Staring at Peter silently and waiting for him to say it’s a joke. But how could it be a joke?

“She’s riiiiight… there-” Peter turns, pointing at the stands. Turning stiffly, Miguel looks out to where he’s pointing. His dark eyes searching the stands and looking for your face. Hoping to see some stranger who happens to have the same name as you. But no. It’s you. 

He watches your gaze snap onto them, seeming surprised to have both their attention now. How did he not notice? You’ve been here this whole time, sitting nearly 15 rows behind him and he didn’t know? But Peter knew?

He can’t help that his immediate reaction to seeing you is relief. Seeing you up there and he just wants to smile. Wants to disappear with you and forget this stressful game. You’re like… his best friend in the whole world. But then that relief is quickly quelled when he realizes Peter is the one who invited you, he’s the reason you’re here. 

Miguel huffs. Nearly getting hit in the face when Peter starts waving at you. Stepping back and trying to make sense of this. There you are, waving back their way. What is this? He wonders. Unable to help the scowl that appears on his face as he observes Peter waving. What is this happening that he doesn’t know about or had no idea could even happen? Another bubble has popped and he didn’t even know it. 

He looks back up at you. Your eyes looking his way. But are you looking at him or are you looking at Peter? He hates that he can’t even tell. He hopes it’s him but it’s too much distance to know for sure. He just holds up a hand weakly. Waving at you. Feeling like an idiot, a total fool. And here Peter is waving at you, thinking Miguel doesn’t even know who you are. Fuck.

“Alright boys! Let’s huddle up!” Coach yells, coming over to the bench and motioning for everyone to come over. Peter moves to head over, gently kicking a ball on his way. And Miguel can’t help but keep glancing at you. Feeling self conscious. You’ve been watching him and witnessing all of this, this entire time? He didn’t even know you were here and half of the game had already been played. And all he’s done is stand on the sidelines while Peter played big shot scorer. 

Your hands wave at him, mouthing something he can’t make out. His brow knitting together as you try to communicate something to him before Coach snaps again. 

“O’hara!” 

His eyes snap to the team huddled by the bench. Taking long strides to get over there. But his mind is a mess. He didn’t even know you knew each other. 

The second half, the rest of the game, it’s hard for Miguel to focus on coaching. He’s watching the team play but it’s like a delayed reaction in his mind. Like his body is here but his brain is trying to tap into some invisible signal stretching from you to him. Peter scores again and Miguel flinches at the sound of the stands erupting. Cheering and echoing through his head. Pounding the sides of his skull.

He can’t help but glance your way every chance he gets. But every time he’s able to spot you in the sea of colors and foreign faces, you’re looking at the ball on the field. Which is always in Peter’s possession. And he can’t focus on anything except what he doesn’t know. What he can’t control. 

…

“Wooooo!” Marco hollers, the team gathering in a huddle on the field and celebrating their close victory. They won, but it was a tough game. Miguel stares almost blankly as the team all slaps hands and says good game. And by the time he snaps out of it, turning to find you, the stands are already emptying out and you’re gone from your seat. 

“O’hara!” The team shouts, bringing him out of the mess of thoughts. The players crowding him in celebration on the sidelines. Cheers and loud voices. Talking about moments in the game, highlights, certain techniques that had Princeton on their toes. All in all it was an exciting match and Peter was definitely the savior, scoring more goals than anyone and making the game. And Peter is all smiles. 

The team heads back to the locker room. Showering and warming down from the game. Miguel stands at his locker. His new locker since the punched in door wouldn’t close properly on his old one. Pulling off his jersey carefully with one hand and hanging it up. Wiping down his broad chest with a towel and hearing Peter with some of the boys walking in from the showers. His movements slow, brow furrowing, grabbing his change of clothes and pulling a tank top on, the black material bunching down his toned abdomen against his deep skin. Listening to Peter’s voice. 

His mind races. Since when did you two become such good friends? And why wouldn’t I know you were coming to the game when I saw you all day yesterday? Does Peter know that? Does Peter know we spend countless hours together? Does Peter know we have this deep connection that I’m actually working really hard to repair? He ought to. 

He listens to Peter’s conversation, as if waiting for him to say your name to confirm he’s talking about you. But he can’t make it out all the way. Something about a party, something about his car, something about the game. He watches the rest of the guys leave the locker room. Peter walks by with the guys and he just subtly, silently glares as they pass, not noticing him. pulling his hoodie on and shutting his locker gently. Pulling his phone off the charger and slinging his sports bag over his shoulder, walking out. 

He slumps down the concrete steps, the hallway leading to the exit doors, opening out to the athletic parking lot. Raking a hand through his hair, his mind a mess. He’s not used to feeling so beaten down after a game. They won, he should be happy. He should be glad. But he just feels indifferent. Or he just really needs to see you. 

When the door swings from someone else leaving, he catches a glimpse of you through the opening. The bright lights from outside assault his eyes as the door swings again. Seeing you for just a moment. Just a split second. Talking with Peter against the fence. He stops. What is he walking into? What’s about to change? You’re gonna be there right when he goes through that door. He stands in the dim concrete tunnel, feeling his heart race. He doesn’t like this feeling. This is the loss of control.

“Miguel!” Peter smiles, making you turn to look back. And there he is, walking out the door. You want to just run into his arms and tell him how great he was. Even though he didn't get to play he still coached very well and played his part in the victory. But Peter is talkative and gets in there before you can. And you don't really want to interrupt when he's talking with his friends. Since this is the first time you've been around his friends with him. 

“We’re gonna get drinks, you have to come” Peter says, ushering Miguel over to where you’re standing. “This is y/n… y/n this is Miguel” 

“Yeah we know each other.” Miguel says immediately. Not a hint of a smile on his face. He’s annoyed with Peter. Annoyed that it’s not a known thing. He wants it to be known that you two are an item. Or… that there’s something going on… he’s not even sure of at the moment. At least that Peter should know to back off. “Oh cool, so drinks?” 

Miguel’s a little astonished with how easily Peter just brushed that off. Eyes flicking between you two and hoping to god you don’t accept the drink invite. But he bites his tongue. Friends. Really good… friends. 

“Uh… I don’t know, I’m kinda tired…” You sigh. Part of you not wanting to go since it’s not your normal scene but a bigger part needing to go so you can feel like you’re really one of Miguel’s friends. Not someone he has to hide. That you can get along with them and be a part of his life. That’s all you want to prove to him. 

“Come on… please?” Peter pouts. And Miguel wants to scream. Trying to tell you with his eyes that he doesn’t want to do this. Not right now. Maybe later when he’s had time to mentally prepare himself. It doesn’t help that you look adorable right now. In your Sterling Uni hoodie with a scarf to keep warm. He doesn’t want to do this. He’d rather just go to dinner. Like always. Talk for hours and maybe even fall asleep talking in your dorm like always. Not this. Please not this. 

His eyes burning a hole right through you, trying to communicate it without using the words since he can’t right now, not with Peter standing right there. Part of him wants you to come and show you off. The other part of him wants you all to himself, not wanting to share you with anyone. But he’s trying to be better. Trying to control himself rather than try to control everything else around him. 

“It would be fun, right Miguel?” Peter asks, bringing him out of his thoughts. He wants to say no. Wants to say fuck no and disappear, taking you with him. But he can’t do that now. So he just nods stiffly, forcing a smile. Almost painfully. “Yeah… come…” 

Your eyes light up and Miguel knows he’s done for. “Oh great!” You smile and Peter is instantly excited too. Talking about how great it’s going to be and how many people will be there. Miguel’s heart is pounding, seeing how easily Peter was able to get you to come. How Peter is smiling and looking at you. A sense of dread filling his chest.

It’s the usual bar. The college bar around the corner from campus where the sports teams usually congregate after a game. Or the general student body on a Friday night. Loud music and conversation, the place is packed. Football and UFC playing on the multitude of TVs hanging in the place. The team filters in all acting like they own this place. Playing pool and getting drinks, talking to girls in corners and at the bar. It’s a crazy night at least for you. Miguel’s seen nights like this before, but this time you’re here. And he won’t let you out of his sight. Even as people talk to him, trying to strike up conversation and catch up. Since everyone knows who he is and knows his name. He still keeps his attention focused on you. He doesn’t care about anyone else in this bar tonight. 

Drinks flow the second everyone is in there, laughter and loud voices, trying to be heard over the music. Miguel keeps his arm barred at your side to help get you through the density of people. Like a shield to make sure no one bumps into you. Not wanting you to be too claustrophobic or crowded. Staying nearby until you find two seats at the bar miraculously. As you sit down, Miguel quickly scans the room. Looking for one face in particular. No sign of Dana and he can relax a tiny bit. Sliding into his stool seat beside you. 

He sits down, watching how you observe the place, looking a little out of your element here. It’s clear you’re not a party girl. You’re a smart, intelligent tutor and it shows. It would almost be comical if Miguel didn’t have a fierce determination to protect you in this place. 

He leans over, getting closer to your ear to be heard over the noise. The smell of your shampoo mixed with your perfume, so close and familiar, filling his senses and almost making him dizzy. His mind flashing with moments of you in his bed. Your body under his and his face buried in your soft sweet smelling hair. He’s the only one in this bar that knows what you sound like when you come.

“Drink… Do you want a drink?” He asks, trying to be heard over the noise, his cheek brushing against yours. Pulling back to hear your response. “Yeah! Whatever is fine…” You smile, trying to speak over the chaos of people and stimulation. A bit out of your element but doing fine. Excited to be here with him and feel like you’re fitting into his world. 

He gets the bartender's attention, ordering you just a beer in a bottle. He doesn’t know if you’d want anything fruity, not that this crappy bar would have anything that good anyway. He’s never drunk with you before. He slides it over to you, watching you take a gulp and smile. You’re so out of your element here. He sighs. A swell in his chest. 

Even though he would normally be drinking a couple beers himself, he just has water in front of him. He wants to stay relatively sober. Enough to keep watch over you and make sure no one else talks to you. “Oh, I thought you were gonna get the same thing…” You chuckle, leaning your elbows on the bar and watching him sipping his water from a plastic cup. 

“Someone needs to be responsible for all these people right?” He chuckles. As captain of the team he actually does feel that responsibility. To keep people in line since he knows they’ll listen to him. “And I need to be sober if I’m carrying you out of this place drunk off your ass…” He jokes, teasing you. 

“I’m not getting drunk tonight, no way. No thank you…” You sigh, shaking your head. Looking down at the label on the bottle in your hand. Then your eyes dart around the crowded room a few times. He just looks at your face. You’re so pretty. Especially pretty in this low light. 

“Well how is the beer at least? I know it’s not something sweet but it’s probably the best thing they have here.” He huffs, keeping his eyes on you, studying you. He’d love to just be all over you and show people that you’re his. But you’re not right now. You’re his friend and that’s the boundary you both set. He’s trying his best to uphold that after his mistakes. “It’s fine… I don’t ever drink much anyway so I’m not picky…” 

He nods. Learning more about you all the time. The two of you have never been out to a bar or club before so this is all brand new. He can see how you’re a little nervous in this place. It’s not your usual hangout spot and he can tell. “Yeah, this place is pretty chaotic tonight…” He comments, looking around then back at you. “You’re okay though, right?” 

“Yeah I’m fine…” You smile. Clasping your hands in your lap. He’s attentive, more recently than ever. It’s true that he’s become like your best friend over the last month and a half. Even though it hasn’t been that long, it’s felt like a lifetime. And with how much time you spend together, it still feels like he separates you from a lot of the other parts of his life. Friends, family, everything else. You spot Peter across the way standing with some people. The only other person you even know in this place. 

Miguel follows your gaze over towards where Peter is and he can't help but wonder why you're looking at Peter or what you're thinking. He looks at the group of people around him, recognizing teammates and classmates, but notices Peter in particular.He tries to remain cool, looking back at you. "He's a great friend… isn't he… "

He says it with a little bit of annoyance in his voice, thinking about how you two have gotten really close as friends and he didn't even know it.

"Yeah he's really sweet," You smile, not really noticing his expression. You want Miguel to know that you can get along with his friends too and you can be a part of his life. "He's funny…"

His brow twitches just a bit. He doesn't know how to feel about the fact that you two are friends in and out of the tutoring club. And that you’re calling him sweet. And funny. He knows how charismatic and charming Peter is, knowing he could get any girl he wants. "He always gets the girls…  he's quite the flirt…" He mumbles.

"Oh really?" You smile and scrunch your nose up, looking back at Peter and seeing that yes, there are many girls around him right now. And he must be very popular with the girls, you think. You hadn't really noticed that Peter was a flirt but you think he's charming. Maybe you're just so focused on being his friend to prove to Miguel you can be part of his friend group.

Miguel can feel his patience slipping. How you seem so oblivious to the fact that Peter is a huge flirt and that Peter was flirting with you earlier when he invited you to the bar. But he's been Peter's friend for years, of course he knows the girls flock around him. It just annoys him that you’re completely oblivious to it. He watches you watching Peter across the room, trying not to let it show on his face how frustrated he is.

"How's your hand?" You ask, taking a sip from your bottle. Gesturing towards his cast in his lap. Trying to talk over the noise in the room. The topic change gives him some relief. Grateful to think about something other than the image of Peter taking you home tonight. He lifts his hand, flexing a few fingers. "It's fine. Doesn't really hurt much right now. It's a good reminder to not lose my cool again… "

"Yeah, that locker room hates to see you comin’…" You joke with a smile. Shaking your head. Punched his locker like some guy in a movie.

Miguel can't help but smile, knowing you’re referring to him punching the front of his locker like a crazy person. He sighs, knowing it was stupid and a loss of control. "That locker had it coming though…"

You laugh at his words, his eyes lighting up watching your head throw back a bit. The fluttering sound of your laughter carrying slightly over the noise in the room and hitting his ears. He wants to make you laugh like that all the time. Make you smile like this every day. And  Peter works his way through the room over to the bar. 

"There you guys are! I thought I lost you…" Peter's face lights up when he gets closer, excited to see his best friend and you, the pretty tutor. He stands behind both your chairs putting his hands on the backs of them. Miguel’s eyes flick back-and-forth between you two. You're still oblivious. Smiling at Peter like you don't know what he's doing. Every instinct inside of him telling him to make Peter back off. But he's trying to be better for you. Trying not to lose control or act impulsive. 

"Spending the night bragging, are you?" You smile and tease Peter lightly. Leaning over the back of your chair. He did score a lot of the winning goals tonight. Peter laughs and loves any attention from you. Miguel can only listen and watch this interaction between the two of you. It's like a nightmare come to life. And he's feeling claustrophobic in this crowded place with all these people. He just wants to take your hand and go back to campus, go back to your dorm, go back to the library.

"Well you all played very well…" You hum. Looking between the two boys. You can't help but notice Miguel’s body language. Thinking he must just be upset that he didn't get to play because of his cast. But he did very well on the sidelines. 

"Peter here was especially on his game today. Princeton is tough…" Miguel says with tension in his tone, finally joining in on the conversation. His eyes flicking between the two of you but landing on you mostly. Watching your reaction to Peter's words.

"It's all in the foot work really. Reading the opponent… Gotta think about 10 steps ahead." Peter says with a grin, in his element. Miguel has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. As much as he loves Peter, he wants him to fuck off right now.

You giggle softly at Peter's joke and his obvious love for attention. Loving the way you can so casually hang out with Miguel and his friends for the first time ever. Miguel clenches his jaw, sipping his water and trying to keep his cool. You take a sip of your beer finding it's the last one, putting the empty bottle back on the bar. It seems both boys take notice. 

"Can I get you another? "Peter asks, His eyes lighting up.

“Um…" You're thinking. You don't really do this that often and you're finally getting to hang out with Miguel and his friends. What the hell… "Sure!"

Peter flashes that charming smile at you and Miguel can feel his control slipping again. Now he's buying you drinks? 

"I got it." Miguel suddenly says, waving to the bartender for another round. If anyone's getting you drunk tonight, it's gonna be him. So he can make sure you're okay. “Okayyy…” Peter huffs softly, raising his brow at Miguel’s rivalry. But Miguel doesn’t care. Grabbing the fresh cold beer bottle and sliding it over the bar in front of you. Looking back up at Peter, a stern expression on his face. 

Over the next hour and your next two beers, Peter just won’t go away. He’s practically hanging on your chair, talking to you about whatever. And because you’re so nice and sweet you just keep giving into him. Smiling at Miguel too like you want him to be in on the conversation. But it just makes him feel worse somehow. Is he really losing you to Parker? Is that how this is gonna go? 

“So… you guys are like best friends?” You ask, your words slightly slurred, cheeks pink and flushed. You’re tipsy and Miguel’s watching you like a hawk. Your beer shined lips as you smile up at Peter. So damn cute and pretty. “We are… best friends…” Peter says in a cocky way. Grabbing Miguel’s shoulder and shaking it a few times, a beer in his other hand. Miguel might be the only sober one in this place and it’s getting annoying. 

He fidgets with the same fray on his cast, pulling on it and pulling on it. Watching you talk to Peter. Forcing a smile when you look his way. It’s getting unbearable. Eyes flicking around the crowded room and just wanting to get out of here. 

“One more round?” Peter asks and Miguel groans internally. You’re both drunk, everybody is drunk and he just wants to get you back somewhere it’s safer. Peter gets to chatting loudly with some other people down the bar.

“Do you wanna leave?” You lean over, getting closer to Miguel, right up to his face and he just gives you a soft look. Admiring your pretty flushed features. He can see you’ve been having fun. “No, I’m good, we can stay if you want…” He hums gently. 

“Don’t lie, Mig…” You whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear over the noise. And his brow knits together, hearing the nickname, your soft warm voice, wanting to reach out and brush your hair back, kiss your pretty pink lips. Anything. “I’m a little tired…” He admits. And even in your tipsy state, you know it’s time to go. 

“Let’s go then… it’s too loud…” You sigh, a distracted Peter now talking loudly with Marco and Miller down the bar. Relief, Miguel thinks. He does really want to make sure you get back to your dorm okay. 

…

“Wai-I ‘ave a question…” You slur, hanging onto him and pressed up against his chest as he’s trying to get you over to bed. His big strong arms around you and it feels so good, feels so right. What you’ve been missing all this time and now it just feels like everything is perfect and everything is good and… and your tongue still tastes like beer and… and he smells so good. 

“Yeah, what's your question?” He asks so soft and gently. His voice is like smooth melted butter mixed with sweet brown sugar. Bringing you over to your bed and sitting you down on the edge. Making sure you don’t topple over. “Hold still, I’m gonna take your shoes off…” 

“D’you think… that… um…” You sigh, the alcohol clouding everything making you instantly forget what you were about to ask him. But the thought is mixing around your brain just waiting to come out. After all, it’s all you were thinking about all night. “M-my shoe is stuck”

“I know, I’m trying to get it off…” He sighs, unable to stop the smile when he hears your little whine. You are pretty cute like this and he likes helping you. Kneeling down in front of you and taking your shoe onto his knee to undo the laces, slipping it off.

“Do you think that… all your friends… that they like-like it?” You sigh, wiggling your toes in your socks as he slides your shoe off. His hands on your calves, absentmindedly caressing up and down, having you in his hands like this is too good to pass up, but he looks up at you at your question. His brow furrowing, wondering what you mean. “Do they like what,-?” He almost called you baby right there. But stopped himself. Maybe it’s just being like this with you right now. Being close and finally being needy for his help, needing him in any way. Or the way you seem so soft and fragile right now he just wants to protect you. 

“That they like me…” You sigh. Pushing a hand through your hair and he pulls your other shoe off, your feet freeing and legs dangling off the side of the bed. 

He looks up at you, piecing together your broken sentence. Do his friends like you? Peter? 

“Like P-peter… does Peter like me?” You ask and his expression goes serious. Swallowing thickly and setting your shoes to the side. He knows the answer. He knows that Peter obviously has a thing for you. It’s becoming more clear you have a thing for him too. 

Miguel straightens back up, standing over you and listening to your drunken rambling. Your mumbles. “Cuz I think Peter is really nice and I think you and I can be friends… and I can be friends with your friends too…” 

He doesn’t understand what you mean. Towering over you and feeling so blocked up. Like he’s miles away from where he wants to be with you. He wants you to want him. Not think about Peter. 

“Uh… I think Peter likes you, yeah…” He mumbles. Looking down at your face. The way it lights up and his heart falls. “Really? So we can all be friends?” 

His heart hurts, looking in your eyes. So confused, not knowing what to think. But wishing he could just kiss you right now and make your thoughts stop. Or to fill your thoughts with him. If he kissed you right now would you forget Peter ever existed? If he kissed you right now, if he laid you down and pumped into you until you were a crying trembling moaning mess like all those times before, would you forget Peter and think about him again? 

“I’m sweating…” You huff, moving to get up off the bed and his arms come to steady you. “Woah woah slow down, sweetheart…” The words ooze off his lips. His hands guide you before you reassure him you can walk. He huffs, watching you walk over to your closet. He sits down on the edge of your bed, head in his hands. Feeling pathetic and so lost. Not even knowing what to do at this point. Has he actually lost you for good? Will he actually only ever be your friend now?

You’re sweating, pulling at the material of your hoodie and ripping it off over your head. Slipping your pants off and sighing in relief. Standing in your panties and bra by the dresser and looking for some comfy clothes. Your mind filled with the thoughts of being Miguel’s again. You’re friends with his friends like any girlfriend would be. So what’s stopping him? What’s stopping both of you from just being together again? Since you’ve proven to him, you can fit in. 

“Miguel…” You hum, his head coming out of his hands and looking up at you. Eyes widening seeing you in just your underwear. Gulping thickly. “Yes?” He whispers. Like beckoning to your call. Like a plea for you to just put him out of his misery already. 

You walk over to him, trying to half haphazardly pull on a big t-shirt. His hands unable to stop themselves, coming up to help pull the material down. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing. This all just makes him feel somehow worse. Your body taunting him, teasing him with everything he needs and no way to get it. 

Your hips slot between his legs, standing between them and getting closer. Fingers clenching into his shirt and smashing your lips against his. His fingers splay out, shock and surprise. His eyes wide and heart seemingly stops. You’re… kissing him… you…

Heavy breath through his nose and his eyes flutter closed. Kissing you back, feeling your eager tongue tasting like alcohol come into his mouth. Letting it swirl against his lips and his tongue. His big hands snaking around you, holding you for the first time like this in so long. You gasp and hum against his lips and a chill goes down his back. He must be dreaming. 

But your hands go to his chest, pushing him back on the bed, and he’s so weak to you. His back hitting the mattress. He wants this so badly. Wants you more than anything in the entire world. You climb on top of him, clambering over his body, sitting on his abdomen and leaning down to kiss him again. 

“Wait-”

He’s silenced by your lips, trying to be dominant and licking into his mouth. You never did that before. That was always him. But right now it’s like you’re hungry for him in the exact same way he was hungry for you all this time. 

“I need you…” You whisper, pulling back from his lips with a smack. His eyes wide and breath heaving. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and yet it’s not right at all. “No baby… you need to go to sleep… you’re drunk…” He whispers, feeling so weak, his hands running up your warm bare thighs, like medicine. His cast is slightly scratchy on your thigh. Finally your body on his, your warmths feeding off of each other. 

“No please… say you want me, please you have to, don’t you want to?” You whine. Leaning over him and kissing his cheek, burying your face in his neck. He’s speechless. Doesn’t know what to say or think. He thought you were done all this time. He thought you were pining after Parker. 

“I want you… I do want you…” He whispers before his mind can even think. His hands falling from your thighs and flat on the bed. It feels wrong to touch you this way. His love for you overshadows his own selfish need. You won’t remember this in the morning. 

You won’t remember this in the morning. 

“I love you…” He whispers. Into your hair. Choking back a lump in his throat. 

“Mm?” You groan, pushing yourself up drunkenly on your hands, your hair dangling into his face under you. 

“Nothing…” He whispers. Swallowing thickly and wrapping his arms around you again. Pulling you to his chest and hugging you. Keeping you there, knowing you’ll pass out in a few minutes anyway and he can tuck you into bed safe and sound. 

To be continued…

Reblogs and comments very much appreciated!! Let me know what you think or your theories!

Taglist (thank you my sweets 🍬) :

@miguels-cock-piercings @queerponcho @club-danger-zone @bossva @softcrayon

@nommingonfood @bruhhvv

@jessies-unrelagated-thoughts @mauvecherie-writes @haveclayeveryday @kimivixen

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@mooreaey6yem @peachey-pie @migueloharacumslut @pxtched

@yougavemeyourheartyouknow @julia4today

[granny-griffin]

1. There are a lot of people who think they're the only one who would speak up. Imagine what would happen if everyone who thought they were the only one... Spoke. But even if you do think you're alone... Why is antiracism not worth standing alone for?

I mean I think it is, and I’ve done it (or tried to). But I do tend to second guess my interpretation of a situation a lot more if I haven’t seen anybody else say something—maybe people sometimes aren’t sure if what they’re looking at is racist or not, and then decide not to do anything with that uncertainty because it would require thought.

2. There is a difference between feeding the trolls and speaking up when something wrong is happening. Do you feel people are more comfortable assuming the former so that they don't have to interact via the latter?

I think people are taught that the latter only exists in real life, and that if you try to do it in fandom you’re just yucking someone’s yum. People who do the second one generally receive the same kind of pushback as people who do the first one (even though they don’t deserve it).

3. Why do we think that bigotry will go away if it goes unaddressed? Is that how you also feel about bigotry that you experience via your other identities?

Because trolls go away when you don’t pay attention to them. But like you already said in question #2, those situations aren’t the same. People are drawing a false equivalence between the two. And as far as bigotry I experience in fandom—I think I just assume that it will be there and not go away no matter what, and I’m pleasantly surprised when that’s not the case. But that’s not really the point of this.

4. Why should we entertain and prioritize the annoyance of bigots? Why do you not deserve to be here and have a safe, comfortable space any more than they do?

I want to annoy bigots XD I love the excuse. Honestly not sure why more people don’t feel this way on tumblr, the website that’s all about being as annoying as you please.

At the same time, I want the annoyance to come because I’m giving them a message they don’t want to hear, not because I’m also being a jerk about it. Maybe it’s weird, but I care about bigots because they’re people, and their bigotry hurts them too, and I want them to listen to me long enough that they hear what I have to say and change what they’re doing. But even that isn’t a reason to try to keep from offending them—coddling somebody in their bigotry isn’t kind either.

I do think that people often don’t want to offend bigots who are good at creating fanworks, because they look up to them as a creative and/or don’t want to drive their skill away from the fandom. Yeah—the better you are at fanworks, the more you can get away with.

The second question is hitting me really strangely—yes, I think everybody deserves to have a comfortable space, and I want to defend that for others. I don’t know if I care to defend it for myself.

5. What do we plan on doing when Black fans lose their patience due to disillusionment? Are we okay with the outcome of that, of choosing... Well, being racist but safe? (Be honest with yourself!) Would we rather Black fans just accept that it's easier to assume everyone is antiblack, the same way it's easier not to speak up against it as a social norm? If we want to show that there is still a welcome for Black fans, that we are safe, why don't we act to show that?

I mean I plan to listen to them, even if I don’t like the way they’re presenting their frustrations—if somebody’s mad at me for something that I really did (or sat by and failed to stop) then it’s so not my job to critique their attitude.

I don’t think I’m okay with the outcome—that’s why I’ve spoke out in the past—but the parenthetical is psyching me out. Maybe I do ignore things out of fear! I’ll have to keep introspecting.

I don’t want Black fans to assume everyone is against them, and I don’t think other people want that either—but I think fixing the situation requires people to be proactive. I think a lot of people think that just not being antiblack is enough, and then don’t think about it any harder. And so nothing happens, because instead of looking to do something right, people are only trying not to do something wrong.

6. If everyone only hangs around people who aren't antiblack, why is the space still so overwhelmingly antiblack? Have you considered that you cannot adequately judge from within?

YES 100%!! I don’t think we can accurately judge from within! This is one of my biggest struggles—it goes back to my answer to #1. I want to speak out against racism, but even though I’m trying to educate myself so that I can spot it, sometimes I’m really not sure. And calling somebody racist feels like a really big accusation—if it lands publicly in the right way it could get somebody blocked by all their friends. I wouldn’t want to do it to mistakenly. So I’ve been trying to watch and see when Black people call out racism so that I can amplify/support what they’re already saying.

But maybe we need also to have a less all or nothing approach? If we aren’t sure if someone is being racist, we could start a more private conversation to tell them about our concerns, and see if their response sheds any light on the situation. Sometimes I ask people leading questions about their thought process when making something instead of just telling them to quit being racist.

Inevitably, no matter what I do, I worry that I’m not using the right level of forcefulness. But I guess sitting here and angsting about the appropriateness of my approach is still better than doing nothing.

7. No one really answered my "what is the boundary" question at all. What I should have asked is, are you willing to recognize that you have a willing tolerance for antiblackness? That there is a certain amount that you are okay with allowing before thinking it's worth speaking up?

Yes, and I think it’s tied to my struggle to judge situations. There’s a certain threshold of racism under which I can’t identify it with enough accuracy to feel comfortable making a callout. But again—maybe “public callout” and “do nothing” are not the only two possible responses.

Okay so after sitting on the responses from yesterday's question, I have some follow up questions to what seemed to be some consistent... Themes in the answers.

Like yesterday, I am asking with intent to listen (and maybe ask more questions) so I will not be arguing- at best, you'll get a "hm" to acknowledge i saw what you said.

My follow up questions:

1. There are a lot of people who think they're the only one who would speak up. Imagine what would happen if everyone who thought they were the only one... Spoke. But even if you do think you're alone... Why is antiracism not worth standing alone for?

2. There is a difference between feeding the trolls and speaking up when something wrong is happening. Do you feel people are more comfortable assuming the former so that they don't have to interact via the latter?

3. Why do we think that bigotry will go away if it goes unaddressed? Is that how you also feel about bigotry that you experience via your other identities?

4. Why should we entertain and prioritize the annoyance of bigots? Why do you not deserve to be here and have a safe, comfortable space any more than they do?

5. What do we plan on doing when Black fans lose their patience due to disillusionment? Are we okay with the outcome of that, of choosing... Well, being racist but safe? (Be honest with yourself!) Would we rather Black fans just accept that it's easier to assume everyone is antiblack, the same way it's easier not to speak up against it as a social norm? If we want to show that there is still a welcome for Black fans, that we are safe, why don't we act to show that?

6. If everyone only hangs around people who aren't antiblack, why is the space still so overwhelmingly antiblack? Have you considered that you cannot adequately judge from within?

7. No one really answered my "what is the boundary" question at all. What I should have asked is, are you willing to recognize that you have a willing tolerance for antiblackness? That there is a certain amount that you are okay with allowing before thinking it's worth speaking up?

*I also want to note that I'm not directing this to Black fans. I know that the context changes when you have to fight. I'm asking the people who have the privilege of fighting antiblackness while not having the identity. I.e. some marginal power in the area.

[ro-bee]

You say it can be rare for Goat to be kind to wolf Nari how does Goat usually act with wolf Narinder?

TOXIC YAOYURI!!

no but i think i said somewhere how complicated they are haha

goat has mixed feelings for wolf because they're still really angry at wolf for what happened in the past (they need someone to blame since the bishops aren't here anymore) but wolf is also the only person that knows them well enough that they feel kinda safe with him.

on the other hand wolf is really people pleaser... he feels guilty for what happend to goat and ofthen let them do and treat him ovewer they want without complaining (but i think he would react if goat really exagerate with their vendetta)

so yeah is this whole mess... maybe they can get fixed

but anyway

[angelpuns]

Donnie practically pushed Mikey out of the way to get through the door, squeezing past him just in time to see the fading blue of one of Leo's portals. 

He’d barely had time to grab his bo, head still fuzzy from sleep and pajama pants uncomfortably askew from Being woken suddenly. 

Mikey was in a similar state of disarray, his shirt riding up his shell and his eyes wide and glancing around the room wildly. 

They'd both been woken by Leo's shouting, rushing out of bed to help their brother only to find Raph in a Leo-free train car. 

“Raph? What happened? Why was he yelling?” 

As his brain woke up, he was reminded of their mission for the day: reverse Leo's ‘family-forgetting’ curse or whatever it was. 

So it probably had something to do with that. 

“I dunno! I came ta wake him up like he asked me to yesterday and he just- he started shoutin' at me!” Raph turned, holding his hand to a small cut on his arm. It bled sluggishly, and Donnie quickly opened a drawer in Leo's desk that he knew had band-aids. 

“ He musta had a nightmare or somethin’, I tried to help but I think I only made it worse “ Raph worried, letting Donnie slap the band-aid over the cut, “ he didn't seem ta recognize me or know where he was or anythin' “ 

They were silent for a moment, before Mikey piped up. 

“ But he’s never made a portal during a panic attack before….are you sure it was that, I mean-”

“ oh my banana pancakes,” Donnie slapped a hand to his head. His mind had been running through every possible Leo could have ‘woken up and chosen violence’. 

It could have been a nightmare. But the answer was so obviously related to their current curse-relted predicament. 

“ The curse! It’s not- He didn’t just forget us the one time, “ He explained, starting to pace. An uncomfortably hot feeling pooled in his stomach, anxiety bubbling up from there. He shook his hands out in an attempt to dispel the feeling, the lingering worry about Leo now being somewhere totally random making him nauseous. 

“ It's- its like he resets! He must have forgotten again when he went to sleep- like- like he just got reset overnight!” He rambled, grimacing, “ This complicates everything, how’re we gonna get him to cooperate if he wakes up with a different reaction to three strangers every single day!? How are we gonna fix this is if he forgets the curse even exists!?”

Raph stopped him, hands on shoulders. 

“ Donnie, take a breath,” he sighed, and Donnie reluctantly stopped and shut his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly. 

“We can get him back, no problem,” Raph smiled, “ ya still got that tracker in ‘im, right?” 

Donnie blinked. Right, how could he forget? 

“ of course! TO THE LAB!” he whipped around and hurried for the door, trusting they'd follow him. 

“ I'm sure ‘Nardo can fend for himself, he does have his swords,” He noted, if only to make himself feel a little less anxious, “ but I would rather him not be wandering the streets of NYC without half of his memories.” 

He continues to ramble, even as he stepped into his lab and  whipped out his keyboard, quickly pulling up the tracking device coordinates and corresponding map. 

“What if he doesn't come home before night? Will he just forget us again?” Mikey asked, swiping some stuff off of Donnie's desk and taking a seat on the surface.

Mikey suddenly gasped, grinning, " this is just like that one movie! With Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore!"

Donnie grimaced, but he had bigger concerns right now. Even if those were parts to a pretty important project. He opted to ignore that and just think harder about the actual matter at hand. And the plot of 50 First Dates. Just in case it could actually help them somehow.

“ I assume so, yes. And that amnesia-riddled plot is more medically related, so sort of but not really."

"What's more concerning is that he probably won't remember why he's out there, and that will probably introduce more anxiety to the mix,” Donnie murmured, watching as Leo's indicator moved slowly through the streets of New York. He was on then other side of the river, and seemed to be hopping rooftops for now, “ like I said, he can take care of himself, but we should at least try and convince him to come back to the lair before nightfall. I don't know if his amnesia is progressing or not yet, which is also concerning.” 

Silence again. There was also the obvious concern about Leo being gone. Which, unfortunately, seemed to be one of the more difficult things they'd been collectively working through. 

The first six months or so, Leo was never left alone. Not for lack of trusting him or thinking he wasn't capable of taking care of himself ( although he was fairly injured for most of that time ) but for the fact that none of them seemed to want to let him out of their sight. It was partially why Donnie had upgraded the trackers to track their vital signs down to their blood pressure. He didn't like not knowing. He didn't like remembering the feeling of Leo being gone after- 

Donnie let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It was gonna be okay. Leo wasn't gone, he just wasn't in the lair. And he couldn't possibly know how anxiety inducing that was due to the aforementioned amnesia-curse. 

But they knew where he was, and they knew he was okay for now. 

The computer suddenly let out a beep. then another. Donnie looked up, watching as Leo's dot stopped moving. His heart rate increased, and the beeping increased with it. 

There was one thing that they hadn't really accounted for, after all. 

The chance of Leo ending up in a fight.

-----

Part 3 to the unnamed fic/au/whatever this is

I don't like this part as much, but I really am just trying to get the idea out of my head and into writing, haha! So I hope the OOC-ness of everybody isn't too bad :)

I think this would def work better as a fic, but I am kinda wanting to explore it as a comic too. Comics just take a lot of time and I can't do all the fun thought-stuff I like to do on fics so :/

Ah well I will simply keep doing whatever I want, so enjoy.

Part 1 | Part 2

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: A Few Minutes Won't Hurt

Summary: Alternative Title: Repressed Baptist Seduces Menace to Society. I said I would post the smut chapter in CH.13 of For Your Own Good if that chapter got 10 reviews, and I got those within like 2 hours. Well, I'm an author of my word(s), so here's your NSFW Fiddlestan content. Cross-posted on AO3 Here.

One shot from my other work, "For Your Own Good", but you don't necessarily need to read it first to read this.

Rating: E for language and sexual content. Also this whole thing is just smut with some plot and feelings.

WARNING: TW/ Mentioned past sexual abuse.

Of all the things Fiddleford thought he was willing to do to help his dear friend and colleague Stanford, seducing his identical twin brother to buy time while he fixed the houses power grid was not one of them.

While Stanford didn't ask him to do this specifically, he had asked him to distract Stan just long enough for him to get the power back up. And what else was he to do?

Drugging him was an option, but keeping him here against his will was already morally objectionable, he didn't want to add drugging him against his will (again) too. He had at least some standards here compared to Ford. Plus, Stan had an alarmingly high tolerance to substances anyways. He still shivered in remembrance of the crushed Ambien incident.

Brute force was also an option, but Fiddleford had no weapons on him. Hand-to-hand combat? Fiddleford was a lot stronger than his willowy build would lead others to believe. He grew up on a farm with hogs, and he had the strength to back it up. But Stan was a fighter - not just a fighter, but someone who's lived the past decade having to fight to survive. Fiddleford has personally seen what a rat in a corner can turn into, and he wasn't going to see what happened when the same thing happened with an adult man who was bigger than him. Not to mention, on the way downstairs, Fiddleford saw the man had already grabbed the items Ford had confiscated from him when he was brought in the first time, which included a switchblade and pair of knuckle dusters. It didn’t matter how strong Fiddleford was, when he was completely unarmed and Stan was most definitely not.

Reasoning with him?

There was no reasoning with him - and what could Fiddleford possibly tell him? That he needed to be held captive against his will in some mad scientist's basement in the middle of the woods? Stan couldn't even be convinced Stanford was really his twin and they looked almost exactly the same.

So that left, as Stan so eloquently put it, a 'honey trap'. Stan had been flirting with him relentlessly since they met and Fiddlefort had to bet all of his chips on the chance that Stan was actually attracted to him, and not just doing it to mess with him. Although not a betting man, Fiddleford must have made the right bet because now he was pinned against the wall, chest-to-chest with one wrist being held over his head, and a chapped pair of lips against his own.

Maybe, just maybe, Fiddleford was just looking for an excuse…

Given Stan's initial aggression, Fiddleford had fully expected the vagabond to go all-in on this encounter - with tongue, teeth, groping, and all. Yet, Stan was only kissing him - firm, but not rough, and no tongue. The grip on his wrist wasn't even hard, almost like it was a suggestion or invitation. With the power out, most of the lights in the basement laboratory were also out, but there were just enough autonomously-powered machines down there to keep them out of the pitch dark.

Stan put his remaining hand on Fiddlefords shoulder and lightly pushed it down, exposing more of his neck. He withdrew from the kiss and started instead planting butterfly kisses on the engineer's neck and throat. Just enough pressure to make Fiddleford feel hot under the collar, but not enough to leave marks.

Flustered at this almost romantic treatment, Fiddleford wrapped his free arm around Stan's waist, pulling him closer- close enough to rub their crotches together. Fiddleford had already undone his belt and zipper, leaving his trousers halfway down his thighs with only his briefs covering him, while Stan was still fully dressed save for his hoodie which he'd slid off earlier.

He noted Stan stiffened up for a second, but then relaxed again. Curious. He was so eager about this, and yet he was showing some signs of what seemed to be apprehension. Fiddleford would have to keep an eye on that, he wasn't going to do this if Stan actually didn't want to.

Stan nuzzled his chin and then moved onto trailing kisses along his jaw.

Fiddleford chuckled and turned his head to peck his lips "Stan," he teased with a heavy breath "I didn't realize you were such a gentleman."

Stan didn't respond, instead letting go of Fiddlefords wrist, which quickly moved down to hold the other man's hip.

"May I?" Fiddleford asked, thumbing the hem of his jeans - Stan didn't wear a belt, likely because of his thicker gut. Stan nodded, and took a step back.

Fiddleford turned them around so Stan's back was against the wall instead, and he was in front of him. Licking his lips a bit, Fiddleford undid the button and zipper of Stan's jeans before kneeling down and yanking both his jeans and boxers down to his knees.

A slight, full-body tremour ran through Stan's body and he almost seemed to back up even more against the wall as he was exposed. He wasn't completely hard yet, but his tip had a generous bead of precum already forming.

Fiddleford licked his lips again- usually this wasn't something he did, because his throat was sensitive, but given Stan's other actions so far he doubted he was going to try to face fuck him like so many other guys tended to do.

Fiddleford licked him from base to tip, before eagerly engulfing just the head. He didn't want to start off with too much all at once, he wanted to savour this a little bit. He heard Stan gasp aloud but abruptly stop.

He looked up as he slowly took in more of his length- he was surprised to see Stan had slapped his hand over his mouth, presumably to keep quiet. He was looking down at Fiddleford however, and when their eyes met his face turned an interesting shade of red and his eyes rounded out just slightly, almost like he didn't expect Fiddleford to look at him at all.

Fiddleford took in about half of him - that was enough to ease his throat for a moment, and he could feel the appendage swell and stiffen under his ministrations, giving him a perverted sense of pride.

He felt Stan place a hand on top of his head, and he quickly exhaled through his nose as he mentally prepared himself to be fucked in the throat and his hair to be yanked. Which was always fun, but he preferred taking his time.

However, that isn't what happened. Thick, calloused fingers tangled into his sandy blond locks, but not enough to pull at his scalp, and instead began stroking his hair back. Hesitant at first, before finding a clear rhythm to follow.

It was Fiddlefords turn to blush. All of this gentleness was the exact opposite of what he expected from Stan and he almost felt guilty for even assuming the vagabond would be rough or demanding. Fiddleford shoved his free hand down his briefs and gripped his own member, palming himself best he could in his current position.

Humming, he started to bob his head - slowly at first, but picking up pace after a few tests on his throat. He internally pouted that the only response he was receiving was well-muffled noises he had to strain to hear.

Fiddleford pulled his mouth off of Stan's dick, leaving an obscene string of saliva between himself and the weeping tip. "Stan," he said, looking up at the other man, who seemed confused, "I want to hear you." When a look of uncertainty crossed the vagabond's eyes, he added "There isn't anyone down here besides you and me, and the cameras don’t work right now, it's okay."

Stan slowly removed his hand from covering his mouth, and Fiddleford flashed him a small approving smile before quickly swallowing down most of his length in one movement.

"Fuck-!" Stan gasped, his tone so surprised and lewd it made it worth Fiddlefords now stimulated gag reflex. Fiddleford felt himself harden up even more and he jerked himself with even more vigor.

It'd be a good time now to switch to the main act, but it sure would be a shame if he didn't get a taste... especially with that deep, pretty moaning egging him on like this.

Though his hand movements stayed light and affectionate, Stan began to shake and stutter "-F, g-gonna-... I-Im close."

Fiddleford used the hand on Stan's hip to press him against the wall as far as he could, while taking his entire member, gag reflex be damned. Stan practically cried out as he cummed, and Fiddleford swallowed it all eagerly even if he had to cough a bit because of his now angry throat. It took a few strokes for Fiddleford to follow him in release, and his hand was cramping because he hadn't pulled himself out of his underwear to do so but he couldn't force himself to care about that right now.

Fiddleford slowly pulled off, feeling Stan's fingers continue to stroke his hair, albeit a bit clumsily with the aftershocks still wracking his body. "Y-You're pretty good at that, stretch." The brunet chuckled breathily, and Fiddleford felt his own face go hot "What else are you good at?"

Swiftly wiping his mouth with his lab coat sleeve, Fiddleford stood up again and cupped Stan's cheek with his hand, lightly rubbing his jaw with his thumb, which Stan leaned into almost unconsciously, his pupils dilating even further.

Fiddleford brought his face close to Stan's, close enough to feel each other's heavy breaths. "You're just the sweetest thing - like a summer peach. How about I show what else I can do?"  He offered, boldly moving his hand from Stan's hip down to his ass.

Stan breathed out a small laugh "Think you could handle me?"

"Only if you want me to."

Stan relaxed a bit more at that "All yours, specs... You got a condom?"

"Yes-" Fiddleford hastily felt around his jeans for his wallet, and after fumbling a moment Stan got a thoughtful look in his eye before reaching down to his own discarded jeans and sheepishly handing the engineer the wallet. "You stole my wallet while I was-"

"Force of habit. Sorry." Stan apologized, though Fiddleford doubted this would hinder him from doing it again in the future.

Rolling his eyes, Fiddleford rifled through it for a condom, which he quickly produced "Do you have lube?" He asked thoughtfully, though he doubted it. He personally wasn't against using spit but he knew it wasn't that effective.

"Don't need it." Stan answered a bit too quickly. When Fiddleford gave him a curious look, he added "I had some fun in the bathroom while you guys were gone."

"Is that all you do when you're left to your devices?" Fiddleford teased, even as felt his lower regions twitch back to life at the implication. "I must say I'm almost intimidated to be entertaining someone so... voracious."

"Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast this morning, specs?" Stan teased back, rolling his eyes "I don't exactly have a lot of stuff I can do down here… bathroom’s the only private place."

Fiddleford leaned his head against Stan's shoulder and gave himself a few tugs to harden up again- just enough to properly apply the condom. Through the contact he could feel and hear the other man's breath hitch, and his heart rate increasing further. But he also started to... shiver? Just a little, subtle enough Fiddleford wouldn't have been able to see it, but enough he could feel it while being so physically close.

"Wait." Stan said as he abruptly put his hands on Fiddlefords shoulders just as Fiddleford finished applying the condom, not to push him away, just to get his attention. Fiddleford glanced back up at him to see his eyebrows knitted together in concern.

"What's wrong darlin?" He asked.

"Nothings 'wrong'," Stan insisted, but paused "you... You're nice, right? You'll be nice?"

"Nice...?" Fiddleford blinked in confusion.

"You're not going to try to fuck me so hard I'll bleed?" Stan clarified, and there was a grim edge to his tone, like asking Fiddleford to not hurt him was an exception and not a rule "You'll... stop if I asked you to?" There was hesitation when he asked, as if he was overstepping and asking for a favour.

Fiddlefords eyes widened "Of course- Stan of course I would stop if you wanted to stop! Why would you think..." He trailed off when Stan's eyes almost seemed to dull, and grew a bit shiny, a hint of tears.

"I was in prison, Fiddleford." He explained, slowly, strained, "The guys there aren't like you... they don't ask. They're not nice."

"..." In spite of the compromising position and state of undress they were in, Fiddleford straightened up and pulled Stan into a tight hug, which surprised Stan but he didn't push him away "Oh Stan," he said, kissing his cheek lightly "I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that. No one deserves that."

Breath slightly shaky, Stan didn’t return the embrace, but hid his face against Fiddlefords hair. Considering Stan’s tendency to talk about his various trauma as if it were a joke ir a point of pride, this must have been the first true moment of vulnerability the vagabond had allowed himself in who knows how long. At least, the first one that Fiddleford had seen himself.

"We don't have to do this, we can stop here." Fiddleford assured him, but Stan shook his head.

"I want to- I want you. I like you a lot. I just... I don't want it to be like the other times..."

Fiddleford nodded and pecked his cheek again. "Okay... I'm going to pick you up and we can do this against the wall, is that alright with you?"

Stan quirked a brow "I'm fine with that position, but are you sure? I'm not light." True, not only was Fiddleford considerably thinner, but despite one of Stan's nicknames for him being ‘stretch’, he was also a touch shorter than both of the Stan twins.

“Saddle up, city boy.” Fiddleford said with a wink, before abruptly grabbing Stan by the hips and lifting him straight off of his feet, balancing him between the leaning forward of his own hips and the wall.

“Woah- ah.” Stan briefly gasped in surprise before quickly throwing his arms over Fiddlefords neck, and his legs around his hips, clinging for what he perceived to be dear life. But Fiddleford didn’t seem to struggle holding him up at all, as though he were as light as a feather. “I-if you fucking drop me…”

“I won’t, don’t you worry none.” Fiddleford assured. When he was sure Stan was holding onto him tightly enough, and leaned forward so he could have him more properly pinned between himself and a wall, he let go of him with one hand - pausing to make sure Stan wasn’t unbalanced - and reached down to grasp onto his own cock. He was still a bit sensitive and flaccid from his recent orgasm, but that was going to change very soon. “Are you ready? This might sting a little.”

Stan just nodded, still keeping his arms over Fiddlefords neck but leaning back slightly, trying to keep his body as slack as possible, allowing the engineer to slip inside of him with little resistance, though Stan did still hiss slightly through his teeth.

“Lord have- mphh.” Fiddleford moaned as he pushed up, pulling Stan down enough to where he could be fully hilted. He felt very soft inside- and so, so warm. He could tell from the few times they’d physically interacted before this that Stan ran a bit hot, but nothing like this. It was enough to make his head dizzy, enough for a rare swear word to slip out of him “Fuck, you feel good.”

“You too.” Stan muttered next to his ear, before burying his face into Fiddlefords neck. For a moment they both just stayed like that so Stan could adjust to the intrusion properly. After a few moments, Fiddleford rolled his hips upward, softly, experimentally, and when Stan gave him a slight hum of approval, he continued to do so with more vigor.

Gravity did most of the work for him, he could push Stan upward as softly as he wanted but he always came down much harder and that was the friction that was driving the engineer insane. It didn’t take long for Fiddleford to start snapping his hips up in tandem with the other man coming down on him. He would have started pulling him down if he didn’t remember Stan’s anxiety about being treated rough.

Stan shifted his arms from over Fiddlefords neck so he could cup his face with his hands- his eyes were still as impish as ever, but they were hazed over, Fiddleford could only register that fog as lust before Stan pulled his face in so they could kiss again. Fiddleford fluttered his eyes closed and breathed heavily through his nose as he daringly introduced tongue- something which Stan allowed this time around.

As sweet as Stan;s more romantic inclinations were, Fiddleford was honestly very pent up. Yes, he’ll admit privately to himself at this moment - might as well, he was balls deep in the other man - that yes, he had been using the honey trap as an excuse. Stan had been so relentless with his attention and flirting that it’d been increasingly difficult to not feel a certain way about it in these past weeks.

Stan was crude and used dark humour to cover his multitude of trauma’s, and he made it no secret he was an unabashed scoundrel who would jump right back into criminal mischief the minute he could. And his uncanny resemblance to Stanford had made Fiddleford a bit uneasy at first - how could he possibly be attracted to someone who looked exactly like his best friend? What did that say about Fiddleford? And there was the most glaring issue of Fiddleford being an accomplice to Stanford holding Stan prisoner against his will.

Wanting to have sex with your best friends identical twin? That was bad enough. Wanting to have sex with someone you were holding captive in a basement in the middle of the woods? That was just immoral, unethical, and illegal. 

Those issues didn’t go away, per se, with this encounter. But there wasn’t anything Fiddleford could do to physically keep Stan from tossing him aside like a tumbleweed and just leaving, so Stan had only agreed to a quickie because he wanted to. If that really wasn’t the case, Fiddleford didn’t think he could forgive himself.

But it was really difficult for the sinner to hate the sin when said sin was this tight and hot around his dick, stimulating the nerves in his groin so much that shocks of pleasure shot up and clouded any thoughts Fiddleford had involving logic and ethics.

“Hey, you.” A flick against his temple brought him back out of his head, he could see that Stan had separated from the kiss and they were just panting each others hot breaths again “Pay attention to me, won’t cha?”

When all Fiddleford could do was nod dumbly and snap his hips up and not respond with actual words because absolutely no blood was going to his brain, Stan let out a shaky laugh - pretty close to a yelp given its timing with a particularly steep thrust - before grabbing his shoulders and pushing at them slightly to get his attention.

“Y-You’re pretty tightly wound, huh? Lemme do some of the work here.” Stan offered, and motioned behind both of them “Sit in that chair and I’ll ride you.” Fiddleford nodded and made sure he had a tight grip over him before walking a few feet backwards - Stan was not a fan of this - until he was seated in the chair.

“You coulda just put me down…” Stan huffed, although this didn’t deter him from scooting up a bit before sinking back down, letting out a pleased sigh as he took in all of Fiddleford, and pausing. Fiddleford gripped Stan’s hips with both of his hands, tempted to start moving him himself but deciding to instead watch what the other man would do. 

Stan at first grinded his hips down in a small, circular motion, before beginning to lift himself up, and then dropping back down while tightening around him, making them both moan in unison. Keeping one hand on Fiddlefords shoulder, he moved his other hand down to stroke himself in tandem with his movements.

“Was this- hhah- what you were thinkin’ bout earlier?” Fiddleford began, voice straining to stay even “When you were diddlin yourself?”

Stan paused abruptly and really seemed to consider stopping entirely before continuing his current movements, jolting slightly in pleasure when Fiddleford thrusted upward into him just as he was moving down “Th-that country accent is cute and all, but if you say that word again I’m out.” He chided gruffly, still actively palming his wet and swollen member.

“Not answering my question, darlin.” Fiddleford teased a bit, though he knew he was pushing his luck against Stan’s patience, so he didn’t tease any further when Stan didn’t answer. Maybe after the fact.

Pressure built up in his lower abdomen, good pressure, and Fiddleford felt like a knot being pulled as taut as possible, about to snap-

“Oh f-fuck I’m gonna fucking cum.” Stan practically whined out, unknowingly voicing his partners thoughts. His movements on Fiddleford became uneven and frantic and as did his hand around his dick, his eyes rounding out but his pupils constricting as he became wholly focused on reaching that peak. Tightening his non dominant hand on Stan’s hip. Fiddleford reached over with his other hand to replace Stan’s, taking over his rough jerking with a firm but more delicate touch, much easier with all of the precum he was leaking out.

“Loooord, Stan-. L-like that, just like that-.” Fiddleford rambled, his entire body and especially his face burning “You’re doin so good- you feel so good, I don’t wanna stop-.” If he weren’t so busy pitching woo, Fiddleford might have noted how strange it was that Stan had dug his hands into his hoodie pockets and taking them out just as quickly, but it was so quick he might not have noticed anyways. 

Fiddleford was the first to cum this time, the feeling of the engineer tightening his grip over his length as impulsively roll his hips for friction to ride out his orgasm, it sent Stan down the same cascade of release, Fiddleford coming with almost a shout and Stan with a moan similar to a deep sigh.

Fiddleford hadn’t even started coming down from the high of peaking before Stan abruptly shoved his mouth against him, while also grabbing his wrists and pinning them down on the armrests on either side of the chair. The roughness surprised Fiddleford, but maybe this is just how Stan got right before the afterglow? Regardless, Fiddleford wasn’t complaining, he simply fluttered his eyelids closed and returned the kiss; despite the aggressive entrance, the kiss itself was as gentle and almost chaste as the ones they’d started with. 

Riiip

"Uh-? Huh?” Fiddleford broke away from the kiss at the strange, sharp sound he heard to his left; he looked over to his left to see that his hand on that side was now zip-tied to the armrest, before he could react properly he heard the same ripping sound as before and looked over bewildered to see Stan had just finished securing another ziptie on his other wrist, rending Fiddleford stuck to the chair and unable to free either of his wrists.

“I’m really sorry about this.” Stan muttered as he pulled off of him; he kneeled down to reach over to tuck Fiddleford’s now flaccid cock back into his pants, and quickly re-doing his fly and belt for him. Once he finished with that, he walked over to his own discarded pair of boxers and jeans and yanked them both back onto himself.

“Wait.” Fiddleford almost stammered “Did you just-? Why?”

“I gotta say, I didn’t think you had it in you specs.” Stan said as he dressed himself again, and in spite of what they’d just been doing less than a minute before, Fiddleford felt himself flush. “You’re more devious than I thought you were. Unfortunately, you weren’t going to out-scheme me.” With the nearby sink, Stan quickly washed his hands and wetted some paper towels, and briskly walked back to wipe up the cum he’d practically sprayed onto Fiddlefords chest. 

 “Did you plan this?”

“I probably woulda fought you if you tried stopping me in other ways.” Stan admitted “But I told ya, honey traps are one of the oldest tricks in the book. A reverse honey trap? People don't see that one coming, not even smart ones like you.”

Fiddleford huffed to himself - on one hand, he did feel some humiliation for his own plan backfiring against him; on the other hand, it was Stan's cleverness and gile that had endeared him to the vagabond in the first place. “So what was that to you, then?”

Stan was still kneeling in front of him, pausing right after he tossed the dirty paper towels into the nearby wastebasket. For his part, he did look conflicted. “I meant what I said earlier, Fiddleford.” He told him, standing up just enough to lean over and kiss his cheek “I like you a lot. And I had a great time with you just now. But I didn’t break out of five prisons just to rot in some mad scientist's basement, no matter how hot his assistant is.”

Fiddleford felt his heart skip a beat. The whole time Stan had been down here, he went out of his way to not use his or Stanford’s names, he went out of his way to exclusively refer to them by nicknames. But one particular behavioral quirk Fiddleford noticed in Stan was that he did know their names, but he would only use them if he was being sincere. Given his unscrupulous disposition, that wasn’t often. 

“I like you too, Stan. I’m not saying that to trick you or keep you here.” Fiddleford replied, Stan nodded and briefly pecked his temple before standing fully upright and taking a few steps back.

“I wish we coulda met some other way, but I’m glad I did meet you. In the future, if you ever make friends who aren’t insane, and I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, we should meet up again. If you want to.” Stan turned heel and started his way up the stairs and out of the basement.

Fiddleford didn’t have a response; what could he possibly say? He’d played a game and lost because he underestimated the other player. 

He waited for Stan to be out of earshot, before muttering out loud to himself. “Standord owes me after this… He owes me big time.”

Just as he finished that sentiment, all of the lights flickered on, and many machines whirred back to life. The power was restored.

The End… Go Home.

[cheollollipop]

Fragments of Us - Chapter 1. | c.sc

pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader

genre: angst, fluff, smut (MDNI)

warning(s): mentions of drinking, mention of not eating, car accident (character injury)

summary: two years after a messy breakup, seungcheol and yn reconnect unexpectedly.

word count: 6.3k

start date: nov. 20, 2024

end date: -

a/n: it's finally here! i am so nervous, and i really do hope you all enjoy:)<3

════════════════════════════

I step into my apartment, exhausted from another long day. I toss my bag on the couch and stretch, feeling the tight knots in my shoulders relax just a little. The rain outside tapped softly against my windows, a soothing rhythm that made me look forward to nothing more than a warm shower, a cup of tea, and my favorite book.

I head to the bathroom, brushing my hair back and running the water, letting the steam fill the room. As I reach for my toothbrush, my phone buzzes, startling me. Wiping my hands on a towel, I glance at the screen. An unknown number was calling. I hesitate for a moment but then ignore it. "Probably a telemarketer," I mutter to myself, returning to my routine. A few minutes later, I hear the familiar chime of a voicemail notification. Curious, I play the message.

"Hello, this is Dr. Kim from SVT Hospital. We're calling about Choi Seungcheol. He was brought in following a car accident earlier this evening, and you are listed as his emergency contact. Please return our call as soon as possible."

My heart stops as the words begin to echo in my head. Seungcheol. I hadn't heard that name in a little over a year. Yet here it was, suddenly bringing me back into a past I thought I had left behind. I stood for a moment, frozen, my mind racing. Why was I still his emergency contact? What had happened to him? Is he alive?

Without a second thought, I grab my jacket, keys, and phone and rush out the door, my hands shaking as I fumble to lock it behind me.

Outside, the storm had intensified. Rain lashes against the windshield of my car, the wipers struggling to keep up as I drive through the dark, slick streets. Lightning flickered in the distance, followed by the rumble of thunder, but I barely noticed. My mind was fixed on Seungcheol, on the possibility that he was hurt, on why he still had me listed as the person to call in an emergency. I hadn't prepared myself for this, for the sudden rush of emotions I thought I had buried long ago.

The drive felt endless, the storm making every turn and stoplight an agonizing wait. I begin to think of the last time we spoke and how cold and final our breakup had been. But now, all I can think about is getting to the hospital and seeing him, making sure he is okay.

When I finally arrive, I run through the rain, my shoes splashing through puddles as I rush into the emergency room. The harsh, sterile lights and the buzzing sounds of monitors greet me as I approach the front desk, out of breath. I tell the receptionist my name and Seungcheol's, and they direct me to the waiting area, where I'm told to wait for an update.

I sit down, my wet clothes sticking uncomfortably to my skin, my mind swirling with thoughts and memories. I look around at the other people sitting in the room, each lost in their own concerns, and try to steady my breathing, but it feels impossible. I clasp my hands together as if holding on to something slipping away.

As the minutes stretched on, my mind began to wander. I remember the first time I met Seungcheol through Jihoon, how he had shyly asked me out after multiple failed attempts. I thought of the late-night drives we used to take with no destination in mind, just enjoying the sound of each other's voices and the quiet moments in between. I could almost see his smile, hear his laugh, and feel the warmth of his hand in mine.

Thunder rumbled outside, louder this time, and I glanced at the window, seeing the rain still pouring down. The storm mirrored the turmoil inside me, a churning mix of worry, regret, and something else I couldn't quite name.

I close my eyes and lean against the wall, trying to steady my racing heart. I don't know what I would say when seeing Seungcheol if I even see him. Would he be surprised to see me here? Would he even want me here? But none of that mattered right now. All I can do is wait, hope, and let myself daydream, just for a little while, about what it would be like if things had been different if I hadn't let go.

Laughter.

The sound of my friends and boyfriend fills the room, pulling me back to reality. I feel a tightness in my chest, a sense of entrapment creeping in.

I don't want to be here.

I flinch slightly when Seungcheol's hand moves up and down my arm, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "Speaking of presents, everyone! Gather around!"

When will this day end? I silently plead.

"I'm happy that you all could join us tonight to celebrate YN's birthday," Seungcheol says. The room erupts in applause, a few cheers echoing. I cringe at the sound.

"I'll keep this short and sweet," he continues, taking a deep breath. "YN's, it's been ten years since we first met and five years since you finally caved and started dating me. I guess I wore you down, huh?" The crowd chuckles, but I tense up in my seat.

Please don't do what I think you're about to do, Seungcheol. My thoughts grow louder, nearly drowning out his voice.

"Over the years, we've shared so many moments—some amazing, some awkward, and a few where you probably questioned your life choices." He walks over, kneeling in front of me, and grabs my hand. "But honestly, I can't imagine my life without you. YN, will you do me the greatest honor of becoming my wife?"

"YN...?" A voice breaks through the haze. I blink and suddenly realize I wasn't dreaming. I now face Lee Jihoon, the man I once called my best friend.

"Jihoon..." I murmur, dazed.

"It's really you," he replies, his voice carrying disbelief. I haven't seen or spoken to him in two years, yet he still looks the same.

"Um, have you heard anything...?" I ask cautiously.

"Still no update. And, before you ask, some of the guys are on their way. Chan, Seungkwan, and Mingyu couldn't catch a flight until tomorrow, and a few others didn't respond. So, it's just us for now," he explains.

I nod and sink back into the chair. More questions swirl in my head, none of which I can answer. Why was he driving so late? In this weather? What was he thinking?

"What the hell was he thinking?" I mutter aloud.

"He knows about your dad. We all do..." Jihoon's voice pulls me back.

"What?" I ask, confused. He's about to explain when a soft voice interrupts, drawing both our attention.

"I'm here for Choi Seungcheol," a new arrival says to a nurse.

"Seokmin..." I breathe, catching his eye. His face lights up in shock.

"Y-YN?!" he stammers.

"Hi," I manage, my voice cracking. I stand up, and he rushes over, pulling me into a tight hug that makes my eyes sting with tears.

"Shhh, it's okay. He's going to be okay. He has to be..." Seokmin murmurs, his hand gently rubbing my back.

As he lets go, I see more familiar faces trailing behind, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion.

"YN?!" Jeonghan exclaims, unable to hide his surprise.

"In the flesh," I reply with a weak laugh, sending a slight wave to Vernon and Soonyoung, who look just as bewildered.

"Choi Seungcheol?" A doctor calls out, and we all rush forward.

"How is he?" Jeonghan asks his voice tight with anxiety.

"He—"

"Is he okay?" I interject.

"It w—"

"Did he make it?" Soonyoung adds, causing all of us to glare at him.

"Guys."

"Sorry," we chorus, silencing ourselves. The doctor sighs.

"I'm sorry to inform you that the patient has a severe concussion and a torn ACL. The anterior cruciate ligament is crucial for knee stability, and the tear means it's no longer intact, leading to pain, swelling, and instability. This most likely happened due to the impact of the steering wheel colliding with his knee. We'll discuss treatment options with him in the morning. Rest assured, we're doing everything we can to aid his recovery."

"What..." I whisper.

"He's okay. He made it," the doctor reassures. We all stand there, wide-eyed and speechless.

"'I'm sorry to inform you' was a wild way to start that sentence, Doc," Vernon mutters.

"Wait, but I heard—" Jihoon starts, but the doctor cuts him off.

"My apologies. He was unconscious when paramedics found him. It's a natural response when someone's in shock."

Silence fills the room.

"You can stay if you like. We've given him medication for the pain, and he'll be out for the rest of the night," the doctor continues.

"Thank you," Jihoon says. With that, the doctor leaves.

"That lucky motherfucker," Vernon mutters as he and Jihoon embrace while I remain frozen.

"YN?" Seokmin's voice calls out to me, but I can't move.

"He's okay..." Jihoon adds gently.

He's okay.

My knees give out, and before I hit the floor, Seokmin catches me, pulling me into another hug. I finally break, sobbing into his chest.

"Shhh, he's okay, YN," Jihoon murmurs soothingly.

We sit on the floor, my cries filling the otherwise silent space. Eventually, we go to Seungcheol's room, and I pray he's not awake. I don't know what I'd say. Hi?

Thankfully, he's still asleep. The sight of him shatters me. His face is swollen and bruised, and there's a brace on his leg. How can someone look so peaceful while in so much pain?

"Cheo—" I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat.

I step closer, scanning his features. My hand touches his face, but he stirs, and I freeze. When he settles, I gently cup his cheek, feeling the burn of tears in my eyes.

"What the hell were you thinking, Cheollie?"

The room falls silent. Outside, the rain softly beats against the windows, punctuated by the steady beeping of machines.

"Let's all just rest for now. It's been a long night," Jeonghan suggests.

We all try to settle in, but sleep doesn't come quickly. As Dokyeom, Vernon, and Soonyoung drift off, my mind refuses to quiet.

"I had a moment a few months back," I say to no one in particular.

"A moment?" Jeonghan asks.

"I was at a bookstore, and a group of friends came in. They were loud but not annoyingly so. They were laughing,... genuinely happy to be together. They reminded me of..."

"They reminded you of us," Jihoon states softly, more than he asks. I chuckle, looking up at them.

"I was finally starting to accept that I'd never see you guys again..."

"Yeah, well, whose fault is that?" Jeonghan snaps, clearly still hurt.

"Jeonghan!" Jihoon hisses, but I shake my head.

"No, he's right. I don't blame you for being mad. You all should be. I know these aren't the best circumstances, but I've really missed you."

Silence hangs heavy, and I drift into a restless sleep.

"What a way to end a wonderful day, am I right?" Seungcheol's voice echoes through our apartment as I head to the bedroom.

"I can't believe you're my fiancé! We're actually getting married!" He trailed behind me, his excitement palpable, but he stopped in his tracks when he noticed me pacing back and forth.

God must be laughing at me.

"Hey, I know that was probably a lot. I'm sorry if it was. I couldn't wait any lo—"

"I can't marry you, Seungcheol."

"What?"

"Please... don't make me say it again."

He makes a nervous, suspicious sound. "Ha! You almost got me there for a second." But his smile fades, and I see the realization creeping across his face.

"You're not— you're not joking."

I stand there, completely at a loss. In the twenty years I've known him, I've never been so unsure of what to say.

"Don't just stand there! Say something!" His voice cuts through the silence, sharp and desperate.

"Cheol, I—"

"I proposed to you in front of our friends... our families!"

"I never asked you to do that."

"That's not the point, YN!"

"Please stop yelling, Seungcheol," I say, my voice trembling but firm.

"Why?" He stares at me, his eyes blazing.

"Excuse me?" I challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"I think we should be able to have a civil conversation like adults, no?"

"That's not— God dammit!" He slams his hand against the dresser, the sound echoing in the room.

"Why won't you marry me?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"Actually? Yeah."

"Fine. Maybe because I don't want to."

"Bullshit," he snaps.

"Oh, really?"

"YN, you've been talking about wanting to get married someday since we met."

"I'm just not ready, okay?"

"You're acting like we're getting married tomorrow. We can set a date for later when you are ready. No one said we had to rush." He steps closer, reaching for my hand, but I pull back, my legs hitting the edge of the bed.

"Look, I get it. Your mom's passing... it's not easy. I know—"

"Seungcheol, don't you dare bring her into this. You asked for a reason. I gave you one."

"It's okay if that's the reason. I know how much you wanted your mom to be there—"

"For God's sake, Seungcheol! You are suffocating me!"

The words hang in the air, sharp and raw, and I instantly regret them. My hands fly to my mouth, my eyes wide with shock, and he freezes.

"Cheol, I didn't—"

"Don't."

"Seungcheol, I didn't mean that!"

He doesn't say another word. He turns and walks out of the room. I hear the jingle of keys, and panic surges as I run after him.

"Seungcheol!" I call out, but it's too late. The door slams behind him, cutting off my voice.

════════════════════════════

There's a faint knock on the door, and my eyes snap open. A nurse enters, and I lie still, listening as she greets him. She checks his vitals and, before leaving, makes a comment that causes me to tense up.

"I hear your girlfriend stayed all night. She's beautiful. You're lucky to have her and your other friends. They were worried sick about you."

"Ah, she's not my girlfriend, but thank you. I'll be sure to tell them. See you later!" he responds, probably shooting her that gummy smile.

Once she's gone and the door shuts, he speaks again. "You still talk in your sleep, you know."

I freeze. "Wait, how did you—"

"Your breathing changed," he replies. Great.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, turning over to face him fully.

"I've been worse, honestly," he says.

"Cheol, what were you thinking?"

"Dokyeom told me about your dad," he replies, catching me off guard.

"H-How does he know about that?" I stammer.

"Sonya."

"Of course," I chuckle slightly.

"She was worried. We all were. She called Wonwoo when you locked yourself in your apartment and no one had heard from you for weeks. Wonwoo called Dokyeom, and when he told me, I tried to get your number, address, anything. I even drove to Sonya's to beg for any details. He meant a lot to all of us. After a few days of nothing, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I'm sure you can figure out the rest," he explains.

"Seungcheol, at 3 in the morning? You couldn't have waited until morning, or at least until the rain stopped? All this to check if I was okay. That was the stupidest thing you could've done. You could have died!"

"But I didn't. I'm here, aren't I?" he chuckles.

"This isn't funny!"

"You haven't changed one bit," he says.

"I—What's that supposed to mean!?" I sit up, and his chuckle turns into full-blown laughter.

"Glad to see you two haven't killed each other yet," Soonyoung says as he walks through the door, and Jihoon punches his arm.

"Ow! What was that for?!"

"Stop talking," Jihoon responds, glaring at him.

Seungcheol and I exchange an awkward glance before he clears his throat.

"The guys said they'll be landing later this afternoon," Jihoon adds.

"Why are they flying back?" Seungcheol asks, confused.

"We didn't know how serious it was, so we thought—"

"You thought you'd scare everybody? Great," Seungcheol interrupts and Jihoon shoots him a glare.

"Anyway... we brought food," Jihoon says, trying to break the uncomfortable silence that's filled the room.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," I say.

"Eat," Seungcheol says, his tone firm.

"Excuse me?"

"Have you seen yourself?" he asks, genuinely concerned.

"Coups," Jihoon and Soonyoung warn.

"What? Let's not pretend everything's fine. She may not be in a hospital bed, but she should be. Look at her!"

"Hello! I'm right here, and I am—"

"Don't you dare say you're fine because we all know you're not. Remember how that went two years ago? Why aren't you backing me on this?" Seungcheol's voice rises, irritation creeping in.

"You know what? I'm not doing this right now. I'm glad you're okay. It was nice seeing you all, but I'm going to leave now," I say, getting up to gather my things.

"Typical," Seungcheol mutters, but I ignore him.

"Going to change your number again? Ghost everyone? Disappear like you did last time?"

"There it is," Soonyoung whispers.

"You know what, Seungcheol? Screw you! You think what I did was easy?" I turn to face him, my voice rising.

"Sure seemed like it," he snaps back.

"Don't be so sure of yourself, Choi."

"Oh? Please, enlighten us."

I scoff, feeling my frustration boil over.

"Exactly."

"Hey, maybe now's not the time to—" Soonyoung begins, but Seungcheol cuts him off, clearly annoyed.

"No. I'd love to hear this."

"You weren't there for me the way I needed you to be! Instead, you ignored all the signs and threw a surprise party! I was depressed for months, practically begging for help. My mother had just died, and you thought a party was the answer? And to make things worse, you proposed to me in front of everyone. What the hell was I supposed to do, Seungcheol? I know you meant well, but I didn't need a ring—I needed you!"

The room falls silent, the weight of my words hanging heavy.

"Believe it or not, leaving was the hardest decision I've ever made. I've spent every second of the past two years regretting it. I nearly—" I stop myself, taking a shaky breath.

"I'm so sorry I left. I'm sorry I couldn't communicate how I felt better. I've never forgiven myself for what I did to you. Trust me, every day has been hell because of it. And now, not only do I not have my mother, but I've also lost my dad. And just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I get a call saying you were in a terrible car accident. I thought I'd lost you, too!" My voice cracks, and tears start to fall.

"So you can take your little comments and shove them up your—"

"Enough!" Jeonghan shouts as he, Vernon, and Dokyeom enter the room.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving," I say to him, tears I'd tried to hold back now streaming down my face.

"YN..." Dokyeom begins, but I can't handle it.

"I'm sorry. I can't do this right now," I say, glancing over at Seungcheol, who looks stunned as if he's finally realizing why I left. Before anyone can say anything else, I walk out.

════════════════════════════

It's been a week since that unexpected reunion. Dokyeom and Jihoon have been calling and texting non-stop, but after a while, I stopped checking. The last message I saw said Seungcheol was back home, resting.

Dragging myself out of bed, I head to the kitchen to make some coffee. Just as I start pouring a cup, there's a knock on the door. I groan, muttering under my breath, "Please, just leave me alone."

Expecting Sonya, my best friend, I shuffle to the door. But when it swings open, my eyes widen in surprise.

"Ji? What are you doing here?"

"Hey... I hope it's okay. Sonya gave me your address," he says, stepping inside.

"Oh, um... sure, come in," I stutter, stepping aside to let him through.

"Nice place. It looks spacious," he comments, glancing around.

"Yeah, I work from home now, so I needed the space."

"You work from home?" he asks, turning to me in surprise.

"Yeah... It hasn't been easy since... well, everything. And then losing my dad on top of that... I just couldn't handle it." I trail off, my voice barely above a whisper. His gaze softens, and I feel a pang of discomfort under his worried eyes.

"Please, stop looking at me like that," I sigh.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm helpless."

"I'm sorry. I just hate that you had to go through everything alone. You could've talked to us. You could've talked to me..."

"Ji, you know it's not that simple. Everyone seemed so... happy, caught up in life. I felt awful, not just about Cheol but all of you. I felt like I was drowning while everyone else was thriving. I didn't want to—"

"Don't say you didn't want to burden us," he cuts me off. "YN, we've known each other forever. You never need to feel like you can't talk to me. I'm sorry you felt that way, but I'm always here for you. Good or bad, okay?"

"I'm sorry..."

"And you need to stop apologizing for expressing your feelings. I think I speak for all of us when I say you can come to us about anything. Even now. We're here for you. All of us. I wish you'd believe that."

"I do... it's just—ugh! I don't know. I'm sorry," I say, rubbing my face in frustration.

"It's okay," he chuckles, and soon, we're both laughing.

"I missed you, goofball," he says, pulling me into a tight hug.

"I missed you too," I sigh, feeling a bit of relief.

After a few moments, he pulls back slightly. "I have to ask, though..."

"Please. Don't," I warn.

"Okay, but seriously... that was intense."

"Any chance of being in his life again is ruined. Even if I wanted to, it's over. You saw how he acted."

"Maybe if I just—"

"No!" I snap, startling him. "I'm sorry. But what's done is done. What Seungcheol and I had was special, and even though it ended badly, I'm grateful for the time we had. Maybe it's best left in the past."

"And who exactly are you trying to convince?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Jihoon, please. Just drop it. For me?"

"Fine. But only because I miss hanging out with you. I miss us," he says, pouting.

"How are you still the same person?" I laugh, and we both ease into a more relaxed mood.

We spend hours catching up, and it feels like a weight has been lifted. He fills me in on everything I missed, and we joke around like old times.

"God, I can't believe you convinced Dokyeom and Mingyu to go bungee jumping!"

"It took Dokyeom 20 minutes to finally do it. Poor guy was terrified," he laughs.

"Remember when we went rock climbing?" I chuckle.

"When Mingyu called Chan 'hyung'? I'll never forget that," he says, making me laugh even harder.

"Those were good times. My dad laughed so hard that day. I miss him..." My laughter fades, and a sad feeling settles over the room.

"So... When was the service?" he asks.

"Three months ago."

"Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't Sonya? We should've been there!"

"Don't be mad at her. I asked her not to. I didn't want you guys to feel obligated to do anything. Besides, I needed to heal. After my mom... I never properly dealt with it. So when my dad... well, I let myself grieve. I cried, laughed at memories, and forgave them for things I held onto. It only got bad recently. Everything became too much, and I needed to be alone," I explain, and he nods.

"And I shouldn't have taken that opportunity away from you guys. I'm sorry..."

"I get it. It's okay... Do you feel like it helped?"

"A bit, yeah. You're the first person I've seen in months, and this is the first real conversation I've had in just as long. So, I think I'm starting to get there. I hope."

"Well, I'm glad I get to share this moment with you," he says, placing his hand on mine.

"Me too," I smile, resting my head on his shoulder.

We sit in comfortable silence until his phone vibrates, interrupting the peace. He glances at it, his eyes widening briefly before he tries to hide it.

"It's him, isn't it? You don't have to hide it from me. I'm okay, I promise," I say, giving him a reassuring smile as he answers the call.

"Woozi, where the hell are you?" Seungcheol's voice boomed through the phone.

"Well, hello to you too," Jihoon said, making me stifle a laugh.

"Everyone's already here, so hurry up!"

"You're a bit sassy, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah, just don't forget the beer," Seungcheol added, and I couldn't hold back my laughter anymore.

"Who was that?" he asked, and Jihoon quickly responded.

"Okay, I gotta go. See you soon. Bye!" He abruptly hung up, then looked at me, and I patted him on the head.

"The eldest awaits," I teased, and he swatted my hand away.

"Seriously, though. If you ever want to hang out, don't hesitate to call," he said earnestly.

"I promise," I replied, guiding him to the door before we shared a hug.

"Oh! I forgot to ask. Are you coming to the engagement party? I know you haven't been out much, but—"

I cut him off, "Engagement party? Who's engaged?"

"Sonya didn't tell you about...?"

Dumbfounded was the only way to describe how I felt at that moment.

"Tell me what, exactly?"

"She and Wonwoo are engaged?"

I stood there, jaw practically on the floor, stunned.

"Wait, wait, wait. PARDON?"

"Uh, maybe you should call her..." he said with a nervous chuckle.

"Anyway, I gotta go! Talk soon," and with that, he was gone.

════════════════════════════

"Jeon Wonwoo did what?! Why am I hearing this from Jihoon and not from you?"

"Oh, come on! We've been together for three years, YN. It was bound to happen."

"That still doesn't explain why I had to hear it from someone else," I stand there, arms crossed, feeling slightly offended.

"You've got a lot going on... I didn't want to just drop it on you..."

"Sonya. You're my best, BEST friend. No matter what I am going through, THIS is something I needed to know!"

She has the nerve to laugh.

"Why does everyone keep laughing at me? This is serious!" I whine.

"Full transparency?"

"I'll entertain it."

"I wanted to tell you, okay? I WAS going to...Eventually. But I didn't because..."

"Please don't say it was because of Choi Seungcheol. Sonya, we've had this conversation. I even told Ji—I'm fine," I insist.

"You're not."

I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a finger.

"Before you try to lie, I know you better than anyone. Maybe even better than you know yourself. You can pretend everything's fine, but we all know it's not. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I don't think you ever will be completely okay—and that's okay."

"Let's not get dramatic."

"It's been two years. Why haven't you dated anyone?"

"My dad just died."

"That was months ago. You've had two years. And you can't keep using the 'dead parent' card. It's not fair!"

"I know, I'm sorry. But saying I'll never be happy is dramatic!"

"Fine, happiness will find you again blah blah blah, but deep down, you'll never forgive yourself for what happened with him."

I hate how she's always right. I roll my eyes, and she chuckles.

"I'm still mad you didn't tell me," I say, refusing to give her the satisfaction of admitting she's right, but she just smiles brightly anyway. Annoying.

"Oh, poor baby," she pats my head.

"So, does this mean you're coming?"

"Will... Will he, um, be there?"

"The fact that you're asking proves my point."

"SONYA!"

"Wonwoo is family. Of course, Cherry Boy will be there," she says, and I can't help but chuckle at the nickname.

"I don't know..."

"If you skip my engagement party after barging in here like this, you'll regret it," she warns.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"I'll go! God," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Wait, really?!"

"But I'm not promising it'll be a drama-free night. He definitely hates me."

"I heard about your little lover's quarrel at the hospital."

"Don't call it that," I say, scrunching my nose.

"That's what it sounded like! Dokyeom and Soonyoung said you could cut the tension with a knife," she teases.

"They were being dramatic. Seems to be everyone's thing these days," I sigh.

"Seungcheol's expressions said otherwise."

"Wait, what?"

"I went to check on him with the guys, and they told me what happened, even though Coups didn't want them to. But, you know how they are. Anyway, he seemed uncomfortable. Like he regretted it if that helps?"

"It doesn't. Great, now everyone knows I'm just a sulky mess who can't keep her temper in check."

"Hey, don't do that. He needed to hear it. I'm glad you got it off your chest. Now he knows there was a reason and that you did—and still do—have love and respect for him."

"I never said that," I snap back, but she just chuckles.

"You didn't have to."

"Oh god, not you, too," I groan.

"YN..."

"You and Lee Ji Hoon are ridiculous."

"I get that, but—"

"But nothing! What's done is done. Why can't you all just let it go?" I sink into her sofa.

"You still love him."

"Of course I care about him. He was my first everything. I'll always care for him."

"You know that's not what I mean. You're still IN LOVE with him," she says, and there's a beat of silence.

"At least let us try to help you be friends again—"

"Let's compromise," I cut her off.

"Hm?"

"Let me get my life together first, and MAYBE we can revisit the whole Seungcheol thing."

"That doesn't sound like a compromise."

"All of this is already a lot for me. I'm willing to hear you out. Take it or leave it."

"Deal."

"Deal."

"Now that that's settled... How are you?"

"I just told you—"

"I'm not talking about Seungcheol. How are YOU?" she presses.

"I'm okay?" I say hesitantly.

"Are you still drinking? Eating healthy?" I roll my eyes.

"No, and yes."

She raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

"No, Sonya. I'm not drinking. I haven't in a while. As for eating, I promise."

"Okay, I believe you," she raises her hands, surrendering.

"So, were you ever planning to tell me about the engagement party?"

"I was going to!"

════════════════════════════

To say I'm running on almost no sleep is an understatement. Tossing and turning all night, I couldn't stop thinking about Sonya and Wonwoo. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for them, but I can't shake this bitter feeling that keeps surfacing. Desperate for a distraction, I grab my phone and start scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. My eyes widen at what I see.

Jihoon and Seungcheol. I stare at the picture, hesitating before tapping on the tags and navigating to Seungcheol's page. To my surprise, I realize I've been unblocked. I scroll through his feed, noticing he's been working out a lot—something that was already obvious when I saw him at the hospital. As I scroll further, I see pictures of us together.

"He didn't delete them..." I mutter to myself, feeling a dull ache in my chest. I quickly set my phone down, sighing deeply before rolling over, forcing my eyes shut until I finally drift off.

A loud bang on my door jolts me awake, and the sun streams through my window, blinding me. The knocking persists, and I groan, throwing a pillow over my head to muffle the sound. When it doesn't stop, I realize it must be Jihoon and reluctantly stomp to the door.

"What the hell do you want?!" I shout as I fling the door open.

"Well, good morning to you too, sunshine," Jihoon says, stepping inside with a grin, and I notice Dokyeom trailing behind him.

"Remind me to yell at Sonya for giving you my address," I say, crossing my arms.

"Noted!" Jihoon responds, and I roll my eyes before hugging DK.

"He gets a hug, and I get the death glare? Wow," Jihoon says, clutching his chest dramatically.

"Why are you here at..." I glance at the clock, then roll my eyes, "8 a.m.?"

"Just wanted to check in, see how you're doing," Dokyeom says, but there's something off about the way they're both looking at me.

"You're not telling the truth," I say, narrowing my eyes.

"Is it a crime to want to see our dear best friend on a beautiful Sunday morning?"

"Jihoon?" I turn to him, and he's smiling uncomfortably.

"Lee Seokmin, what did you do?"

"Nothing!"

Silence. Too much of it.

"Oh, for crying out loud. DK told Seungcheol you were coming to the engagement party," Jihoon finally admits.

"Oh, that's it?" I chuckle.

"Not quite..." he continues.

"Okay... you're scaring me..."

"He's bringing... his friend," Dokyeom says hesitantly, "who happens to be a girl..."

Oh. I get it now. He has a girlfriend. Act. Normal.

"Oh! Good for him," I say, forcing a strained smile.

"Whew, that went better than I expected," Dokyeom says, oblivious to the looks Jihoon and I exchange.

Jihoon sees right through me. His eyes silently ask if I'm okay. I nod, pretending I'm not falling apart inside.

"Let's go get brunch!" Dokyeom announces, too cheerful for the situation. I love him, but he's terrible at reading the room.

"You can't just barge in and demand we get brunch. What if I had plans?"

"Do you?"

"Not the point."

"Oh, come on!" he whines. I glance at Jihoon, who scratches the back of his head, looking sheepish.

"You two are unbelievable," I grumble, heading to my room to get dressed. I hear them snickering as I close the door.

"I can hear you!" I shout.

I have to admit, it's nice to be out instead of sulking in my apartment. The weather's perfect—a welcome bonus.

"No mimosa?" Dokyeom asks as our food and drinks arrive.

"Not today," I reply, picking up my utensils, hoping to avoid further questions.

"You're no fun," he pouts.

"Anyway, I should thank you for this," I say, ignoring him.

"For what?" Jihoon asks.

"For dragging me out of the house. It's beautiful out, and I hate to admit it, but I miss being around people."

"Oh, hush. No need to thank us," he says.

We dive into random conversations, and after about 45 minutes, we finish our food and decide to head to the park to enjoy the weather.

"So tell me more about working from home," Jihoon says as we sit on the swings.

"Well. I thought about taking a leave, but then I wouldn't have anything to distract me during the day, so this seemed like the best option."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Honestly? I wouldn't say I like it. I've considered going back, but the thought of facing people, with everyone staring and whispering, is too much right now."

"Fair enough. Still, I admire you," he says, turning to me.

"Why?"

"The past two years have been tough, yet here you are, still moving forward. I've always admired that about you. You're strong, YN."

"I'm glad you think so, but I'm definitely not as strong as I seem. I've had my moments, trust me."

We sit in comfortable silence, watching Dokyeom try to flirt with a woman near the bike rental.

"God, he's shameless," I laugh.

"Poor girl," Jihoon comments, and we both chuckle.

"Can I ask you something?" I turn to him.

"Go for it."

"Seungcheol. Is he... okay?"

Jihoon's expression changes, and he sighs.

"You want the truth?"

"That bad?"

"It hasn't been great."

I sigh.

"The first year was rough. Really rough. He was angry at everyone and shut himself off completely. We didn't realize how bad it was until one night Joshua called, saying Seungcheol was in holding for getting into a bar fight."

"He did what?!" I exclaim, wide-eyed.

"Yeah. He shut us out. For a while, he barely left the house. It took us by surprise when he mentioned he was... seeing someone. We didn't even know he was dating or considering anything serious."

He glances at me, gauging my reaction. I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes.

"If he's happy, that's all that matters, right?"

"It's bullshit if you ask me," he mutters.

"Ji..."

"I know, I know," he mumbles.

"Even now, he's never told us what happened the day you left," he adds softly. I inhale sharply, feeling a familiar tightness in my chest. There's a long pause before I respond.

"I hurt him. We can all agree on that. Whatever he chooses to do with his life is up to him. He deserves to be happy," I say, deflecting.

"You didn't just hurt him, you know," Jihoon says quietly.

"I—"

"No need to apologize. I get it, I guess. But it sucked not having you around. I really missed you, YN."

"I missed you too, Ji..."

"It's nice hearing you call me that again," he smiles.

"It's nice having you guys back, and maybe one day, when I'm ready, I'll tell you everything," I say, and he nods, his concern evident but unspoken.

"Guys! Guys! Guess what!" Dokyeom yells, running towards us, waving his phone.

"The girl I was talking to—she gave me her number!"

"She did what?" I ask, and Jihoon laughs.

"She has no idea what she's in for," he smirks.

"Hey! I'm a great catch! She even said I was charming," Dokyeom huffs.

"Charming..." Jihoon and I say in unison, breaking into a fit of laughter. Dokyeom groans.

"You're both mean!"

"Oh, come on. I want ice cream," I say, hopping off the swing and leading the way as Jihoon and Dokyeom follow.

════════════════════════════

After spending the day with the guys, I head back to my apartment. DK tried to convince me to have a sleepover "like old times," but I reminded him they had work tomorrow. He pouted until I agreed to a sleepover on Friday.

Later, as I lie in bed, my thoughts drift back to Sonya's engagement party next week. Why is he bringing her? I shake my head, trying to clear my mind.

"No more thinking about Choi Seungcheol," I mutter, rolling over and closing my eyes until sleep takes over.

One drink, I told myself.

I don't know how I ended up finishing almost an entire bottle, but I stopped caring. I dance around my empty apartment, bottle in hand, as music blares from the TV. When "Ocean Eyes" by Billie Eilish starts playing, I freeze.

As her voice fills the room, a familiar pain rises in my chest, and tears fall before I can stop them. I slump over the back of the couch, overcome by the ache. Anger surges, and I hurl the bottle at the wall. The rage grows, and I head to the kitchen, grabbing dishes and smashing them, one after another.

I storm into the living room, kicking the TV with all my strength and sending it crashing into the wall. I finally collapse, sliding down the wall and burying my face in my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. I don't know how long I stayed like that until I heard the front door open, followed by a gasp.

"Oh my god, YN!"

Sonya.

"What happened?!"

I can't answer. I can only cry.

"You're okay... shhh, it's going to be okay," she says, pulling me into a tight hug and rubbing my back with her hand.

"You're going to be okay."

[magpie-come-east]

1 + 16 + 17 for the ask game!

16) You can't understand why everyone likes this thing...

IF MESSMER HAS 0 HATERS THEN THAT MEANS I'M DEAD!!!!

Jk (kinda). I do genuinely like his character's place in the Shadow Lands canon. But I don't really understand his explosive popularity. Like Tarnished/Messmer is going to overtake the top ship on AO3 (Tarnished/Morgott my beloved) any day now. He wins just about every Demigod based poll I've seen of late. I'm genuinely not being edgy or contrary here, but I don't see it.

The fandom is very based and sexy for drawing this hideous man weepily draped on beautiful women's laps as if he were a woman beholding Christ in a Renaissance painting. Meanwhile I feel like the only one that can see all the grannies and babies and sisters and husbands skewered through their assholes and set on fire every 10 feet by the world's most racist shrike.

Maybe I'm just bitter because the love Messmer gets comes at the expense of the hornsent. I'm so attached to them and their conflict and their culture. Their lore is some of the coolest in the game and the fandom has just swept it entirely aside because heaven forbid the genocide Messmer helmed gets addressed at any point while he gets fixed/saved/healed/pegged.

1) The Character Everyone Gets Wrong

Mohg and Miquella are holding hands.

I dunno man. The asinine Mohg and Miquella drama has made me pull away from this fandom a lot in the past few months.

Obviously there's a lot of wiggle room in characterizing both of them! A villainous Mohg is canon compatible as is a Mohg that suffered more under Miquella's charm. Miquella can be a naive figure doing his best or a more manipulative power player. There are wide margins here! But not wide enough for this fandom! I'm still so... baffled and bummed out FromSoft handed us Mohg fans a canonical sympathetic angle to his story on a silver platter and so many Mohggers slapped it to the ground in a tantrum because it wasn't good enough. Because I guess Mohg victimizing Miquella was hot and cool but Mohg being victimized in turn is despicable and traumatic? Whatever.

To fandom, Mohg is either a silly, campy, gay uncle goofball drinking bloody marys and getting manicures from Varre or an irredeemable rapist that deserved every bad thing that ever happened to him. Or- third option- he was the secret hero of the Lands Between, as virtuous and honorable as they come before that wretched Miquella ruined his life!

He's the Bad Guy of Elden Ring. He's Miquella's victim that did no wrong. He's the obnoxious comic relief because people don't want to touch on any of his unsavory aspects.

Like fuck me, he's none of these things. He is a powerful, charismatic cult leader with a devastatingly tragic past. He is worthy of sympathy and dignity, but he was also the literal vassal of an Outer God of blood and pain. I wish his character was treated with more depth. I wish his pain was given weight and his rough edges weren't violently sanded away.

Then there's Miquella. Who, fandom has decided, is either a horrible manipulative monster or a literal infant with no agency. It's tragic how illiterate this fandom is regarding Miquella. Claiming everything that doesn't corroborate the Messiah figure they invented in their head is a retcon or bad writing. Claiming that Miquella gave up on Malenia when that is straight up not true at all. Claiming that Miquella trying to lay Godwyn to rest meant he wanted to marry him all along. Claiming that Miquella is literally charming half the cast into doing his bidding just to make him more evil. Claiming Miquella would have been better off as Mohg's hapless victim rather than the richly nuanced and tragic character with his own faults and goals that FromSoft wrote him to be.

The hard pill for ER fandom to swallow is that Mohg and Miquella are just like all the other Demigods: flawed but compelling in their tragedy

[discordiansamba]

"what do you want?"

azula refuses to look at zuko as he sits down in front of her cell. it's the first time she's ever seen her too young uncle dressed like the fire nation royalty he's always been, and she thinks she's already sick of it. he's even managed to scrape his short peasant hair into a somewhat proper topknot, fixed into place by a flame hairpiece that reminds her of the ones she's seen in depictions of avatar roku.

"i thought i would visit my great-niece," zuko says simply, "-is that a problem?"

azula scoffs. you've never had any interest in me before, uncle. why start now, after a lifetime of ignoring my half of the family?

at least he has the decency to look properly guilty, she thinks. he even apologizes, which she just rolls her eyes at. what? getting sentimental in your old age? or is it your newly returned mortality making you regret your past choices? whatever it is, she wants no part of it.

zuko just sighs.

i know it's hard to understand, niece, he says, but the way you were raised and the things you were taught were wrong. you are just a child. there is still time for you to unlearn them.

"don't call me a child," azula hisses, "-not with that face."

her great-uncle just heaves another sigh. fair enough, he says. your uncle never liked it when i lectured him at your age either. i guess it's hard to take me seriously when i don't look my age. but i've seen much more than you have, azula. i laid the air nomads to rest. do you know how many of them were children?

"they were weak," azula replies, "-it's what they deserved."

the weak deserve the right to live too, zuko tells her. and clearly, some of his father's soldiers must have agreed with him, because he found plenty of fire nation remains with evidence of scorch marks on them too. they saw an injustice happening with their own eyes that they realized they were a part of, and died trying to protect the air nomads.

"then they were weak too," azula waves a hand, "-besides, everyone knows the air nomads were plotting to invade the rest of the world."

her great-uncle just laughs.

(it's not a kind sound.)

"invade the rest of the world?" zuko asks. "sounds terrible. good thing the fire nation got rid of them and then spent another hundred years at war with the rest of the world."

azula frowns. that's different. the air nomads wanted to force their lifestyle on the other nations. the fire nation isn't doing that. we're just-

"-spreading our greatness to the rest of the world?" zuko asked. "i thought you were smart, niece."

azula bristles. smarter than you, uncle, she hisses.

zuko pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. he spits flame as he does, as if he is just barely holding in his temper. fine, he says. i can see we're not getting anywhere today. i'll visit again.

"don't bother," azula says, "-i'm no traitor."

(zuko exhales as he leaves. he has no idea how iroh manages to do the 'wise old man' thing. he'd ask him for advice, if it weren't for the fact that he was so much younger than him. he was over a century old. he should know how to talk to a teenager without losing his temper.

ugh. maybe bumi had a point about him being a fake old man.

he wants to help his niece. he does. he wants to believe that she can change, like iroh changed. she's still so young.

he just has no idea how to get her there. he knows almost nothing about her. he's fought against her, but he doesn't know azula. she's right- he really did ignore her side of the family. he had his reasons, but...

...he sighs. maybe he should do the one thing he's been avoiding all this time, and talk to the man who'd made his niece like this in the first place. it would shed some light on her upbringing, if nothing else. there was no point in avoiding ozai- not now that he was mortal again.

...he still didn't relish the idea.)

[amarriageoftrueminds]

I ended up doing a long old rant on this other post, about the problems with the Steve/Bucky characterisation in CATFA, how it fails to make them mutual in their support / fails to properly show Steve's struggles and independence, before serum.

And I was thinking...

what would you have to do, if you wanted to write a CATFA or pre-war Stucky fic and wanted to fix all those problems?

So I figured I'd make a list!

Pardon me while I rip CATFA a new one...

.

Problem 1) Pre-serum Steve acts as if he's independent and self-reliant without Bucky... when the opposite is shown.

A) He doesn't have a job.

(He isn't shown working, doesn't mention working, or taking time off to do the things we see him doing etc. Bucky is framed as paying for things.)

If the fic is set during CATFA you could fix that by mentioning Steve does have a job but has been given time off to go enlist. Or has just been fired from his job. Basically anything to show that Steve has had a job, has been working. Perhaps even had multiple simultaneous jobs!

Probably cut out the part where Steve scoffs at working in a factory or collecting scrap metal (more likely he'd admire and/or understand why both of those are viable options; maybe they're jobs he has done in the past and is biased against now, for some experiential-related reason.)

Or, if he still does not want to work in a factory... well, at the time, with most men being overseas, factory work would've been women's work. So perhaps Steve was reluctant because it feels emasculating. Or maybe even dysphoric, to be relegated to otherwise female-only spaces, instead of welcomed into (then) male-only spaces like the Army? 🤔

(This would especially ring true if you were doing a trans!Steve story, or emphasising the disability aspect of his life. And it would cycle back when he gets stuck in the USO, doing women's work again.)

B) It would also be better characterisation if pre-serum Steve was actually already good at fighting, but just happened to be outclassed by heavier weight opponents, and/or handicapped by sudden disability flare ups mid-fight.

(In the tie-in comic, Bucky taught him how to box. Why not keep this? It really makes sense!)

The ability to fight and win should be a matter of Steve's spirit, not his physical body or his training. It shouldn't arrive with serum.

(To put it in His Dark Materials terms; Will Parry has a warrior's daemon, even when he's a 12 year old boy; he can win a contest against a grown man or even an armoured polar bear! Likewise, Steve Rogers is supposed to be the David who can win against a Goliath - yes, even when he's the little guy.)

I know it's easy to have Bucky swoop in to save Steve from a fight he's losing disastrously. But it would be more gripping (and make Bucky's value shine more), if Steve was actually winning the fight, despite being the underdog, and then something completely out of his control happened that tipped the tide against him, and then Bucky arrived to save him!

And also it would make more sense if Steve's health at the time of CATFA was in a lifetime high point, (possibly because of Bucky's long term support).

Then it would be less nonsensical to be trying to lie his way into the Army. There has to be some actual common sense logic behind his choice, so that he's not essentially snapping 'Bucky why won't you support me committing suicide, gdi??'

Steve shouldn't be getting his first real win by knocking down a flagpole; he should've been showing this capability in his pre-war / pre-Army time, too.

Possible Example:

You could emphasise the idea of Steve entering a fight he knows he's going to lose, in order to accomplish a secondary goal that the enemy doesn't recognise.

IE. Steve fighting the bully in the alleyway -- he loses the fight, but succeeds in stopping the bully from making a scene in the cinema, which was his original goal. So mention it!

(Steve could be like 'winning this fight wasn't the point.' And Bucky could be like 'ah, so what were you distracting him from?')

Perhaps Steve's secret goal in joining the war isn't to win the fight against Nazis, but to distract Nazis from Bucky?

.

Problem 2) The support is imbalanced; Bucky's doing all the emotional, financial, and physical labour in the relationship.

You could fix that by showing how pre-serum Steve was not only mutually financially supportive of Bucky (in the sense of having a job), but was also supporting Bucky emotionally and physically, just as much as Bucky supported him. He could be doing at least 2 of the 3!

Possible Examples:

Bucky going through an emotionally hard time that pre-serum Steve pulls him through (just as Bucky did with Steve's Ma).

Steve treating Bucky's wounds after a fight, just as Bucky treats his. (If Bucky's a boxer, like the tie-in comic, then Steve could be his cut man when he's in the ring!)

Steve paying for some of their expenses, or finding places to take Bucky that are free when it's his turn to plan a day out, etc.

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Problem 3: Sarah & problem 2.

If this is CATFA / post-death setting, show flashbacks or make references to Steve visiting her in hospital, or doing the work of nursing her himself / sitting by her bedside if she died at home, paying for her medicine, etc.

So that it's not just another example of Bucky wholly carrying Steve; show the balance. Maybe Bucky was temporarily footing the bill so that Steve could afford to quit his job and do the nursing at home. Both putting the work in, in different ways.

(This would be a perfect example of one way Bucky's experience of looking after sick Steve would pay off, and make him able to teach Steve how to do it when the roles are reversed.)

Better yet, a show-don't-tell of Sarah instilling Steve's moral compass and tenacity; maybe even some Bucky POV to show her impact isn't just relegated to Steve.

Her absence could also be shown in present day with Steve, eg. packing up his things to go to basic and having to leave behind some keepsake of hers. In the comics Steve carried her photo. Perfect candidate to put in his compass!

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Problem 4: The relationship is framed as transactional.

Less of 'I'll do X for Bucky now because he did Y for me back then'

and more of 'helping Bucky is the right thing to do because he's innocent, so I'm going to do it regardless of outside whining, and he would still do the same thing for me, or anyone else, because he's a good person too.'

There has to be more to it than just convenience, needing each other around to help; there has to be an actual desire to be together for pure enjoyment, too.

IMO you'd need at least one scene where Steve and Bucky aren't benefiting in some way from spending energy on eachother. They're just... happy being together.

And perhaps Bucky isn't the only friend pre-serum Steve could have had, just the one Steve most wanted to stick with. (His options should amount to more than 'Bucky or no one.')

Perhaps Steve's health absences and strong principles drove other friendship prospects away? Perhaps Steve even lost other disabled friends to their poor health, poverty, etc?

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Problem 5: A's problems are framed as B's.

No more 'Steve getting attacked' being framed as a problem for Bucky.

No more 'Bucky being drafted to die' framed as a problem for Steve.

Better characterisation would show these bad things affect the victim first and foremost, and only/also the other one, secondarily.

Steve shouldn't be seeing Bucky's shipping-out uniform (skipping right over thank yous and congratulations) and talking about how that's sad for... himself.

Steve shouldn't be sabotaging Bucky's last night of freedom in NYC to spend it on... his own goals.

Sidenote: Bucky wanting to spend his last night of freedom with strangers is such idiotic writing anyway, when he has both Steve and a living family with whom he could be spending those last precious moments! And dragging Steve on a double blind date he clearly doesn't want to go on is counter-productive. It undermines the mutually-supportive / mutually communicative relationship Steve and Bucky should logically have, as lifelong inseparable best friends (viz. a Bucky who's known Steve this long should be able to tell he's not into it.) And it shifts the blame for Steve's singlehood off of him and onto Bucky, and women generally.

Steve shouldn't be detailing why he's so keen to fight, and focusing on random men he doesn't know, not directly/unequivocally mentioning Bucky at all.

(Indirectly, he wants to be like the men laying down their lives -- so... like Bucky? But this is still nonsense. He should want to be there to support Bucky, not to copy!)

It's likewise nonsense for Bucky, who has known Steve since he was a child, to ask Steve why he's keen to fight.

Bucky doesn't need to ask. Bucky already knows!

Lazy clumsy exposition.

And the narrative should be showing us why Steve wants to fight Nazis, rather than having Steve infodump some vague reason without anything to back it up.

Speaking of which...

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Problem 6: Lack of explicit politics.

Like in the comics, Steve's reasons for fighting Nazis should be explicitly left wing and political, as well as passionately personal.

(Wanting to be like able-bodied men who get girlfriends is complete cringe incel bullshit as a motivation and not true to the comics, or CEvans's performance!)

Proper Steve characterisation should have him behaving in a way that shows he's a man ahead of his time in terms of Antifa politics, and that's why he wants to fight.

IE. happily sharing housing and schooling with people of other races, ethnicities, and religions. (Especially so when he has been in the same SEC as them / been in multiple different schools and lived in various neighbourhoods as a poor kid. Would also establish why both Steve and Bucky are fine having Gabe and Jim on their team!)

Not judging and mistreating disabled people the way he is.

Not judging unmarried mothers, belittling working women, expecting his mother to do all the housework, etc.

Not freaking out about the existence of queer people in public (even in an AU where he isn't one) defending gay men from attack as he does in the comics,

protesting and/or sabotaging public Nazi meetings in NYC, fighting with homegrown Nazi bullies especially,

ditto corrupt business owners / mafia union-runners as he does in the comics, etc.

(Sidenote: as a congenitally disabled person, Steve is also a target of Nazi rhetoric himself. So he would be personally concerned with fighting Fascism, and perhaps this was his philosophical springboard to recognising and combating all the other bullshit in its thinking, even when it's entrenched in American society.)

Basically, the Hydra saboteur should not be the first Nazi Steve ever got his hands on!

And Bucky should be an addendum when it comes to his reasoning. The heart of Steve's motive, where politics are the guts.

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Problem 7: No disability rep.

A) Steve should not be saying that he, a disabled man, shouldn't have the 'right' to do less than able-bodied men, even though it is literally physically impossible...

...UNLESS, this internalized ableism is addressed in-story, rather than treated as if it's normal and even noble.

Other characters can be ableist; Steve should not (not only is he disabled himself, but he's supposed to know better!) ....unless it's part of an arc that shows him learning the error of his ways.

And that's a slippery slope when you consider that Project Rebirth, started by Nazis, really is a Eugenics project.

Instead of this suicidal ideation, it could be shown that Steve's health has recently become good enough for him to survive and succeed in the Army. And/or that Steve is passionate about fighting fascism, personally, because he belongs to a class of people whom Nazis believe shouldn't be allowed to exist.

Without Steve arguing that he should throw his disabled life away, just because able-bodied men are taking a significantly lesser risk of dying than him.

B) There should be actual details of Steve's disabilities, what they are and how they affect him. (Him - not Bucky.) In a way that has concrete negative consequences, beyond just not getting into the Army.

Possible Examples:

Kid!Steve being held back a year at school because of missing days due to sickness. (Kids can be cruel and parents can be ignorant; he might've been bullied and ostracised for being sick and believed contagious. And that's before the consider the amount of isolation necessary for recovery periods.)

Kid!Steve having to move around a lot (which would also affect which school he'd have to attend; always the new boy!) because losing money to medicine affects what his mother can afford, affects her work schedule when she has to look after him. Living in a worse place would then exacerbate his pre-existing symptoms, and so on.

Adult!Steve losing a job because of sick days, losing savings to pay for medicine, getting sick again because he chose heating and groceries over medicine, or vice versa, etc.

(This / the moving-around might be mitigated if he and Bucky are living together, meaning Bucky could make up the shortfall.)

Steve could lose friendships, job opportunities, or romantic partners due to sickness repeatedly taking him out of social circulation. He might also have disabled friends who lost the fight / weren't as lucky as him.

You could also play into the Nazi eugenics then endemic to the USA and have medical professionals telling Steve he shouldn't be alive; 'well-meaning' people offering to pray for him, saying they'd have just 'given up' if they were born like him, etc. (Or even saying these things to his mother!)

And Steve should, maybe, mention once or twice that he feels better after serum, and truly couldn't be doing what he's doing in Europe, if superserum hadn't also cured all his ailments?

If he's much more peppy afterwards, it should be because for the first time in his life he can actually breathe and spring out of bed!

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Problem 8) The Incelery.

Pre-serum Steve should not be framed as undateable because he's short and disabled.

If Steve hasn't had a girlfriend, it should be because he didn't want one, not because he's incapable; not because evil women are repulsed by invisible health issues or Bucky is too dreamy for a disabled man to possibly compete with, be so fr. 🙄

You could fix this by making Steve: gay,

ace,

demi,

coincidentally surrounded by lesbians,

by women who have horrible unattractive politics,

too sick or busy with work to date,

getting attention but it's the wrong kind (ie. women who want to fetishize or nanny him),

and/or being very attractive to women even before serum but oblivious and/or simply not interested. 😂

/more than one of the above.

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[highlyentropicmind]

Nice, well said. I needed that. Let me tell you what other stupid things I thought of the show and you can help me think right

I always thought it was cool how after being helped by a prince, Utena wanted to become a prince instead of a princess. She wanted to help people the way she was helped

Of course it later turns out the "prince" she met was Akio and he was just manipulating her the whole time, which could have lead Utena to abandon her dreams and ideals entirely, but it doesn't. Maybe her ideals change, maybe she realizes that she's weak after all, that one person can't fix all the problems... But that she can still try, and that whenever she's not strong enough she can count on her friends

In the end Akio thinks the ritual failed and Utena failed, but he's wrong. The ritual succeeded and that's precisely why Anthy is able to leave

Later when Anthy comes back the reason the academy seems to weird is because the "pocket dimension" of Ohtori academy is falling apart, because it needed the power of Akio and Anthy

Akio and Anthy are some kind of deities, and such they are not bound by time like humans are. Their struggle happened in the past, in the present, and in the future, and yet it is already over

The shadow puppets are some other deities or spirits observing the ritual

Cars represent sex in the show

"The revolution of the world" can be interpreted in two ways. A revolution that goes back to the start, like the time loop they are in, or a radical change

A big part of the show is just about grooming, abusive relationships, and how hard they are to overcome. Nearly every character is in some abusive relationship of some kind, in some sense trapped by their love to someone else

Interestingly many of the abusers are also abused themselves, showing how victims can tragically become abusers

The show has a lot to say about how to escape such relationships but in general the show seems to argue that the most important thing is to love oneself and not define our identities based on our relationships with others

These are just a few. I've had more ideas about this show over the years, but I'm sure all of them are completely and utterly despicable, pathetic, absurd, disgusting, laughable, and which just incite pithy into anyone with basic human empathy, but thankfully you are finally here to set me straight

I'm eager to learn everything that I thought and felt wrong. Please help me. I want to think and feel right like you do

I still think about this. It's absolutely true for our world as well.

[puhpandas]

I think the reason beckory works well is that tony has a habit of getting self righteous and in his own head about things but Gregory isnt afraid to tell him off or call him out about things. the point of tony in ggy is that nobody ever told him that how hes treating other people isnt good, so that's why he got so bad. but tony would be close to Gregory and have every rational reason in the world to listen to Gregory so when he would say something like "you're treating ellis badly and that's not what a good friend does, you need to do better" hed actually listen and take it into account and improve himself

[a-story-teller]

I was in a major car accident yesterday (got t-boned) and was very luckily a) alone in the car, as the passenger side got walloped and b) not injured. However I took care of everything and then went home and proceeded to sleep for 19 out of the following 24 hours.