#but yeah as you could see (or maybe not) i feel like all three of them could bring out something interesting from the lad

[silvaurum]

mmmm. i think if you can't picture a way to structure families/criminal justice besides "basically what we have now" and "legal child trafficking and everyone gets murdered" that does indicate either a skill issue on your part or an unwillingness to engage with abolition concepts.

the reason some prison abolitionists are done talking about rapists and murderers is because they have explained over and over what could be done. the people who keep asking, could have looked up some of those answers. what does justice look like in less carceral justice systems? what does justice mean for something like murder, where the victim is permanently gone and things cannot be restored or transformed to an acceptable state? those are good questions! there's no single consensus, but there's certainly not a lack of answers.

and more importantly, maybe. the assumption that there is a class of people, 'murderers', who will roam around killing at will for no reason whatsoever, no interiority, just a mindless kill demon... unless they are kept in a concrete cage... is, itself... a part of the philosophy of prisons, which we intend to abolish. that's not a neutral assumption to make.

'what will we do about the murderers' is a legitimate question, but when it is used in this context, it is to say that 'unless we can lock up the mindless murder demons in reinforced concrete cages, we're all gonna die. therefore we need reinforced concrete cages forever, checkmate'.

but i don't believe in mindless murder demons! i believe that people who kill or try to kill other people have reasons for their actions, which stem from their beliefs and their wants and needs, and that we can actually address those things directly. because just locking up murderers with other murderers and cutting them off from the good things in life and subjecting them to more trauma doesn't make them less likely to murder. like. prison doesn't... work.

i feel like its really disingenuous to posit that those are the only two options. either some form of prison as it exists here and now, or else nothing. incarceration does not make up the sum total of potential consequences for harming others, and frankly it doesn't even make up the entirety of punishment-based criminal systems.

with abolishing the family... yeah actually i think if that 3 year old wants to move in with you they should be allowed to. a healthy happy 3 year old is gonna change their mind in about 5 minutes and ask to go home. child abuse is still illegal. someone with bad intentions can already say that kind of thing to a kid and get them alone under our current system. what does change is that if you see someone beating their three year old at a park, you can actually do something about it.

should a 3 year old be able to leave home if they want? yeah. what fucking 3 year old is gonna actually do it. what 3 year old is actually fr gonna abandon their secure attachments to their family, permanently, because of one happy meal, when there's absolutely no abuse or neglect going on. kids don't even want to leave their family when they ARE being severely abused, that's how child development and the psychology of relationship attachment works. if a 3 year old is that willing to leave home something is probably up.

and in this little scenario where children's rights are respected, they probably have a way to contact/ return to their family of origin and are being checked on by others in the community and have some kind of care coordination set up within the larger community structure... like a social worker who helps keep track of where their group's kids are staying and how they're doing. you, a stranger, would not have special rights that their parents do not. if they want to leave YOU they can do that too. and if your point is that freedom of movement makes them vulnerable, i'm sorry to say that their family of origin is statistically far, far more likely to be the source of abuse.

like i hope this post is made in good faith! mostly i disagree with what you define as 'reform'. and what to do about murder is a very legitimate question! but... if your position is "if we didn't have prisons, the people in prison now would be wandering murder demons who kill people for no reason at random times, and somehow no one would kill them in self defense either, so we'd all die" ... yeah that's not a discussion prompt that particularly inspires me to dig into details. i don't think we're on the same wavelength about what crime is or how it works. or how people work. or like. a lot of stuff about earth. and being alive. and i think that's a bigger barrier to use understanding one another than the ol' "what would we do about murder without prison?"

The other reason I'm generally annoyed with the "Abolish X" crowd who actually DO mean "abolish X" and not a watered-down version is that ime they very rarely have fully thought out the implications of what they're demanding and then get angry when other people ask about it.

"Family abolition means completely removing legal ties for family units and allowing all children the choice of where they live" okay. So if I see a three-year-old throwing a fit because she doesn't want to leave the park, and I go over and tell her if she comes home with me she can stay as long as she likes and then we'll get McDonald's on the way home, that three-year-old should have the ability to make that decision? The parent or guardian has no legal recourse to stop me from taking her? Cause if the answer's no, that's not abolition, that's reform baby!

"I'm done talking about what we'll do with rapists and murderers after we abolish prisons, it's all anybody ever wants to talk about!" Well yeah man! 98% of people just interpreted your words as "we're going to let murderers roam around killing people at will"! You need to explain very clearly what plans you have that will stop them that aren't incarceration or you're not going to make any headway! And if your answer involves any form of "well of course SOME people can't be allowed total freedom" - that's not abolition, that's reform baby!

I'm not even gonna touch the number of people who think we should abolish the police and replace them with what are essentially roaming squads of vigilantes dispensing "community justice", whatever the fuck that means.

Like these aren't "gotcha" questions, they're legitimate problems you're going to have to contend with. And if you wave away all these questions with "you're just making up ridiculous scenarios" and "we'll think of something to fix that once we destroy the current system", then yeah actually, I DO think you care more about sounding radical than about making any kind of change.

[rintaroll]

❝ *･🎥 ·̩͙ TRUTH OR DRINK ❞ | best friends edition

[ tags : you’re a small time internet personality/content creator, mentions of sex, best friends to… something, post time skip]

[ truth or drink m.list ]

you : hi, i’m y/n, and i… dude, i dunno, should i say i create content?

suna : that makes you sound like you’re on onlyfans.

you send suna a blank stare. he mirrors your expression. a beat passes and he doesn't budge. you squint at him.

you : …anyway, yeah. i guess you could say i’m a content creator or whatever. and this here is my loyal sidekick.

suna : suna rintaro, their loyal side chick.

you : i said sidekick.

suna waves a hand.

suna : same difference.

you roll your eyes but with a chuckle. suna smiles lopsidedly like he’s proud of himself for coaxing the laugh out of you. as this happens, the video cuts to a text on a white background. the text says, ‘these best friends will ask each other a set of random questions. they can either answer the question or take a shot.’

[how long have you been friends?]

you : since our last year of high school. he was a friend of a friend.

suna : said friend is actually behind the camera right now.

the camera pans to a figure amongst the crew. it’s miya osamu, the proud owner of onigiri miya. he waves to the camera, a half-smile is on his lips. the camera pans back to you and suna.

suna : he will be fact checking for us.

you : yes, because we all know one of us likes to lie.

suna : can’t believe you just outed yourself like that.

you : ha ha, very funny.

[how do you feel about your fans shipping you together?]

you see suna watching your reaction closely from the corner of your eye. you shrug.

you : i don’t mind. it makes for good content.

he nods absentmindedly. you catch his jaw flexing just barely before he leans back casually in his chair.

you : i’ll go first.

you reach for the card from the stack in the middle of the table. suna’s eyes follow your movements closely. there’s a seriousness behind his expression—something that wasn’t there before in your last video, your fans note.

you : describe the first time we met. and tell me your honest first impression. no censoring.

suna : hm.

he doesn’t look like he remembers. he folds his hands together and presses them to his lips like he’s deep in thought. the crease in his eyebrows, however, reads like he’s digging through a mental folder he’s labeled “irrelevant”.

you : you don’t remember, do you?

suna : we’ve met each other several times but never introduced ourselves. i’m just not quite sure which one our first interaction was.

you : hm… that’s true. i think it might be that time i thought me and the twins were going to get lunch just the three of us. and then you showed up.

suna : and you called me suma the whole time we were there.

you laugh, one hand instinctively covering your mouth.

you : oh my god, i completely forgot. why didn’t you correct me? atsumu grilled me on the ride home.

suna : i did. like, three times. the fourth time you got it wrong, i just decided to let you live in ignorance.

mock-offended, you gasp, hand flying to your chest in dramatics. suna’s mouth twitches into a smile.

suna : also, that wasn’t even the first time we met.

you tilt your head, invested in what he’s going to say next. 

suna : second year. remember? it was after that match against kamomedai. you asked me if i was lost. post game. i was standing next to the bus. in full uniform.

suna turns his head and stares straight into the camera.

suna : mind you, my name was written in bold, capital le-

you : okay, okay, in my defense, you were just… standing around. all alone. by the vending machines. like some creep.

suna : i was waiting for atsumu. if anything, you should be more concerned about him lurking in public.

you chuckle sheepishly, mumbling a quiet "sorry" before your gaze drops to the table. suna laughs, low and warm. when you look back up, he’s already watching you with a fond, amused expression on his face (like maybe he’s okay with you getting his name wrong). you grin.

suna : alright. my turn.

he picks up a card, smirking as his eyes scan the question before reading it out loud.

suna : show me your tinder. or take a shot.

you groan. suna grins like he’s the devil himself.

suna : this might be the best day of my life. they’ve kept it from me for so long. oh, and only losers would pick taking a shot over showing me their tinder, by the way.

you : i don’t even use it anymore.

suna : that’s probably because you’re pulling no one with your tragic profile. hand it over.

you squint at him, but he’s already extended his hand out, smug as ever. reluctant, you reach into your pocket and drop your phone into his palm. suna unlocks it with ease, your passcode long committed to his memory. he snorts when he finally reads your bio.

suna : hm... “hot, emotionally unavailable, but good with parents”. i guess that’s pretty accurate. my parents do love you.

you : mhm. although, now that i think about it, you’re way more emotionally unavailable than me. especially since… you know. them.

his pleased smile twitches. only slightly. he looks down and taps the screen once more.

suna : you really don’t like them, do you?

you : i just didn’t really get what you saw in them.

a pause. he then locks your phone and slides it back across the table. the camera catches the brief hesitation in his expression before he lets go.

suna : still. i would never describe myself as emotionally unavailable.

you eye him suspiciously, surprised by the speed of him returning your phone. you take it back anyways.

suna : i’m incredibly available.

you : says the man who’s practically celibate.

suna : that’s what you think.

you raise an eyebrow. suna shrugs. something heavy settles in the air.

you read the next card.

you : are you ever jealous of me?

suna doesn’t answer right away. you clear your throat.

you : the answer’s obviously yes.

suna : ...right. because i’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to be a cold-hearted witch with a god complex.

you scoff, but you’re silently glad to see that mischievous glint flicker back into his eyes.

you : you’re jealous and projecting.

suna : you gonna let me answer?

you : by all means.

he exhales, that stupid smirk slipping off his face again. your heart stutters in nervous anticipation.

suna : i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous of you. specifically. more like... the people who flirt with you, maybe.

you : what… what do you mean?

suna shrugs, but avoids your eyes like the plague. his fingers fidget with the cards on the table, straightening the already-neat pile.

suna : i don’t know. you laugh at their jokes. like they’re funny.

you : they are, though. most of the time.

suna : they never are.

he’s sulking. he’s pretending like he’s not but he is. only a few can tell. you can proudly say you’re one of them. you smile, endeared yet amused.

you : you could’ve just said you wanted me to laugh at yours more.

suna : what? no. that’s embarrassing. don’t say that.

you : it's what you meant, though.

he squints at you. somewhere offscreen, osamu snorts, and then the crew bursts into laughter. you grin victoriously. suna bites back a smile, but it breaks through anyway.

suna : who do you think has had more sexual partners?

you : hmm… define “partner.”

suna raises an eyebrow.

you : what?

suna : that sounds like something someone with a suspiciously long list would ask.

you : well that sounds like deflection.

suna : yeah, okay. what’s your number, then?

you : heeelll no. we are not doing this.

you twist open the bottle of liquor. suna leans forward while you do, elbow on the table with his chin propped up on his hand, clearly not dropping the subject. his eyes follow your every movement as you pour yourself a drink, like he’s trying to figure out the answer through your body language.

you : stop that.

suna : just– blink twice if it’s a two digit number.

you : okay. blink once if you’re annoying.

offscreen laughter erupts. a soft “damn” from osamu is heard from behind the camera. 

suna : y/n.

you : fine. i guess i’ll answer if you answer first.

suna : …three.

a few seconds of silence pass as you wait for him to continue. you glance off-camera, catching osamu’s eye. he nods, confirming.

you : wait, that’s it? i thought you were counting down!

he shrugs nonchalantly, also pouring his own shot.

suna : quality over quantity. you know i’m not like that.

you : huh. sure, mr. i’m-not-flirting-i’m-just-being-nice.

suna : i’ll take that as a compliment.

you : thank god i didn’t fall for that.

he laughs, low, almost mockingly, but not quite.

suna : could’ve fooled me. cheers?

blinking, your mouth opens. closes. he’s already lifting his shot glass. before you could muster yp a response, he clinks your glasses together and knocks the shot back. you follow, a little slower and a little puzzled.

you : i kinda already know the answer to this one.

suna : what’s the question?

you : have you ever disliked someone i dated?

suna : oh. of course i have.

you : mhm. care to specify?

suna : well, i don’t really like any of them.

you : any of them? you make me sound like i’m a serial dater.

suna ignores you.

suna : but the one i dislike the most would be that guy who called you “babe” in front of everyone. like he was trying to prove something. i’m not even sure he even knew your name at that point.

you laugh at the memory. suna, however, doesn’t. he upholds a serious expression on his face.

suna : also, he once wore sunglasses indoors. and not even cool ones. like cheap, gas station sunglasses.

you : that’s fair.

[so, suna, you don’t have a favorite?]

you : he never got along with any of my exes.

you look over at suna. something about his expression is unreadable. you brush it off and awkwardly smile.

suna : you never got along with mine either.

you : your exes were spawns of satan, rin.

suna : yours peaked in high school and never emotionally evolved since.

you roll your eyes, smiling, not even denying his claim.

you : and here i thought you just hated everyone equally.

suna : it's just- i just think you could do better. you’d look good with…

he pauses, the words dying on his tongue. for a second, it feels like the air stills. you catch the shift in his eyes, how they flicker toward you and then away again. he finally clears his throat.

suna : someone like osamu. great cook, strong forearms. what more could you need?

you groan, but with a laugh. the camera pans to osamu who’s mid-sip. he slowly lowers his glass, revealing a disgusted look on his face. you laugh a little harder when you catch his reaction.

suna : not everyone gets to date a d-list celebrity, you know?

you shake your head, smiling to yourself. your gaze drops to your feet, where your shoes knock gently against his under the table. you’re wearing the burgundy sambas he got you for your birthday. so you could match his. which is what he’s currently wearing as well.

you : your turn.

suna takes a card. when he scans it, his jaw tightens. the tips of his ears start to tinge pink when he reads for the second time. you don’t notice, too busy sipping from your glass of water. suna clears his throat once. then again. it turns into a small coughing fit. you glance at him from behind your glance, silently making sure he’s okay.

suna : sit…

he swallows.

suna : sit in my lap for a full minute. or take a shot.

you start choking on your water. violently. lurching forwards, you loudly cough into your sleeve.

suna : damn. didn’t realize the card said waterboarding.

a round of soft chuckles are heard from the camera crew. not long after, you finally manage to recover and wipe your eyes.

you : shut up. i’ll take a shot.

suna : be serious. you’ve had three. one more and you’ll black out. i’ll take it for you.

you narrow your eyes.

you : are you calling me weak?

suna : no. i’m calling you a lightweight. there’s a difference.

[how about we take it down to thirty seconds, but you have to make eye contact the whole time?]

you hesitate, mouth parted in protest. your gaze flickers between suna and the crew.

you : …fine. can’t wait to ruin my dignity on camera.

suna : you act like it’s the worst thing you’ve done on camera.

you : you better shut up or i’m telling the internet how you cried watching-

suna : okay, okay. geez.

he raises his hands in defense. you dejectedly stand up and drag your feet to his seat. grumbling to yourself, you swing a leg over his lap and climb into his lap, effectively almost straddling him. when you do, suna’s arms stay planted firmly at his sides, like he’s trying very hard to not touch you. meanwhile, you’re perched awkwardly on top of his lap, with your legs half-stiff and your ass hovering barely an inch above his thighs. then, you finally make eye contact. suna’s already looking at you, gaze steady and a little too intense.

suna : sit properly.

you : i am sitting properly.

he exhales loudly. one of his hand lifts, hesitates mid-air, then lands at your waist. he presses you down until your full weight settles on him. your breath hitches at the sudden shift, your entire body tensing up at the contact. his hand stays where it is.

[eye contact, guys.]

you meet his gaze. again, he’s already looking at you, with those striking, grayish-yellow colored eyes. his face is unreadable, but you catch the faintest flush starting to spread across his cheeks.

you : stop blinking like that.

suna : like what?

you : i don’t know. you look weird.

suna : that’s just my face.

you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. you’re both still holding eye contact, faces way too close for comfort. his hand shifts slightly where it rests on your waist, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up before you can stop them.

you : wow.

you laugh, a little breathless. suna stays quiet, still with that unreadable expression of his.

you : can’t believe this is how i get to spend my valentine’s day.

suna : on my lap? lucky you.

you : mhm, such a privilege. should i start a gratitude journal?

suna : maybe write a haiku while you're at it.

you : hey. you're the one that agreed to this.

suna : i was blackmailed.

you : well, i gotta milk you for content, my guy. the fans love you.

suna : mmm. can’t wait to be someone’s lockscreen again.

you : you’re welcome, by the way.

suna : for what?

you : for boosting your stock.

suna : thought i was already a bargain.

you : okay, relax there, casanova.

[ten seconds left.]

you’re still on his lap. his hand is still at your waist. none of you move an inch, too scared of... something you can't quite place.

you : this is so… abnormal.

suna : nothing about this has ever been normal.

you’re breathing a little heavier now. he shifts under you slightly, and the movement sends a jolt up your spine. the timer goes off. you scramble off his lap in a flash. your chair scrapes as you slide back into place, heartbeat loud in your ears. suna exhales, low. he adjusts in his seat, shifting with a small grunt, legs spreading slightly as he leans forward. you catch the motion and pointedly don’t look down.

you clear your throat. the tension still clings to the air like humidity, but when you glance at suna, he’s already knocked back another shot. whatever just happened—he’s wearing his usual face again.

you : okay. final question.

suna : hit me.

you : do you love me?

he blinks.

suna : i mean. yeah? obviously. 

your breath hitches. it’s barely noticeable, but he sees it. you’re sure he does.

suna : platonically, of course.

you nod slowly, ignoring how your heartbeat is spiraling out of control.

you : cool. same. just two friends…

suna :

you : …who sit in each other’s laps for content.

suna : and almost kiss during drinking games.

you : which is normal.

suna : yep. not unusual at all.

a beat or two passes. you laugh awkwardly, looking at anywhere but him.

you : the comments are probably full of people screaming at us to kiss already.

suna : they sure love to do that.

your eyes land back on suna. he’s also looking at anywhere but you, hands fiddling with anything and everything that’s placed on the table.

you : to be fair, even if we were dating… it wouldn’t even look that different.

suna : yeah.

your eyes meet. you start laughing awkwardly. suna only nods, a little solemn.

you : good thing we’re not.

suna : yeah. would’ve been confusing.

you : so messy.

suna : ...probably would be nice, though.

he pauses, glancing away.

suna : for content, of course.

he says it like a joke, but his eyes don’t quite match his voice. he doesn’t even look at you when he says it, just spins the shot glass between his fingers, slow and restless.

you : yeah... for content.

you echo it back with a half-smile, but the words land heavier than they should. off-camera, someone coughs. someone else laughs and says, “that’s a wrap!” you both blink. suna straightens a little. you clear your throat, suddenly aware of the crew again. neither of you realize the camera hasn’t stopped rolling.

suna : guess we’re done being honest for today.

you : ...that’s good. i guess.

suna :

you :

suna : so…

you : yeah?

suna : dinner after this?

you : depends. is it for content?

he finally looks at you. there's that half-smirk again, the one you know and love.

suna: nah. the fans have seen enough.

*･🎬 ·̩͙ special cut

the camera pans to osamu again, still on the sidelines with his now empty coffee cup.

[so, what do you think?]

osamu : ‘bout what?

[the video. suna and y/n.]

osamu : you mean the hour-long denial exercise?

the crew laughs. you and suna were just walking off set when you see the camera being pointed at osamu.

suna : hey. you talking shit?

osamu : i'd never never talk shit behind your back. to your face? absolutely.

you : please do enlighten us.

osamu : you sure?

osamu doesn't even wait for your response before he starts talking.

osamu : y’two act like you're fooling everyone. y/n, i’ve seen your tiktok favorites. don’t pretend ya didn’t save that fan edit of suna with a doja cat song over it. and suna, ya sat through all of their partners pretending ya didn’t care. helped 'em move on, wrote the break up texts. yer not slick. we all knew yer in love. even the exes knew. if atsumu were here, he’d have shoved yer heads together and gotten this over with.

suna and you freeze, visibly flustered. the crew snickers.

osamu : the tension between y’two makes people uncomfortable. you’re basically a public health hazard. also, side note, atsumu bet on you two kissing by next week. he wins, i suffer. so please. stall.

the room breaks into muffled laughter. you bury your face in your hands. suna mutters an insult under his breath and walks off.

osamu : you’re welcome.

[mona-risms]

Thanks to you, I can't thinking about this idea where the reader (a normal person who knows them and the whole demonhunter thing) sees the girls getting surprise attack by a demon, and they get so angry, they start beating the shit out of it until It actually turns into fucking dust.

After that, they go check the girls worried not only about they injuries but also their reaction of you beating the hell out a demon.........while the girls try to not get turn on but fails in the most patetic way. Thinking to themselves;

Rumi: "That brutal not sexy,That brutal not sexy,That brutal not sexy.....shit it is actually sexy holy fuck."

Mira: "Don't you dare to get horny about this girl, they did something extremely dangerous and his knuckles are bleeding. It doesn't matter how brave, sexy and....... dammit."

Zoey: "That was hot. I mean brutal, cruel and all that. It wasn't hot and goddamn sexy at all and I definitly don't want her to dominate me in bed right this instant. Yeah."

Good news, the reader did't get in problema with his girls. Bad news, their knuckles needs bandages.

But hey, at least, there is chance that the girls would jump on your bed at night. (Not would, they will do it, no doubt).

What do you think?

THANKS TO ME??? WHAT'D I SAY????? Also this reminds me of when Pepper beat the living SHIT out of some guy while Tony Stark was injured 😭

I do have a lot of thoughts ab this though HAHAHA bc seeing each other brutalise demons, while obviously hot as hell, was something of a normal sight between the three of them. Now, seeing YOU brutalise them, on the other hand? Completely different fucking story bc okay let's list the facts

First of all, unlike them, you were a COMPLETELY normal human being without any training tailored to demon hunting. The three of them have had to hone their bodies one way or another so that they can catch up with fighting supernatural beings with boosted physicality, and yet you stood your ground and beat the living shit out of it without that training

Second of all, I'd like to think that the surefire way—if not the ONLY way—to actually kill a demon is by using the spirit weapons that only Hunters can summon. So the fact that you've beaten this thing to a pulp means that as much pain as it's feeling, and as much as it's begging for mercy and/or even death, it can't actually die from the pain you inflict. It's like how Wolverine and Deadpool can still feel a hell of a lot of pain, but they just can't die and get it over with—one of the girls would've had to step in just to kill it off

Third of all, it's the fact that in the rage you felt, you managed to take down a demon. FOR THEM. TO PROTECT THEM. When their LITERAL JOB is to protect EVERYONE in the world from demons, ESPECIALLY you. And yet literally right after, despite your knuckles bruised and Maybe bleeding from the sheer Force you used, you go to check on THEM as if you weren't the one that was the most vulnerable out of the four of you

So yes! They Are turned on to high fucking heaven. Turned on from your sudden rage, your protectiveness, and your strength to face down a demon and WIN with your bare hands like that. Their thoughts and internal monologues 😭 are so freakishly scrambled because they're genuinely trying to recover from the sight of you MURKING something so much stronger than you just because of a sudden attack, and no matter what they're trying to/not to think of, their thoughts basically merge into one as they think of how you could use that ferocity and force in bed 😁😁😁 BUT TREATMENT FIRST HORNY LATER YOU'RE INJURED!!!!! NEVER throw yourself in like that again ("and if you do, make sure we're there to watch it" "ahahaheheahaahhaaha" "YOU TWO." "heyyyy don't act like you're not thinking it too 😞😞😞")

They'll definitely jump you in bed yeah 🤷‍♀️. Whether it's to egg you on into fucking them into the mattress so hard with the same ferocity you used for fighting that demon or tend to your every demand properly for all the stress you probably had with seeing them in a situation like that and rewarding you for beating the demon so hard it was actually begging for death, who knows. But either way the four of you'll end up waking up with a SHIT ton of bruises that would no doubt need a hell of a lot of makeup to cover up, your whole bodies being sore in places that none of you even knew existed, so exhausted the trio are considering a mini-hiatus, and with a new (or maybe enhanced/reawakened) kink for wild, rough, HARD sex 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

[gerardsbest]

When You Were Here Before, Couldn't Look You in the Eye

Previous | Next

Chapter 2/3

Relationship: Gerard Way x Reader

Tags: slow burn, happy ending, fluff and angst, feelings realization, eventual smut

Summary: Gerard's liked you for so long, he just wishes you liked him back, too. But he knows you don't and he respects your boundaries, so he tries to move on.

Even after the success of the band, he still thinks about you. Even as he has thousands of screaming, adoring fans, Gerard thinks about you.

Then, there's a show in Jersey. He gets drunk and stumbles to your old house.

Turns out, you still live there.

10.1k words | ao3

2000

"Three... two... one... happy new years!"

Gerard flinched as the room erupted into noise. Party poppers being set off, people whistling and hooting as they spilled drinks on each other in excitement, a slew of drunken makeouts, and deep rambles about "new years resolutions" and whatnot. That made Gerard think about his own plans— what the hell did he want out of the year of our lord, the year two-thousand? 

"Happy new years, Gee!" 

You came stumbling into his arms, and Gerard more so caught you than hugged you. You were tipsy, he was tipsier.

"Wow, I cannot believe this... a new century— no, shit. A new millennium!" You exclaimed, swaying from side to side. 

Okay, maybe you were tipsier.

Gerard put his cup down and adjusted himself so he could support you better. This was the deal the two of you had with one another, that if one person was clearly more drunk than the other would have to cease all further inebriation to make sure that they didn't make a fool out of themselves. Usually, it was you taking care of him, but you seemed to have really taken advantage of the endless alcohol supply at this year's party; which was pretty odd, but Gerard didn't think too hard about it since he was pretty intoxicated, too.

What was supposed to be a small house party had evolved into an easy-access, any-random-Joe-in-the-neighborhood-can-come party as the night progressed. Gerard didn't mind this since it wasn't his house, but he minded it a little now as weaving through the crowd while practically dragging your body was quite difficult.

Still, he made it out with you and took the two of you to an empty lawn. The owner of the house that lawn belonged to was some guy Gerard barely knew, but he was currently running up and down the streets, shirtless, and screaming about politics so he was sure that he wouldn't mind. 

Gerard set down his jacket as the grass was a little wet and you flopped right down, hiccuping as you oh-so ungracefully landed on your ass.

The minute he sat down as well, your head fell onto his shoulder, "Y'think aliens and robots are gonna take over by the next millennia?"

Gerard snorted, "Aliens and robots."

"Yeah, fuck, like... robots at first 'cause we're definitely gonna see some kind of sci-fi... futuristic... whatever cyborg within our lifetime. I know it, Gee, I can, like, feel it," You got all up close and personal, even grabbing Gerard's collar to emphasize your point. "Then... hundreds of years later, aliens decide they wanna conquer our ass and that is how humanity gets extinguished."

"Some imagination you got there. Maybe you should be the intern at Cartoon Network."

You laughed real hard, a surefire sign of your drunkenness since the joke really wasn't that funny, "You're the only good artist in this town, 'm afraid."

Your head lolled off to the side, right off his shoulder and onto the ground before Gerard could even react. He looked over and reached out to try and help you up but you fervently shook your head and aggressively patted the spot next to you while slurring that you were insistent he lay down with you.

So, Gerard obliged. The wetness was really prominent now that his whole body was laying in the grass, but he kept quiet about that because you seemed so content.

You were laying flat on your back, hands gathered atop your stomach and staring at the sky with this hazy look to your eyes. The sky was quite clear for New Jersey, but Gerard wasn't looking at the stars nor the moon.

"Gee... uh, I gotta tell you somethin'."

"What is it?"

Gerard tensed. What was this? Anticipation? 

"Um, well..."

Your contentment faded, and those calm hands which were once resting on your body began fiddling with each other. You'd gone from flaccid to nervous in just a second.

"Is anything the matter?"

"It's just a matter I've wanted to tell you for awhile, but I couldn't..."

Oh, god, he shouldn't think this way.

"... What is it?" Gerard asked.

He had his hopes.

"Well, like, y'know how I've been lookin' for a job that's more permanent lately?"

Gerard had his hopes.

"Yeah, I do remember you talking about that. Did you find a place?" 

"I did. And it's my absolute dream job." You let out this dreamy sigh like you'd fallen in love.

"That's amazing! What is—"

"But this is the thing, right? It's... far, Gee. Like, super far."

Gerard noticed a shine on your cheek, and it wasn't from the wetness of the grass nor its soil. You shed a tear, and that one tear turned to many as you began quietly sniffling to yourself, still fixated on the sky.

Immediately, he sat up, "Woah, woah, are you alright? Look, if you think I'm upset or something, I'm not, I swear! I don't care if it's far, it's not like we'll ever stop being friends. You could move to... Ireland or something and we'd still be the same amount of close as though you were still living here."

Despite his efforts, the tears just kept flowing and you just let them; whether this was due to your drunken state or not, he didn't know. All Gerard knew was that the sight was breaking his heart.

"This should be a joyous occasion, so please, if you want to cry then let them be tears of joy." Gerard whispered, his hand awkwardly hovering above your face, wanting to comfort you but being unsure if he should do so physically.

You reached up and grabbed ahold of his hand, a move which made him flinch, "Los Angeles, Gee. It's L.A."

Ah. The City of Angels. Gerard's shoulders fell a bit, and he allowed his body to hit the lawn once more. You were still holding onto his hand and looking at the sky.

"I looked it up," You said, sounding sober all of a sudden. "From The Big Apple, it's around six hours. From Atlantic City, about eight. And from Trenton... thirteen."

You let go of his hand to wipe the tears from your face before going back to holding it. This time, Gerard held yours right back as he wished that he had the courage to help clean your face.

But you were waiting for an answer, and you relayed this to him as your head finally tilted to the side and met his eyes. Gerard was awestruck, he always thought you were prettiest at night. Your features just suited the aesthetic better— though, you did also look great in sunlight— and that plain expression you wore made him gulp.

Gerard's throat was dry, he wished he had something, anything to help it before responding, "That's not too bad," He said calmly, and that alone soothed you a little. "New York is close to us, I can get there by driving or transit and my internship is there, anyway. But beyond that, it's the digital age now! We can email, call... we can even send letters."

You giggled, "Like we're in the eighties?"

"Like we're in the eighties." Gerard confirmed.

"Sounds nice." You were finally smiling.

"We can write to each other about our day, send photos and stuff..."

"I can decorate it with stickers."

"We can send each other small, thin trinkets and knickknacks."

"Send me your drawings?" You asked, and your voice made it sound like a plea. Like his drawings were this grand thing.

Gerard squeezed your hand, "Of course."

That satisfied you and you were back to being content. You got closer to him, and Gerard shifted closer, too.

-

2001

Gerard thought a lot about that afternoon at the end of January. How cold it was, how his striped grey scarf gave him warmth, and how you cried before you left.

Everyone you cared about was there. Your family, your friends from high school and university, Gerard— even Mikey was invited. It was an emotion-fest, and everyone was either crying or trying so, so hard not to. You were so loved.

And between the goodbye hugs and kisses, Gerard was last. Not because of your intention, but his. It was incredibly self-serving, but he wanted to be the last one you said goodbye to. 

Because, if he was the last person you would ever see before officially turning the chapter of your new life, then maybe he'd stay in your memory enough for you to not forget him.

Since, truthfully? He was scared you'd just forget him.

That he would become an old story, someone you would refer back to casually many years later as "my best friend from high school" before immediately following up that sentence with "but we're not close anymore". That kind of person.

And if the two of you were to meet in this imagined reality, you'd greet him with open arms and big smiles, of course, but it would all be performative. Sure, you might recall the good ol' days like prom night, the comic club, the endless days of listening to different bands, geeking out over comics together, deep conversations about the future and whatnot during the trifling years of university— but what else? None else. Because while you might be able to move on with your life, onto better things, without him; Gerard was sure he couldn't do the same.

While he became "that friend from high school" to you, you'd always be "the best friend I'll ever have" to him.

But that was all just in his head.

A year into this thing, and both the letters and emails as well as the occasional phone calls exchanged between the two of you had been consistently meaningful.

You'd ramble about your job, all the great new people you were meeting, and how you seriously felt like this was the exact path you'd envisioned for yourself. Gerard loved reading and listening to it all, and he especially loved the photos and polaroids you'd send along with your mail. He kept them all in that same box he'd used as when you sent him postcards for the first time.

Your enthusiasm never wavered, neither did your friendship to him. In almost every long-distance exchange between the two of you, you'd always find a way to include him. Like, if you ate some really good food, you'd talk about what items on the menu he'd potentially enjoy. Or, after finding a nice and underground spot for one of the many shared hobbies the two of you had, you'd go on about how much he would love being there. 

Gerard did all the same, especially as he was in New York more often. He liked riding the ferry, and he oft took photos since he knew you'd enjoy his ventures, too.

It was one of these days when he was letting his mind wander. In between what he'd do at work today, laced with the proposals he had for potential cartoons as well as new ideas, he thought about you.

What would he write about that day, what would he write about in the future, and what he'd written about in the past.

There wasn't much that was happening that day. Well, the weather forecast did predict a "sunny and pleasant" day, so Gerard had that to look forward to. 

That's a nice shot of the Hudson. Gerard thought absentmindedly, cursing to himself in his head for forgetting his camera.

Gerard was admiring the view when he first heard it.

The day the towers fell gave him a new purpose in life. 

Gerard got home after the events, after the chaos that was the transit systems as everyone and everything was in a frenzy. Suddenly, that internship he had and the half-baked idea he had for his own animated show didn't seem so important. Since, what did they mean, really? Just another way for faceless people he'd never meet to get richer faster.

So, instead of picking up the pen or paper, he picked up the phone.

"I hope she likes it." Gerard mused, feeling his palms grow sweaty despite it being winter.

Ray looked to him, then at the small parcel in his hands, "I'm sure she will. I mean, I'm not trying to toot my own horn 'cause I worked on it, but," He put his hand on Gerard's shoulder firmly. "If this girl's anything like how you've been describing her, then it'll be a success. Probably."

Gerard smiled at that and finally got the courage to slot his small package into the mailbox after mulling it over for about ten minutes— seriously, Ray was one hell of a saint for sticking around that entire time.

The two of them began walking soon after, Gerard with his hands deep in his pockets and Ray sipping away at his hot coffee.

"So," Ray began. "Do you like this girl?"

Gerard short-circuited for a moment, "What makes you ask?"

"The way you're always on and on about her. I've never met her but I feel like I've known her for ages the way you talk so intensively... I mean, I know her favorite color, where she likes to eat, what hairstyles she enjoys the most, what clothing materials she likes and dislikes because she's 'super particular'."

Gerard blushed, and he desperately hoped that his rosy cheeks could bypass as a sign of the cold.

"She's just my best friend."

"Uh huh."

"What? She is."

"Hey, I didn't say anything."

Gerard narrowed his eyes as Ray laughed a cheeky little laugh while deliberately looking off to the side. Despite that, no further questions were asked and Gerard found himself alone with his psyche. Ray's words of encouragement were incredibly helpful, but he still couldn't help but be nervous.

What he'd sent you was a rough draft at best, a demo in every sense of the word. Gerard had many problems with it, like the fact that his voice was far too loud and you could barely hear the instrumentals in the background. Also, he didn't quite enjoy how he sounded - too loud, too choppy, his voice was even lightly cracking at some parts. Gerard felt like he'd cringe at this memory if he ever looked back on it, but you wanted to hear it and was quite adamant, even going so far as to call him over the phone about it so what choice did he have?

And thus, like a man obsessed, Gerard checked the mailbox everyday.

Whenever he had a moment to spare, he'd be thinking about if you received it yet and what your response was. Were you writing a response as he thought this? Maybe you'd just gotten it and was currently listening. He included a lyric sheet, so he wondered what you thought about that, too, since you always had such meaningful things to say about writing.

Gerard was so curious it nearly drove him mad. 

And funnily enough, when he did finally get that letter he'd been thinking about for about a week and a half, he didn't even have to check the box. His mother had placed it right on his desk, like she knew how crazy it was making him (she did).

Gerard tore through the envelope like an animal digging into a carcass to get to the meat, the letter, as fast as possible. 

You wrote,

Hey, Gee.

First of all, how are you and how have you been? Sorry this letter took longer than usual. I just wanted my response to be perfect, y'know? Since this means a lot to me. 

Anyway, I thought the song was amazing. And the fact that this is just the demo makes me so excited for the real deal! You'll send it to me then, right? Actually, scratch that, let me come to a show! After you guys really get going, tell me like a few weeks in advance if you decide to go live so I can see. If you don't, then I'll just assume you're not really my friend (jk).

But I thought the whole thing was greatly made. I've never heard anything like it before and I don't mean that lightly.

"Skylines and Turnstiles", is it? What a pretty name. Look at you, Gee, an artist and a poet. I'm jealous. But speaking of poetry... these lyrics.

I so appreciate you including a lyric sheet. I can't express how much I've been re reading this, analyzing every detail like it's one of those light novels I had to annotate back in uni. It's just so brilliant!

"And after seeing what we saw, can we still reclaim our innocence?"/"And if the world needs something better, let's give them one more reason, now".

Those are my favorite lyrics.

Your reasoning for wanting to start all this is beautiful, and I know you'll succeed. To want to make a difference in someone's life and, after witnessing something so tragic, wanting to give people a reason to fight and live on? You're an inspiration. 

Keep creating, keep writing. You inspire me.

The letter was signed with your name. 

Gerard re-read that last line over and over again— "Keep creating, keep writing. You inspire me."

-

2002

"Oh, gosh, Gee! How long has it been? Your hair, these clothes... are these your bandmates— Mikey's here, too—? Sorry, I'm rambling. How have things been? How have you been?"

You were all over the place, bouncing off the walls and going from hugging him to looking around to patting him down and even ruffling his hair. Gerard let it happen because he thought it was all quite funny - you were acting like an older relative at a family gathering and it was immensely amusing.

On top of that amusement, however, was this inexplicable feeling of relief. It was two-thousand-two. A grand two years since your departure and about nine months since your last visit during Thanksgiving. This was also the longest time you'd stay since your workplace had oh-so graciously allowed a three week vacation.

(Courtesy of your great work ethic, of course.)

Gerard held you tight, wanting his hands and fingers to soak in your skin and bones. 

You pulled apart and wiped a small tear from your eyes, "Ah, geez, sorry for all of this..." You smiled and looked past his shoulders. "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Gee's friend from high school."

"Don't worry, you need absolutely no introduction." Frank said, wiggling his brow as he said your name, which you looked shocked that he even knew.

"What do you mean...?"

Gerard cut right in, "This is Ray, the lead guitar. Frank, the rhythm guitar. Matt, the drums. And Mikey's on bass." He said quickly, pointing to each man as he shot Frank a "don't you dare" kind of look.

Frank conceded and reached out to shake your hand as though this was some kind of business proposal. Ray offered to take your bag, which you obliged in since you looked absolutely exhausted. Mikey caught you up on things in his life— and Gerard? He watched your back as it went down the driveway and into his house, at your smile as you talked to his brother and got to know the rest of his friends. It was your first time meeting them yet you talked to them so well. 

All he could do was hope that they didn't say anything embarrassing.

"Gerard? You gonna come in or should we lock you out?" Frank jeered.

"Don't you dare." Gerard grumbled as he jogged in.

You were by the wall where his family kept all the best photos. Eyes wandering from childhood photos to embarrassing middle school portraits and everything in between. Gerard joined you, and although you didn't acknowledge him at first, he knew you knew from the way your body twitched slightly towards him.

While you looked at the pictures, he looked at you.

You took time to soak in every memory, but seemed to fixate on one in particular. When Gerard turned away to see what it was, he just said, "Oh."

"Oh, indeed," You said as you reached up and carefully took it off the wall. "Senior prom." 

Gerard looked at it from over your shoulder. You were holding it with both hands, with the same amount of gentleness one would use for a baby. The picture itself had been taken by your mother, he remembered that. He also remembered how pretty your yellow dress was, as well as the kiss you'd given him.

It was on the cheek and entirely meant as a friendly gesture, but it was special nonetheless.

"I can't wait for your show tomorrow," You whispered, nearly making him jump. "My first one. I'm excited." You added as you put the picture back in its place.

"Oh, is it?"

Looking at that photo reminded him of high school. For a moment, he thought you were remembering wrong since he'd been to so many as a teenager, but then he realized those shows he went to was with his first girlfriend. Not you. He'd only thought about bringing you to one, but those plans never came into fruition.

"You'd better impress me, Mr. Way."

Gerard wasn't sure if he could.

The "venue", if one could even call this dingy little nook beneath a bar that was booked by Frank's cousin and fit about a high school classroom's worth of people. That didn't matter, though, since anything was better than nothing at this point and even having this was a privilege— being signed was a privilege.

Whatever the case was, though, Gerard didn't let that get to him when he performed. To him, the venue and its people were just a haze, anyway. The alcohol in his system made it so.

This way, things were easier and the fact that you were standing right there to watch him perform didn't get at him so much. Gerard only permitted himself to take small glances towards you, but each time he did, he was amazed by your adoration.

The music was booming, it was screaming, he was screaming. Gerard felt his throat go raw and hoarse so many times and he knew he wouldn't sound as polished as he did on the record (though, even on those, he didn't sound too professional) but you didn't seem to care about that. You were singing along to the lyrics when you could remember them, and he didn't blame you for having everything memorized since his own songs tend to be endless at times.

But you seemed to know every word to one in particular - Skylines and Turnstiles.

The first one you ever listened to. And their first song.

You looked so happy. You looked so fulfilled even though this wasn't your band and definitely not your project. You were just here to support him and god, did you do that so well. Gerard wished he had the courage, the guts to say this to you and how much he appreciated this.

When it was over, it felt like a wave had crashed over him. Gerard murmured some thanks into the mic then stumbled right off the stage where you were waiting for him as the crowd dissipated - their fanbase was small, definitely small enough to not warrant people running up to him after. 

"Gee, that was amazing." You gushed the moment he was within range.

"You really think so?" He asked as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Definitely! Gosh, you have got to get me a CD of this record. I tried to look for it in stores, but no such luck."

"Yeah, copies of Bullets are pretty scarce right now 'cause, well... we're not that famous."

"You deserve to be, though. I wholeheartedly believe so."

The whole time, he'd been looking down at his feet or glancing around, I feel like I'll puke if I look at her directly or something. Wait, that sounds bad. It's not 'cause she's repulsing or anything— why am I even justifying this? Who am I justifying to right now? This is all in my head! Gerard gulped and murmured something. "Why... do you think that?" He managed.

"Well, 'cause you guys are great." You said, and it was so simple that it almost made him laugh.

Gerard swallowed thickly and looked through the greasy curtain of his bangs to make sure your face was obscured. 

"To be honest, so much of music nowadays feels kind of... pointless, y'know? I don't want to sound pretentious but I feel like it's been a while since music really meant something. And this... all of this. From Skylines to... what was it? Headfirst for Halos? The lyrics were kind of hard to make out but I got the gist of it. You guys could make a difference in this world with songs like that."

It was weird. Your compliment made him feel so giddy, gave him those butterflies in his stomach that he'd been feeling ever since you came back. Yet, all Gerard could do right now was hold himself back from hurling.

"I... I don't know if this will mean much coming from me, but I want you to know that I admire you so much for doing this."

His insides did a flip.

"Gerard? Are you alright?"

No, he wasn't.

"Are you able to look at me?"

No, he couldn't.

Still, he did so anyway because the delicate way you asked him, requesting so sweetly if he could bear to look at your face. Of course he would fall to pieces at that.

Gerard looked at you directly for what seemed like the first time in forever; which was inherently dumb and untrue because he literally saw you at the airport and at his house yesterday. But all of that seemed ancient now. 

For the first time, he could see the ways in which you'd changed since you were away.

You'd grown. Easy as that. The "you" he'd known on that day during New Years, the one drunk and stumbling all over the place while drooling and crying seemed so far away. Gerard couldn't imagine you doing all that in the state you were in now. That wasn't to say you had suddenly become all uptight or anything, the fact that you were in such a grimy show venue told him that you hadn't become a completely different person. 

There was just more maturity to you.

And that scared him.

Suddenly, all of his fears were coming back to him. That horrible, conjured reality where he'd become a fond memory while he was still obsessed with you. 

Did he need to change? If so, to what? Would you like his change or would you despise it?

Gerard slumped, feeling his knees give way as he allowed his body to just crash onto the floor. Fully conscious, but feeling like he was somewhere else.

Actually, maybe he wasn't "fully" conscious. Or even conscious at all anymore. Gerard just heard the echoes of your voice as he blacked out.

A deep cringe twinged through Gerard's body as he (unfortunately) woke up. The light was absolutely glaring, the sound of footsteps from people above pounding, and his breath stinking inside his mouth. But none of those mild discomforts compared to the flood of memories assaulting him at that moment.

At that moment, your first ever show, your first ever time seeing his band— when he should have wowed you— he was an absolute bumbling idiot. 

"God..." Gerard rubbed his face, or more so smothered his cheek with his palm while wondering where you were now.

That thought didn't last long, however, as someone just came into his room. It was you. Apparently, you didn't expect him to be up so you were just wandering around with a cup in your hands. Gerard watched you for a bit, he probably should have said something but nothing wanted to come out. 

So, he creepily watched you until you finally noticed and nearly fell backwards.

"Gee!" You exclaimed, holding a hand over your heart. "You're up?"

"I am," He sighed. "What is that?"

You collected yourself and went to sit next to him, "Hangover cure." You smiled as you shoved the steaming mug towards him.

Hesitantly, Gerard took it. It felt nice and toasty against his hands, and it smelled lovely, too— citrus and... honey, perhaps?

"It's some fruit tea I got from this locally owned shop in L.A. I think you'd like it, the place has a real mom and pop's kinda feel. Anyway, it's absolute heaven when it comes to pesky hangovers. I added the honey for your voice since you went kind of crazy last night." You explained, doing all sorts of wacky gestures with your hands.

Gerard looked down at the swirling concoction in his hands. The mug was Star Wars themed, and the liquid itself was a nice caramel brown.

"To be loved is to be seen".

You took the time to pack this tea, and went out of your way to care for his voice. Gradually, he realized something. That, maybe, his insecurities were just that. Insecurities. Unfounded and entirely formed from the darkest corners of his mind.

Gerard put the mug down for a moment on the floor, you raised your brow in confusion as he leaned in and hugged you.

"Thanks." 

You patted him on the back, "Of course. Don't worry about it, yeah?"

There may have been differences in your clothes, or your mannerisms, or maybe even the way you carried yourself, but you yourself remained all the same and unmoving. Even your smell was all the same.

Gerard pulled apart and picked up the drink, taking a sip and relishing as his nostrils filled with the decadent, fruity scent and his lungs were graced by both slight favor and extreme warmth. The thing was a few degrees short of scalding, but he liked it this way.

"Listen, Gee, I need to tell you something."

Placing the mug in between his legs, Gerard gestured for you to continue. He couldn't help but notice a slight furrow in your brows, the universal indicative of there being something wrong.

"See... I got a major promotion at my job."

Huh.

Gerard chuckled, then that chuckle turned into a laugh, which evolved into a fit of cackles.

You looked at him, a little concerned but trying to crack a smile, "What the hell are you... did the alcohol fry your last braincell or something? What's with the Joker-like laughing?"

"No, it's just... what is it with you and delivering good news— great news in the worst way possible? You sound so somber that I thought you were going to say something horrible," He was giggling so hard the tea was sloshing around, on the brink of just spilling onto his pyjama pants. "You haven't changed since New Years, two years ago in this sense."

Your concern faded and you just looked annoyed now, "Haha. Very mature. But this is serious, Gee."

Maybe he'd overstepped a little. Gerard nodded and stopped goofing off to listen to you properly. The sloshing of his tea stopped, too.

"Since I got a pretty big promotion, it means I'm gonna get a lot busier. Which means, I can't do trips back too often," Your shoulders slumped way down, like two rocks had suddenly appeared on either end. "That's why I made this trip pretty long. I have no idea when I'll be able to come back."

Those butterflies were back. Well, maybe this was more like a sinking feeling.

"That is serious." 

"Mhm."

"You don't have an estimate?"

"No idea... it could be months, it could be years."

Years.

Gerard's mind was a maze. An over complicated, stupid maze that he couldn't seem to crawl out of. The drink in his hands had gone lukewarm now.

Then, you put your head on his shoulder and let out a sigh which sounded like you'd been holding for a while, "Maybe... when you go on tour and things... you can come to L.A. We're pretty cool over there."

" 'When' we go on tour?"

"You guys are already going to New York and things. Plus, you seem to have a good thing going here. Even if it isn't exact, as long as it's a state near me, perhaps...? Just grasping at straws here, Gee. Sue me."

"You have so much faith in me."

"Of course I do. You're my best friend."

Gerard leaned into your touch, rubbing friction between your hair and his considerably messier hair.

"I hope you know that fact won't change even with this," Gerard whispered, you murmured something but he didn't quite catch it. "It's not like the postal industry is gonna collapse and the internet is just growing more and more advanced each day."

"That's kind of scary. Makes you think about how things will progress twenty years from now."

Gerard snorted, "Are we gonna live long enough to see cyborgs walk among us?"

"God, I hope so."

Nothing more was said after that and nothing more had to be said. In the basement that was Gerard's room, a place that was slightly dank and most definitely quite cramped, there was a certain bit of warmth to be found; and it wasn't from the tea nestled between his legs, it was found with you. As your best friend, and him as yours, Gerard was satisfied with that.

-

2003

"The wonders of modern technology..." Gerard mumbled to himself.

"Talking to her again?" Mikey asked, trying to crane his neck to get a peak at the conversation, but Gerard quickly put his hand over the screen to prevent that.

"I am," He sputtered as Mikey rolled his eyes deeply. "She was just telling me about her day and such and I was gonna tell her about how close we are to completing the album."

"You guys talk a lot." 

Gerard smiled, "We do, huh?"

A beat passed, Gerard's attention was back on his screen as he reread your message again, he had a habit of doing that. You were quite expressive, even with just words. The long distance communication had been narrowed down to only digital means as being out on the road more often meant being unable to receive mail and unfortunately, teleportation technology hadn't been invented yet.

But he was fine with the litany of emails, texts, and occasional phone calls— he loved the phone calls. Being able to hear your voice was worth the small fee, it always was.

"Hey, Gerard?" Mikey cleared his throat, placing a hand atop his arm. 

Gerard figured that this meant he wanted his attention, so he put the laptop away, "What's up?" 

Mikey looked like he was struggling to say something. The boy had always been awkward, that was one of the many traits which Gerard found adorable in his brother - yes, he was a grown adult now, but older sibling habits die hard.

"Listen, I've been kind of meaning to ask you this for a while— a long while— but... do you, whether right now or in the past, have or had feelings for—"

"—Mikey, I know what you're going to ask." Gerard blurted before he could complete that sentence, before he could say your name because he knew it was coming. 

Nodding, Mikey closed his mouth, even pressing his lips together into a tight line. 

"So, what's your answer...?"

"We're best friends."

"I know that, everyone knows that, I just mean... you guys have been 'best friends' for so long and I've never seen anyone light up this bad when they talk to someone before. Which is why I was and why I've been curious about this for a while."

The answer Gerard wanted to give him was right there. It was the same answer he'd always given whenever anyone asked him about this topic, the forever rehearsed— "No, we're just friends, I only see her as that".

There had been no problem with saying it before; but for some reason, at that moment, when he was alone in the parking lot with his younger brother on a semi-warm and extremely foggy April morning, he couldn't bring himself to say it. It was like his tongue was suddenly inflamed and so swollen that the words were just stuck in the back of his throat.

Gerard had always been a terrible liar.

Mikey opened his mouth, perhaps to try and sway him into a proper response, but Frank and Ray returned with the promised coffees and that was more than enough of an excuse for Gerard to leave the situation, so he did.

"Jesus, these things are piping!" Gerard exclaimed as he grabbed one from Ray, hissing sharply when the thin paper offered no protection from the scalding drink when it burned his fingertips. 

"Well, you specified you wanted the coffees to be 'hot enough to give your lungs third-degree burns', so." Frank shrugged.

By that point, Mikey had come to join the little group huddled outside of the local cafe. There was a mutual agreement between him and Gerard, the agreement that whatever conversation they were having before would be tabled.

Gerard had always been a terrible liar.

-

2004, July

Gerard was sitting in the van, laptop resting atop his knees as he skimmed over the conversations between you and him. It saddened him a little that they were becoming a little scarcer as the days went on.

The reason? Mutual busyness. You were making strides, taking the promotion by its horns and steering it as you saw fit. Many of your emails consisted of either praising how great everything was or complaints about your coworkers and whatnot— both of which Gerard found great amusement in while reading. Gerard was making strides, too, he supposed. Releasing the second album was the biggest thing, of course, and he was honestly the tiniest bit overwhelmed by the sudden influx of fame it brought him.

At least this album was much more plentiful and you'd even been able to get your hands on a CD! You'd even gone out of your way to take a picture via a digital camera of yourself while holding it with the biggest smile plastered across your face and sent that to him.

Gerard almost printed it out to keep around with him, but decided that was way too creepy. The effort was greatly appreciated, though, he remembered how long he'd stared at it when he laid eyes on the photo for the first time.

For a while, that was the only thing he had of what you looked like, so, naturally, he treasured it. Gerard thought about sending something of himself, too, but you'd noted that you'd seen him in a few dozen magazines and even bought a few of them so he thought those would suffice. Plus, he was a little shy. Even the thought of you owning physical media with his face on them made him blush.

This was all filler now, though. Since, in a few hours, he'd be able to see you again. Gerard didn't want to admit how scared he was of that fact. Two years. Two years since he'd seen you and also since you'd seen them.

The reunion would be in Sunny, Southern California. 

It was a stop in the Warped Tour, they'd be performing at some university. 

The band had evolved so much since back then. For one, the whole new album. For two, they were in the lineup for an actual festival now. They were so much more polished, had a clearer sound, and Gerard was so proud of everything he'd done. 

He just hoped you'd be proud, too.

"Gerard? We're on in a few. Get ready." Someone called out to him from outside.

"Coming!" Gerard yelled back, snapping the laptop closed before taking a moment to breathe.

Warped Tour tend to get crazy— a crowd of mostly sweaty, shirtless dudes all moshing about could never spell good, but Gerard liked this aspect. He just wondered how you'd feel about it.

Gerard tried to look for you as he performed. There was no avail, however, since whenever he looked on, it was just a sea of different flesh that seemed to all just blend in with each other. Maybe most of this haze was from the heat. Some of it was definitely from the alcohol. A lot of it was from the energy he was exuding while onstage.

It was more ardent normal, and even his "normal" was a lot. Gerard was running up and down the stage, banging his head, feeling the guitar and bass and drums coincide with the words he was both belting and screeching. Giving you a performance even though he couldn't even see you - were you even there?

That terrified him.

Whether you were there or not, an enormous amount of pressure would be on his shoulders.

There was a part of him that wanted the performance to continue, and this weird panicky feeling in his gut intensified when he realized that their set was finishing. Gerard still couldn't find you, not even as he was standing still and swallowing down the hazy feeling his intoxication was giving him. 

"Gerard, are you alright?" Frank asked him when they got off the stage. 

"I, um..." Gerard swallowed thickly, moving the mop that was his sweaty hair from his face. "I don't know."

Frank said something after that, Gerard didn't mean to ignore him the way he did but ended up brushing past the guitarist's shoulder and began wandering. 

Some fans stopped him on the way, and Gerard couldn't bring himself to tell them "no", not when they looked so damn eager to meet him. This whole "fame" thing was still new to him, but Gerard would never classify himself as a celebrity— never a celebrity. He just considered himself to be someone of mild success, mild infamy, just enough to warrant his pictures and signage to be mildly important.

But the heat was sweltering, and his throat was growing uncomfortably dry. Gerard wished people would stop crowding him and let him walk. Let him search.

Then, someone tapped him on the shoulder and Gerard almost didn't turn, almost risked his fragile reputation already being ruined as was labelled as some asshole who couldn't even stop for one second for his fans. That thought spooked him into turning around for them.

Except, this wasn't a fan. It was someone entirely familiar.

"Hey, I thought you would just walk right past me or something."

Gerard noted your smile, That hasn't changed one bit. He thought. This outfit was new, though. You usually had a certain color palette to your clothes, but this one broke that pattern. It was almost jarring.

"Don't tell me you're getting a heat stroke already—"

Gerard just hugged you. It was far too humid, far too sticky to be comfortable and he knew he smelled like death, but he did so anyway. And surprisingly, you reciprocated this act as you chuckled while whispering, "You, sir, need a shower."

I do. Gerard agreed as he rested his head against your shoulder.

You gently tapped his back, "We're kind of in the middle of a congested pathway. Let's go somewhere private, yeah?"

Only your physicality had changed. On the inside, you were the same as ever, maybe he was stupid for being scared. 

Gerard nodded wordlessly and allowed himself to be dragged away by you— had you been to previous Warped Tour shows? You seemed to know the area quite well.

"One of my friends is an organizer for this event. He let me take a look at it before they opened officially, so I know all the good spots." You said, like you'd read his mind. 

You took him way far back, past all the merch vendors and tents to this little spot surrounded by a bunch of rocks. The air smelled strongly of the ocean, but that was just a trait of most of Cali. Gerard dropped right down onto his ass and you did the same but much more gracefully.

"Are you drunk?" You asked.

"As hell." Gerard answered.

You cracked a smile, "I enjoyed your show a lot. This album has so many good songs on it like, ooh, I love The Ghost of You and what was that one called... The Jetset Life is Gonna Kill You? You guys really went ham on the long title thing, huh? Regardless, it all sounds good— so much 'cleaner', I guess. Still, I like your first album better, but maybe that's 'cause I got to listen to a track before it came out."

Gerard nodded to everything you were saying, not wanting to interrupt you, not for a second. Hearing your voice over the phone was one thing, reading your words every night was another, but physically being here, where he was able to see your face as you went on your spiels was pure magic. Always had been.

"Anyway, I wanted to go up way closer, but the flood of screaming, half-naked guys prevented me."

"I tried to look for you in the crowd." He admitted.

"I had a feeling you would, so I did my best to jump around as I waved my arms like crazy, but I guess I was too far back," You sighed. "Or maybe it was doomed to begin with since, well, this is a music festival so everyone would be doing that."

That was when Gerard realized how weird this all was. For a reunion after two whole years, he'd expected there to be so much more crying. But the two of you were just with one another, sitting in this shade, away from all the noise and chaos as you talked in a manner so casual one might assume this was just another afternoon.

It was like the topic of being apart was deliberately being avoided.

Gerard could live with that.

Since, maybe he was a little scared, after all. 

Maybe he didn't want to know about all the ways you'd moved on. Maybe he didn't want to know about all the new friends you'd made. Maybe he didn't want to know about how "mutual busyness" was probably not the only reason why the emails had become scarce and the letters nonexistent. Maybe he didn't want to know about your love life, if you had one; and considering how charming you were and how you only grew prettier with each season, you probably did.

"Hey, Gee," You said to him, that nickname almost echoing. "Listen, I have this... work party tonight— it's a corporate thing, lame, I know— but I was wondering if you'd want to come as my plus-one?"

You put your hand atop his, "I think you'd love my coworkers. Especially one, this guy named Jonah. He's a real comic nut, likes all the ones you do."

Gerard tried to study the way you said the name, "Jonah". Did you smile? You did. What was the tone of your voice? Fondness. You knew he liked comics, that meant you talked to him enough to both know that little tidbit and knew his personality to determine that Gerard would get along with him.

"Or, you know, we could just do something with just the two of us—"

"—I'll come." Gerard stated.

Your eyes flickered to him, "You want to?"

No. "Yeah."

"Great! Then, um, I would pick you up but my car's in the shop right now, so..." You began shovelling through your bag to pull out both a little notepad and a pen. "... Here's the address and time. The dress code is business casual, but that's not reinforced. Ah, geez, I can't wait to show you around my workplace and, oh! You can see my office! I decorated it real personally from top to bottom, you see. I'm quite proud of it."

Every word was punctuated with a point of excitement, this sort of brimming exhilaration that was almost contagious. Almost. Gerard wanted to be as thrilled as you were, and by God was it a treat to see you this happy over something, but this nagging feeling wouldn't leave him alone.

The nagging feeling of change.

You'd changed. 

Gerard showed up to the intended address at the intended time. 

But he didn't go in— or more like he couldn't bring himself to go in. 

Instead, like he was some jilted ex or a run-of-the-mill stalker, Gerard lingered around the sidewalk on the other side of your workplace. He didn't do anything, he couldn't even see you but he stayed.

In all honesty, he had no idea why. There were about a million better things he could have done, or he could have just showed up like he'd promised you but he didn't. Gerard didn't move, not even when he both felt and heard the sound of texts being sent to his phone; they were from you, they had to be from you but he didn't check them. 

Gerard played out different scenarios in his head, like what you were wearing and how you were feeling. Gerard was the bad guy here, and his gut kept twisting as each minute passed, and as those minutes slowly turned to an hour, then two hours, and eventually three. Maybe he was crazy. The texts stopped after the third hour mark, after all, yet his feet were still firmly planted on the grimy pavement. 

Maybe the reason why he didn't check the messages was because he knew he was being horrible here. 

No, that was the reason. Gerard was upsetting you and he wanted to puke because of it.

Eventually, Gerard began to drift. His feet moved even though his mind was still lingering on this place, this tall building which looked taller than life itself. The lights were on to their brightest setting despite it being pitch black outside. Small figures were moving in the windows, several floors above. It all seemed so untouchable.

Had you become untouchable? Should he just save himself?

Who was he kidding. This was him saving himself.

The place where the tour bus was parked wasn't far from your workplace— only a thirty minute walk, actually. Though, those thirty minutes turned to about forty-five because Gerard kept bumping into the pole of every streetlight he saw. By the time he got to the base of the metal door, he had a forming bruise on his forehead.

Gerard put his hand on the door handle but didn't open it, he just lingered like how he'd been lingering the past three hours. 

He should check your messages.

Chewing his lip, Gerard pulled out his phone and the light emanating from it nearly blinded him. He wished it would just blind him, or maybe the bus itself could topple over and crush him flat. That's what he deserved, probably.

You'd sent him a total of seven messages.

"Hey, Gee! Running a little late, I see... fashionably late? Well, whatever it is, come quick, alright? We have pizza : )"

"The pizza's getting cold..."

"Pizza's gone - my coworkers are pretty gluttonous, lol - but we still have some snacks, if you're hungry. Hey, I'm good with you running late since this is casual but gimme a little head's up!"

"Gee, you alright? Did something come up?"

"Hey, call me or text me back, I'm starting to get a lil worried."

"The party's about over soon, but we're probably gonna linger around a bit more. It's not too late to come."

Gerard didn't want to open the last message. It looked long. Even the six he'd read so far tied his stomach in knots and he could physically see the way your enthusiasm died a little with each one.

His finger hovered for a moment before opening it.

"Listen, idk if you'll even get this and idk what happened tonight but whatever it was, you could have just told me beforehand. Did I impose this party on you? If so, I'm sorry if I did, I just wanted you to see what I was doing for these past few years and also meet the people who have made the time spent apart from you a little better. I'm not mad or anything, just a little bummed out. I still wanna hear back from you, though. You know you can always come to me with anything, right?"

Gerard let the door handle go and drifted away to a nearby curb instead. A damp warmth was on his cheeks— tears. Of course he was crying, of course he was.

What business did he have to cry? This situation was entirely avoidable, this night could have gone a lot differently. It could have gone the way it was supposed to, with Gerard showing up at the party, meeting everyone, going around as you gave him a thorough tour while you rambled about your passions. Gerard loved your passions, he loved reading them every night and listening to them everyday.

Or, the two of you could have just had a hangout, just as a pair like you'd suggested. You could have shown him your favorite spots, get something nice to eat, and maybe even have a tour of your apartment, which Gerard always wanted to see since he was sure that the photos and descriptions you provided over the years could not do it justice. He knew that.

Any best friend should have been able to do this no problem.

So, why did he struggle with it?

He shouldn't be this scared that you'd changed, he'd changed, too so this was all so hypocritical. 

Maybe, because he didn't feel like your best friend. 

Or more like, he didn't want to be. And that was selfish. Gerard thought he could be satisfied with just being your best friend, but he wasn't. God, he just wasn't. 

-

2004, October

"Hey, I remember you mentioning that your coworker's wedding was gonna be next week in NY, right? We're having a show on the 26th if you wanna meet up after that."

The whole thing was the result of pure fortuity. Your coworker's wedding coincided with the band's performance, both in New York City, both in around the same area. You wouldn't be able to attend the actual show with preparing for the ceremony already in your schedule, which bummed Gerard a bit since this one would have been just them and not a part of a grander festival and it would probably be much cleaner, too, but what could he do about it?

Though, his mind did keep wondering, fantasizing about you being there throughout the whole show.

He even tried to put your face onto one of the audience members. One girl, she had your exact hair and an outfit that you'd probably wear, so Gerard unintentionally fixated on her for nearly the entire show. But he couldn't look at her for too long without realizing it really wasn't you but a random person since, when it really came down to it, the two of you looked nothing alike. 

Then, they played their last song, interacted with the crowd for a bit, lingered to hang out with the fans that'd sought them out after before officially departing and suddenly, all Gerard could do was focus on what he would do, what he would say— it had been three months since that incident in July, after all. The issue was "resolved" with a series of emails since he decided that was a much more professional setting for an apology.

Though, it wasn't like that apology meant anything when it was a lie.

Gerard made up this whole story about how Mikey had gotten very ill very fast because of some kind of virus— he was being vague on purpose— and how this made him so busy he couldn't check his phone. 

You understood, you even sent your condolences. 

His apology resulted in an apology from you, too. 

This could be a chance to make that all right, Gerard owed it to you, and he needed to have some accountability for himself, too.

Now, all he had to do was determine how much of the truth he would reveal. The whole thing? Gerard didn't know if he could do that. If he could ever do that. This was twelve years of friendship on the line, and for what? A stupid crush? 

Perhaps, revealing the whole truth would be selfish on his part. 

Even if you said yes, what after that? Gerard had never been in a long-term relationship before, and he knew above anything else that was what you deserved. A few, extremely sporadic dates summed up your love life throughout university, and you'd been too busy to go on what you described as "silly little dates" throughout your professional career. 

But he knew you wanted much more than that, even if you didn't talk about it too much. 

Could he provide that to you? He loved you, and that part was endless, but loving someone doesn't mean you're good to them. And he hadn't been good to you.

With that in mind, Gerard pulled his jacket over himself and zipped it to his chin, stalling for a moment as he lay still in the lobby of the theater. The time was half past midnight, the wedding you were at was probably wrapping up now - you took time to mention that it would go on for a while since this coworker was "the life of the party" and no exceptions would be made this day just because she was getting married.

Eventually, though, Gerard just slapped his hands against his cheeks and headed out before his nerves could stop him again. 

October weather tend to be harsh, but not piercing. Gerard knew what to expect since New York was basically Jersey's cousin and he'd been here more times than he could count. You as well. That got him wondering what you wore to this event, anyway. Something formal, obviously. A dress, most likely. 

The length would probably be a little past your knees or maybe a little above— Gerard bet on the latter being more likely— just nothing beyond or before that since you didn't like clothes dragging on the floor and you were quite particular about what you wore to where depending on the context. As for color, that could really be anything, just not white for obvious reasons— maybe a nice burgundy or forest green since it was fall.

By the time he was done wondering this, he was already at the venue. 

People were filing out, all dressed to the nines in various colors, cuts, and styles. It looked to be mostly vintage stuff, Gerard wondered if that could have been the dress code for the whole event.

Gerard tried looking for you in the crowd, the second time this would happen for the night which was a little amusing. Maybe he wasn't trying as hard as he should be, though, because he was still pretty off to the side and just searching with his eyes. He could just shout your name or go join the crowd to search directly, but he couldn't.

There it was again. He couldn't, so he didn't. 

Oh, god. Gerard gasped, curling over as his hands clasped his mouth. 

The fact that he was bound to see you again, in just a minute or a few seconds suddenly became too real. He didn't even know what he was going to say, he didn't prepare a script in his head or anything since he was too damn busy thinking about frivolous things like what you could be wearing and the weather as if any of that mattered. 

That's why he couldn't bring himself to seek you out properly. Gerard turned on his heel and began to flee the other way with his eyes glued to the ground and body swinging from side to side. Most of the wedding guests had begun to move past him, blending with the civilians.

Gerard wanted more than anything to just fall into this crowd and never return, or perhaps fall into a black hole which would only suck him in. Whatever it was, he wanted to disappear.

Someone bumped into him, "Sorry." He whispered, but speaking made him gag.

Another got caught against his shoulder like a shirt hooking onto a doorknob. They cursed him out, Gerard just took it because he was swaying way too much and felt way too nauseous to care.

Swallowing his saliva down, Gerard looked up for the first time and saw you. 

You were standing there, all intentionally, holding your purse in front of you with both hands. Gerard got the answer to his query at that moment - you were wearing a yellow dress, just past your knees as he'd predicted. Seeing you in one again was odd because the last time you wore anything of the sort was nine years ago, on your mother's lawn, during prom night.

But the dresses were not the same. The one you were wearing now was a pretty pastel, its design classically vintage with off-white lace on the collar, sleeves, and hem; whereas, on that night, it was all sparkle and shimmer with a handful of juvenile materials like tulle, silk, satin, and bits of chiffon. 

And on that night, giddy excitement was a constant hum in the near-summer air, Gerard felt like he was at the top of the world and you were smiling at him like he was the greatest thing you'd laid your eyes on. But in front of him, even though the sky was dark and the stars were illuminating like then, your expression was flat and your hands were clenching the straps of your purse tightly.

"Were you going to leave again?" You asked.

Somehow, despite the stream of people constantly passing by, it felt like it was only the two of you on this street tonight.

You took a step forward, "Answer me." 

And under your gaze, the one he would do anything for and the one he dreamed about so often, he crumbled and just grabbed onto your arms like he was about to collapse.

"I'm sorry." All Gerard could do was stammer.

You allowed him to cling onto you, even as he began to shake, and even when his breathing got labored. It was only after he started crying that you dragged him to the side, into an alleyway where the walls were littered with ads to locally owned cafes, promotions for the latest play, missing posters of everything from a young child with missing teeth to a fully grown adult who look like they'd been through hell. It smelled of everything unpleasant, everything one would expect from an alleyway in the dead center of New York - old piss, lingering sweat, and even blood. One could even taste all these things in their mouth if they stayed put long enough.

Gerard was holding onto you the whole way through as he sniffled, his eyes and nose quickly stinging when a breeze swung by. 

"I want the truth, Gerard," When you said his name, his real name, the indifferent attitude you were trying so hard to maintain cracked a bit as your next sentence came out as more of a plea than a demand. "You've been acting so weird since July. I don't know what's wrong, I don't know if you're mad or upset or anything because you won't talk to me. So, could you give me the truth?"

You put your hands over his, gentle as you always were, and slowly removed them from your arms before pushing him back slightly to force him to look at you head on.

Gerard was thankful that his tears blocked your face, or at least made it blurry enough that he couldn't make out your features.

"Gerard?"

"Yes?"

"Can you—" A pause. It sounded like you swallowed something, perhaps you were biting back the waterworks. "—Please give me an answer?" You sounded so unbelievably strained, like merely speaking was causing you so much pain.

Gerard was sure he could give you the world, but the one thing you wanted, which was the truth and his truth, was the exception. The one and only exception.

Because he wasn't ready, because he didn't want to ruin things, and because he didn't want to be selfish but keeping this from you was inherently selfish as well. 

So, Gerard wiped his tears so he could get a proper look at you for the first time this night. You were staring at him the whole time, and he'd taken so long to answer that you were silently tearing up. 

You were glistening, but in a way that was everything but "good". 

There was only one thing he wanted to say to you, and if he did, then this moment would have been every cliché in the world. And maybe he would have if he were a stronger man or if this story were fiction. But neither of those things were true so he captured all that he could— your lovely eyes in particular since conjuring them up in his mind was always especially hard. 

Maybe he should have done this before, Gerard realized he'd taken that day in July for granted since that would be the last time you would look at him with regard. 

Your eyes as of now were lost of color, only glistening because of the tears and the cheap streetlamp. Everything else was dull, perhaps you'd realized what he'd do.

And what Gerard would do, was to leave. It was a calm departure, one which left you there in the alleyway, still as a statue as he fled. You didn't chase, and he left with silence in his wake.

Because the pain of leaving you unanswered would forever hurt less than leaving you with "I love you". 

[cvldbones]

do you have any hcs or a drabble (idk what they’re called, tidbit?) of mel having a breakdown/sensitivity thing and carers fatigue and the pitt coworkers being there for her until frank gets there or something like that?

this is sort of what you asked for? hope ya enjoy anyway! || read on ao3

Dana watches it happen from outside the room, phone pressed to her ear. "EMS two minutes out," she calls to no one in particular.

Trauma 1 is bustling: Mel and McKay moving around each other with seamless, practiced motions; Samira providing Garcia with the history; Robby monitoring in the corner, arms folded over his chest, randomly throwing out questions that one of the three residents answers without blinking. His nod in terse but pleased, which Dana only recognizes from the decade-plus she's known him.

It's been a shitty fucking day. Some drunk asshole drove his car straight through a playground, and the past two hours has been a mad dash of tiny chest tubes and soothing the frantic parents. Dana swears she can still hear the blood-curdling scream of one mother whose four-year-old was DOA, her body tiny and broken on the gurney. She was so small. It was all Dana could see.

Maybe that's why she didn't notice until now. The way Mel is holding herself very, very still as Garcia guides the gurney out the back of the trauma room. The way her eyes seem to glaze over the second there's not a patient to whom she can attend.

The way she collapses on the floor, still-gloved palms smacking against the tile, like her legs just couldn't hold her up anymore.

Dana curses, slamming the receiver down and sprinting over to Trauma 1. Samira and McKay are already kneeling by Mel's side, the former holding her shoulder with a firm grip while the latter is asking questions, shining a pen light in her eyes. Mel isn't reacting to any of it, and she isn't blinking, gaze wide and stagnant behind her glasses.

There's blood all over the gown. Some of it's on her cheek. Jesus, Dana thinks. One of those fucking days.

"Mel, can you stand for me?" Samira asks quietly, and when her friend doesn't respond, she glances up at Dana and Robby nervously, biting down on her lip. "I don't want to move her without - "

"Yeah, no, that's a good call," Robby says. His voice is tense, that problem-solving tone he employs when he's trying very hard to keep a level head. Dana reaches out to squeeze his elbow on instinct, and he relaxes a little, flashing her a tight smile.

He chews the inside of his cheek for a second as he holds her gaze. They're thinking the same thing, she's pretty sure, though she's wondering if he's going to let his stubbornness win out today.

"Get Langdon," he says, and Dana sighs in relief.

She nods, slipping out of the trauma bay and whipping the curtain around as she goes. "Don't you have some fuckin' work to do?" she snaps at the folks unsubtly craning their necks for a peek. "Fuckin' vultures."

She walks briskly down to the South corridor, poking her head behind the curtain where Langdon is reciting aftercare instructions to one of the fathers whose son sustained little more than a broken ankle. A goddamn miracle.

He glances over his shoulder at her, forehead creasing at whatever he sees in her face. Turning back to the patient, he says, "You'll come back in a few weeks to get the cast removed." The little boy has tear-tracks on his face and keeps sniffling, but he offers a small smile in response, rubbing at his eye in that distinctly toddler fashion. "A nurse will be by for discharge soon," he promises the father.

He nods at Dana and follows her outside the room, crossing his arms in a defensive stance. It makes something twinge in her chest, that little spot of sentimentality for the cocky kid who wandered into PTMC five years ago. She wonders when he'll come back. When he'll stop feeling like they're all out to get him.

"What's up?" he asks.

She keeps her voice steady. Controlled. "We need you in Trauma 1."

He frowns but doesn't argue as he follows her back that direction. "Weren't Mel, Samira, and Cassie in there? Why do - "

"We just need you," she said simply, casting her eyes around the floor. Folks are still blatantly staring at the curtained-off room, and Langdon notices, his jaw tensing the closer they get.

"Dana, what - "

She leads him into the room, opening the curtain just enough for him to slip inside. His eyes don't catch on anything except Mel, her back now pressed firmly against the wall, breath coming in short gasps.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hastening to her side and crouching in front of her, hands on her knees. "Mel, you okay?"

Cassie and Samira back away slowly. Mel is staring at him, her face crumpling as she lets out a broken little whimper, and Dana actually sees Langdon flinch, the noise shuddering through his own body.

"I'm not gonna say I told you so," he murmurs. "I'm going to be really nice and not do that, even though I told you it was a bad idea to come in when you hadn't fuckin' slept - "

"I needed to be here," she says, voice hoarse. Langdon scoffs.

"No, you absolutely did not. You're allowed to take days off, Mel. Especially on days like this."

Her eyes shutter, and he reaches a hand forward to ghost along her cheek, tilting her to look at him again. Dana feels almost indecent watching this. She's not sure they're even aware other people are still in the room.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Let me take you home, hm?"

Has Frank Langdon ever sounded that fucking gentle? Dana's heard him talking to his wife on the phone, and even when he says love you, babe, it doesn't sound that sweet.

Mel blinks at him. "Okay," she says. Langdon's entire body relaxes. "Okay."

He glances up, meeting Dana's eyes, and - oh. Trouble, she thinks. That's what's happening here.

[gigiii1sblog]

I LOVE YOU, IM SORRY 014

Chapter Fourteen: Losin Control

warning: fluff, angst, sexual content, and more that I don't.

Y/N: A Couple Weeks Later

Time didn’t pass the same after it happened.

I couldn’t tell you what day it was. Couldn’t tell you the last time I ate something that didn’t come from a delivery box or a bowl of cereal I didn’t finish.

The apartment was still a disaster.

Shards of that broken vase glinted like stars on the kitchen tile.

The walls were bare, nails still sticking out like they were holding up ghosts.

The couch was buried in the hoodie’s he left, the one’s I swore I wouldn’t touch again, but wore three nights ago just to feel something that didn’t ache.

I hadn’t touched the stuffed animals on the floor.

They looked like witnesses.

I didn’t touch the frames either.

I couldn’t.

I barely touched myself.

Didn’t shower.

Didn’t brush my hair.

Didn’t cry anymore, either. The tears had dried up, but the pain hadn’t. It just sat there. Stagnant. Heavy in my chest like water in lungs.

I laid on my bed, face pressed to a pillow that didn’t smell like him anymore.

I don’t even think I blinked.

Just stared into the nothing.

Until I heard it.

A knock.

Soft.

Two times. Then again.

I stayed still.

Maybe if I didn’t move, they’d go away.

But then I heard his voice.

“It’s me. Chris.”

A pause.

“I thought… you might need some company.”

I sat up slowly.

Every bone felt like it creaked.

I padded barefoot to the door.

Looked through the peephole.

It really was him.

Chris, hoodie on, curls messy, bags in both hands, one with what looked like a pizza box, the other a brown paper grocery sack.

I didn’t speak when I opened the door.

He looked at me like he had already heard the story, not just what happened, but what it felt like.

He looked at me like I was bleeding and he could see the wound.

He didn’t say sorry.

Didn’t ask how I was.

Didn’t offer any clichés.

Just stepped in and held up the bags.

“I got snacks. And ice cream. And that pizza you like, the three meats one.“

I cracked.

Not all the way. Not a full sob.

But something inside me shifted just enough to make space for the kindness.

“You didn’t have to come,” I whispered, voice raw from a week of silence.

Chris shrugged. His eyes scanned the apartment slowly.

He didn’t flinch at the mess.

Didn’t make a comment.

“Yeah,” he said, setting everything on the kitchen counter, stepping around the glass.

“But I wanted to.”

We sat on the floor.

Not the couch. Not the bed. Just the floor.

Because the couch still felt like him. And the bed felt like a grave.

So we sat in this middle space, me cross-legged in an old t-shirt, and Chris next to me, folding pizza slices into halves before he bit into them like it was some kind of ritual.

The living room was dim. One lamp on in the corner. The TV off. No distractions, no noise.

Except his phone.

He pressed play on a playlist, quiet. Something slow, warm. Familiar.

Losin Control by Russ bled into the silence.

Smooth. Soft.

It felt too perfect. Like the lyrics were made for the ache in my chest.

“All she ever got was broken hearted, He was cheating on her tryna' flip it”

Chris chewed quietly for a second, then glanced at me.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in days,” he said. Not judging. Just stating a fact.

I gave a faint shrug. Picked at a slice. Took a bite just to prove him wrong, even though he was right.

“You know,” he said slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans, “I’m not great at this kind of stuff. Like… comforting people.”

“You’re doing fine.”

He looked at me again. Long enough to read past the lie.

“You don’t have to be okay yet,” he said. “Just so you know.”

I swallowed hard.

The pizza felt heavy in my throat.

“It’s not even the cheating,” I murmured, voice small, cracking. “It’s that I thought he loved me. I really, really thought…”

Chris reached into his pocket. Pulled out a small baggie and his lighter.

“Wanna smoke?”

I blinked at him.

Then, without answering, just nodded.

Because I didn’t want to numb it.

I just wanted to feel something else for a while.

He lit the joint. Took a slow drag. Passed it to me.

I inhaled too fast. Coughed. He didn’t laugh, just nudged the pizza box closer so I could drink from a soda can.

The weed settled in quick.

The music hummed lower. The apartment felt lighter somehow.

“She fell for him and hasn't gotten' up since”

“He’s an idiot,” Chris said suddenly. “I don’t care how drunk he was. You don’t do that. Not to someone who’d throw you a damn party and call it love.”

I looked over at him.

His profile was sharp in the low light, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, jaw tense.

“You’ve always stood by me… even when he’s your brother.” I said, a little smile tugging at my lips.

Chris snorted.

“I just saw things you didn’t.”

A pause.

“But I get it. When you love someone that hard… it’s like you’re blind by choice.”

I stared at the floor, glass shards still glinting near the wall like tiny stars fallen from a sky that doesn’t exist anymore.

“I thought we’d get married someday,” I whispered. “Have kids. Grow old. I used to picture us in rocking chairs, yelling at our grandkids to stop jumping on the couch.”

Chris was quiet.

Then:

“You’ll still get that. Just… not with someone who would throw it away like he did.”

I took another hit. Let it sit in my lungs.

Let the tears sting but not fall.

“I don’t want to start over.”

“You don’t have to. Just start with tonight.”

We fell into a silence again, one that wasn’t heavy.

Not like the one that lived in my chest all week.

This one was calm.

Chris leaned back on his hands, head tilted against the couch, eyes closed.

I followed suit. Laid down on the floor. Felt the music curl around me like a blanket.

“Thanks for coming,” I mumbled.

He didn’t say you’re welcome.

He just passed the joint back to me.

And for the first time in a week,

I breathed in something that didn’t feel like heartbreak.

⸻

The ashtray was full.

The pizza was gone.

The couch felt warm from where Chris had been sitting.

We’d smoked, talked about nothing, talked about everything. Mostly nothing.

I liked it that way, the kind of silence that didn’t press on your chest, didn’t ask you to explain your sadness like it was something fixable.

Chris had that kind of presence.

Safe.

Quiet.

Teasing me just enough to remind me I still had a pulse.

When he stood up, I thought he was leaving. But instead, he stretched, yawned like a dad on vacation, and looked around the mess of my apartment.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands. “Get up. I’m not letting you live like a tragic indie movie anymore.”

“No,” I groaned. “I like it here. My depression and I are nesting.”

“Yeah, well, your nest smells like expired takeout and regret.”

“Exactly.”

“Up,” he repeated, offering his hand.

I stared at it. Then at him.

He raised a brow like he was daring me to argue.

So I took it.

He pulled me up gently, and I swore the second our hands touched, I felt… steadier.

We started with the trash. Then the wrappers. The dried flowers that had been taped to the walls, Valentine’s Day bouquets that had turned from sweet to symbolic of how things with Matt had decayed without me noticing.

Chris held one up.

“This is terrifying. Are you doing witchcraft in here?”

“They were romantic once.”

“So were vampires.”

He teased me the whole time, called my mop a weapon of war, complained about the pink fuzzy socks he nearly slipped on, gagged when he found an old Starbucks cup with something “alive” in it.

“Are you collecting science experiments now?”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“This is abuse.”

“This is friendship.”

Eventually, the apartment started to breathe again.

I went to take a shower while he put on music, something low, a Mac Miller song humming in the background like it knew we both needed a little softness.

Under the hot water, I stood with my hands against the wall, forehead resting there like the pressure could drain the ache from my body.

I cried. Quietly. Not because I was weak, but because it was the first time I felt okay enough to.

When I came out, towel wrapped tight around me and hoodie slung over my shoulder, I found Chris sitting cross-legged on my couch with two bowls of ice cream and a movie paused at the opening credits.

“You’re still here?”

“You act like I’m not a delight.”

I rolled my eyes and dropped beside him, drying my hair with the towel.

“The couch smells like you,” I muttered.

“So? You tryna say something?”

“No,” I lied.

“Didn’t think so,” he smirked.

We sat in silence for a moment, both eating straight from the bowls.

“You gonna tell me what you’re thinking?” he asked eventually.

I hesitated.

“I keep wondering if he’ll even be a good dad. He couldn’t even love me right.”

Chris leaned back, resting his head on the couch cushion. He stared at the ceiling for a second before speaking.

“I think he might surprise you,” he said. “People get weird when a baby’s involved. Sometimes they grow the hell up. Sometimes they don’t. I hope he does.”

He looked over at me.

“For the kid’s sake. And for yours.”

“I hope so too,” I said softly.

“You deserve peace,” he added. “Even if it’s not with him. Even if it’s just you and your 47 decorative throw pillows.”

I laughed.

“There’s only like… 39.”

“Still too many. But you make it work.”

We both smiled. And it stayed there. Longer than it should’ve.

“You’re pretty when you’re not crying, by the way,” he said.

“You’re annoying when you flirt.”

“Who’s flirting?” he grinned. “I’m just being observant.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“You’ve always been family,” he added quickly, but his voice dipped a little lower, like maybe he wasn’t totally sure what that meant anymore.

The air shifted. Just a little.

“You’re gonna be an uncle,” I whispered.

He looked down at his bowl, played with the spoon.

“Yeah,” he said. “Kinda surreal.”

“Do you think… I don’t know. Do you think you’ll be good at it?”

He glanced at me again.

“I think I’ll show up. That’s more than Matt did for you.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

That lump in my throat was back.

But before it could swell into tears again, Chris nudged my foot with his.

“You should be proud of yourself,” he said. “You’re still standing.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

We sat like that for a long time. Watching the movie without really watching it.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, I felt something close to safe.

Maybe not healed.

But safe.

And right now, that was enough.

⸻

Chris gave me a long hug before he left. The kind that wraps around you like a weighted blanket. No rush, no awkward pat on the back, no words filling the silence. Just arms around me, steady, warm, real.

“Text me if you need anything,” he murmured into my hair.

I nodded against his chest.

“Seriously,” he added, pulling back to meet my eyes. “Anything.”

Then he slipped a little baggie into the drawer by the TV.

“For when the silence gets too loud,” he said with a lopsided smile.

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him like the end of a song.

I stood in the middle of my apartment, now cleaned and strangely quiet, like it didn’t know what to do without someone else’s voice echoing in it. The silence pressed in again, like a weighted hand on my chest. I didn’t cry this time. I just stood there. Still.

Y/N: A Couple Days Later

It’s been a couple days since that night.

I’ve gone outside, I’ve gone places, the grocery store, a walk by the water, even drove up to that cliff where Matt used to smoke. But his absence was everywhere. Like fog on a windshield, a song on low volume in the back of a room. Lingering, unavoidable.

There was a time I couldn’t go five minutes without hearing from him. And now?

Now, I didn’t even know what time he woke up.

I sat on the edge of my bed with the TV playing something I wasn’t watching, my phone buzzing with people I didn’t want to talk to. My apartment still smelled like lavender and stale takeout. The tattoo under my rib was healed, the ink dark and permanent.

The ache, though?

Still raw.

I used to dream about what our baby would look like.

Not because we were planning it. Just because I loved him that much.

Because I thought that kind of love had to build into something bigger than us eventually.

Maybe she’d have my hair, his eyes. Maybe she’d be loud like Nick and Chris or shy like Matt used to be. Maybe she’d call him “daddy” and he’d soften at the sound. Maybe he’d kiss her forehead and say he never knew love until her.

Now?

He’s having that future with someone else. A stranger.

She’s giving him a baby, and I’m left holding scraps of dreams I can’t glue back together.

And it’s not just that he cheated. It’s not just that he lied.

It’s that I wanted a version of him that never existed.

It’s that I used to imagine holding our baby in my arms and praying they had his blue eyes.

Now I can’t even look in the mirror without wondering what wasn’t enough in mine.

How do you unlove someone when the love is sewn into everything?

The towels, the songs, the takeout orders, the movies paused halfway, the toothbrush still in the drawer?

I curl up on the couch, blanket over my head like maybe if I can’t see the world, it can’t see how broken I am.

But even here, with the blinds drawn and the world muted, he’s still everywhere.

MATT:

I never thought this would be my life.

Sitting in a waiting room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, my knee bouncing while a girl I barely know flips through a pregnancy pamphlet like it’s a magazine.

Her name’s Avery.

She’s… nice, I guess. Kind of quiet. She curls her hair in the mornings and wears rings on all her fingers. Laughs with her whole mouth but not her eyes. She talks about her mom a lot. About how scared she is to become one. I can’t blame her.

We’ve been texting. Talking. She’s been coming over more often, not in a romantic way. More like… obligation. Like we’re on the same sinking ship and we’re pretending we know how to swim.

Today’s the ultrasound.

She’s 9 weeks. I didn’t think I’d be the guy sitting in a dimmed room, watching black-and-white grainy movement on a screen while someone calls me Dad.

But here I am.

When the nurse placed the wand against her stomach and the sound of the heartbeat filled the room, my breath caught in my throat.

It was real.

There’s a baby. A little spine, a little flickering light. My baby.

I tried to feel proud. I tried to feel something good.

But the first thing that came to mind?

“YN would’ve cried if she heard that heartbeat.”

She used to say she wanted our kid to have my eyes.

She used to kiss the underside of my wrist and say, “These hands are gonna hold everything I love.”

And I threw it away.

Nick won’t look at me.

Chris said nothing for three days, then told me to “man the fuck up” and hasn’t spoken to me since. I hear him talking to Yn on the phone sometimes from the next room. He lowers his voice, but I know it’s her. I hear how soft he gets. It makes something ugly burn in my chest.

I miss her.

God, I miss her.

Not just her body or her laugh or how she used to kiss my cheek without reason.

I miss her being mine. I miss the quiet things, the way she folded my shirts, how she always left the bathroom light on when I’d get home late so I didn’t walk into the wall.

I keep hoping she’ll text me. Yell at me again. Something. Anything.

But silence is worse than hate.

And every day that passes, I think she’s letting go, and I don’t blame her.

Because I’m here, trying to learn the favorite color of the girl I cheated with.

Trying to figure out if I’m supposed to go to every appointment, if I should help decorate the nursery, if I’ll love this baby like I should.

But all I can think about… is the baby I’ll never have with the girl I actually loved.

⸻

I wasn’t supposed to hear it.

I was just coming out to grab something, left my phone on the table, figured they were just smoking, talking shit the way they always do when they think no one’s around. But the second I stepped onto the deck, I heard my name. My fuck-up. My mistake turned permanent.

And I froze.

Nick’s voice cut through the dark.

“You really think he even gets what he did?”

Chris didn’t answer right away. Just that long, tense pause. The kind that says everything before he even speaks.

“He thinks he does,” Chris muttered. “But he doesn’t. Not the way she felt it.”

I felt like I was underwater. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Nick sounded angry. Shaky. I hadn’t seen him like that in years.

“She loved him so fucking much, dude.”

My throat closed up.

“She planned a fucking birthday party just to make him feel special. And he was—”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. My stomach turned.

Chris took a drag of his joint. His voice came out quieter. Like it hurt to say.

“I heard her crying through the wall the night she left.”

And suddenly I was back there too.

The door slamming. The echo in the hallway. The sound of her sobbing in her throat like she was trying not to die from it.

“She kept asking me me before the party,” Nick said, softer now. “if she looked pretty. She was so excited.”

My chest caved in.

Chris didn’t say anything for a second. Then, low, sharp:

“She was gonna give that boy forever. And he gave her a fucking scar.”

I felt like throwing up.

They weren’t trying to hurt me. They were just being honest.

And that was worse.

Nick’s voice cracked.

“I don’t even know how to look at him anymore. He’s just walking around like everything’s fine. Buying baby books. Picking out cribs. He should be picking up the pieces. Her pieces.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I hadn’t told them about the ultrasound. About how I felt holding that blurry little print in my hand. About how all I could think about was Yn, how she would’ve cried. How she would’ve kissed the photo and whispered something about our baby having my blue eyes.

Chris’s voice came again, low but lethal.

“He ruined the only person who ever truly loved him.”

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

Nick threw the joint, the hiss of it dying in the grass below.

“If she never talks to him again, it still wouldn’t be enough punishment.”

And then Chris again, like a punch straight to the ribs:

“He doesn’t get to cry about the one that got away when he’s the one who set the fire.”

I turned around before I could hear more. Walked back inside on numb legs. Closed the door soft so they wouldn’t know I’d heard.

And I just stood there.

In the silence I made for myself.

Holding onto the fact that they were right.

Every word of it.

please ignore any mistakes 😭

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁ੈ❀

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@matthewswifeyy @blindedheartp

@chrissfavoritecherry

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@watercolorskyy

[andbie]

SPIKE! shot

maeda riku smau !!

18. dumb and dumber (half written)

warnings :: cursing, mentions of pms, lying, flirting, dumb and dumber antics

wc :: 932

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

one day was fine. two days? quite doable. three days? he might rip his hair out.

he doesn’t know what to do. you haven’t checked his messages for three days straight, maybe it’s the type of sickness where you can’t look at your phone because you might barf?

quite the overthinker he can be.

at least he kept himself occupied with taking down notes, notes he won’t even use. but, you would use.

right now he’s at a convenience store, grabbing what he could remember is your “comfort food” from when you guys went on a picnic by han river.

he even bought a box of canales you would always buy when you guys do research by that cafe across your campus.

dumb.

he leaves the convenience store, and he walks with reason, determination. his heart pounding as hard as it could, next thing he knows? he’s in front of your door, recalling memories from the night he had to take care of you, when you were drunk.

he rings the doorbell, twice, and he swears he could feel himself sweating already.

“riku?”

you open your door, to see a riku, cradling plastic bags against his chest, his eyes shining out of worry.

“hey y/n, i got really worried and so i thought i should stop by and give you medicine and food, i mean i don’t really know what’s wrong since you haven’t replied back to any of my messages so!! i got you your comfort food and the canales you really like at the cafe.”

you stare at him, your grip on your door loosening as you listen to his fast words, you almost didn’t catch the words he’s saying. you lower your gaze to the plastics, and sure enough, you see snacks, drinks, a cute box from the cafe.

“you didn’t have to…” you muttered, “come in, you can’t stand there all day long.”

he enters your dorm, your couch messed up with blankets and wrinkles, your dining table filled with take outs, though everything else still tidied up.

“sorry about the mess, i haven’t had the energy to clean up much.” you scratch the back of your neck, you cannot believe riku is seeing you like this. first when you were drunk, now when you’re being the most miserable as you can be.

and he’s been there both times to look out for you.

you have zero idea if he’s the last person you want to see, or the first person you want to see. maybe both.

“so uhm…” riku places down the plastic bags on the dining table, realizing he did not think this far ahead. “are you sick y/nnie?”

there’s no way you can tell him the truth, but what kind of lie can you even use? “just bad pms.” you lied, and he looks confused as ever.

“pms? what’s that?” he asks, already horrified of what it could be.

“just—cramps. yeah cramps.” you answered, you really didn’t want to explain the whole pms thing to him right now, it’s already awkward as it is.

he nods at your explanation, “well you should sit down, before you get hurt any further.” he grabs the box of canales, walking up to you, to force you to sit down on your couch.

maybe you should have told him to leave, especially since he’s the reason why you’re just lounging in your dorm. him and your feelings for him.

he places down the box of canales in your coffee table, sits down next to you and pulled out his notebook, it looks brand new, but it’s been sitting in his bag since the semester began.

“here, i messaged you yesterday that i’ve been taking down notes during class for you,” he opens the notebook, and sure enough there are notes, first page already filled with letters down to the last line.

“we’ve been learning about this dude uhm…. sigmund freud? yeah that’s how you pronounce his name,” he goes on and on about what the professor has been teaching over the past three days, and for once you’re not listening to the lesson or notes.

you’re just looking at him, noticing how his voice gets raspy every last word of a sentence, the beads of sweat on his temple, how his smile softens when he takes a quick glance at you, how he’s trying his best to pronounce sigmund freud’s name.

“…and that’s about it, i hope you got all that.” he finishes talking about his notes, he looks up at you, “well you’re the top one, i know you got all of it.” he winks, and you roll your eyes.

“you sure know how to ruin a moment, kuri.” you reply, your mouth stuffed with the french delicacy he brought for you.

“and you don’t have manners, didn’t your mom tell you not to talk when your mouth is full?” he retorted, relaxing fully on the couch, his arms spread out on the back of the couch, the smoothest yet cliche way to have your arms around someone.

of course you noticed, you feel his hand ghosting above your shoulder, but you just thought he’s the type to have his arms spread out at the back of couches.

and dumber.

“when are you going home, riku?” you asked, looking at him, his side profile, you wish you could just look at him forever, no more problems in life if that’s the case.

“when you kick me out, pretty.” he replies, his eyebrows moving up and down, and you throw a pillow at him.

“you look like a pervert.”

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

prev | masterlist | next

andbie time !! : this is making me giggle so much, also i have a yushi fic idea but idk if i shld make it while im still making this..... AND OFC HAPPY RYO DAY!!!!

taglist ( closed !! ) :: @hahaechans @mandylip @kswluvrr @kkyeoji @bloomingwish @renisprobablyonthetoilet @tae2an @sunhyeswife @dudekiss3r @seesinblur @titsoutformrk @jisungnewhottie @sooohey @yvshi @saranghoeforanton @7snse @n9vacane @linzzn @jungwonbropls @iluvparkgunwook @svzannqq @dearmynayeon @wiishies

[zweiginator]

Thinking of a version of Patrick that is nerdy and quiet—he wasn’t popular in middle or high school and nobody really paid any attention to him. He graduated at the top of his class, 4 inches shorter than he is now, with a tennis scholarship at an Ivy League school. He never told anyone; he wasn’t into bragging and nobody would care anyway. He was mostly going to Brown for the education.

And the first three summers in college, Patrick comes home and it’s normal. He gets a job as a research assistant with a professor his father knows and practices tennis every afternoon.

You remember Patrick, vaguely. He had crooked teeth, sheathed by bluish braces. He was of average height and average build and the only thing that wasn’t average about him was his intelligence, and apparently, his tennis skills.

Maybe you knew he was on the tennis team deep down, but you were too focused on more popular boys. The ones whose braces were already off, who flirted with you between classes.

But it’s not until your mother decides your little brother needs a tutor for his ACT that patrick re-enters your orbit.

A knock at your door. Your mom left a note, explaining the situation.

You remember Patrick right? Patrick Zweig. He’s helping your brother with his ACT studying. He’ll be here around 11. Please make sure he leaves with cash and eats lunch.

Patrick Zweig. God, you forgot about him. And you open the door, somewhat expecting that scrawny seventeen-year-old you had seen last.

You forgot you were in your twenties now. And you forgot how to talk too, because patrick stood in front of you with wire rim glasses low on his nose, presumably from the beads of sweat that fell from his brow. He held a binder, messy with papers. Tattered edges were crumpled against his chest and it was clear he rushed to get here, which was strange, since it was only 10:45.

“P-patrick?” You stumbled your words and instinctively grew red in the face. He did too.

You didn’t remember him being 6’2, and you didn’t remember gorgeous brown curls framing a freckled face like that. Green irises and long, long legs. Muscular too, you could see a toned stomach as he lifted his arm to push his glasses up.

“Hey, I’m, uh here for the—“

You interrupted him. “The tutoring, yeah.”

You didn’t know if your brother was even awake yet. In fact, the house was eerily silent. Maybe Patrick could hear how your heart was beating. Part of you craved alone time with him while your brother got ready, part of you wanted him to run down the stairs and save you because god—you weren’t expecting this.

You were wearing baggy sweatpants, a giant t-shirt your ex boyfriend gave you. Faded Greek letters splayed across your braless chest and you immediately crossed your arms to cover it.

“You’re early.”

“Oh, i am? I’m sorry, I thought I lost track of time, I was at tennis practice or else Id be dressed more professionally.”

Patrick walked into the house.

“No—no, don’t apologize, I should be, um, dressed a little more appropriately. But feel free to make yourself at home. I’ll get my brother up.”

You all but stumbled up the stairs to knock on your brother’s door, when your phone buzzed. It was on the coffee table, right across from Patrick, who sat neatly on the middle of the sofa. He shouldn’t have done it; it was almost instinctual to read your text. It just popped up.

2 messages.

Y/N.

Just saw Patrick Zweig at the tennis courts. Holy fuck he got hot. Rebound?

[dollyzdaydreamz]

sam winchester x cupid struck! reader

lovesick

description: a cursed cupid’s arrow strikes you mid-hunt, leaving you desperately, obsessively in love with Sam. at first, it’s manageable…until it isn’t. your innocent affection spirals into fixation and your mind frays. Sam is forced to confront the terrifying reality that your trying to kill him��out of love.

genre: creepy • violence • obsession • fluff • 4k words

spn masterlist

You don’t notice the sting right away.

The day is hot, the kind of dry summer heat that sinks into your spine and makes your boots feel heavier than usual. The three of you had been canvassing behind a victim’s property, some rust-colored farmhouse just outside of Liberal, Kansas, chasing the latest lead in a strange string of crimes that Dean insisted reeked of “Cupid shenanigans.”

You’re halfway through crunching across brittle weeds when something flickers. Not in front of you, but inside you. A brief pinch on your left breast, too quick to make sense of. You reach up, scratch at the spot absently, but it’s gone.

Then Sam speaks.

Just a simple, casual question aimed at Dean about the witness timeline, but his voice echoes. Rattles in your brain and fills every corner with warmth and familiarity. 

You blink.

And suddenly everything feels off-kilter, like the wind has gone too quiet, like the sky has dimmed a shade too early, tinged a shade of hazy pink.

But Sam... Sam is the only thing that’s still sharp in your vision. Clearer than he should be. His mock FBI suit stretched across the wide expanse of his shoulders. The way his hair curls against his neck in the heat.

The few sweatdroplets clinging to his sideburns and around his temples. 

The exact pattern of scruff on his jaw.

Your heart knocks once against your ribs, its speedy pulse fills your eardrums, hard.

You must be tired. That’s all. You’ve been on edge all week. Travel, interviews, another motel that smelled like mildew and carpet cleaner. Maybe you’re just grateful. 

Grateful for his anchor-like presence. 

For the way he always walks slightly behind you in unfamiliar areas, like a silent promise he’s watching your back.

Yeah. That’s it. __

“Hey, you good?”

You jolt at the sound of his voice again. You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing outside the car, staring into the open sky like a sleepwalker.

Sam stands in front of you with a bottle of water, brows drawn slightly. You think he must’ve just come out of the gas station, but it felt like he’d been gone for…ages. 

What if he forgot something and goes back inside, then you’d have to wait all alone here, again. 

Without so much as a second though, you wrap your arms around his waist and tuck your face into his chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” you murmur, muffled against him.

He freezes a little before rubbing your back soothingly. “I... I did. Through the window.”

You tug his jacket unconsciously. “But I didn’t hear you.”

There’s a pause, like he’s trying to work something out.

You don’t move. Why should you? It feels better like this, anchored. The waves of uneasiness crashing against the shoreline of your stomach and inside your chest eases a little.

The bells of gas station door ring again and Dean steps out, nursing an arm full of snacks. 

He whistles under his breath. “Clingy much?”

But you don’t care. Sam is here. Sam is fine.

But when he gently pulls back and forces a soft smile, gaze flitting around your lovesick face under scrunched eyebrows, something about it feels distant. __

You start noticing little changes, but they all feel... good.

You just need to see Sam, that’s all. 

So you sit there beside him on the motel desk, taking in the veins in his hands as he flips through an old lore book, the bend of his thumb tapping against the hardcover, the way his eyes narrow when he’s thinking, the slight shift in his shoulders when he catches something useful.

“Well, it says here an evil Cupid could corrupt a heart, causing it to blur the lines between love and violence…” 

Every time he talks, you feel like someone’s muted the rest of the world. 

Even Dean’s gruff yammering becomes muffled, dim, distant in comparison to the honeyed words coming out of Sam's pink lips.

You want to be near him.

Not to hear what it is he has to say, but feel the vibrations of his vocal cords as he spills whatever’s occupying that big beautiful brain of his. 

So you shift, scootching closer from your seat next to him.

Close. 

Closer.

Until your head rests against his shoulder, jaw agape as he talks away, ignorant to the short concerned glances he sends down in the midst of it all. 

You laugh a little, classic Sammy. Always so worried.

It’s so cute how he worries about you like that. 

Only you.  

Maybe he thinks something’s wrong. 

But nothing's wrong, no. It doesn’t feel wrong. If anything, it feels overdue.

Later he gives you that same look, confusion riddled those his dewy eyes when you trail behind him from room to room in the motel. 

Then again, when your hand shoots out to deathgrip his shirt when he opens the door to go grab ice. 

What if something happens to him? What if he walks out and never comes back because a filthy demon like Meg comes back and takes him?

He sighs, giving you a slow look when you grab his sleeve for the third time that hour.

“I’m just stepping into the hallway,” he says carefully, leaning down a bit to meet your dilated eyes.

You shrug and huff like he’s the one being irrational here. “I know. I just didn’t want to lose track of you, that’s all.”

His mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. __

Later that day, you're sitting in the corner of a small-town diner booth while Sam interviews one of the victims. 

Your cheek rests against your knuckle as you stare across the room, eyes locked on him.

He’s talking again, explaining timelines, asking about emotional shifts, behavioral red flags.

“W-well it was like he was…obsessed with me, but he wanted to hurt me at the same time—” the victim sputtered. 

You barely register the weeping woman’s answer. All you see is the way Sam’s brows furrow over his glistening eyes in sympathy, how calm he stays, how much he cares. You feel full just watching him. 

Full and empty at the same time. 

Like if he looked at you with those eyes, everything would feel complete again.

Someone waves a hand in front of your face.

Dean.

Of course.

“Yo,” he mutters. “Googly eyes, you in there?”

You blink slowly. “Huh?”

He scoffs, “You were staring like he’s a damn steak. Creeped the lady out.”

You glance at the loser woman he was talking about across from Sam, she looks uncomfortable. Sam, meanwhile, is giving you a strange sidelong glance.

You try to smile. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

Dean doesn’t look convinced. 

Neither does Sam. __

The car ride to Bobby’s is quiet at first.

As always, Dean drives while Sam navigates.

You should be in the backseat, that’s usually your spot, but the thought of being that far away from Sam makes that gnawing feeling in your chest worse.

Instead, you slide into the front beside him before Dean can stop you.

You hook your arms gently around Sam’s left arm, resting your head against his shoulder as he squints down at the map in his large hands.

It amazes you how quick he is to understand the myriad of roadways. 

“You’re the best at reading maps,” you murmur as he goes over the directions.

Dean scoffs. 

Sam pauses then huffs a little. “Uh... thanks I–guess?”

“Hm…You’re always so focused.” 

He gives you a strained smile.

Dean’s voice is dry. “Okay, that’s it. She’s tagged.”

“Tagged?” Sam furrows his brow, “What like—Cupid tagged?”  

“She’s freakin’ drooling all over you!” Dean grimaces. 

“What?” you ask, wiping at your agape mouth, “What do you mean?”

Sam gives Dean a warning look, before slowly unhooking your fingers from his bicep. “Nothing, sweetheart. We’re just...bouncing around theories, y’know?”

The way they’re looking at you makes your stomach twist, not because you feel wrong, but because they seem so far away all of a sudden. 

Like they’re behind a glass wall.

You glare at the hand Sam used to unfurl your fingers, as though they’d committed the act on their own accord.

You don’t want distance. You want Sam. __

Bobby’s place usually smells like engine oil, old paper, and refuge, but all of that crap is masked under Sam's scent. 

Warm, soapy, and woodsy.

At dinner, Sam finally manages to peel his sore lips away from yours, gently coaxing you off his lap, promising that he’ll cuddle so long as you eat something that isn't his face. Dean’s got his head dipped down, swallowing every morsel as always. Sam only pokes at the stale takeout, shooting careful glances your way, worried you’d flip the switch and become murderous any second.

Dean taps Sam’s arm mid-sentence, reaching across the table to grab the salt, and that's all it takes. 

Sam feels you stiffen beside him. He glances your way, hoping he imagined it.

But then he sees your hooded eyes shooting daggers at Dean, at Bobby, then back down again. He jolts a little when the knife and fork in your hands jam into your food with a little more aggression than you intend to. 

Dean chuckles in disbelief. “What? You’ gonna throw hands because I brushed his shoulder?”

You don’t answer. You don’t blink. You just keep cutting into your food with all the tenderness of a buzz saw.

Bobby gives Sam a knowing look.

You’re still staring, not at Dean, but at Sam, like your thoughts are miles away. 

And Sam has no idea where you’ve gone. __

As Bobby, Dean, and Sam murmur in hushed tones near the kitchen counter, you sit by yourself on the couch with your back to them, humming softly to fill the silence, occasionally throwing a glance over your shoulder to make sure Sammy hasn’t run out. 

He’d meet your eyes with a jumpy smile and nod, shoulders finally un-tensing when you grinned and turned away.  

Sam tries to defend you, to explain it away. Stress, exhaustion, maybe even dehydration. 

But he couldn’t deny that every time your eyes met his today, his heart practically dropped to his ass.

You smiled, hummed, touched his arm when you passed behind him on the motel couch.

But the smile never reached your wide, unblinking eyes, a devoted gaze so thick it felt like molasses, syrupy and slow and impossible to wash off.

As Bobby and Dean argue over the next course of action, the hairs on the back of his neck stand, like he can feel your eyes boring holes at the back of his neck, but he wills himself not to turn around.

That is until Dean’s voice drops to a harsh whisper, 

“Okay–who the hell gave heart eyes a damn knife!?”

A knife?

Sure enough, when he glances over, there you are, seated cross-legged on the couch, knife in hand as your thumb trails along its edge.

You don’t look violent, not yet at least. If anything, you look… pleased, serene. 

He shivers, then mutters, “It’s the one I gave her.”

Bobby and Dean look at him like he’s lost his damn mind.

“You what?”

Sam sighs harshly, “It was before, alright? When she was normal, I didn’t know that she’d become all…” His voice trails off in mild horror as you then rise and walk slowly to Bobby’s hallway closet door.

You don’t know why, but suddenly you feel the need to carve slowly. So you bring the blade up against the hardwood and press down. 

You tongue at the corner of your mouth, furrowing your brows as you press harder, careful not to mess up. 

After a few moments, you step back to admire your work.

A nice big heart. 

Inside it, the letter S... and your first initial. 

You smile to yourself, unable to help the laugh that escapes you, soft and sharp, just like love. 

As you trace your fingers into the engravings, you wonder how soft and plump Sammy’s precious big heart must be. 

Especially in contrast with the glinting blade of your knife. 

Sammy’s knife. 

You ponder over how pretty the red tracings would look if you just doodled your initials right onto his lifeline. Nice and forever. 

The more you mull it over, the stronger the desire becomes to swoop the naive heart out of his chest and brand it for good. 

Maybe then Bobby, Dean, Meg, the Yellow eyed demon, Lucifer, even those whiny women at each question would finally keep their paws off your soulmate. 

When you turn around, they're still murmuring. 

And poor Sammy, he looks so worried. 

Maybe it was about the hunt. 

Huh.

Strangely enough, you couldn’t recall what the hunt was about, what even brought the three of you here in the first place. 

All you knew was that they’d been trying to snatch Sam away from you from the moment it started. Maybe you could just…get rid of them. Then you could get Sammy alone, make your binding official. 

While your thoughts spiral, Bobby rests a heavy hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Dean’ll try to summon Cas to track the Cupid down, but…are you sure you can handle her on your own?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you wearily. 

“Yeah,” He finally nods, but his throat is tight, voice coming out weaker than he expected, “I’ll be fine.”

__

Once the door clicks shut, Sam keeps an eye on you from afar. 

You're seated on the couch again, legs tucked underneath you. His heart catches in his throat when you catch his gaze. 

You beckon him, a tiny wave of your hand, the glint of the knife in your palm catches the light.

He stiffens.

“Come here.” 

Sam blinks once, then stupidly looks over his shoulder like maybe you're asking someone else even though it’s just the two of you.

Your soft expression falters for the first time. 

You exhale, annoyed. “Yes, you, Sammy. Come here.”

He hesitates, sweaty palms brushing against his thighs before moving to sit on the couch, carefully choosing the far edge.

You laugh gently, “Relax. I don’t bite.”

“Oh—yeah… right.” Sam swallows hard, then scoots a millimeter closer.

Just to seem less like prey. 

In one fluid motion, you rise. Before he can brace or push you away, you plop yourself right in his lap.

His hands rise instinctively, either to steady or defend himself, he doesn’t know which.

But you let out a pleased little sigh, leaning against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

That’s when Sam notices how warm you are. Too warm, heat radiates off your skin like a stove, sinks into his ribs like syrup poured too thick. 

Sweat beads along the side of his neck, slow and cold.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, plopping the knife down into your lap like it’s done its job for now. 

Then your hands are on his firm shoulders, thumbs kneading into the muscle with startling tenderness. 

Sam doesn’t relax, but lets you keep your hands busy anyway.

You sigh contentedly, before slowly reaching in, lips brushing against his.

He leans closer, lips suddenly meeting yours feverishly, aiming to distract you from the blade. 

You kiss him back with a fiery intensity that knocks his head back against the couch, teeth against teeth, ragged breaths mingling, nose smushing against his.

In the midst of it all, his eyes peel open and fall to the blade again. He makes a slow reach.

Maybe… if he can just ease it away—

Smack! 

He groans in defeat when your hand slaps his away. 

You break apart from him, breathless, flushed, and wild eyed.

“Sammy,” you scold, voice carrying more edge than it had before, “I told you to relax. You’re safe with me.”

He watches the grin on your face dim just a touch, how your pupils have dilated almost completely. His stomach turns, but he fakes a grin nonetheless,

“Sorry, just–had a long day,” 

You frown and brush back the brown locks against his temple, placing a tender kiss there, “You're always thinking so hard.”

Sam lets his guard down just a little, face leaning into your hands.

Your fingers trail down to trace the veins on his neck, feeling the pulse hammering beneath the skin. Then, without warning, you pick up the knife again.

Sam watches as you twirl it slowly, watching the reflection of your hooded eyes twist along the blade. 

“I want to stay here,�� you murmur. “With you.”

“We can…ask Bobby to stay a few more days–”

“That’s not what I meant.” You snap.

Sam sees something shift behind your eyes. Quick and subtle, but unmistakable. 

Possession. 

Anger.

Hunger. 

He sucks in a breath as you trail the blunt edge of the knife down to his sternum, pressing it there idly. “Want you with me forever, Sammy.”

“I think I’ll put my initials right...here,” you coo, outlining a heart over his chest, featherlight, like you're mapping something out.

“So you don’t forget,” You tap the blade against his temple, voice dropping to a chilling whisper, “who you belong to.” 

He shifts to stand, but the second he moves, your presses back on his shoulder, shoving him back down against the couch.

Your strong, stronger than you should be.

“Y/N,” Sam warns carefully, trying to twist away, “Let me go, please.” 

“No, Sam.” Angry tears brim in your wide eyes, “You're not…leaving me, again.”

The two of you fumble, boots scraping hardwood as he twists, your breath uneven now, panicked, erratic.

“You can’t just leave!” You hiss again as he finally manages to break free and snatch the knife from the floor.

Just as he’s about to get away he stumbles, trips slightly on the corner of the rug. 

He feels the sharp corner of the living room table crack against the side of his skull, cold and sharp.

And then–

Darkness.

__

He wakes up cold.

A slow throbbing behind his eyes. The coppery tang of blood dripping from his temple and into his mouth.

Blinking through the haze, he realizes three things all at once: He’s in the basement. He’s tied to a chair. You're playing with the damn knife again.

Somewhere to his right, you pace, slow and idle like you're browsing a Sunday market. 

“You were out for a while, didn’t want to start without you,” You say calmly.

His arms are bound tight and he tests the ropes as subtly as he can. Sweat beads down his spine when you turn to look at him with overflowing affection. 

Pure and clean, like none of this is bizarre.

“Don’t worry, Sam” you drawl, “No one’s going to separate us here.”

He lurches as far back as he can when you reach for him, beginning to undo his shirt one button after the other.

“Not Dean…” One down.

“Not Bobby…” There goes the second.

“Not Lucifer…” Then the third.

You rip the shirt the rest of the way, “No one.”

“Hey–w-wait! Please,” He begs, eyes wide as you raise the knife, “Listen to me, you’re not thinking straight.” 

He winces, trying to squirm away as you press the blade firmly against his skin.

“Stay still now,” you warn softly, like you're reminding a puppy to sit. 

His breath shallows as you shakily trace a heart into the firm skin of his chest, calmly shushing him now and then.

A few agonizing groans later, Sam heaves, sighing in relief when you finish carving. 

You collect the trail of crimson oozing out from the shaky cuts with delicate fingers.

“I know, it hurts.” He watches in horror as you pop a bloodied finger into your mouth, eyes rolling back in satisfaction, “But it’ll feel better soon, baby, I promise.” 

You reach for his chest, knife poised, and Sam thinks this is it. 

His lover’s going to murder him, puncture his chest and carve his heart out but then you gasp, body jolting suddenly before it hits the floor with a sickening thud.

__

There’s a ringing in your ears.

You blink, but the light seems wrong, yellowed, dusty, flickering too harsh along the walls and something tugs at your wrists when you try to move.

Rope.

You lift your head sluggishly. The world tilts sideways.

“—can’t believe I’m saying this but thank God for Cas…” someone mutters. The voice is gruff, sharp around the edges. Dean?

Boots scuff the floor. A chair creaks. You can’t quite focus fast enough to follow the movement, and your mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.

“What’s your name?” Bobby’s voice asks wearily.

You try to answer but it comes out hoarse and small. “Huh?”

“Your name.” Dean cuts in, eyes narrowing.

“Ease up, man,” a softer voice warns, and your sluggish heart lurches.

Sam.

You twist toward the sound and find him standing by the kitchen counter, bandages poking out beneath the collar of his henley. 

There’s purple bruising along his temple and dark circles under his eyes. 

Dean doesn’t look away from you. “I’m just making sure. Spell or not, she came at you like a damn wildcat. I wanna know who we’re really talking to right now.”

You blink again, harder this time. 

“I don’t… remember. I’m–” you pause as a wave of exhaustion hits you, eyelids daring to flutter closed, “I’m so tired.”

“Sounds about right,” Bobby says gruffly from somewhere near the stairwell. “Cupid’s arrow ain’t just a love tap. It hijacks the whole limbic system. Even with the bond reversed, her brain’s trying to figure out which way is up.”

Sam moves closer. “Alright well unbind her, she’s not a threat anymore.”

“Maybe not,” a low voice interrupts.

The three turn to see Cas, “But you must take precaution.” Sam scoffs, “Precaution? The spells worn off Cas–”

“The dopamine and oxytocin in her brain has significantly dropped…She’s going to be irritable, foggy, maybe even aggressive.” Cas interrupts, “We must wait a few hours. Just to be sure.”

You’re barely listening now. The room feels like it’s breathing, walls pulsing, your vision tunneling in and out.

Sam nods reluctantly. “Fine. Keep her bound. But she’s not sleeping in a damn chair.”

You feel motion.

Strong arms lift you gently, your body sagging against a warm chest. Your cheek brushes cotton and skin, you don’t have the strength to protest.

The sheets are cool when Sam lowers you onto the bed, tucking the blanket up to your waist with the same quiet gentleness he used to handle old books.

You shift slightly, and then you see it.

His chest.

Bandaged but bruised, the gauze soaked faintly red near the center, right where his heart is.

A rush of sensation barrels into you: the feel of a knife handle in your fist, the taste of his name on your lips, the overwhelming need to keep him yours. 

You see your own hands pressing him down. Hear his voice begging. His pain.

“No—no…I–what did I do…,” your voice breaks as your hand shoots out, catching his wrist before he can move away. “I’m sorry…I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, hey,” Sam says quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed, his free hand coming up to steady your shoulder. “You’re okay. I’m okay.”

“I almost killed you,” you whisper, throat raw. Your hands, still bound, hover as if unsure where they’re allowed to exist. 

Sam glances at the door, then exhales through his nose.

“Dean’s gonna kill me,” he mutters, then he quietly shuts the bedroom door. A moment later, he returns and kneels beside the bed, tugging at the knots on your wrists until they slip free.

You curl into yourself, guilt radiating from every breath.

Sam climbs into the bed behind you, drawing you gently into his chest, careful to shift your weight so you’re not pressing against the wound.

You hesitate for only a second before melting into him. He feels you sniffle again, this time not from fog or fear, but guilt. 

Deep, crushing guilt. 

You lift your head just enough to look at the injury again. “I—how can you forgive me?”

Sam pauses, thoughtful, tired.

“I spent a year without a soul,” he says, voice low against your hair. “Did things I’ll never be able to take back. I hurt the people I cared about, I hurt you.”

You say nothing. 

He brushes his fingers through your hair.

“You weren’t in control. I know that fog, I know you would never do what you did if you had a choice.”

You blink hard, tears soaking into the collar of his shirt.

“I’m still sorry,” you whisper.

“I know,” he whispers gently. 

He holds you a little tighter, nuzzling the slope of his nose into your hair.

“Guess its payback for being a soulless dickbag,” he huffs after a beat, voice warmer now.

You let out a weak laugh against his shoulder, “Call us even then.”

poor sammy, can never catch a break.

welp, anyways, what do we think of creepily obsessed y/n?

[lullxby]

.✦ KING OF MY HEART (THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY CH. 3)

warning(s) : alcohol consumption

w. c. : 1.5k

CH. 2 | CH. 3 | CH. 4

JJ Maybank was first to break the awkward silence.

“Dude, did you just make Rafe Cameron fucking cry? That’s cool as shit.” His hand clapped you on the back, a congratulations, as if making your best friend cry was some kind of amazing feat.

Was he even your best friend anymore? You had told him you never started a relationship. Maybe he had taken it differently.

Regardless, it was too late to stop him now. The truck had already pulled away, only leaving sand swirling into the air in its wake. Your car likely had done the same when you left for the first time.

The memory replayed in his mind like the stupid Taylor Swift song that continuously played on the radio. He wasn’t much different from the grieving girl at this point.

This was the end of all the endings, but he wouldn’t go write a so g about it, no. He’d move on, like you so clearly had. He’d leave you in the dust just like you had those three years ago, literally and figuratively.

He got back to Tannyhill, parking his beat up truck beside the Jag and Range Rover, hearing the engine sputter at the small bump in the garage. Piece of shit.

Rafe’s fists clenched and unclenched rhythmically as he tried to ‘focus on his breathing’ or whatever the fuck that anger management class taught him. Yeah, it wasn’t working in the slightest. The urge to punch something, particularly a cocky blonde Pogue, was still very present in his mind.

He opted to instead repeatedly ram his foot into the side of his truck, the battered and dirty metal looking out of place next to the other fancy ‘kook-ass’ cars.

In all of the excitement, his phone slipped from his pocket. It landed on the ground with a crack, but the sound didn’t make him falter. He could buy a thousand more of the device.

He tried to ignore the feeling in his chest when the screen flickered on, displaying an Instagram notification from you.

The part that actually did make him stop his minstrations was the fact it wasn’t a new post like it typically was— no. It was a DM. From you. You had sent him a message. He suddenly didn’t know what to do with your hands, with the thought of you clouding his mind.

He quickly snatched up the device, it feeling small in his hands. Small yet the heaviest thing in the world, somehow.

He frantically swiped at it, trying to open the notification, to see what you said, to reply, anything. He was desperate. You were extending an olive branch, even after the little show he had put on at the Boneyard.

The screen went dark, and then wouldn’t turn back on. Shit. Of course, his fucking phone was broken. It was fine. Wheezie was home, right? He could borrow hers.

He stormed out of the garage, slamming doors in his path and stomping up stairs until he finally got to his youngest sister’s room. He swung the door open so harshly it was surprising the thing didn’t break off its hinges.

The window to your bedroom slid open, the old wooden sill making an obnoxious creaking sound beneath the blonde’s weight. You almost questioned how he got it unlocked, then remembered he was quite the kleptomaniac.

He brushed his long, messy blonde hair back before putting his cap back on backwards, staring at you expectantly, as if he hadn’t just broken into your home.

“JJ? What’re you doing here?”

You didn’t tell him you invited Rafe over, but he could tell you were waiting for someone based off the way you kept checking back at the open window. And it wasn’t him.

As always, the blonde brushed off the rejection.

“It’s your first day here, you can’t stay here and be mopey all day,” he tutted, messing with the trinkets on your bureau. You had made quick work of unpacking. It didn’t surprise him, of course, you had always been more organized than him.

Though that was a low bar.

“What if I want to be all mopey?”

“Then you can do it at Heyward’s.”

Your mouth instantly opened to protest, only to be cut off as he slapped a palm over it and dragged you out of the room the same way he entered.

You sprung your tongue out, pressing it grossly to his palm. It worked, though, as he yanked his hand away as if you had bit him. That had been plan B.

“This is literally kidnapping,” you pointed out matter-of-factly.

“Not if it’s for a good cause, which your happiness counts as, so.”

Smug bastard.

You just scoffed, a distant heat rising to your cheeks. A heat that only served as more of a reminder of Rafe. Who was probably on his way here.

But, as JJ turned up the radio in the Twinkie and sang dramatically to it just to make you laugh, Rafe drifted farther and farther away from your thoughts.

The ride to the restaurant was short, especially with JJ’s reckless way of driving. The relief of being in a familiar place was undeniable. Thoughts of good memories rushed your mind, pushing any of Rafe right out the other side.

Rafe, who had just seen your invite. He had managed to get a hold of Wheezie’s phone (after a bit of negotiating, the girl was young but definitely smart) and checked the message you had sent him. He was always bad at saying no to you.

Of course he was on the way to you. Any other ending would’ve been stupid to even think about.

So, he drove. Then he knocked. Then he waited.

You didn’t answer.

Another knock, this time more powerful incase you had fallen asleep, and nothing. His hands raised to his hair, tugging at the greasy roots as he paced on your front porch. He was so stupid. He had let you do this to him again.

He checked the time. 8:37. Where could you be? There wasn’t a party going on, he’d know about that. Then it dawned on him.

If you wanted to ditch him to hangout with your dumb Pogue friends, then he’d be damned if he went down without a fight. He sat on one of the chairs on your porch, deciding to wait it out.

He had waited three years for you. What was another few hours? Then you guys would talk. He’d set you straight, get you away from the Pogues like he failed to do with Sarah.

Four hours later, you showed up. He was startled awake by the headlights of the Twinkie. Those fuckers had made you drive home alone, in the dark. It wasn’t that Rafe doubted your ability to drive, but he never would’ve let you leave alone.

Especially if you had been drinking. He couldn’t tell if you had any more, but he remembered you mentioning having ‘a couple’ earlier in the day. Regardless of how inebriated you were, it didn’t sit right with him.

“Wow, nice of you to finally show up,” he scoffed.

As soon as his voice rang out in the dead of night, your joyous mood about being back with your friends crashed down, being ruined by a wave of burning hot anger.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Rafe?!”

“You invited me! Or are you too drunk to remember?” Low blow, he knew that, but he didn’t care, not in the slightest.

“Did you ever think to knock?”

“Yeah, obviously nobody fucking answered!”

“Right, so at that point, you should’ve clocked that ‘hey, she’s not home, maybe I should fucking leave!’”

He opened his mouth to shout back, but he knew it’d just make this word. So he lowered it to a gruffer level. A more dangerous level.

“Enough is enough.” He said your name, but it wasn’t different than every other time he had. It had an air of finality to it, as if the amount of words he was able to speak was shriveling faster and faster.

“What is this?” He gestured like a mad man between your two bodies, that he had noticed drew closer.

“You— you invited me over, then go hang out with them? And what, I’m just—“

Then your lips were on his, successfully cutting his speech off.

Just as quick as he felt the gentle touch, the closest thin to skin-to-skin he had gotten with you in three years, it was over. You were storming off— not off, inside.

“This is over, Rafe. That’s what this is.”

He wanted to be mad, but at least you were admitting there was something between you guys, right? Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it’s over.

The door slammed behind him, but he couldn’t help but smile. This was his chance. His opening.

T1TGA taglist :

[multiheadcanons]

WHAT I PERSONALLY WOULD GET THE MERCS FOR THEIR BIRTHDAY

scout: i would get scout a personalized bat with tom jones' face engraved on the side, but the only time it's really visible is when he's using it to bash skulls in with. the first time he sees the blood start to fill in the cracks, he stands there for a moment and lets the sun shine on it so he can stare at it. i would pay such good money to make sure it is damn near photorealistc, i'd get his name engraved on the other side. you absolutely would not be able to mistake who this item was for. and he would love that. this was made very specifically for him.

soldier: this is going to sound gross. and like a cop out, but i would spit shine as many boots of soldier's in a day that i could get to. i would start at five in the morning and wake him up to me chugging a gallon water water and hawking spit on his boots and going at those fuckers with a microfiber cloth until i fail. i might also overdose on caffeine staying up as long as i possibly can until the following midnight. i would dedicate a full 24 hours to spit shining his shoes. and, as an extra little treat, whenever he takes his boots of for the day, i'll get those too. i don't have a foot fetish, i just think he would love that as a gift.

pyro: pyro would genuinely be happy with anything i may want to get them, but if i wanted to put a lot of thought and money into it, i would take pyro out on a date first. for breakfast. they can get whatever they want, my treat. we'll stay as long as we like. then i'm letting them loose in a gacha store. whatever they want. my treat. i'll just leave them with cash and quietly slip out so i can do the next part. which is me getting a stuffed animal that takes an entire trip to get to the base, then speeding back while hoping they haven't blown through all of the money. on the way back, i'm gonna grab five loose gallons of gas. in a cannister. i'll slap a bow on it. that's for whenever they want to use it. all for them. they also get lunch, on me. engineer cooks dinner.

demo: i'm paying for demo to get the works at a spa. if i really want to spoil him, i would get him a week's vacation in a spa. away from the base. i'd make sure no work follows him there. just him, and as much scrumpy as he can carry in his bags, and tell him to behave himself. my name's on the card that's attached to his little trip. make me look good out there, too. honestly, i think he'd be tickled enough he wouldn't cause so much as a minor disturbance. unless someone fucks with him first. but if he knew he was going to cause some trouble, he'd do me the honor of taking my card off of it. no trace to be led back to me, no issue, right? and to that the answer is: yes. absolutely. if i'm not connected it's none of my business. go forth tavish.

heavy: this is more a gift for me, than it would be a gift for misha. but i'd buy him this book i had as a child. three russian fairy tales. and he wouldn't think much of it, either, as he absently flips through the pages. but io would press him on them. ask whether he knew them differently, if the artwork was to his liking. i would use the book as the opportunity to get my foot in the door to get to know misha more as a man. and if i can get him chatting... i think misha would learn to really love my company. just a little. and then i'd ask him about more himself. i just want him to feel comfortable with me. so yeah, maybe he'd just get a book on his birthday, but really, he's getting a wild animal who will maim on command for him alone, no training required. and i think he'd like that more.

engineer: i don't have anything dell could potentially need or want, so i'd have to settle with being an extra set of hands for him. i sit at the foot of his bed come 6AM, i wait for him to assign me a list of things to do— which may seem cruel to do to him on his birthday, but trust me, that will always be the smarter decision to let dell tell me— and you— what to do instead of trying to take things off his plate independently. i could potentially fuck up his entire routine if i do something out of step. so i need him to tell me what to do. and he gets an extra set of hands, and a nice soundboard to bounce stuff off of for the day. i can play nice. i'll play nice for his birthday.

medic: how do i give him everything. how do you give this man everything? i'm going to start with copious amounts of alcohol and the medigun on standby. and we're going to start there. we're going to start with a distinct lack of clothes. we're going to start with freshly sharpened blades, a carefully disinfected and lovingly polished table. we'll start with some eucalyptus candles. we'll start with soft musings, and lacy thigh highs... for either one of us. we'll start with soft touches that morph into bloodied grips. we'll start with a shared cigar. just to start. and just for his birthday.

sniper: i really don't need to get mick anything except a heartfelt happy birthday and maybe a few minutes of my time. because mick will take me on an adventure unlike any other on his birthday. i might die if i agree to tag along with mick, but you know what, if he offered me a spot in the van i'm sure as hell gonna hop my silly little ass inside. that'll be the best last day to spend. and hell, i might even just make is severely exhausted with a few broken bones! and to me, that would be a win! i don't think mick would purposefully let me die, i just think my overconfidence in my abilities will make him place unsecured faith in me, too. and it'll be funny until it isn't.

spy: i'm gonna cook him a meal. it won't be anything extravagant, i'll make him a pot roast and find some potatoes and some butter. the guy doesn't like too much salt. prefers pepper. which is fine. i am also not a fan of salt like that, so i'm willing to acquiesce to it. if he asks for my company, i'd definitely sit with him. he won't want conversation, at least he wouldn't want it from me. and i would oblige him in that. we don't have to talk if he doesn't want to. but he doesn't want me to take my meal elsewhere. something about the body being there, ig uess. you know what, spy, for your birthday? whatever you want, man. all yours.

[maudie-duan]

Summary: "The shittest part was that you could tell he was trying. You could see it in the way his hands moved as he spoke, the way he kept creating these little outs for you, these little escape clauses built into his requests, and you knew it should have made you feel loved, but instead, it was making you feel like a burden, another feeling you couldn’t shake lately."

Based on this request<- Thanks @bethiegurl19 I needed to get in a little Angst. Hope this was fluffy enough for you... 😬

Word count: 4k

Warnings: None really, Angst/Fluff, Mentions of Sex, No Smut.

“So I was thinking we could finally do that dinner with Mitch and Sarah tonight if you’re up for it?”

And you listened with your eyes closed, Harry’s voice drifting across the bedroom, soft, yet tentative in the way he was testing the waters before diving in, and you opened your eyes, watching him from your position on the bed, sheet clutched to your bare chest, as he pulled on his joggers with the causal grace of a man who had very little to do today, and now it was just a reminder of how late you were running.

“I know we’ve rescheduled three times already, and they’re being really understanding about it, but...” He turned to face you then, running a hand through his messy, post-sex hair. “With our schedules, if we don’t do it tonight, there’s literally no other opening for the next two weeks… Maybe even three.”

And as your eyes met his, the statement hung suspended between you like a weight on a string, swaying back and forth, threatening to drop. Yet that wasn’t even the worst of it because your mind was already splintering into a thousand different directions as it began its usual frantic loop.

All you could think about was the test results you were supposed to be getting back on Thursday... Or was it Friday? No… The nurse definitely said Thursday… but sometimes labs run behind, and fuck, what if they call while you’re at dinner? What if they leave a voicemail with bad news—

“Love?” Harry nudges, pulling you back, concern creasing between his brows, and he moved closer to the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress as he slipped a T-shirt over his head. “You alright?”

You hesitated, but nodded a quick nod. “Yeah, just... thinking about work…”

Another Lie…Well, half-lie… kinda. Because work was there too, wasn’t it? Pressing against your fucking skull like a migraine you couldn’t shake. Twenty-seven emails from yesterday alone: Mark’s quarterly report that still needed your approval. The Hudson account that was hemorrhaging shit-loads of money because no one knew how to handle them like your boss, and unfortunately, your boss was somewhere in Bali “trying to find her center’ for the next month while leaving you to play captain of a ship you had never fully learned to steer.

“The dinner,” Harry continued, and God, why did he have to use that voice? That gentle tone, the one that felt like he was trying to coax a cat from under the bed, and for some reason, it made you want to bare your teeth. “We could make it early. Six-thirty maybe? That way you could still get home at a decent time, even do some work if you need to...”

The shittest part was that you could tell he was trying. You could see it in the way his hands moved as he spoke, the way he kept creating these little outs for you, these little escape clauses built into his requests, and you knew it should have made you feel loved, but instead, it was making you feel like a burden, another feeling you couldn’t shake lately.

You shifted on the bed, your thighs aching slightly with the movement… a reminder of that morning’s earlier activities as your mind flashed back to you under Harry, legs gripping him tight. What a fucking performance, you thought, and god, the stupid sounds you had made. Did Harry really think they were real? The outrageous crescendo you had staged, like a director waiting for the show to end, and in all the time you had dated Harry. You had never done that before. Never felt the need to fake your own orgasm just to move things along, just to get him off you—no, that wasn’t quite it… It wasn’t like he climbed on top of you like some overbearing weight. You had definitely been willing. Present even… but just... empty.

But why did it matter? Because you had wanted to make him feel good, wanted to give him something when everything else in your life felt like taking. But now, as you lie here naked, the thought sank to the pit of your stomach like gravel… each tiny pebble a lie just adding to the collection gathering inside you. 

“I just think it would be nice…” Harry said, sitting fully on the bed now, his hand resting on your knee through the sheet as his thumb drew small circles into the soft fabric. “We haven’t seen them properly in ages. And you could use a break, yeah? You’ve been working yourself to the bone lately.”

A break? Was dinner with another couple a break? Or was it just another obligation? Like you sitting across from Mitch and hearing about their recording sessions and their perfect little life wouldn’t feel like drowning. Was it possible to drown in reverse? Because that’s what that would feel like—all the water rushing up your throat instead of down, stealing all the words you would be forcing yourself to give.

And that would definitely be another obligation.

The forced conversations alone.

“What time do you need to be at work?” Harry finally asked, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, and you took in his expression as his eyes widened slightly. “Oh, shit. It’s already half eight. Don’t you usually—”

“Yes—” And the word comes out sharp, bitter on your tongue as you softened it with a forced smile. “Yes, I’m late...”

“Why didn’t you say? We could have—” Then he gestures vaguely at the rumpled sheets, the evidence still fragrant in the air. “You know I wouldn’t have minded waiting.”

But the thing about it was that you had been the one who initiated it, hadn’t you? When you reached for him in that desperate way, that meant ‘please make me feel something other than this crushing weight.’ ‘Please remind me I’m more than all the awful thoughts and certainty that I’m going to fail at everything.’ and yes, that is a lot to ask from one simple act, but you just wanted to feel him near, wanted to forget everything, even just for a moment. 

“It’s fine,” you said, already sliding out of bed, sheet wrapped around you tight, because now you were in your head about the whole thing even more, feeling guilty, hoping he didn’t feel used—

“So tonight? Six-thirty?” you follow up.

“Only if you’re sure.” And now he was watching, those green eyes taking you in carefully, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle missing its pieces. “We can absolutely reschedule if—”

“I said it’s fine, Harry—”

And fuck, here was that guilt you thought as the words landed harder than you meant them to, and you observed as he absorbed them, saw the tiny flinch he tried to hide, and your chest tightened, wishing you could take back the bite.

Now, all you could do was just add it to the growing list… 

How could you really be snapping at the one person who’s trying? Because god, he is trying so hard. All the little things like bringing you tea in the morning without being asked, doing your laundry without mentioning it. Leaving those little notes in random places he knows you’ll find, even though you haven’t acknowledged them, because acknowledging them would mean admitting how badly you actually needed them, because how do you tell someone that everything they do is the glue that’s holding you together. 

“Okay,” he said calmly. “Six-thirty it is… I’ll text them now.”

You hadn’t even made it three steps toward the bathroom before his voice stopped you again…

“I love you, darling… You know I’m always here if you need to talk…”

Three simple words was all you would have to say back, yet his words hit like an arrow in the back as you clutched at the door frame with white knuckles.

“Love you too,” you forced, and then you were through the door, slamming it harder than necessary, but you had to get away, needed to be alone with your racing thoughts.

If you were going to drown in the thoughts of your own despair, why not do it on your own terms… so you turned the shower on as hot as it would go, watching as the mist billowed around the mirror, and you eyed the steam as it fogged over the glass, slowly erasing your reflection piece by piece. Your phone sat on the counter, silent but somehow louder than ever—no missed calls. No test results. Just the wretched guarantee of yet another day of carrying the weight of everything you were pretending was okay.

Because nothing was okay anymore, and what was worse was that you could have just said no to the sex. Could have said no to dinner. Could have said no to any of it. But that’s the thing about drowning slowly, right? It’s a conscious act of saying yes to the water even as it fills your lungs.

 By 10 AM, the office reeked of burnt coffee and desperation. That morning, you had barely settled into your chair when the fucking avalanche of bullshit questions began. First, it was Katie from accounting, hovering at your desk with expense reports that “absolutely needed approval by noon,” Bullshit… 

Then Marcus was down your neck with his questions about the Henderson presentation, the one your boss usually handled with her eyes closed, the one he normally sat in on and was more than capable of handling, but for some reason he couldn’t just fucking grow a pair and deal with it himself, because if you were being honest he knew more than you did on the case, so what could you do? 

And by the time Jennifer appeared with her third stupid fucking “quick question” of the morning, you had given up any pretense of catching up on those twenty-seven emails that were looming over your head. That was when your phone buzzed on the desk—Harry:

H: Ordered sushi from that one place you like. I was going to order spaghetti and meatballs, but figured you wouldn’t have time to enjoy it. Should be arriving around 12:30. Please make time to eat it, love. I know you’re busy.

All you could do was stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. It was a simple kindness, yet it had your throat tight, and before you could respond, another notification popped up:

H: And before you say you’re not hungry, you had exactly one bite of toast this morning. I counted.

A laugh escaped then, more of an exhale than a sound, but of course, he had counted. Of course, he had noticed, and as you typed back a quick heart emoji, because that was all you could manage, before Marcus was appearing at the door with printouts this time—

“Sorry, just one more thing—”

By 2:57, your desk looked like a paper factory had exploded—post-its in three different colors, mapping out little fires that needed extinguishing: Pink for urgent, yellow for less urgent, and for kicks and giggles, things that would become urgent if ignored were stuck with blue, and just as you were calculating whether you could realistically clone yourself, your office phone rang.

The caller’s name made your stomach flip… it was your boss’s name flashing across the screen, and suddenly it felt like the lifeline you had been waiting to catch. 

“Oh, hey, thank god—” you answered, already pulling up a running list of questions you had been waiting for this very moment to release. 

“Hi sweetie!” But you knew right away from the sound of her distant voice that this wasn’t going to work in your favor as wind crackled through the like. “Just wanted to check in! How’s everything going?”

And fuck, if you only had this small window, where did you even start? You thought, gripping the phone tighter. “Actually, I’m glad you called. The Henderson account is—”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re handling it beautifully! You always do. Listen, I’m about to head into this amazing sound bath meditation, but I wanted to touch base...”

Somehow her words spilled out of her like honey, sticky and relaxed, while you watched your computer screen fill with new email notifications. You knew she had no genuine interest in what you had to say as she told you about her villa’s infinity pool, how the sunrise looked different in Bali, how she had “found herself” during yoga, which all sounded so temporary because how do you “find” yourself during a fucking yoga class?

“Wow… That all sounds amazing…” You interrupted as desperation crept in. “Listen, about the quarterly reports that are due Friday. I don’t seem to have access to the—”

“Oh, sweetie, you’ll figure it out! That’s why I knew I could leave everything in your capable hands. You’re so good under pressure!”

Under pressure, you repeated in your mind, like pressure was some kind of fucking location, a place you lived now, the single word taking up residence: Population: you.

“But I really need—”

“Oops, they’re calling us in! Remember to breathe, darling. The universe always provides!” She quoted right before the line went dead.

And you set the phone down with an undeserved calm, fighting the urge to hurl it across the goddamn room, because what the actual fuck? The universe always provides? You couldn’t help the dry laugh leaving your mouth, because the universe wasn’t giving jack shit except more emails and a boss who thought Mercury in retrograde was a valid reason to miss board meetings, and just as you were releasing a slur of words on the topic under your breath, the desk phone rang again, except this time it was the medical center’s number, and the sight made your blood run cold.

“Miss? This is Maria from Dr. Brock’s office. I’m calling about your test results...”

Your heart was already hammering against your ribs, as a haze of thoughts fogged over your mind. This was it—

“I’m so sorry, but there’s been a delay at the lab. We won’t have your results until early next week now. Monday at the earliest, possibly Tuesday.”

Her words sent a mix of emotions coursing through you—a sense of relief and frustration hitting all at once —a hefty one-two punch that left you breathless. Now, there would be more waiting and stress, but at least knowing this part would have meant you could plan your next step. Now there would be more days of carrying the agonizing terror… and here were those pebbles slowly weighing you down.

“That’s... fine,” you answered, though fine was far from what you felt.

“We’ll call as soon as they come in. Try not to worry!”

“Try not to worry…” Sure. Hmmm… maybe this could go on the list just right after ‘achieving world peace’ and ‘finding the fountain of youth.’

Then your cell phone buzzed again on your desk:

H: Coffee incoming at 3. I know you usually get your Caramel Macchiato, but they had an Iced Matcha with Brown Sugar cold foam listed, and that seemed like a fun little treat. You’ll have to tell me how good it tastes. 

And then another: 

H: How’s your day going, love? 

Was it strange that just that message alone made you want to cry, your vision blurring slightly as you stared at the screen? How was your day going? It seemed like an easy question, but should you be honest? Should you tell him that your boss was “finding herself” in a bullshit yoga class while you were stuck here, drowning in her responsibilities? Or what about the test results—the ones that might confirm your worst genetic fears—had gotten delayed, leaving you to stew in the anxiety of yet another long weekend, you thought, as Jennifer popped in with her ninth “urgent” question of the day.

They were all idiots. 

Surely we were all capable of doing our own jobs:

Y/N: Drowning, but the water’s warm at least.

H: Want me to come be your life vest? 

Y/N: Just keep the coffee coming. You’re an angel. I love you so much. 

H: Always, and I love you too, 

When your drink arrived at 3:07, perfectly iced, your name was spelled wrong on the cup, but everything else was exactly right. The delivery guy also handed you a small bag you weren’t expecting—inside, a chocolate croissant from the bakery you had mentioned loving exactly one fucking time, a few weeks ago, but Harry must have remembered. 

The gesture was so Harry, so thoughtful, that you had to lock yourself in the bathroom stall and press the palms of your hands against your eyes until the burning stopped—until you were strong enough to leave the bathroom and bear the two hours left of this prison sentence of a job, because that’s what it had become, and you were shackled to it. 

Later, the restaurant’s valet loomed before you in the early evening light, as you sat frozen in the passenger seat, watching other couples drift past the car window, arms linked with their partners, everyone polished and perfectly put together. Yet, here you were, feeling light years away, in an outfit you forced yourself to like. 

Now, as you stalled in your seat, everything felt wrong, like suddenly you were wearing someone else’s skin.

Harry had been quiet for most of the drive. Of course, he had tried—pointing out a cute dog at a crosswalk, mentioning something about the new album—but your responses had been brief, your mind completely distracted, and eventually, he had stopped trying. Now his silence felt heavier than any words that could have been spoken, another weight added to your already breaking back, and you just didn’t think you could take another thing.

“Ready?” he asked softly, his hand readying to pull the door handle.

You gave him a silent nod, reaching for yours, fingers curling around the cool metal. Through the restaurant window, you could see Mitch and Sarah already seated, Sarah’s laugh visible even from here, her head thrown back at something Mitch was saying. They looked so easy together—not a single thing complicated.

And your hand froze on the handle, unmoving as anxiety flooded you.

“Love?” Harry called out, moving closer, and he had turned in his seat to face you now. “Everything okay?”

And that was it… that was all you needed to crack the stone facade you had been masking—a simple question, asked with such delicate concern, was all that it took to fracture the dam that was about to burst inside you.

“No,” you breathed, and then it all came flooding out. “No, nothing’s okay. Nothing has been okay for weeks, and I can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Harry. I can’t sit through dinner and pretend like I’m not falling apart when everything inside me feels shitty.”

You knew the tears would come, and here they were spilling over the rim of your eyes, fast and hot, and there went your mascara, but you didn’t care… Let it leave black rivers down your cheeks, because you couldn’t stop the tears streaming now.

Nor did you want to. 

“My boss is in fucking Bali finding herself while I’m drowning in work I don’t know how to do. The test results got delayed, so now I get to spend another fucking weekend wondering if I’m going to end up like my mom, wondering if there’s a ticking time bomb in my DNA just waiting to—” Then your voice cracked. “And this morning, God, Harry, I need to tell you something…”

And when your eyes roamed over him, he was so still, just watching you with those green eyes, so fucking full of patience, and it only seemed to break you more. 

“I faked it,” you whispered, the confession scraping your throat on the way out. “This morning. I faked my orgasm, and I’ve never—in two years, I’ve never done that with you because God, baby, our sex is amazing, I swear on everything. It’s not you, it’s me. I just felt so empty, and I wanted to make you happy, but I couldn’t get out of my own freaking head and—”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

And you blinked, certain you had definitely misheard. “What?”

You watched as a soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “For faking it… And to be honest, you really sold it too—that little gasp at the end? Chef’s kisses, love. Gave me such a confidence boost before my meeting today.”

“Harry, I’m being serious—”

“So am I.” And he reached over, thumbs gently wiping the tears from your cheeks, smearing your makeup even more. “You know what I see when I look at you? I see someone who I know is carrying the entire world on her shoulders… and yet you still manage to think about making me feel good. That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”

“I’m a mess,” you tried weakly.

“Yeah, you are,” he agreed, but somehow it didn’t sting. “A beautiful, brilliant, badass mess who’s been keeping a whole company running while her boss does downward dog in Bali. Who’s also waiting for scary test results with more grace than anyone should have to have… And somehow you still remember to water the plants and feed the neighbor’s cat and text my mum back when I forget.”

He leaned closer then, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You fake orgasms like a pro, you make the best Sunday roasts, you reorganized my entire sock drawer by color last month, which, honestly, changed my life. You laugh at my terrible jokes, you let me be the little spoon when I need it, and you’re the only person I know who can make stress look sexy.”

And that last line made you laugh. “Stress is never sexy, Harry…”

“But YOU are sexy.” He tells you, pulling back, and you watch as he fishes out his phone. “Now listen, I’m texting Mitch. Gonna rain check on dinner. Tell them something’s come up.”

“Harry, we can’t just—”

“Watch me.” And he’s already typing. “There. Done. And now...” He tells you, using his sleeve to wipe the snot from your nose with absolutely no hesitation, “We’re going home. I’m going to run you a bath so hot you’ll feel like a fancy soup with one of those bath bomb thingies... We’ll order spaghetti and meatballs from the place that has that really good sauce. I’ll even open that stupidly expensive wine you’ve been wanting to save for a special occasion because, love, surviving this day is special enough…you’re more than special enough.”

And as he spoke, you held your breath trying to keep the sobs at bay, as your chest tightened, but in a different way now. “That sounds...” You attempted.

“And then,” he continued, cupping your face in his hands, “We’re going to do whatever you want. Watch reality TV, online shop for things we don’t need, organize the junk drawer… doesn’t matter to me because tonight’s going to be all about you.”

“Amazing,” you whimpered, your voice wobbly, but it was true. “That sounds amazing.”

He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then down your damp cheek, stopping right by your mouth. “Anything else you want to do?” He breathed. 

And for the first time since you had gotten in the car, you felt yourself actually smile, small nonetheless, but it was as real as the joy you felt rising in your bones.

“How about a redo for this morning?”

Harry’s grin came quickly, a soft wickedness playing at his features. “Now that’s the best idea you’ve had all day. No faking required this time, yeah? I’ve clearly got some confidence to rebuild...”

“Your confidence is fine,” you laughed, the sound still watery.

“Is it though?” And then he started the car, throwing a dramatic look of concern your way. “Christ, that gasp at the end really was convincing… Had me fooled completely, darling. We might need several redos just to be sure...”

And just like that, everything shifted in your mind… the weight wasn’t gone, you knew that—not entirely, of course, but you knew the test results would still be delayed, work would still be a disaster tomorrow, your boss would still be bullshitting in Bali. But for the first time in weeks, sitting there in Harry’s car, mascara-streaked and snotty, you felt something you hadn’t in weeks…

Fucking light enough to float, and that was enough for now.

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[dumbbandpoetic]

failed blind date

pairing: patrick zweig x reader

summary: patrick overhears some dumb guy talking about how he’s gonna stand up his blind date, and like the good (horny) samaritan he is, he swoops in and pretends to be him. only then, he really starts to fall in love.

a/n: never actually written for patrick at all before so it might be wildly out of character, but i tried my best with this req.. i liked writing it tho!! thanks for requesting stuff always <3

warnings: not proofread…

w/c: 1.5k

Patrick hates pissing in bars. It’s degrading.

The urinal stall is covered in graffiti, piss stains, and something that’s decidedly *not* piss and would probably show up under a blacklight. And he’s pretty sure he passed a rolled up line of cocaine on one of the sinks by the door. He was desperate, but not *that* desperate. Who knew what you could catch. Above all, though, people were loud as shit in the bathrooms.

Currently, there was a guy on the phone with one of his friends at the urinal on the other end. Patrick is just trying to piss in peace, but he’s so loud it’s impossible to ignore.

“Dude, Max said she was hot!” He was complaining, shimmying his pants down. “She’s just totally not my type. Knows the bartender. Probably gets set up on one blind date a week because no guy on his right mind would want her. Nah. I’m just gonna go home.”

Poor girl. Whoever she was, Patrick feels bad for her. To be quite honest, the guy on the phone wasn’t all that either, and he could only imagine this girl was waiting for a knight in shining armour. Except now, she was getting stood up.

…well.

She could still get a knight in shining armour. Just not the douchebag that was supposed to meet her tonight.

Patrick weighed the options. His ex-girlfriend had just dumped him, and had gotten with his best friend almost immediately after. Initially, Patrick had been excited with Art’s little crush on Tashi. It was good to see him come out of his shell. Now he wasn’t so happy about it. He was here to find a hookup anyway. This was just the easy route.

So he wiped clean, washed his hands, and exited the bathroom with a new confidence. He needed to find the girl with the least confidence who was sitting at the bar. It wasn’t hard to spot her. Based on her level of dejection, her date must’ve been 30 minutes late by now. She’s stirring her fruity drink with a curly straw, untouched, like she’s waiting to be joined.

The thing is, though, that she’s beautiful. Despite her sadness, Patrick’s sure he’s never seen a prettier girl in his life. There’s this glow to her skin that radiates around her, and he can’t stop looking at her. Was the guy from the bathroom blind? Or did he maybe see the wrong girl, or something? Whatever it is, Patrick thanks his lucky stars this girls date stood her up.

He clears his throat, then makes his move.

He slides in next to her and smiles. “Hey, Max’s friend, right?”

She visibly relaxes when she looks up at him. “Yeah, hi!” She says her name, and he catalogues it, because it’s probably never going to be mentioned again and it’s not like he can ask Max. “Peter. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Peter, yeah!” He nods, making a mental note to respond to that for the rest of the evening. “Sorry I’m so late, my work ran really really late, and I didn’t have a way to let you know-”

“Oh my god, no, it’s totally fine.” She shakes her head, hair fanning away from her face. “I was worried you weren’t going to come at all. Uh- what do you do for work?”

He orders a beer quickly, and takes that time to decide how much he should lie. He decides not at all. “Oh, I play tennis.”

“What, like, professionally?” She asks, finally taking a sip of her drink and looking up at him through her eyelashes. His brain wasn’t working properly. God, she was gorgeous.

“Yeah. I used to be pretty big, but then, you know- it staggers sometimes. That’s probably why you haven’t seen me.” What he doesn’t say is how he’s been playing loser games for about three seasons now and hasn’t been able to get himself taken seriously since college.

“Wow. Peter- that’s so cool. That’s amazing.” She grins like he told her he was the fucking pope, or something. She has a nice smile, he thinks. He stays silent for so long thinking about that, that she fills it again. “Max didn’t tell me you were like- awesome. I mean, he said you were average, at best, and boring- and you’re not that. Like, at all.”

“Well, thanks.” He can’t help snorting, thinking about the decidedly below average man he’d seen in the bathroom. He would’ve been so lucky to be sitting across from this ethereal girl. Patrick was the lucky one, really. “So what do you do?”

“I’m a teacher.” She beams brightly, hands tapping on the counter like the information excited her every time she remembered. “Elementary school. Second grade.”

“Oh, good for you. I definitely don’t have the patience to work with children.”

“Yeah, tennis is definitely more solitary, isn’t it?” She giggles, even though nothing was that funny. Patrick finds it very endearing. He’s good at making bad jokes, so it’s good to know she can laugh easily. “I’ll have to look up one of your matches.”

“Oh, you may not be able to find them.” He said quickly, shrugging his shoulders. “I was pretty young, so they might not have put my name on them, you know.” He was doing very poorly at lying so far. Maybe he should just come clean. He was thinking about it for sure.

As the evening progressed, their drinks went forgotten, conversation flowing easier than it’d ever gone for Patrick. Or, Peter, he should probably say. They didn’t even notice when everyone else cleared out, and the staff announced they were closing.

“Hey, let me walk you home.” He offers, hand instinctually hovering behind the small of her back as she hopped out of the barstool, just in case she needed help. He checks his watch, then shows it to her. “It’s really late. It’s dangerous for you to walk on your own.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” She grins, leading him out the bar. The cold hits them as soon as they exit, and he sees her shiver. His jacket leaves his shoulders and before he knows it, he’s draping it over her. “Wow, how gentlemanly.”

Internally, he’s freaking out. He doesn’t even know where this is coming from. He is a sleazy, no good, loser. Maybe Peter was doing him some good after all. “Lead the way, babe.”

“Peter,” He flinches at the name, because it’s not him. “This was great. Really. I’d love to do it again.”

“I should probably tell you something first.” He mumbles under his breath, his hand reaching for hers. He links their fingers together.

“Oh my god, are you a serial killer? Do you have a girlfriend? Was this all a prank-”

“No. None of the above.” He laughs a little bit, thumb rubbing over the back of her hand. “I’m.. uh- I’m not Peter.”

“So it *is* a prank.” She says, eyebrows furrowed. They stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and she looks up at him like she’s hurt, but all he can focus on is the way that the dim streetlight is shining on her like she’s a goddamn angel on earth.

“No- well- just let me explain. I was in the bathroom at the bar, and this guy- *Peter*, I guess- said that he wasn’t really feeling a blind date this evening and decided to go home. Now when *I* left the bathroom, and I saw you sitting there- I just- I wanted an excuse to talk to you. But I’m not Peter. I’m Patrick. My name is Patrick.”

“Have you been telling me lies all evening, *Patrick*?” She asks, hand dropping out of his. His hand flexes at his side.

“No. Everything else is true. I do play tennis, and I do have a cat that sometimes visits me, and I do think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” He knows that he’s rambling, but it’s not like he can stop it. Suddenly she starts walking again, and he follows her on impulse.

“Well, I guess it’s okay then. Just a name. Think I’m gonna call you Peter anyway.” She mumbles, her hand reaching for his again. He smiles at that. “And that other Peter guy was probably lame.”

“He looked totally lame. Like, way below your league, and stupid, and kind of reminded me of a grown up frat boy a little bit.” He laughs, looking down at her like she’s the second coming of Christ.

She stops again. “Hey, Peter, this is my apartment.” She holds onto his hand though, looking back at her building. “Do you… wanna come upstairs?”

“Peter definitely wants to come upstairs.” He grins, cocking his head to the side like he was cracking his neck.

“Well, who am I to say no?” Her laugh is contagious, and they’re both fumbling around as she tries to put the keys in the front door.

It’s highly possible he’s the luckiest man alive.

credits to strangergraphics for the dividers

likes and reblogs are always appreciated!! thanks for reading my lovelies <3

[heavensbeehall]

Katniss and Peeta ending up together is something of a foregone conclusion in the final chapter of Mockingjay. I think it always was to Collins; she says it would have happened anyway. But even though I never truly thought she’d end up with Gale, I still would’ve liked to see a whole chapter of Katniss and Peeta just figuring it out. Maybe just a transcript of all their real or not real games.

Because there are two—almost three—years of missed and miscommunication between them, and I would like to know they finally clear that up. Maybe it is because I don’t trust Katniss fully, though I love her dearly. “This would have happened anyway.” Yeah, I knew that in book one when you still thought he’d eat people.

Peeta literally can’t trust his memories and she’s always got a lot going on so I could stand a bit more “growing back together.” I would like to feel certain all is well before I leave them both.

[emskryptonite]

Stupid in Love

a/n: HERE'S THE SECOND FIC OF THE CELLY!! i'm keeping these reqs open for as long as you all are sending some in!! so keep 'em coming!! (also just a reminder that i'm now writing for hal jordan so if anyone wants to send in a req for him for this celly i would NAWT be mad at all!!) anywho happy reading!! i hope you all enjoy!! - Emmy ❤️

Request:

🩻 x-ray vision: a secret needs to be confessed

🤎 brown suit: “When you look at me like that, I start to think that maybe, maybe, you could love me too.” 

💃 gala 

Anti-Hero: Hurt/Comfort

Pairing(s): Dick Grayson x reader

Word Count: 690

Content/Warnings: like the prompt says this is hurt/comfort, not proofread, second half may be rushed??, idk there's not much going on in this one i can't lie 😭, if i missed something let me know!!

Build-a-Hero Celly Prompts | Build-a-Hero Celly Masterlist | Masterlist

“Ow, Richard,” you hiss at the man not three inches in front of your face. “You stepped on my toes. Again.” The two of you had made your way onto the dance floor to join other couples in your little tradition. At every gala you’d ever been to, you and Dick always shared one dance. It was basically law at this point; no matter what socialite had you tied up in conversation, no matter who either of you had brought as a date, the two of you would dance, just once. 

“Sorry, sorry. I just- You see that girl over there?” You realize then that he’s barely even looked at you through the entire dance, and your heart aches inside your chest, like someone has reached in and started squeezing it. Of course, when you turn your head to see who he’s talking about, you’re met with quite possibly the most beautiful woman ever to exist. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, trying your best to mask your disdain. “She’s pretty. You gonna talk to her?”

“You think I have a shot?” He finally moves his eyes back to yours, and it hurts knowing that he’d never think of you the way he’s thinking about her.

“You look like a freaking model, and you have the heart of an angel. Yeah, Dick, you have a chance.” The words come out much drier than you expect, and you have to hope that the detective in front of you doesn’t catch on to why exactly you’re speaking so harshly.

“Yeah? Should I go? I mean, I’m not sure-”

“Do whatever you want, Dick,” you sigh, stepping away from him and heading off the dance floor. “I don’t care anymore.”

For a moment, he just stands there, dumbfounded, trying to figure out what had gotten into you. Soon enough, he regains his composure and follows you out into the hallway, without so much as a glance at the girl from before. When he gets out there, he finds you leaning up against the wall, your eyes closed and your head leaned back. Your arms are wrapped around yourself, protectively, and you’re taking deep breaths. Yeah, something is wrong, and he’s going to figure out what it is.

He slowly approaches you, laying a delicate hand on your shoulder. When your eyes meet his, you find nothing but gentle concern; it makes you scoff.

“Don’t look at me like that…”

“Like what, sunshine? What’s wrong?” he questions softly, not wanting to scare you away.

“All soft and sweet and gentle and caring.” You try to look away, but the soothing hand he places on your cheek keeps your eyes locked on his.

“Why not?”

“When you look at me like that, I start to think that maybe, maybe, you could love me too.” You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, unable to look him in the eye. You knew the rejection was coming, but you just couldn’t bear it.

“Sweetheart-”

“It’s fine, Dick, really,” you wriggle your way out of his hold. “I knew you’d never see me the same way. If you don’t want to talk to me anymore, that’s fine. I understand.” You sniffle after the last word leaves your lips. Tears weren’t falling yet, but you could feel the burn of them behind your eyes. 

“Will you let me finish?” He grabs both of your wrists, forcing you to stand there and listen to what he has to say. His grip is loose enough that you could get out of it if you really wanted to; fortunately for him, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t hear whatever he needs to tell you so badly. “I do love you. I always have. I know I haven’t done a great job at showing that, but…but I always thought the same thing that you did, that you’d never feel the same way…”

Your eyes widen in shock, “You- Really?”

“Yeah, really, you goofball. What’s not to love about you, huh?”

His last comment makes you roll your eyes fondly. “I guess we’re both pretty stupid then,” you smile.

“Stupid in love,” he singsongs.

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[themosscycle]

It’s also good to have rants and criticism of the things we like and love patchwork.

I actually feel bad at times when the game puts Ralsei in a position where he needs to humiliate himself to be useful in any way. Like, when he makes the ladder thing in chapter 4. It’s like a desperate attempt to be and it’s so sad. The pushing buddies is another example.

I will only say that maybe the only badass moment Ralsei has is when he single-handled kills the Oldman-like statue. I guess you didn’t counted it because it’s not really super significant, but yeah there is clearly a tendency of the game of put Ralsei appart from what the others do, and that moment it’s the only exception I can really think of.

Because… well Ralsei knowledge hasn’t also been super useful besides prevent the lighteners from doing things that will bring harm to the world or cause a titan or the roaring. He always intervenes when things are about to get very ugly and gives the necessary info to buy the team more time. But it has come to the detriment of what he intends to do… and that it’s something I had never thought about.

This is why I think people don’t pick up on this, because for people Ralsei’s function is his guidance and information. But he must go against the things he intends to do and that is an angle I had never considered.

I think Ralsei wants to let the lightners be the heroes and have their moments, because actually if you think about it with all the knowledge he has he could solve all the puzzles and we would skip all our “fun”. He has already said this so he could be more useful but he usually doesn’t because probably he has an idea of who is doing what and what is gonna happen….

I think this is what differentiates Ralsei from a damsel. He is knowledgeable, he knows a lot and we have confirmation that he could do a lot more but he just doesn’t. He is never directly put in distress for us to rescue him or he is not fully useless, this is why I think people don’t really have an issue with it. But… he doesn’t contribute with anything that is very significant for the heroes to overcome things.

This is not to contradict your points, is just things I’ve just thought about why this is a recurring thing… and for all of Ralsei stuff I actually have a theory for chapter 5 that I hope it happens (this that I will say can happen in a lot of different ways and for different causes too… but is something I think the narrative is forging the path to).

Here it comes my two cents on how I think the game should do Ralsei’s arc and what I think is gonna happen ————————————>

Chapter 5 is gonna have a similar focus with Ralsei than chapter 4 had with Susie and chapter 3 with Kris. Even you could stretch this and say chapter 2 was for Noelle though she didn’t had a secret boss fight (well. Guess you could count Snowgrave… if you do that).

If you think about it these 3 chapters were done to be released together. We were meant to see the arcs of the three of the fun gang altogether, but chapter 5 was cut so maybe this is also why it feels like this currently.

We had a lot of crumbs and info of chapter 5, and I think that considering Ralsei is like deltarune version of Flowey and Ralsei’s chapter being Asgore flower shop darkworld, we could have a very significant progress in that regard. Also… I feel that considering Ralsei’s appearance of being a goat I think that the trend of the boss of the darkworld ignoring or disregarding Ralsei will change too. I don’t feel that Asgore will behave as other darkners have (for me it’s almost a confirmation that Asgore is gonna be here due to the portrait we had in the prophecy).

My bet of things that could happen? There is an ability that Ralsei hasn’t learned of shown yet, similarly to how Susie learned to heal Ralsei will learn something more defensive (it should be different than Rude buster though).

This ability is going to make Ralsei step out from his subservient attitude. This is going to be hurtful to watch because something that happens in chapter 5 is gonna make Ralsei finally break. He is going to get angry at things. Justifyingly so. He is gonna scream.

(I heard a theory that this might be caused by Noelle joining the party… and with the chapter 2 Noelle or Ralsei? Question Susie asks… well I will just leave it here. Noelle has all Ralsei’s abilities but improved if you think about it).

We have never seen Ralsei directly useing fire magic even if that is in his prophecy portrait. We have never seen Ralsei actually producing flames… because he is focused on being this complaint sweet companion. Ralsei will become something of himself when he finally allows himself to shine and to be his full self.

Ralsei can also be powerfull. If he puched that statue I think he can do a lot of things that he usually doesn’t do. I think he is limiting himself because that is his role. He is the tutorial, the mage, the assistant. Like, I feel that for the prophecy he is just someone that must always be there to ensure that the intended path of the story it’s not broken significantly. This is why he is not meant to intervene. He is not meant to be someone important.

His way of subverting the prophecy (like Susie does always) will be becoming more than a guide or tutorial-like character. He is trying to change the prophecy but at the same time, when events differ from the prophecy, he gets super scared. It’s something I find very interesting about Ralsei. Of course maybe he just doesn’t want something even worse to happen and that’s fully understandable.

He needs to see that he can and should break things from time to time.

Also… I really want Asgore doing something besides stalking Toriel and embarrassing Kris lmao. Like, Asgore has redeeming qualities but he hasn’t had a time to show them and helping Ralsei could be one of that time. Maybe by helping Ralsei he distracts himself from Toriel and Sans.

I am still debating myself if “fields of pink and gold” is a reference to Susie and Noelle becoming a team sidelining Ralsei, if it is something Mike related or if is something about Asgore and Toriel/Sans. But well… these game usually surprises me so… who knows.

We could also have a lot of reveals of what’s happening because I think that Asgore also knows things.

Also… if he becomes his full badass version I want to see what Kris does.

Okay. Ralsei Rant incoming.

I feel like I have to preface this by saying I love Deltarune, i ADORE Ralsei, and I acknowledge that the game is far from complete and there are plenty of things that can happen going forward.

But I lowkey hate how Ralsei just... fails utterly at EVERYTHING he sets out to do. And I do mean EVERYTHING. He is Failure personified, and I kinda hate that for him.

Chapter 1: Tries to establish the prophecy to the heroes (while attempting to subvert it at the same time) and get them onside. He fails at this because Susie initially refuses to cooperate, and when she DOES finally come onside, it's because of Lancer and Kris, not anything Ralsei says to her. He then tries to convince King by healing him - and fails, nearly consigning the heroes to death as a result.

Chapter 2: Tries to keep the more horrifying/existential aspects of their destiny under wraps. Here he fails on two fronts, first because Kris digs too deep with Spamton, and then again because Berdly very nearly creates a Titan and kickstarts the Roaring, necessitating Ralsei to scream at them to stop. This does not endear him to anyone.

Chapter 3: Tries to console Tenna. Fails, because his sense of empathy is so incredibly warped due to his own nonexistent self-esteem that he very nearly drives Tenna to suicide. Alternatively, you could see this as Ralsei getting Tenna to accept his imminent demise at the Knight's hand. This too fails, because Susie immediately undoes that with her own rousing speech.

Chapter 4: Tries to prevent Susie from going to his room and discovering it's empty. Fails, because all he did to stop her was put up one bit of yellow tape. Then he tries to ensure that neither Kris nor Susie will see the result of the final prophecy. Fails, because Susie rushes ahead to look for Gerson and stumbles across it on her own.

Everything significant Ralsei tries to do completely and utterly fails. Events happen and victories are won IN SPITE of his involvement, and not because of it. He has all this knowledge about what's going to happen, he's acutely aware about the dark world and its rules, and he still cannot do a thing. And the worst part? He can't even claim that he had no choice, because he's been working to subvert the prophecy from the very start, meaning it DOESN'T have a cast-iron grip on his actions and choices. Ralsei's failures are all his own.

And what, additionally, does he contribute to major fights, aside from a TP-intensive healing spell? Against King he's an active detriment. Against Queen he does very little, while Kris and Susie are much better at removing Berdly's wires than he is. Against the Knight he can't do meaningful damage, his healing takes valuable TP from Susie's Rude Busters, and he disintegrates if the Knight so much as breathes on him. And against the Titan, his best use is to bring Kris back to life and be one half of a decreasing-effectiveness Dual Heal.

Contrast with Susie - demolishes King's HP with Rude/Red Buster, Throws Kris to cut Berdly's wires the most effectively, AND can demolish Queen's acid shield with Rude/Red Buster, she's the sole MVP of the Knight fight, and her idea is pivotal to defeating the Titan at the end of Chapter 4.

And look, I'm not going to say that Ralsei failing to keep his friends from caring about him and wanting him to be his own person is bad - of course it isn't! We want him to be able to choose for himself what he's (or indeed she) is going to be. But for heaven's sake, he's going 0 for 0 right now. And if my theory about him snapping in Chapter 5 and being the one responsible for the "inferno of jealousy" turns out to be correct, he'll have continued the trend of failing at absolutely everything meaningful he tries to do.

And additionally, I'm not saying that his inability to succeed at anything despite his best efforts makes his character bad! Again, far from it! I Love Ralsei because of his struggles with his identity, his desires fighting against his obligations, and his unflinching kindness and gentleness in the face of a cruel and uncaring world. But Toby, I'm begging you - give us SOMETHING to celebrate over here! Give us SOMETHING we Ralsei stans can point to and go "see! He IS contributing to the team! He IS pulling his weight! He ISN'T just a cute and cuddly guy and/or girl!"

At this point, I think Ralsei's issue is more fundamental than "He has negative self-esteem" or "He's the wrong gender". Put simply, the universe FUCKING HATES HIM. It's like he's destined to fail, destined to die, destined to never amount to anything. And yes, Susie loves him and Susie will save him and Susie will regurgitate meals into his mouth like a baby bird, but all that actually means at the moment is that he's forever doomed to wander in her vast shadow, never able to make anything of himself. What would he even be without her? Nothing? Less than nothing?

People are talking about Ralsei's role in combat becoming completely superfluous, and having to be carried by his friends, and are treating this as an Unambiguously Good Thing. And it kind of blows my mind that anyone can accept that a character in a story - a Main Character, no less! - can serve absolutely no function except to be a mascot and stand at the sidelines doing nothing, contributing nothing, achieving nothing. Do you know what those characters are called? They're called DAMSELS. And people DO NOT LIKE DAMSELS, last I checked!

I don't know, maybe I'm missing something here. Maybe Ralsei's unending litany of failure and ineffectiveness is meant to say something profound that I'm just not picking up on. But would it have killed the developers to let him have ONE unambiguous triumph? ONE thing we can point to and say, yeah, that's all Ralsei, that's his Thing and he rocks for that. And maybe that makes it sound like I hate him, and I have to assure you yet again, I don't. I love this guy to pieces - and it's precisely because I love him that I'm so torn up about this.

I don't hate Ralsei. I hate that he can't catch even a single goddamn break.