#so even if people hate me for this...whatever

[wynnyfryd]

push me, sugar

written for @switcheddieweek day 5: 'non-verbal negotiation' + 'dancing' | 4.7k | M | modern college AU, musician eddie, swing dancer steve | ao3

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“GodDAMMIT!!!!” Frankie smacks the outside of his fist against the exposed brick wall leading to the green room, chest heaving.

Eddie catches him by the shoulders; scans his furious red face. “Whoa, whoa, hey. Hey! What happened?”

Frankie growls. Gareth and Jeff appear in the hallway behind him—Gareth close to pissed-off tears, Jeff translating their collective anger into English with a sigh like a buzz saw. “The scout hated us, man.”

What the fuck?

How??

“Is he fucking deaf?!” Eddie screeches. Gareth makes a strangled noise. Frankie knocks his forehead against the wall with a dull, metronomic thud. Son of a bitch. These kinds of hallways are meant for eyeing up the potential groupies at the end of a killer set, not for fucking…group lamentations for the dead, or whatever the hell’s happening here.

Beside him, Jeff leans against the brick, rubbing a knot in his neck. “He said we sounded great, but apparently we look like shit. ‘Zero fuckin’ stage presence’—his words; not mine.”

Gareth’s little sniffles promote themselves to an outright sob, and Frankie shoulders past them and slams the dressing room door behind him, the hollow-core panel doing nothing to muffle his scream.

---------------------

“Brutal,” Steve sucks his teeth in sympathy as Eddie shares the highlight reel during his shift the next morning. ‘Bruuuuutal,’ Robin mouths behind his back.

Eddie hides a smile in a sip of latte foam. “Delicious as always, my good man.”

Steve glows under the praise and steps out from behind the espresso machine to rest his elbows on the bar, the tanned, olive skin of his forearms in stark contrast with the white counters. Eddie’s not sure if he wants to pin those arms down or be pinned…

Jesus.

Best not to board either of those thought trains when it’s 9 A.M. and he’s wearing his tightest jeans in public.

He sends them both off from the station with an imagined choo chooooo!, retreating to the safety of his sulking. “Just sucks,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his hand. “Like—I mean, shit, man, I just want to play music!” He throws his other hand up and lets it land with a dull smack. “You know music? The reason people go to shows? To listen to music??”

Robin snorts at him in passing as she goes to grab a broom.

Unhelpfully, Steve says, “Sure, I guess, but. They do also go to watch it.”

Betrayal. Complete and utter betrayer-ing. Betrayance!!!

Eddie glares.

Steve laughs, “Sorry.”

“Whatever. I just don’t want to have to worry about my goddamn hips or whatever when I’m communing with my Sweetheart.”

Robin’s on his side of the bar now, sweeping around the self-serve station, and her eyes are twinkling with—well, Eddie doesn’t know what, exactly, but it feels like it’s about to be some seriously impish bullshit at his expense. “Steve,” she says meaningfully, and Steve answers, “Robin,” and there’s a whole ping pong match of microexpressions that Eddie tries and fails to interpret before he swivels toward Robin and goes, “Okay, turn the fucking subtitles on.”

Robin horse-laughs. “Steve can help you!”

Eddie turns back toward him. His cheekbones are starting to turn a real pretty shade of pink, like an oil canvas sunset, and Eddie can’t help but want to add a dot of red into the paint mix. “You some kinda hula hoop champ or somethin’?” he teases.

Steve’s blush deepens.

Success.

Beside him, Robin pipsqueaks, “Even better!!” She’s dancing some kind of goofy waltz with her broomstick, walking forwards and backwards in long strides, twirling it around and swinging her hips in an exaggerated awkward swivel.

Steve’s forehead hits the counter with a thud. “Rob-innnnnn,” he groans, straightening up and frowning flatly at her. He yanks the dish towel from his shoulder and whips it at her in disapproval.

Robin giggles.

Steve sighs so hard Eddie can smell the morning mocha on his breath. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh,” she counters with a long, snorting pfffft—lips clamped, face puffed like she’s about to shoot milk out of her nose. “I hate to tell you this, but it actually so totally is.”

“I’ll laser off my Scoops tat,” he threatens with a finger wag and a hand on his hip.

Robin gasps, “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I would.”

Eddie can’t even focus on the revelation that Steve has a tattoo somewhere(???!) because he’s too busy having a really, just—goddamn horrific moment of self-discovery over Steve’s pissed off gym coach vibes. Is he about to blow a whistle and start barking orders over here? Jesus Christ.

Behind him, Robin concedes, “Okay, I’m sorry! You know I love you, please don’t hurt my boy Butterscotch with lasers.”

“Be nice to me,” Steve squints in warning before he holsters the pointer finger.

Eddie reaches for his drink; mutters over the lip of his cup, “What the fuck is happening?”

The shop’s dead right now, so Robin swings up onto the bar chair beside Eddie and leans in all conspiratorially to inform him that Steve—yes, that Steve, Steve Harrington, the hot guy barista who’s maybe sort of Eddie’s friend in a regular customer kind of way, the dude currently blushing his ass off across the counter—is a regional champion fucking West Coast swing dancer.

---------------------

Half an hour later, leaning against the brick side of the building and sharing a post-shift cigarette with Steve, Eddie says, “I mean, it is kind of funny.”

“Oh, cool, so all my friends are assholes. Love that.”

Eddie huffs a laugh. Tries really hard to tune out the voice in his brain going friendsfriendsfriendsohmygod. “Only because I didn’t expect it. Not that it’s surprising, though. I mean, it goes with your whole…” He waves the hand holding the cigarette in Steve’s direction.

“My what?” He looks vaguely concerned.

Eddie shakes his head with a soft grin. “Just suits you, is all.”

---------------------

Steve’s fucking… so good at this. Holy shit. The way he glides across the dance floor, the way he perfectly directs his partner exactly where he wants her, makes her look weightless under his big hands, it’s uh—

It’s got Eddie’s internal narrator all glitched out, splicing Ye Olde English with braindead horndog internet shit until he actually hears himself think the words ‘prithee, good sir, what them hips do?’ and has to sit on both hands to keep from slapping himself in public.

He kind of can’t even believe what’s happening right now to be honest—he’s sitting on a thin vinyl cushion of a folding black plastic chair in what he thinks is a conference center but could be a non-denominational church? Maybe? Whatever, he wasn’t really paying attention when he drove in. He was a little preoccupied thinking about goddamn Steve Harrington, yeah, that Steve, Swing Dance Champion; didn’t even notice his favorite song playing over the van’s speakers until the riff at the six minute twenty-eight second mark.

And now somehow he’s watching the guy he’d been—Jesus, he’d basically been mentally doodling the guy’s name in hearts in the margins of his notebook with a pink feather pen and stars in his eyes—and now that guy is wrapping his huge hands around his dance partner’s slim waist and throwing her down between his open legs, feet planted firmly on either side of her as she goes down and around his thigh like a firepole. Her french-manicured hand trails over his inseam, and Eddie can see the direction Steve’s dick hangs, holy shit. Somebody set up a single tripod of DJ party booth lights at the dance floor’s edge, and it should be tacky as hell, but it’s painting Steve in all these gorgeous pinks and purples, the light shifting like a stormy sunset reflecting off a wave, Steve’s so handsome, and he’s rolling his hips like he’s—and Eddie can see his dickprint through his skin-tight jeans, and—

“Excuse me,” Eddie blurts to the three people seated to his left as he lurches from his seat and crouch-walks down the tightly packed row to the aisle as quick as he can.

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face. Juts his chin at his scarlet-flushed reflection. He’s not gonna jizz his pants in public.

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.

*

Eddie splashes—

“Ah, shit.”

His shirt’s getting wet.

“Shit.”

His bangs are soaked now, clumping into heavy spirals that splash fat drops all down his neckline. He reaches over and yanks a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser, squishing at his bangs and hoping he doesn’t dry out looking like a poodle. (Never fucking remembers to bring more hair product, never mind the fact that he’s apparently doing this so often that ‘never’ is applicable.)

There’s a hand dryer mounted on the wall, but it’s one of the older models; doesn’t have the little metal flippy thing to point the air up at your face—which has gotta be, uh. Unhygienic, right? Shit. Goddamn convenient at a highway rest stop, though, especially when you just finished a show at some middle-of-nowhere hick venue and you’re sweating your balls off and you don’t even care that you’re blowing hot air directly into your face because you’re too in shock from, like, getting away from that gig without getting hate-crimed and getting paid for it. So yeah. One of those would be awesome.

He doesn’t have one of those. What he does have is weird blotches of hair gel water drying all over his shirt, so he crouches down into a half-squat that feels like he’s making fun of a flamingo and holds his shirt under the downward-pointing hot air stream.

And of course that’s how Steve finds him.

Of course this convention-center-slash-maybe-church doesn’t have a separate bathroom backstage for the performers.

And of course Steve looks…

Goddamn.

He’s all sweaty, but in a glistening magazine cover sort of way—sort of aspirational, you know? Like, you could have this too if you were athletic and hot and tan. His hair is ever so slightly damp at the roots and temples, but not enough to make it limp, if anything it’s just enhancing the sheen, and—

And Eddie’s just staring up at his breathless, sweaty, sort-of-friend-in-a-regular-customer-way like he’s—

“Did you spill something?”

Steve’s got a confused but kind almost-smile on his face as he gestures across his own shirt collar, a scoop from right to left like he’s fingerpainting on a necklace. At least Eddie can blame the hot air from the dryer for how flaming red his cheeks feel.

“Yeah, uh,” he stutters as he straightens up; underhands the wad of damp paper towels into the narrow hoop of the trash can. Half the napkins botch the landing and go sliding over the beveled hump down to the floor. “Shit.”

Steve laughs a little, but he bends down and grabs the small stack before Eddie can get there, rising gracefully and tipping them into the trash can without even looking. “You good?”

“Huh? Uh- yeah.” Jesus. “Yeah, man, I’m, uh. I’m,” he gives up and just starts nodding like a dashboard bobblehead, hoping Steve will get the message.

Steve grins wide, excitement taking over. He’s biting his lower lip, buzzing around the edges. “Sooooo? What’d you think?”

“You’re amazing.” It’s automatic, basically under his breath; maybe Steve didn’t even hear it. “I mean, uh-”

Well, hell.

There’s just nothing else to call it, is there?

“Yeah,” he laughs, owning it. “No, yeah, you were amazing. Holy shit, dude!”

Steve’s face does something incredible. Like, movie-magic compelling. Eddie doesn’t even know how to describe the shift; it’s just soft, and pleased, and endearing, and for a second he gets why so many poets describe their lovers like the sun.

“Really?” Steve asks. His voice… “Thank you. I’m really glad you liked it.”

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.

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Five days after Eddie made a goddamn fool of himself at Steve’s dance night, they agreed to meet up for Eddie’s first official swing dance lesson, because Steve’s chem lab lets out early on Fridays and Eddie’s math class is over on that side of campus and Steve’s dorm building has a ground floor gym that “basically no one ever goes into, dude, don’t even worry about.”

“Are you sure about that?” “Yeah. Seriously, if anyone says anything, just say we’re doing shit for musical theater class or whatever.” “Musical th— are you in a musical theater class?” “No. I mean, I was in freshman year for my fine art credit, but—” “WHAT?” “What?” “Is there footage of this anywhere?” “Yeah, but everyone who watches it dies in seven days. It’s like The Grudge.” “I thought that was The Ring?” “....Okay, I was, like, pretty sure I knew the right answer before you just said that.” “Sorry.” “No, you’re good. Want to watch one of those after our lesson?”

That phone conversation’s been playing on repeat like a Sabbath record in his head for the last three days. He has no idea what he even learned today in math class. (Not that he necessarily has any idea on any other day. Fuck. He should probably take that Barb girl up on her weekly study group.) And now Steve’s building is coming into view across the quad, and anticipation moves like ants under Eddie’s skin, and he really just wants to run away screaming or at least hide around a corner and hit his vape until he calms down, but he refuses to be all loopy and uncoordinated in front the smoothest fucking dancer he’s ever seen, so—

So—

He squares up to the building like a gunslinger preparing to duel. Ever the wordsmith, his mind supplies: UGH!!!!!

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The lessons are going horribly.

The first time Eddie stepped on Steve’s feet, he was cool about it (relatively, anyway), because Steve had just served him a gracious ‘that’s okay’ on the silver platter of his soft grin and encouraged him to keep going, and it was fine; it was only the first night; Eddie would get there with more practice.

But now he’s had practice. Now he’s been doing stupid little six-count steps in his living room for weeks, and tonight marks the sixth time that Steve has agreed to meet up with him for private lessons—and sure, Steve’s been kind of throwing him for a loop tonight by having him switch between dancing lead and following, but he thought he was starting to get it! At least a little bit! So when he somehow screws it up again and steps down right on Steve’s toes, he can’t stop the frustrated string of curse words that falls out of his mouth.

“Sorry,” he huffs, stepping back from Steve, rubbing his fists against his stinging eyes. Oh, god. Please don’t start anger-crying right now.

“Hey, it’s—”

“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” he snaps; instantly feels bad about his tone and the way Steve winces and flinches back the slightest bit. “Sorry,” he says again. “Sorry, just… Jesus. I fucking suck at this. Is your foot okay?”

“Mmhm.” He lifts his stomped foot off the ground, makes a show of flexing his toes inside his soft-top sneakers, rolling his ankle in a circle. As he steps back in to continue the lesson, his hands find Eddie’s waist, his elbows, gliding down his forearms to his wrists, holding both hands between their bodies.

Horrifically, Eddie sniffles. “Christ,” he laughs under his breath, keeping his head bowed, hiding behind his hair. Steve smells like cedar and citrus, and he’s probably making an unbearably kind expression right now, something tender and guiding and ‘you’re safe with me,’ and Eddie can’t bring himself to look.

“Hey.” Steve’s fingers find the underside of his jaw and press up until Eddie’s head lifts—gentle but insistent, just like all his moves when he’s in the lead. Jesus. Eddie was right about the face he pictured Steve making. “It really is fine, I promise. You think I’ve never thrown a temper tantrum in a dance class before?”

“Can’t really picture that.”

“Yeah, well. That’s because you never saw me in the god-awful costume I had to wear for my 7th grade tap dance recital.”

“Oh, my god.”

“There were coattails involved.”

Eddie snorts, and it’s a gross sound because his nose is still half-full of the tears he didn’t let fall, but whatever. He lifts his hands to Steve’s shoulders with a sigh.

“You want to go again?” Steve asks. “We can start that section from the top.”

“Honestly?” His thumb taps nervously at the shoulder seam of Steve’s t-shirt. “Look, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me here, man, I don’t want— shit, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dickhead, I just— I guess I’m, uh, feeling a little defeated here, Steve. And I’m also not sure what all of this has to do with the type of stuff I play on stage, anyway, you know? Like how does knowing how to do a sugar hop help me?”

“Sugar push.”

“Right, yeah, sugar push. But still, how is this—” He steps out wide from Steve, doing a sarcastic one-armed jazz hand before he reels himself back in. “ —applicable to doom metal? Do you even know what our stuff sounds like?”

Steve doesn’t answer, but his cheeks tint pink.

Eddie looks away; scrubs at the back of his neck. Goddamn, Steve’s one patient saint of a man. He can see their reflection in the full-length mirror spanning the wall to his left, and Eddie looks like a total asshole, his mouth twisted in a weird defensive grimace-smirk, his posture all slumped like a sulking teen goth who just heard they’re going on a family beach trip for spring break. And Steve’s just smiling away! Just as unbothered as can be, a radiant little cherub with his olive skin and blushing cheeks and chestnut waves, a Roman demigod of the harvest or some shit, the sunshiney little—

“Okay,” Steve laughs, snapping his fingers in Eddie’s face. “I have a new plan.”

---------------------

Steve slots in close to Eddie as the song starts—one thigh between his, belt loops almost catching. He plucks Eddie’s right hand up and starts to rock them gently, just getting a feel for it. “Oh, yeah,” Steve says when the first real riff kicks in, like he’s talking to himself, except his breath is hot in Eddie’s hair. “Yeah, this is a good tempo. Jesus.”

Eddie swallows. The hand at his hip pushes with more pressure until he takes a step back, and then another, and usually this is the part where they’d swing away from each other, but Steve stays pressed close, chasing Eddie’s thighs with his own, and he’s practically grinding against him to the music he wrote; that’s Eddie’s voice and Eddie’s guitar making Steve roll his hips like that, all slow and controlled, his breath speeding up a little.

“Switch me,” Steve says.

Eddie’s ears ring. “Huh?”

“Yeah.” It’s raspy. Out of breath. He does something with his hips that sends a tremor from Eddie’s shoulder to the pulsing vein in his groin. “Yeah, switch me.” He guides Eddie’s hand down to his hip. “Take the lead.”

“Steve, c’mon.”

“You come on,” he teases, drawing back to meet his eye. “It’s your song, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He’s already nodding along to the drone of the bass; metronomic compulsion; goddamn, they crushed it on this part.

Steve must be feeling it, too—eyes closed, head bowed, a little smile at the edge of his lips. Their bodies roll in tandem still. “Okay, so perform it then,” Steve dares him, looking from under his lashes. “Pretend I’m the mic stand.”

Fuck.

Over the speaker, Eddie’s voice growls about wanting everything, and Eddie does; wants it so badly, whatever Steve’s offering. His hand drags from Steve’s hip bone to the trim dip of his waist, taking the thin t-shirt with him, exposing a slice of tan skin. Eddie doesn’t think he can get away with pantomiming licking the mic stand, but maybe…

“You chose every word,” Eddie sings along quietly, pushing his weight into Steve, leading him back across the floor, “that I’ve said…”

Steve shivers against him, and Eddie wants more of that; wants to make Steve take what he gives him, watch him go starry-eyed and moldable like clay—Christ, the art Eddie could sculpt at the altar of Steve’s body; the music he could make from all his soft, pretty sounds. Harsh, fluttering breath, the hitch of a syllable caught in his throat, the tacky click of a dry swallow when Eddie’s hand skims his rib cage to tease the outer swell of his chest. Eddie could brush a thumb over his nipple. Make it so casual it could be called an accident.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Steve pants, still coaching. “Flirt with me a little.” He works his hips against Eddie’s in a slow, filthy circle, one foot lifting to climb the curve of Eddie’s calf as he twists his fingers in Eddie’s belt loops, then arches his back and dips himself toward the floor with a gorgeous tumble of brown hair, damp at the hairline, the veins in his neck all exposed, swollen blue and bulging with the rush of his thudding heartbeat; his cheeks flushed cherry red.

Eddie bows over him. Holds him like he’s tipping the mic stand toward a crowd, one hand cupping Steve’s neck while the other wraps around his back to steady him, palm splayed wide over warm muscle. He drags his lips from the base of Steve’s collarbones to the bony jut of his throat, and the answering moan rattles his teeth. Jesus. He’s half-hard against Steve’s thigh, uncomfortably bent in his tight jeans, and his mouth is just— just open against Steve’s slightly sweaty skin, tongue tasting the salt there when he mumbles along with his own lyrics. “I’ll fuck up again.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie doesn’t know who moves first—couldn’t tell you much other than Steve’s moan was probably a G flat and was definitely going to haunt his wet dreams for the rest of his goddamn life. One moment his tongue’s catching on the stubble beneath Steve’s jaw; the next it’s tangled with Steve’s, squirming past wet, wide open lips to get behind his teeth, their faces tilted for a deeper angle, Steve’s sharp breaths hot against his cheek and upper lip. Steve tastes so fucking good, sweat and spit and citrus, and Eddie wants to swallow him whole.

When they break away, they’re both shaking, anticipatory tremor of a good, hard fuck that Eddie can feel all the way down to the arches of his feet. His ears are buzzing. He straightens up and brings Steve with him, and Steve laughs softly in the humid space between them, his forehead pressed to Eddie’s, their mouths still wet with spit.

“Damn,” Eddie smiles.

Steve’s lashes flutter. ��Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” He tucks a strand of hair back into place behind Steve’s ear. “My regular mic stand’s really gonna have to up her game.”

Steve’s pleased, preening chuckles carry them all the way back to Steve’s dorm.

---------------------

So they fucked.

Sort of.

Mutual mouth stuff that kind of drove him crazy, made him hump his pillow like a wild animal just thinking about it later—the way Steve so easily flip-flopped between control and submission, seemed to like both just as much as Eddie does, kept throwing him the lead and then taking it back like it was just another dance lesson, smiley and flushed and so, so handsome…

But so what, right?

It doesn’t mean Steve owes him anything.

And yeah, he was really… Actually, he was almost disturbingly sweet about the direct aftermath. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever blown a guy in broad daylight without immediately being shame-shoved out the door as soon as they got the money shot, but Steve had asked him to stick around. Steve had made eye contact, had lazily cleaned them both up and taken his time getting redressed, his chest hair all puffed up, the dark brown curls turning gold in the shafts of sunlight through the blinds when he asked Eddie to text him details for his next show and promised he’d be there.

Whatever.

Everyone says shit they don’t really mean in the afterglow.

He fidgets with the loose threads at the hem of his shirt, shoulders bunched up to his ears, sweat beading in his peach-fuzz mustache. God, his hands are freezing. And also clammy. This was a mistake, right? He should just— fuck that scout, anyway! Eddie doesn’t have to do some literal song and dance to get peoples’ attention, he’s a goddamn musician, he could just—

“Hey!”

Steve comes jogging around the corner to the end of the grimy hallway, years of overlapped flyers pinned to the walls fluttering in his wake. The can lights overhead make him look like a runway model, and it’s kind of fucking unreal that Eddie got to put this guy’s dick in his mouth.

“Sorry I’m late, parking was a whole—whatever.” There’s definitely a weird story behind that pause that Eddie’s got to ask about later. “You ready? Feeling good?”

“Feeling like I might upchuck Cheetos on the stage carpet.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Steve jokes back, easy. His hands land on Eddie’s shoulders and gently push them down, fingers curling around the knots in the tense muscle, and Eddie deflates with a long groan; leans his weight into Steve; rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Forget the show,” he mumbles, nuzzling the crook of Steve’s neck. “Let’s just stay here and do this for an hour.”

Steve’s laugh sounds even prettier when it’s right in Eddie’s ear. “Nah, I paid a cover fee to be here. I want to get my money’s worth.”

Flat palms slide from Eddie’s shoulders down his chest then swing out to cup his waist, his hips. Steve tugs him in more firmly, lets Eddie feel the heat of him through his jeans. He’s wearing a great pair tonight—light wash, faded, tight at the hips and thighs; Eddie bets his ass looks incredible. “Ready to show me what you learned?”

His voice sounds like sin. Eddie doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s making fuck me eyes. He plants a wet kiss below Steve’s ear; slides both hands into Steve’s back pockets. “Sure am, big boy.”

The shuddering, drawn out fuuuck Steve whispers makes his head spin. God, he wants to fuck him. Or be fucked? No, definitely the first option—he wants to spin Steve around and shove him against the wall of flyers, make his breath hitch and his hair catch on the plastic ends of stray thumb tacks, make him moan so loud even the rustle of papers behind his back won’t cover the sound. He wants to suck hickeys over all his pretty moles and ruck his shirt up so anyone who walks past to get to the bathrooms will see him shaking under Eddie’s hands, the heaving quake of muscle under soft, thick body hair, flattening with sweat as he rocks helplessly on Eddie’s thigh. Fuck. Fuck. Eddie squeezes Steve’s ass through his back pocket, his other hand moving up to press into the small of Steve’s back, trapping him in place, grinding his hips just like Steve taught him.

“You’re perfect,” Steve praises.

“I had a great tutor.”

“Hey, asshole!!” They both jump at the noise; whip their heads toward it like spooked prey animals. Gareth’s stomping down the hallway looking like a pissed off kitten in his green flannel and leather cuffs. “Quit screwing around! Everyone’s waiting on you for sound check.”

Eddie steps back with a laugh, color flooding his face, but Steve looks so smitten that Eddie can’t bring himself to care; would happily make a fool of himself every day to see that expression.

The crowd’s loud now—rising sounds of a room filling up, the air getting humid with the buzz of shared anticipation. Eddie’s got this. Never mind the scouts, or the labels, or the world; he’s gonna put on the most metal concert in the history of Steve’s life.

He sneaks in one more kiss and dances them backwards down the hall, Steve’s laugh as he twirls like sugar crystals in a snow globe, falling around them forever, a magic spell for perfect luck.

---------------------

ty for reading <3

[pinkpurplesunrises]

When the Darkness Felt Endless (You Were the Light I Found)

4500 words - I guess this is a middle long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - Maybe this will heal the anxiety - Angst and Fluff - Happy ending - Mentions of depression and prostetics - Please read with care.

Writer's note: wow, wow, wow, you are all so kind! Keeps me going when the creative brain hits. Enjoy this piece while I finally get to work work. See you next week.

The headlines had stopped screaming her name. The lights had dimmed. The cheers faded like echoes in a cold, hollow tunnel.

Alexia Putellas sat in the back of her apartment, hood up, body curled into the corner of a couch she barely remembered buying. The only sound was the ticking of a clock she wished she could rip off the wall. Time was still moving. Everything was moving. Except her.

Her knee still ached, even though the doctors said it was healing. But they didn’t see the part that didn’t show up on scans. They didn’t hear the static that buzzed in her head every time she looked at her boots. Or saw the photos she’d flipped face-down.

Everything inside her was sharp edges and shame. And that voice… her own voice, somehow sounding like someone else. It told her this was who she really was: not the leader, not the fighter, not the hero. Just broken.

She hadn’t been outside in days.

And then the knock came.

It wasn’t loud. Just three soft, almost tentative knocks. Like the person on the other side wasn’t sure if anyone would answer. Or wanted to.

She didn’t move.

The knock came again.

“Alexia.” Your voice was gentle, but it carried something heavier underneath. Like you knew. Like you’d been here, too.

She hated that. That you might see her like this.

Why did you see her like this? You are just one of the neighbors.

“I’m not…” she croaked, but her voice cracked like dry wood. “Just go.”

But you didn’t.

“I brought food,” you said. “You can ignore me if you want. I’ll just leave it here.”

Silence.

“I’m coming back tomorrow.”

That night, Alexia sat with the food untouched on the kitchen counter. Staring at the note you left beside it.

You’re not alone.

She hated how much she wanted to believe it.

You kept coming back.

Every day.

Sometimes with food. Sometimes with nothing but silence and that look. The one that said you see her. Not the athlete. Not the legend. Just her. And she couldn’t stand it.

The third day, she opened the door. Only a crack. Just enough for you to see the bruises under her eyes. Not from fists, but from insomnia and tears.

"You don’t have to…" she started.

"I know," you said. No hesitation. "I want to."

She hated that answer.

Because it didn’t make sense.

People only stay when they want something. That’s what her mind told her. That twisted, looping thought she couldn’t shut up.

What did you want?

Whatever it was, she didn’t buy it.

Fame by proximity? A favor? A story to tell your friends. ‘Oh, I saw Alexia Putellas fall apart once. Up close.’

Or maybe you were just like her… sick with guilt and pretending not to be.

Still, she let you inside that night.

You didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push. Just sat on the floor while she stared at the ceiling. And somehow, in the silence, she cracked.

“They keep saying I’ll come back stronger,” she muttered.

You turned to look at her, eyes soft but honest. "And what do you say?"

She laughed. Bitter, low. "That I’m tired of lying.”

There it was.

The truth spilled from her lips like poison. "I don’t even know who I am without football. Without winning. Without people chanting my name. When it’s quiet like this…" she gestured around the dim apartment, “I can’t hear anything except how much I hate myself.”

Your voice didn’t break, but it trembled with understanding. “I know that feeling.”

She studied you for the first time. Really studied you. There was a weight behind your eyes. Not pity, she would’ve shut down if it were pity, but recognition.

You’d been there, too.

“I used to think if I could just do enough, be enough… maybe I’d stop feeling like a burden,” you said. “Turns out you can accomplish everything and still feel like you’re rotting inside.”

A beat passed. She almost stopped breathing.

Because it felt like you were inside her head.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Maybe because when I look at you, I see someone worth saving.” You paused. “And I wish someone had done that for me.”

She turned her face away so you wouldn’t see the tear fall. But she felt your presence, warm and still. Not trying to fix her. Not telling her to “get back up.” Just… there.

The silence between you was heavy, but not suffocating. For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like she was falling alone.

Later that night, as you left, she murmured it… half asleep, half broken, but clear:

“Luna.”

You turned back. “What?”

“That’s what I’m gonna call you,” she said, voice hoarse. “You’re quiet. But you show up when it’s dark.”

You didn’t reply. But you smiled. And somehow, that smile stayed with her long after the door closed.

One evening, she was distant, colder than before. You noticed it the moment you stepped in. Her eyes avoiding yours. Her body taut like a wire ready to snap.

You became her Luna, the quiet light in her darkest nights.

But even the moon disappears behind clouds.

“Alexia?” you asked softly.

She shook her head, voice sharp and brittle. “I don’t need anyone.”

That cracked something inside you. A fissure that had been growing since you met her. But you held your ground. Refusing to let her slip away.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said.

She laughed but there was no humor. “You don’t understand. Nobody does.”

Her voice broke, just for a second, but that was enough.

“I hate who I’ve become,” she confessed. “The injury, the silence, the empty space where my future used to be. Every time I look in the mirror, I hate her. Hate myself.”

The raw pain in her words stabbed you. You reached out, trembling, to touch her arm.

But she flinched.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m broken.”

You wanted to scream, to shout that she wasn’t. That no one was broken beyond repair. But your voice caught in your throat.

Because you knew this was a battle she had to fight inside herself.

Days passed, and the distance grew. Texts left unread. Calls unanswered.

You tried to respect her space, but the silence swallowed you whole.

One night, your phone lit up, a message from her.

“Go away.”

It was simple. Cold.

You stared at the screen. Heart shattering.

But you didn’t reply.

Instead, you showed up at her door the next morning. No words. Just presence.

After a long moment, she opened the door, eyes red and swollen.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

You shook your head. “You don’t have to apologize for pain.”

Her lips trembled, tears spilling down. “I’m scared you’ll leave. Like everyone else.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised. “Luna stays through the storms.”

And in that fragile moment, between fear and hope, she let you in again.

She never understood why you kept knocking. Why, out of all the faces in the building, it was yours.

The truth was, you’d never spoken more than a handful of words. Maybe five in total. Mostly just glances through half-open doors or hurried nods in the hallway.

Neighbors, not friends. But something kept pulling you to her door.

Tonight was no different.

Another knock. Three soft taps.

Alexia stared at the door like it was a stranger’s, heart pounding unevenly. She had so many questions, none of which she dared voice.

Why her? Why now? Why someone she barely knew. Someone she’d barely looked at?

She wanted to slam the door. Yo shut out the unknown. But her body betrayed her. The door cracked open.

There you stood. No food. No note. Just that steady, quiet presence.

You said nothing, just offered a small, almost hesitant smile.

She wanted to ask, Why? Why do you care?

But words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she looked away.

“It’s ridiculous,” she finally muttered. “You don’t even know me.”

You nodded slowly. “I don’t.”

“But you keep coming back.”

“Yes.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Why?”

You looked down at your hands, then back up… eyes steady.

“Because sometimes, when someone’s breaking in silence, the right thing to do is just... show up. Even if you don’t understand.”

Alexia’s chest tightened.

She hated feeling like a charity case. A project. Someone to be saved. She was a fighter, or she used to be. But now… now she felt like nothing.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said, voice trembling. “You don’t have to be here.”

You stepped a little closer. Still cautious. Still respectful.

“I’m not here because I owe you. I’m here because I see you. And you deserve more than being invisible.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, searching for something. Hope, maybe, or just the truth.

She didn’t know what to say.

So she said nothing.

And in that silence, a fragile understanding settled.

But the walls were still up.

And the healing… if it ever came… was still far away.

You started staying longer.

Never asked to. Never assumed. Just waited. Always waited for her to open the door first.

The first time she left it unlocked, you stood there for a moment. Unsure whether it was an invitation or an accident. But when you knocked softly and she didn’t flinch, you stepped inside.

She was on the floor, back against the couch, legs drawn in. A hoodie swallowed her frame.

No words. Just your breath in the quiet.

You sat down across from her, not too close. The space between you wasn’t distance. It was permission. She needed that.

The silence stretched until it didn’t feel like silence anymore.

Finally, she spoke.

“You live across from me, right?”

You nodded. “End of the hall.”

Her eyes flickered over you, cautious. “How long?”

“About a year.”

She blinked. That long?

“You ever hear me cry?” she asked bluntly.

You didn’t lie. “Sometimes.”

Her jaw tightened. She looked away. “Bet that was pathetic.”

“No,” you said simply.

She didn’t respond, but something in her posture shifted.

You looked down at your hands. “I used to cry like that, too.”

She glanced up. “Used to?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes still do. Just quieter.”

That earned a dry, bitter huff. Not quite a laugh. But not silence either.

Alexia rubbed at her face. Her fingers trembling. “You know... I thought if I lost football, I’d lose everything. Turns out I did.”

“You didn’t lose everything,” you said.

She met your eyes. Sharp, tired, guarded. “What’s left?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn’t want to say me. Not yet. Not when she barely let you touch her shadow.

So instead, you said, “Maybe something you haven’t noticed yet.”

Another silence. Heavier this time.

Then she asked, voice low, “What’s your name?”

You gave it to her.

She repeated it quietly, testing the sound. And then... without quite meaning to... she said, “Doesn’t suit you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

She shook her head. “You’re still Luna.”

Your chest ached, but in a good way.

She was letting you in. A little. Enough.

Enough for now.

You didn’t knock.

For the first time in weeks, your knock never came.

The hallway was quiet.

Alexia sat in the dark. Blanket wrapped around her like armor. Phone on the table. Screen blank. No texts. No sounds. Just the ticking again. That clock she still hadn’t taken off the wall.

Her apartment had never felt so empty.

She waited an hour. Then two.

Then three.

Maybe you were busy. Maybe you finally realized she wasn’t worth the effort. She told herself that. Repeated it like a mantra.

This is what people do. They leave. She should be used to it.

But something about your silence was off. Not cruel, not distant. Just… wrong.

So she stood. Pulled on a sweatshirt. Crossed the hallway.

Your door was closed. No sound from inside.

She hesitated.

Then knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Her gut tightened. She knocked again, firmer. “Luna?”

Still nothing.

She didn’t mean to open the door. But it was unlocked, just like hers had been the night she let you in.

She stepped inside.

And stopped.

Your place was dim. Quiet. Lived-in but tidy. And in the far room... she saw the silhouette of you curled up in bed, facing the wall.

“Luna?” Her voice was barely a whisper now.

You didn’t turn.

She walked closer. Slowly. And then she saw it. The empty socket beside the bed. A sleek black prosthetic leg propped against the wall. The skin of your thigh raw and irritated. Like it had fought a battle all day and lost.

You still didn’t turn. But you spoke, voice low and flat. “Didn’t feel like being a person today.”

Alexia blinked. The words were a mirror of everything she’d ever said. Everything she thought only applied to her.

And suddenly, she felt like a thief.

You’d been showing up for her. Over and over. And she’d never once asked if you were hurting too. She never noticed your limp, never questioned your quiet exits. Never even saw the piece of you that was missing. Not really.

She’d been drowning so deeply in herself, she never realized you might be wading through your own hell.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

You turned your head slightly, eyes tired but calm. “Would it have mattered?”

That answer gutted her.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It would’ve.”

A long silence.

You gave a tired shrug. “It happened years ago. Car accident. I was in the backseat. Some nights I still dream I’m trapped there.”

She sat down beside your bed, not touching you. Just there.

“I used to think I’d never walk again,” you continued. “Then I thought I’d never be loved. Now I just try to get through the day without wanting to disappear.”

Alexia pressed a fist to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.”

“No. I am.” Her voice cracked. “You were always there for me. And I never asked about you. I never even looked.”

You glanced at her, lips curling just slightly. “That’s okay. You weren’t supposed to. You were drowning.”

She blinked fast, but tears slipped through anyway.

“I’m tired of drowning,” she said, voice almost inaudible.

Then, softer still: “Do you want me to stay?”

You nodded, just once.

And for the first time, she lay beside you.

No walls. No armor.

Just two broken people, side by side, in the quiet dark.

The morning sunlight filtered softly through your window, painting your room with pale gold.

Today was different.

Today you were getting a new prosthetic leg.

Your first in months.

The one designed to move. To run. To jump. To feel alive again.

You turned to Alexia, heart pounding with something close to hope.

“I have an appointment,” you said quietly. “Physio and the new leg fitting.”

Her eyes flickered, hesitation written in every line of her face.

“I don’t know if...”

You smiled gently. “I want you to come.”

For weeks, she’d barely left her apartment. The shadows clung too tight. The pain was too loud.

But something about your invitation felt different. Not a demand, but a promise.

She nodded slowly, pulling on a jacket she hadn’t touched in days.

Outside, the air was cool and sharp. A fresh contrast to the stale loneliness of her rooms.

You walked side by side. Tentative but steady.

The clinic was bright, bustling with life and the sharp scent of antiseptic.

You tried on the new prosthetic. Lighter, more flexible. And for the first time in months, you felt the thrill of movement.

Alexia watched, eyes wide, a small smile playing at her lips.

On the way back, you both walked a little taller.

And then, unexpectedly, you saw her.

Eli.

Alexia’s mother.

Her face softened at the sight of her daughter stepping out into the sunlight. Not alone but with you. the stranger who had quietly become her lifeline.

“Alexia,” Eli’s voice was gentle but firm, full of the unspoken worry and love only a mother carries. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

Alexia’s lips trembled as she gave a nod.

Eli turned to you, eyes bright with gratitude. “Thank you for bringing her out.”

You exchanged a glance. Warm and quiet.

For the first time in a long time, hope didn’t feel fragile.

It felt possible.

The days after the clinic visit were quieter but not empty.

Alexia noticed it first in the mornings.

She woke without the usual weight pressing on her chest, the dark thoughts that tangled her mind overnight still there, but softer... distant echoes instead of a roaring storm.

You were part of that change.

Not because you said anything profound.

Not because you tried to fix her.

But because you simply were... a steady presence in a wrld that had felt fractured and cold.

One afternoon, Eli stopped by. She lingered in the doorway. Her eyes warm and kind.

“I see a change,” she said softly.

Alexia shrugged, unsure if she wanted to believe it.

Eli smiled gently. “Sometimes the right person doesn’t just walk into your life. They carry a light you forgot you had.”

That night, you two sat on her small balcony, wrapped in blankets, watching the city lights flicker.

She turned to you, voice quiet.

“You make this... lighter. Like the weight is still there but I can breathe underneath it.”

You reached out, fingers brushing hers briefly.

“That’s enough,” you said.

Alexia smiled, fragile but real.

In the dark, with you beside her, she let herself hope. For the first time in a long time. That maybe. Just maybe. She wasn’t alone.

The knock was soft but deliberate.

You opened the door to find Alexia standing there. A carefully balanced container in her hands.

“I made lunch,” she said, voice a little shy. “Thought you might want some company.”

You stepped aside, letting her in.

The apartment smelled faintly of warmth and effort. Something she hadn’t done in a while.

You ate together, the quiet between bites feeling less like an abyss and more like a space where something new might grow.

After the last forkful, Alexia looked at you, eyes steady.

“I’m going to the training grounds tomorrow,” she said.

Your heart skipped.

“Rehab,” she added quickly. “I’ve decided I can’t stay stuck. And they have staff there of course. Professionals who can help. Maybe even help you, too. With your new leg.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Would you like to come? Start yours together?”

You blinked, surprised.

“I… don’t really have any training clothes,” you admitted shyly, voice small.

Alexia’s lips curved into a proud, teasing smile. “You can wear mine.”

Your heart fluttered in a weird, warm way.

She caught your glance and laughed softly. “I’m serious. You’re going to need something comfortable. Besides, it’s about time I share more than just my pain.”

The morning sun spilled through the windows as you both prepared for the day ahead.

Alexia handed you a loose-fitting sweatshirt and sweatpants. Her training clothes, worn but clean.

You hesitated, fingers brushing the fabric. Feeling a strange flutter in your chest.

“You sure?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, a mixture of pride and encouragement in her eyes. “Absolutely. It’s a start. We start together.”

The walk to the training grounds was quiet at first. Neither of you knew exactly what to say, or how to act.

You noticed the way Alexia kept glancing at you. Maybe nervous. Maybe hopeful.

When you arrived, the clinic staff greeted you warmly. Ushering you both into the rehab area.

The room was filled with equipment: parallel bars, treadmills, balance boards. A physical world of challenge and possibility.

You fumbled with the new prosthetic leg, its unfamiliar weight strange against your skin.

Alexia stood beside you, silently offering support.

“Ready?” she asked, voice soft but steady.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Your first steps were awkward and uneven. The prosthetic didn’t quite feel like part of you yet, and your muscles screamed with unfamiliar effort.

Alexia’s own movements were cautious. Shadows of hesitation flickering in her eyes.

But neither of you gave up.

The physiotherapist guided you gently. Adjusting your posture. Encouraging you.

Between attempts, Alexia reached out, squeezing your hand briefly. A small anchor in the uncertainty.

You caught her gaze, and in that moment, words weren’t necessary.

Hours passed in a blur of effort and quiet triumphs.

By the end, you were both exhausted but smiling. The first genuine smiles in a long time.

On the walk home, Alexia slipped her hand into yours.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?” you asked.

“For coming. For staying.”

Your heart swelled.

When you stopped outside her building. The world seemed to pause.

Alexia looked up at you. Eyes searching. Vulnerable.

Slowly, she leaned in and your lips met in a soft, trembling kiss.

It was hesitant. A question and an answer all at once.

The kind of kiss that promises more than words ever could.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you spoke.

But the quiet between you now held something new.

Hope.

And the beginning of something real.

A few weeks had passed since that day at the training grounds.

You and Alexia were officially together now. Girlfriends, as she’d said once. Shy but sure.

Most days, you found yourself spending hours in her apartment. The place that had once felt like a prison but was slowly becoming home.

Today, you two tackled the chaos of her room. Clothes piled on the floor. Unopened letters. And the shadows that still lingered in the corners.

You laughed quietly as you worked side by side. The easy comfort between you growing.

Later, she mentioned dinner at her mother’s.

“You’ll finally meet my mamá properly,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“And my sister,” she added with a smile.

Your heart fluttered, nerves bubbling up. Meeting family felt like a big step. But one you were ready for.

Before you left, you needed to freshen up.

Alexia’s shower was small, built before your accident, not quite made for someone like you.

You hesitated at the bathroom door, voice trembling. “I… might need some help.”

She looked up. Surprise flickering in her eyes.

You’d never seen each other quite like this. Vulnerable, exposed.

But Alexia didn’t hesitate.

She stepped inside, gentle hands steadying you as the warm water glided over your skin. Her arms wrapped around you, holding you close in the tight, steamy space.

“Thank you,” she whispered softly against your ear, her voice trembling with something raw and real. “Thank you for pulling me out of the dark.”

You leaned into her, heart pounding, feeling the weight of those words settle between you like a promise.

When you finally emerged, clean and steady, Alexia smiled softly.

“You’re beautiful,” she said simply.

You blushed, heart full.

Tonight, you’d meet her family.

But for now, wrapped in the warmth of each other, you felt ready for anything.

It still felt surreal. This place was yours and Alexia’s now.

A modest one-floor home nestled in a peaceful neighborhood, spacious enough for dreams and laughter and the quiet moments you both craved.

Boxes sat unpacked in the corners, a testament to new beginnings, but the walls already hummed with the promise of life unfolding.

Today was special.

Alexia had a match.

Her first game back after months of grueling rehab, of rebuilding not just her body but her spirit.

You could see the nervous energy radiating off her as she laced up her boots. Her eyes sharp but filled with a fragile hope.

Her mother was coming with you to watch. Her presence a steady, loving force that somehow made the day feel lighter.

The stadium buzzed with anticipation as you found your seats.

The whistle blew, and she was off.

Watching her move with fierce determination. The joy of the game shining through the sweat and effort, made your heart swell.

Each pass, each sprint, each goal attempt was a testament to her fight. Not just to return, but to reclaim.

Eli beside you smiled softly, whispering, “She’s stronger than ever.”

After the final whistle, you met Alexia outside the locker room, her face flushed. Breathless. Radiant.

“You did it,” you said, pulling her close.

She laughed, a sound of pure relief and triumph.

“We did it,” she corrected, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

----------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: your thoughts about this one?

[p0ckykiss]

idiot - yang jungwon

summary -> "have any of you seen y/n" where you go missing and boyfriend jungwon is worried

warnings -> female reader x jungwon, typical cold guy and popular girl trope, school au, fluff, established relationship, they are very cute, jungwon gets a little insecure

jungwon had passed by the cafeteria five times, three times in the dance practice hall, a couple of peeks in the locker rooms and libraries, but he couldn't find you anywhere.

"have any of you seen y/n?" he asks for the umpteenth time.

"sorry jungwon, we haven't." his friends answered

dialing the number again, jungwon groans in frustration as it only reached your voicemail.

he calls ni-ki, your best friend.

"do you know where y/n is?" he asks immediately.

"wow, i'm fine as well. thank you for asking jungwon." jungwon can hear the eye roll just from ni-ki's voice.

"sorry. it's just that i haven't seen her the whole day and she says she's at school but i've already roamed around for at least three times and i'm tired and hungry and it is so fucking cold, and she's not answering my calls and texts and i swear if i see your dumb best friend i'm going to swallow her whole, she is going to have to get used to being stuck with me".

he ends the call not letting ni-ki have the final word, pocketing his phone before begrudgingly deciding to go back to his dorm.

jungwon's door opened and he ignored it in favor of focusing on the movie playing in his phone. he continued ignoring the intruder even as they lunged at him on his bed and nuzzled on his neck.

"baby" you singsong, "quit ignoring me and give me attention." 'you don't deserve it' jungwon bitterly thinks, eyes still unblinkingly watching the protagonists run away from the killer. it was a fitting film to watch in the winter weather.

"won", you called, endlessly poking all over jungwon's face.

jungwon glared when you grabbed his phone, but you only gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. his heartbeat skipped.

"ni-ki told me that you spoke a whole paragraph to him on the phone." you say, "you're not really going to eat me and gobble me up right?" you say masking a terrified face to mess with him.

as if on cue, jungwon's stomach grumbled.

"baby, you're my boyfriend please, don't". you say whining.

he couldn't help the snort spilling from his lips at your dramatics.

"you're an idiot."

you grinned successfully, "yeah well, this idiot got your favorite food. what do you say for a movie date?"

---- NEXT DAY ----

jungwon slammed his hands on the lunch table, making his friends and the people nearby flinch.

"have any of you seen y/n?" jungwon gritted, eyebrows furrowed to the middle.

"she's missing again?" heeseung asks.

"do you think i'd look for her if that's not the case?" he snaps, rolling his eyes.

"hey! don't use that tone on him!" ni-ki scolds.

he was about to retort when jay clamps a hand on his mouth,

"jungwon, shut up. none of us had seen her, but don't worry too much, maybe she's just busy."

jungwon pulled away, "well she could've at least sent a text, and not fucking ghost me every time we go to school like I'm just a nobody." his jaw tightehed, insecurities and ugly thoughts flooding his mind.

'is she just playing with me? it's too good to be true isn't it-'

jay sensed it, "no jungwon, it's not what you're thinking. she likes you a lot."

he appreciate the sentiment, but he hates that he even needs reassurance, or a reminder that that was the case.

"whatever," was the only thing he said before walking away. he faintly hears jay apologizing to the people nearby for the way he acted, but he couldn't being himself to be apologetic for it.

because that was how yang jungwon is. he didn't give a single fuck about anyone else. the typical guy at campus who was cold to the bones but everybody has a crush on; it was even a miracle that someone like you would want to date him.

it was you who chased after him; despite the cold shoulders and multiple rejections, you were relentless in wanting jungwon. you bought him his morning coffee, ate with him at lunch, waited for him during his practice sessions, and walked him back to his dorm. you never missed a day doing all of it — that's how persistent you were.

and jungwon, cold but soft jungwon, started to like you back after a couple of weeks. he wasn't used to the affection given to him so it took him time to fully open up, but you were so patient and understanding for his sensitive heart.

one of the happiest days in his life was when he asked you to be his girlfriend, when you had least expected. It happened during one of his hockey games; you had looked too pretty in the couple sweater he had bought for you and him, and he just couldn't resist. so when his teammates were huddled for a time out meeting, jungwon had propped himself in front of your seating on the front row, and said;

"hey, you look so pretty today, be my girlfriend?"

it was so bold and simple, very jungwon-like, and you couldn't help the blush rising to your face as the people around you shrieked. tongue-tied, you only managed a nod and jungwon broke into a breathtaking smile.

they won after jungwon hit the winning shot.

even if you've been together for more than a month already, jungwon's insecurities barely faded. he always catches the murmurs went his way whenever he waits for you, constantly compares himself to the people you had flirted with back then, wonders if he was deserving to be on the receiving end of your attention.

and you had always been reassuring him with all these thoughts, but sometimes, the demons in his head became a little too much, and it gets difficult trying to fight them.

which is why he locked himself up in his room again, watching the snowflakes dance in front of his window.

it was the last day of classes before the winter break when jungwon woke up colder than ever. you didn't barge in his room for the entire night, and there's not a single call or text from you on his list of notifications. upset, he locked himself in for the entire day.

he heard keys jingling outside his door when it reached the afternoon, and he didn't really have the mental energy to keep his hopes high. it's a good thing he didn't though, as jay was the one who showed up.

"get up. we're going somewhere." jay ordered. jungwon raised a brow, "can't you see i'm moping?"

"it's the very reason you need to go out." jay says, "I know you're depressed, but this is just too much."

"i may be depressed but you look the part" jungwon mumbles uninterested in the conversation itself.

"okay, you know what? fuck you. go rot in this place alone."

"where the hell are you taking me?" jungwon grumbles as jay pulled him by the wrist to the dragging him outside stopping right beside the small forest opening. "and why the hell is it so cold today? you didn't even let me take a shower."

"even the warmest showers can't break the ice in your heart dummy." jay responds, letting him go. "now, do you trust me?"

“you’re suspicious”

"just answer the question."

"you're literally my best friend."

"good. now close your eyes."

"I don't like what's happening."

"just shut up and do it!"

jungwon felt himself being pulled somewhere and he fought the strong urge to peek. if jay was messing with him, he'd have his head by midnight.

but he wasn't and when he was instructed to open his eyes, the sight that greeted him was a winter wonderland. fairy lights dangling on the trees, figures made of show surrounding the small ice rink of the frozen pond.

what he caught sight of was you standing near one of the trees, gesturing for him to come closer.

"what's all this?"

you flushed pink, sheepishly rubbing your nape.

"a surprise? i found it really unfair when it's you who asked me to be your girlfriend first when i was making all the moves. so i wanted to do this first!"

you pointed up and jungwon tilted his head, finding a mistletoe strapped to a bare tree branch.

snorting, he said, "you ghosted me for a kiss?"

"hey! it's our first kiss. i want it to be special."

jungwon would be lying if he said that he didn't like it, and you take a step closer.

"can i?"

"god, you're an idiot, of course, you can".

[cowboylikemac]

THE WAITING GAME || J.P

a/n: i am honestly not sure how to feel about this but if you love it, i’ll end up loving it. Honestly its giving jeff buckley’s yearning.

summary: James Potter touches you like it means nothing. You feel it like it means everything. Best friends caught in the in-between. Too close to be casual, too scared to be honest. It’s all glances that linger too long, hands that almost hold, and words neither of you are brave enough to say. But how long can you keep waiting for someone who’s already halfway yours?

including: Slow emotional, mutual pining, angst, no explicit content or character death

word count: 2k+

James Potter always touches you like it means nothing.

An arm slung over your shoulder. A hand on your arm when he’s laughing too hard at Sirius. His chin on your shoulder as he reads your Herbology notes upside down. You’ve learned to breathe through it. To pretend your skin doesn’t buzz every time he’s close.

You’re best friends. You don’t ruin that.

But it’s hard.

Especially when he curls up next to you on the Gryffindor common room couch and falls asleep halfway through some dull Astronomy chapter you offered to read out loud. His head is on your chest, soft snoring, lips slightly parted. You don’t dare move.

You also don’t sleep.

You stare at the ceiling for two hours and wonder if he hears how fast your heart beats when he’s this close.

⸻

You get good at hiding it.

The longing. The way you look for him in every hallway, laugh a little louder when he’s nearby. The way you watch his hands, his long fingers, calloused knuckles, a freckle on his middle knuckle you once counted just to distract yourself.

He talks about girls sometimes. You pretend not to care.

“You think Smith likes me?” he asks one afternoon, sprawled on your bed eating half your chocolate stash.

You shrug. “Probably. You’re loud. People notice loud.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Do I?” you joked.

He throws a pillow at you. You throw it back.

⸻

One morning, he’s already at your table in the library when you arrive. There’s an extra quill waiting for you, your favorite fruit chews, and a note folded in half.

“Thought you’d forget your stuff. You always do.”

You roll your eyes but keep the note.

You tuck it in your pocket and read it again three times during History of Magic.

He never mentions it.

⸻

Sixth year feels heavier.

He’s taller. His voice is deeper. Lily Evans finally starts looking at him the way he’s always looked at her. It makes your stomach twist.

You hate that you see it. That he doesn’t seem to care as much anymore. Or maybe he’s just tired of waiting for her, the same way you’re tired of waiting for him.

You sit beside him in Transfiguration and pretend it doesn’t mean anything when your knees touch.

You lend him your scarf one day when he forgets his. He forgets to give it back for a week. When he does, it smells like him.

⸻

You tell yourself you’re fine with this.

This limbo. This almost.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.

Because how could you? What would you even say?

“I think about kissing you every time you lean too close.”

or something even better

“I feel like I’m falling in love with someone who thinks of me like a place to rest, not stay.”

You’d sound crazy. Mental.

But worst of all— you’d lose him.

So you smile. Laugh. Let him get close, but never close enough.

You wait. And wait. And wait.

⸻

It changes one night in November.

It’s late. Past curfew. You’re both on the Quidditch pitch, lying in the middle of the grass after James dragged you out for “fresh air and perspective,” whatever that means.

You’re lying side by side, his fingers close to yours. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth radiating like a furnace.

He sighs. “Everything feels like it’s moving too fast lately.”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. Lily. School. Life. Everything feels like it’s on the edge of changing and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing.”

You chew your lip. “Maybe it is.”

He turns his head toward you. “What if I don’t want it to change?”

You look at him.

And you say the bravest thing you’ve ever said “Then tell it to stay.”

James blinks.

You keep going, even though your chest feels like it’s caving in. “Sometimes… I feel like I’m standing still and everything else is moving on without me.”

He’s quiet.

And then he whispers, “Mine doesn’t move without you.”

You stare at him. His voice is low. Vulnerable. Like he’s saying more than he knows how to say.

“James—”

“I think about it,” he says suddenly. “Us. Sometimes.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

He laughs softly. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “That you think about it too.”

You look down. “I think about it all the time.”

He’s still. Like he’s scared to move, scared it’ll break whatever moment this is.

But then he reaches out — slowly — and takes your hand.

Just that.

Not a kiss. Not a confession.

Just your hand in his.

And somehow, that’s everything.

⸻

After that night, nothing’s different.

And yet everything is.

He still jokes. Still ruffles your hair. Still falls asleep beside you with a book open in his lap. But now, his fingers find yours under the table. His arm lingers around your waist longer than it should. And when he smiles at you, it’s softer.

You still don’t talk about it.

Neither of you are ready.

But when you see Lily Evans look at him and he doesn’t look back, you feel something loosen in your chest.

You’re still waiting.

But it feels different now.

Like maybe — finally — he’s waiting too.

⸻

(James POV)

James Potter doesn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was fourth year, when you cursed Mulciber for hexing his broom and then shrugged it off like it was nothing.

Or maybe it was fifth, when you fell asleep on his shoulder in the library and slightly drooled on his robes and he didn’t even care.

Or maybe it was always there — this quiet ache that sat low in his chest every time you laughed and it wasn’t at something he said.

He doesn’t know.

He just knows it’s getting harder to ignore.

⸻

You’ve always been his soft spot.

He thinks he hides it well. He teases you like he teases Sirius. Shoves your shoulder in the hall.

But he notices things about you that he doesn’t notice about anyone else.

You chew your lip when you’re nervous, even though it annoys you. You hate coffee but drink it every morning needing anything to wake up. You sleep on your side, always facing the wall. You pretend not to care when people hurt you, but you always go quiet after.

He notices.

He wishes he didn’t.

⸻

When he talks about other girls, he watches you.

He doesn’t mean to — he just does.

Watches how your jaw tenses, how your eyes flick down, how you suddenly start organizing your bag like it’s the most urgent thing in the world.

And every time, he feels like the worst person alive.

Because he wants your attention, but not like this. Not through jealousy. Not through hurt.

But if he asked you — really asked you — what would you say?

⸻

He dreams about you sometimes.

He never tells anyone, obviously. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Definitely not you.

But they’re not always romantic. Sometimes you’re just… there. Laughing in the rain. Sitting on the Quidditch stands. Reading upside down with your foot tapping against his knee.

But sometimes, it’s more.

Sometimes, it’s your hand in his, your lips against his throat, your voice in the dark saying his name.

He always wakes up sweating.

⸻

When he finds you on the Quidditch pitch that night, something in him unravels.

He doesn’t plan on saying anything. Just wanted to be near you. That’s always been enough.

But the way you look at him — like you see him, not the version he pretends to be which only makes it harder to lie.

He says everything without saying anything.

“Everything’s changing.”

“I don’t want it to.”

“I think about us.”

And then your hand in his.

Just that.

It should’ve been too small to mean anything.

But it feels like the start of something he’s been running from for years.

⸻

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not because he doesn’t want to — but because he wants it to mean more than almost.

He wants to be sure. Not of you — he’s always been sure of you. But of himself. Of the version of him that’s not just the Quidditch captain or the loudest in the room or the idiot pining after Lily Evans.

He wants to be the version of him that’s worthy of your attention.

And maybe — just maybe — that version is already here.

⸻

Every time you’re near him after that, his whole body feels wired.

Like if you touched him for one second too long, he’d combust.

He doesn’t tell you this.

He lets his hand brush yours under the table. Lets his fingers rest on your knee when no one’s watching. Lets his shoulder bump yours when he sits beside you, like he can’t stand the inch of air between your bodies.

Because he can’t.

But he still doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Not until you look at him like you know.

Not until he’s brave enough to say the thing he’s never said

“It’s always been you.”

⸻

(Readers POV)

It starts with a glance.

You’re in the corridor, laughing with Marlene, and James is passing by. He looks over his shoulder like he always does, like he’s checking you’re still there. Like he can’t help it.

But then Lily catches up to him and links their arms.

He doesn’t look back.

You laugh a little too loud after that.

Marlene notices. She doesn’t say anything.

⸻

Later that night, you’re curled in a chair by the fire, pretending to read. James flops beside you with a sigh and that familiar look — one part affection, one part restlessness.

“Evans thinks I’ve been distant,” he says.

You don’t look up. “Have you?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe.”

You flip a page. You haven’t read a single sentence.

“Do you want to be with her?” you ask, and it sounds calm, but your knuckles are white on the book spine.

James hesitates. “I thought I did.”

You nod, like it doesn’t cost you anything. “Well. Let me know when you figure it out.”

You stand.

He grabs your wrist.

“Wait—what does that mean?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him — really look — and see it: the confusion, the fear, the same ache you’ve been carrying all year.

“You don’t get to hover near me forever, James,” you whisper. “You don’t get to want me halfway.”

Then you walk away.

⸻

( James’s POV )

She’s pulling away. He can feel it.

Not all at once — no, that would be easier. But piece by piece. The long looks become quick glances. The silence between them stops feeling comfortable.

He misses her in the small ways first.

Misses how she always passed him a sugar quill when he fidgeted. How she said “you’re fine” every time he doubted himself — not in the loud, Gryffindor way everyone else did, but in a quiet, real way that actually worked.

He misses her voice.

He misses her attention.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Because saying something makes it real. And if it’s real, it can break.

⸻

Sirius elbows him one day in the courtyard. “You’re brooding. Stop.”

“I’m not brooding,” James mutters, lying badly.

“You look like you’ve just been dumped.”

James doesn’t reply.

Sirius raises a brow. “Wait—did you? Did you and Y/N—?”

“There was no me and Y/N,” James snaps.

But the words taste wrong in his mouth.

Because maybe there was. Just in a way he never had the guts to name.

⸻

That night, he finds her by the lake.

She doesn’t look surprised.

“I figured you’d show up eventually,” she says.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”

She stays silent.

“Only if you stop pretending you don’t know how I feel.”

James stares.

“I’ve loved you since fifth year,” she says flatly. “And I’ve waited. And waited. And you’ve spent every second dancing around it like it might ruin your perfect little world if you say something real.”

James feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“I never wanted to ruin what we have,” he says.

“Well, you did anyway,” she says. “Congratulations.”

He steps closer. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Her voice cracks. “You don’t get to hold my hand like it means something and then tell people you’re not sure how you feel.”

James opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I wanted you to say something first,” she says quietly. “Just once. I wanted it to be you.”

Silence.

Then James says, hoarse, “I think about kissing you every time I’m near you.”

She goes still.

“I think about how you smell like cinnamon and ink, and how you laugh when you think no one’s listening, and how I started waiting for you at breakfast even when I wasn’t sure why.”

He exhales. “I’ve been in love with you so quietly for so long I didn’t even realize it until I thought I lost you.”

She swallows. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m terrified,” he says. “But I’m more terrified of never trying.”

A painfully long pause.

Then, finally, she whispers, “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it. Like you mean it.”

He steps forward. Takes her face in both hands.

I’m in love with you,” James says. “Not just in the way people say it. I mean in the way where you’re the first person I look for in every room. The one I can’t stop thinking about, even when I’m trying not to.

Then he kisses her.

And she kisses him back.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s everything they’ve held back for years pouring out all at once.

It tastes like relief. Like maybe they were always heading here.

Like they were always going to break just to fall into each other.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist .ᐟ

a/n: i wrote this a 6 in the morning…i am running on fumes

tags: @lydiascabinsix @lydiasfalling @laufeysvalentine

[rulerofstars]

so high school

headcanons: bucky as the boyfriend who always makes you feel sooooo high school. wrote this while listening taylor swift’s so high school.

pairing: boyfriend! bucky barnes x reader

tags: no warnings. (LOTS OF FLUFF). maybe a slight warning for the part where he parallel parks because my knees just gave up after imagining that scene.

bucky is the type of boyfriend who would learn an entire taylor swift album overnight, just so you wouldn’t feel like you were fangirling alone at the concert

he’d even match outfits with you

and allow you to put pink jewels on his face

“how do i look?” bucky asks, stepping out of the car.

he’s wearing the exact matching outfit you planned—denim vest, sparkly heart sunglasses, a pink bandana tied loosely around his neck. and the tiny rhinestones you stuck on his cheekbones earlier? still perfectly in place.

you gape. “you kept the face jewels?”

he shrugs, grinning. “they make me look fierce.”

he insists on carrying your tote bag even if it’s hot pink with glittery letters because “what? it’s functional”

bucky never lets your water bottle go empty. he will walk across the room, the park, the planet to fill it up if he sees it’s low

he’s the type to let you drive and take the wheel when it’s time to parallel park

you mutter, “i hate parallel parking,” already bracing for disaster.

bucky doesn’t say a word. just shifts the gear into reverse, calm as ever.

his right arm moves behind you, resting on the back of your seat. his shirt stretches tight across his chest as he twists, one hand on the wheel, jaw set, brows drawn in just the slightest bit of focus.

he looks unfairly good like this—sharp profile, easy confidence, like he was built to park in tight spaces.

he backs in perfectly. no hesitation, no readjusting. when it’s done, he taps the gear into park and glances at you with that quiet smirk.

“easy,” he says.

and you’re not even mad.

bucky would never tell you that he practiced braiding hair on a mannequin head because he wanted to be able to do your hair when you’re tired—but he would casually offer to do it one night and pretend he’s just winging it

he has exactly one picture of you as his phone lock screen, and he never changes it. “you looked the happiest in this one,” he says

when the squad’s all piled onto the couch watching a movie, you and bucky are off in your own little world.

he’s got one arm around your shoulder, your legs tangled with his, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your knee. he’s not even watching the movie, just quietly mouthing the words to whatever snack you’re eating.

“one more chip?” munch.

“last one?” munch.

and when the jump scare hits? you flinch, he doesn’t. instead, he kisses your temple and whispers, “i got you, doll,” like you’re the only two people in the room.

[sevinagreatergood]

Whole lot of bullshit once again. Because if we're going at it like that. James harms a half muggle. James threatens and extorts a mudblood, James doesn't give a shit about his friends opinion who has a special condition. Only friend he sees as his equal is a white rich boy who is also a pureblood. He doesn't even give a shit about lily, the mudblood.

She dated him if he were a changed man, he didn't change. Who admitted that? How own friends lol.

Marauders are infamous for figuring out spells, hence the animagus stuff AND AND AND the map they worked on TOGETHER to create. That's right team work. They are also infamous for having 0 respect for Snape's boundaries.

While this whore was yapping about some horse shit. It never showed in the books HOW they got to their spells. So they SHOULD have said FANON but would a snater do that? No. No they won't. Like the usual typical whores that tear apart the idea of marriage. You see there are THREE things wrong with that yapping this snater did here.

1) Lily would not sit back and let Snape do that. And before these sluts will say "oh but she allowed Snape to say mudblood" SAYING AND DOING SOMETHING ARE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. If I tell my friend I hate men, she would at most agree somewhat with me or reason with me. Nothing too harsh. But if she found out I abuse my husband because I hate men, now that is a different conversation. I'd be dragged to police and yelled at. So again, Lily would've dumped Snape's ass much sooner. Because why would marauders hide the fact Snape invented it when James tries to pain him evil so badly? Lily already bitches about Snape's CLASSMATE doing something to her friend. She would lose her shit if she knew Snape went around using spells on muggleborns.

2) Slytherins. Anything a Slytherin dies is painted as evil. Similar to how snaters paint Slytherins as evil. Weasleys use Darm magic constantly, but nobody yaps about them. Why would they, they are gryffindors. Slytherins aka future DE lot using dark magic suddenly makes people shit their pants. Do people HONESTLY think langlock spell would've become popular is Slytherins went around using that muggleborns first like this snater claims? No. Lily lost her shit over Mary alone. Imagine a full blown popular spell started from the so-claimed DE lot children using it on muggleborns, all thanks to Snape. Read that? Sounds ridiculous.

3) Marauders. They were able to become illegal animagus WITHOUT a teacher's help. Nor did they have any respect for Snape. What is usually happening when the bullies have no respect for the victim yet got their hands on the victim's stuff? They stole it. In every scenario possible, a bully corners the victim, steals their bag or books, to either humiliate the victim, or steal answers for homework. They stumbled across that langlock spell, figured it out and began to use. That's my headcanon, since all we do is come up with possible answers.

My headcanon fits more than whatever the fuck snaters come up with. And Lily deserved to be called a mudblood at this point. Like what the fuck are snaters on? She acted like a mudblood and will be called as such. Just like how a snater acts like a bitch so will be called as such.

I don't know if snaters are familiar with chronological order. Because before Snape called her filthy mudblood (should've added WHORE too bby boy, but he has manners lol), she absolutely gave him shit.

- called him ungrateful for not kissing James his ass

- compared her GRYFFINDOR friend shitty day to her skythering CHILDHOOD friend abusive years. What an amazing prefect there.

- compared ganging up on 1 person to "at least they don't use dark arts" what an amazing prefect. Chef's kiss.

- smiled for a brief second at her childhood friend his SA then restraint it but if push came to shove. The slut did find her whore's tricks on Snape funny to hold back a smile.

And sure, she does yap about "You call everyone of my birth mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different."

Yeah, why should she be any different Severus? She was far much worse than the other goddamn mudbloods you cussed. But I'm protecting his case. Snaters, allow for a second some oxygen in your rotten mind. Let that crippled brain of yours breathe for a second.

So let me get this straight. The book shows he only does that whenever he is around a group that hate half of his guts if not all his guts, yet he should stick out his neck for people that don't lend him a hand whenever marauders come around?

Read that again. Read that again, VERY VERY slowly. Slytherins hated purebloods that were blood traitors. People ASSUME they adored Snape, but where? Not once did Severus mention a Slytherin fondly. Nor did a Slytherin show up to help him whenever marauders BULLIED him (no equal rivalry or some bs bitches) and Snape was a foot soldier when he entered DE, he wasn't in the main circle.

Gryffindor bullies him, Hufflepuff and ravenclaw do absolutely nothing to help Snape. Snape fights back against his bullies which they all find so funny/ ignore it. Of course Snape would not get on Slytherin nerves to endanger himself in his own bed too aka Slytherin bedroom. If they say "call her a mudblood" he would do it. Because why would he object for people that didn't help him any way either?

And what lily did with her scatter brain "You call everyone of my birth mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different." Is a forced confession. Let me make it always for those snaters there. They have some infant brain.

Let's say, I am a child and my mom is outside. She told me many times to eat only the food outside. Not the food in the fridge, those are for guests. On my way to get some drink out the fridge, I come across a rotten apple in the fridge that she probably did not notice. I cut the bad part out and ate the apple. She taught me to never waste food after all. She comes home and sees the apple. She finds out it's an apple out of the fridge but before I couldn't find my moment to tell her it was partially rotten, look I cut out the bad part, you taught me to not waste food, because she doesn't give me such a moment. Instead she asks me "did you or did you not eat the apple from the fridge? I only want to hear a yes or no, no other excuses!"

You're forced to confess in other words without pleading your situation. How is that fair? Didn't we hate this shit when our parents did that to us? I thought we did. Guess snaters love doing this. Forced confessions.

That what lily did. She didn't even bother hearing his side, she instantly confronts him with a yes or no situational question which is unfair. Extremely unfair. Especially from a goddamn slut that doesn't even remotely feel bad for smiling at his abuse created by James of all people. What if he asked "did you find potter's joke funny? Yes or no?" How many snaters would lose their semen soaked panties? A lot.

This is COMPLETELY AND ONLY lily her fault. Don't drag my baby in your shit. Not to mention that Snape didn't choose Slytherins as friends. Meanwhile Lily did. Guess what lily says next? Her friends didn't like her childhood friend (aka, she's WILLINGLY befriended with gryffindors that gossip about her bestie) and can't choose his side now thanks to those friends.

Makes you wonder, how long lily hung out with kids that didn't like Snape one bit, filled her head with hatred towards Snape and she succumbed to it. So Snape fearing for his life every day, doing things under peer pressure is evil. But lily willingly doing shit because she adores Gryffindor much more than her friend is called silly teen.

Get your fucking brains checked. Even if you sluts did ignore all her red flags, she should have NEVER EVER dated a man whom she witnessed that ruined the life of her childhood friend. And if you hate spells that Snape created, guess you hate the marauders too for using it. You're also raised so privileged, so that's a win. But since you have no backstory whatsoever, leave victims out of your std ridden mouth. Thank you.

I once again find myself needing to remind everyone that the spell James Potter uses to hang Severus Snape by his ankles in OoTP was a spell invented by... that's right, Severus Snape. The only way James would have learned the spell was if.... that's right, again, if Severus used the spell on someone else first.

And also, the scene might have been the first time that he called Lily a Mudblood, but to quote Lily, "you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?"

James wasn't bullying some innocent kid. He was bullying a wannabe death eater with his own spells.

[bosskingprinceyoongi]

ironheart makes me wanna scream because no matter what, the new black young kid is reminded how they're too brash and too bold and need to be thankful for the other "nice" black people who helped them get a slot in some school or job etc. like?????

it's the same tired ass argument of baggy jeans vs suit and ties. code switching vs whatever the fuck they want. permed hair vs natural.

at the end of the motherfucking day, they just don't like us because we are BLACK!!!!!

say that!!!

riri and sam wilson can be in suits and ties or a henley and crop top or a military uniform or literal iron supersuit and people, mainly the so called marvel stans, will still hate them no matter what!!!!

review bombing ironheart and cap 4... then praising the fuck outta thundercunts was wild to me for several reasons. but the main one was fake outrage for palestine when in reality it was because you bitches hate a black man being captain america.

sebastian stan has literally been called out for several major fuck ups but y'all made sure to keep supporting bucky and his new white crew and even revamp the characters in some oh they changed and learned!

but a black character? y'all cancel them immediately or use them in your shitty fics for comforting the new ugly ass white boy for the 3am talks and pot of collards and mac n cheese.

long story short, fuck marvel, and fuck every racist marvel stan.

[lush-escape]

The Vigilante's Guide to Grief

pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader wc: 1.3k a/n: sorry for the slow update - work was crazy. being a stand in hotel housekeeper is no joke. i cleaned up a LEECH. if you or anyone you know leaves their hotel room looking like a pig sty? your mom's a hoe. also I messed up on the last chapter's title - ignore that, I fixed it. prev: shock next: anger

Stage two: Denial

Hey,

It's Friday the 13th. We should be watching scary movies right now like we do every year. The classics. Halloween, scary movie, Friday the 13 obviously. A new final destination came out. You always loved watching those stupid movies, making fun of everyone's stupid choices. Christy (the stupid therapist who's not that stupid) told me it can be “healing” to keep traditions like that alive. I think it's dumb. No one will ever have commentary like you do. No one else in the family can handle horror movies like you do. It wouldn't be the same. Besides - that was our thing. You and me. Ever since we were kids.

Jason can feel those heavy emotions weighing down on his chest. For a second it's harder to breathe. He takes a second to breathe, to let his mind relax. And then his phone dings. And then again. And again.

With a sigh he picks it up. An influx of messages from the Batfam group chat. Playful warnings to stay safe this Friday the 13th.

“Jay!” You let out an excited little laugh as you curl up into your favorite corner of the couch with a blanket draped over your lap. “Hurry up, you're wasting valuable movie time.”

Jay chuckles lowly from the kitchen of your shared apartment, “‘m almost done in here, baby. Start the movie - I'll be there in a second.” He's in the kitchen getting together snacks on a tray. Popcorn, your favorite candy, cookies.

“No way, I'm not starting it without you. I've been waiting all week for this.” You look over the back of the couch and catch sight of him with his back turned to you. Big, hulking Jason looking soft as ever in your top cramped kitchen getting sweets and snacks. You let out a small sigh, your smile turning soft. There's a warmth that spreads from your chest to your stomach as it hits you just how much you do love him.

“Stop it.” He finally speaks up with a tone of amusement. He knows you so well he doesn't even have to look at you to know you're staring.

“No.” You tease him back, your smile growing more playful. “I can't help it, you're too hot to ignore.”

And even though you can't see his face you know he's blushing.

“Shut up,” You hear him mutter, bashful. “Don't say stupid shit like that.”

You laugh at him, “What? It's true.” Your voice is more loving, adoring, and it makes Jason falter for a split second.

“Whatever, you're crazy.” He teases with a shake of his head before he's in the living room with you.

“Yeah, crazy in love.” You exaggerate batting your eyelashes before popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth.

“God, you're obnoxious.” Jason smirks with a roll of his eyes as he's sitting next to you. He props his feet onto the coffee table in front of the two of you and slings his arm over the back of the couch. A silent invitation for you to cuddle into him which you happily accept.

With your head on Jason's chest and your arm around his stomach he pushes play on the remote and pulls you even closer to him.

“Ready to watch some people die?” He asks and you snort a laugh in response.

part of me hates that they don't get it.

Jason is sidetracking now, putting his every thought down.

They haven't lost anyone like I have. I know they lost you too. They all loved you love you. But they don't get it. Normal things like today? It's just another Friday to them. To me it's one of the days I can't even turn on the tv or look at my phone without thinking of you even more than I already do. It's fucking hard baby. So fucking hard

Jason stops to blink away a tear, “Dammit…” he can hear himself sniffle and he hates it. He clears his throat and continues writing.

Some days I don't want to believe you're gone…

The manor was eerily silent that day. An official two weeks after your death, one after your funeral service. It was a small gathering; the Wayne's, the Kent's, Roy and Lian and your best friend. Your parents didn't show up, blaming Jason and the Wayne family for your “mysterious” death.

Jason doesn't like to think about it. So he doesn't.

As Jason walks through the manor he already knows where everyone is, where to avoid. Duke is on patrol, Damian is doing homework in the library, Tim and B are in the cave working a case, Dick is in Blüdhaven, Steph and Cass are training in the gym.

Except Dick wasn't in Blüdhaven. Jason rounds the corner to the kitchen to find him sitting at the island staring at a cup in front of him.

Jason doesn't greet Dick, not verbally anyway, just gives a grunt of acknowledgement. Dick looks up and he can see how tired Jason is. It makes his heart ache for his little brother. There's stubble on his face, the bags under his eyes are deep and purple.

“Hey,” Dick speaks up. His voice is quiet, a little tired. A sign that he's struggling just a bit. He watches Jason pull a beer from the fridge and he sighs. For once in his life he's <I>nervous</I>. He knows Jason stopped drinking a long time ago for you. It started as a bet that turned into a habit. He's scared to bring it up but there's something nagging at him in his brain to do so.

“Thought you stopped…” Dick mumbles. He sees Jason stiffen.

“Whaddya mean?” Jason asks, he's refusing to look at Dick as he takes a long swig.

Dick hesitates, “The bet… you both-”

“Look,” Jason forces a laugh, it doesn't even sound like him, “what she doesn't know won't hurt her. Just don't say anything and I won't get in trouble.” He jokes.

There's silence. It's heavy and tense and awkward and Dick audibly swallows. He stammers for a second. While still dealing with his own grief he was having to handle Jason's as well. He felt a pit open in his stomach.

“Jay…” Dick's voice is so soft and so tender that it makes Jason turn to face him. And when he does finally turn around Dick can see how hard he's fighting to hold it together.

“What?” Jason asks in a shaky voice.

“She.. there's no one…” Dick doesn't know how to navigate this. “She's not coming back, Jay…” the words came out thick and choked one.

Jason shakes his head and forces on another smile, it doesn't even look human at this point.

“You've always been pretty funny, y'know that.” Another drink of beer. “‘course she's coming back. She just- she's just.. not,” Jason clears his throat “, not here right now. It's fine. She'll be back soon.”

Dick wonders how long Jason's been feeling like this, how long he's been in denial or if it's a new thing he's going through. But part of him is afraid to call Jason out on it, to burst his little bubble of happiness in the midst of his despair. And honestly? A small part of him also wants to believe that you're gone, that you'll be back soon from some little trip or something.

“Oh… yeah, okay. I won't say anything, Jay.” Dick is almost whispering now as he chokes on the lump in his throat.

The part of Jason's brain that knows this is just a defense mechanism is relieved.

“Thanks, Dickie.” He claps Dick on the shoulder as he walks by.

But I know you are. I hate it. I hate accepting it. This

Jason pauses his writing before finally sighing in defeat.

this isn't how it was supposed to be.

taglist: @vellichor01 @thy-crimson-king @theendofthematerialgworl @tinasdcstuff @4rachn3 @cecebookworm

[aspenlovesmedia]

As an ace person myself, this means a lot to me.

Before I start though, I need to say that y’all can write whatever the fuck you want. I’m a sex repulsed asexual, I can’t read smut because it makes me feel sick and deeply uncomfortable, and especially if you are also ace and projecting your experiences onto Jon, go for it, write whatever you want.

This is my opinion on this, and you do not have to agree with me. I just want to talk about this. Also, I am autistic so apologies if I have misinterpreted what people have said, or if I come off as angry or anything like that at any point. That is not my intent, I just struggle with my tone (which is hard to convey through text anyway).

So, a few of the replies to this post have rubbed me the wrong way, especially the “it’s from Melanie and she hates Jon”. Why does that matter? I can kind of understand the arguement that as it’s second hand information so may be wrong, but what does Melanie and Jon not getting along have anything to do with this? Why would she lie? It’s just a really weird take to me, and maybe I’m misunderstanding what people are trying to say when they bring this up, but it just does not make any sense to me. In the conversation itself, Melanie and Basira are gossiping, but nothing in there is malicious, or implied to be, so again, why would she lie? Like the only thing that would potentially make sense is maybe she’s wrong, but we have no reason to not believe her.

Also, can we think about this from a writing standpoint for a minute. At what point in the story would it feel right for Jon to just outright say he is ace? I am of the personal opinion that I don’t think Jon would know the label asexual exists, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t ace, and even if he did when would this get brought up? Like when would Jon himself be like “yes I am asexual and (talks about how he feels about sex)”. It would feel really clunky in my opinion, and also it wouldn’t serve a purpose in the plot. It’s brought up once in a fairly natural way, and that’s the end of it because it doesn’t need to get brought up again, and frankly wouldn’t make sense to.

Jonny confirmed in one of the QnAs that Jon is written to be ace. Obviously people can headcanon what they want, but authorial intent is important to an extent, and especially when it is vague in the text, it’s nice he confirmed it.

Also, it is litterally stated the he doesn’t have sex. Now you can interpret that how you want, and yes people can change, but also he is the only character in the entire show stated explicitly to not have sex. Again, from a writing standpoint, if this information was wrong, it would have been cleared up in another episode but it wasn’t and we’re given no reason to think it’s not the case.

Ace rep is very rare. The fact Jon is ace is amazing. Again, write what you want, especially if you are a sex positive ace person and want to project onto Jon. The thing is, no other character in the show is explicitly stated to not have sex. There is literally every other character who you can write smut with, and you can also headcanon any character as being on the ace spectrum and write smut about them with that headcanon too.

I think my annoyance with this is it feels like some people want to bend over backwards to ignore the text and justify why Jon should have sex. Maybe it’s because I am a sex repulsed ace, but Jon is the one character in a peice of media I love who is stated to not have sex in the text and that representation means more to me than I think a lot of people can know. It’s one thing when it’s confirmed by a creator outside of the media itself, but Jonny wrote it into the story. It’s vague and brief, but that’s all it needed to be.

I hope that all makes sense? Sorry if it’s rambly or is confusing. I just wanted to talk about this.

See, my issue personally with people going "asexual people can still have sex" about Jonathan Archivist Sims is that... sure. Asexual people can have sex. However, John is quite explicitly written in a way that practically states that he, as an individual, does Not engage in sex

This is the one instance when we hear about Johns asexuality outside of the qnas, and its explicitly stated that John doesn't have sex. At all.

I understand the wish to see yourself represented in media, particularly as an asexual person myself. And this is not intended as a callout for anyone in particular. However, it does create great frustations within me because it reads as just reinforcing this standard that centers sex in relationships in a wider societal context. A denial of individuals who simply wish to wholeheartedly not engage with it overall

Im not going to try and stop anyone from headcanoning what they want, drawing what they want or writing what they want. However, I do implore you to consider the canon information, the scarcity of ace rep, and how this errasure of his identity may be upsetting. I also invite you to explore asexuality in the cases of other tma characters who are left to much interpretation, like Tim, Martin, Georgie, Melsnie, Basira, Daisy, Sasha- hell, make them all ace in all flavours of ace, have your fun. I just implore you allow John to remain sexless, as he deserves

[joshujihan23]

Hello!! May I request Woozi, having a girlfriend she is still in college while he’s an idol producing everyone knew her from who se is and wh she’s with, she starting getting bully from her college, getting hate by people randomly for first time, she went to woozi’s studio but there where reporters outside so she went in fast and scared and panicked when she got to Woozi she was crying, and he hug her but then she got a panicked attack and then Woozi wanted to to take a break to help her get better and stuff like that. I think this is too much and am sorry for this being so much but I feel like you will write the best plot or stuff with this!!! Love your writing and hope you don’t pressure yoursel!!

Believe In Me

☆ pairing: woozi x 14th member!reader

☆ genre: angst, tons of angst, tons of tons of angst

☆ trigger warning: verbal insults, ONE curse word

☆ word count: 3.3k

☆ synopsis: as the 14th member, you are always criticised for being the only woman in the group. however, one misunderstanding has brought your reputation to a standstill, affecting the relationship between you and jihoon..

author’s note: thank you for this request<3 i changed the storyline for some parts, hope you still like it!

————————————————————————

it has been years since you debut. after gruelling hours of practicing, and endless nights trying to convince your parents that you were made to follow your dream as an idol, your parents reluctantly agree, but on one condition.

you had to complete your studies. and you could do whatever you want if you did so.

your yearn to achieve your dreams as a superstar was strong enough, and to just complete university? easy enough.

spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

pledis scheduling you to debut with 13 other guys was far-fetched. being the only woman, you were afraid of the remarks of the public. however, you knew the guys well, well maybe because you have been training with them since you were 14.

it was all normal, especially because you were the same age as chan, so you could rely on him whenever you could. the both of you went to the same high school, woke up early together, and spent hours trying to cram for exams. he was your other half.

not forgetting the other members, because of them, idol life seems to be an exciting one.

vocal sessions with seokmin and seungkwan were a blast, belting out the high notes of your favourite songs and them adding random ad-libs.

practicing choreography with hoshi and minghao (even though minghao sat the side from exhaustion most of the time), your passion out of the roof.

random bilingual conversations with joshua, vernon and jun, which none of you understood each other.

coffee dates with mingyu and wonwoo (or you third-wheeling them)

and midnight talks with jeonghan and seungcheol, one that you truly need after a long day of work.

saving the best for the last, jihoon, the one whom you’d always staying hours in the production room, just to watch him brew a new piece of music within hours at hand.

it wasn’t a surprise if you said you were staying over at his studio for the night, all the members were used to it.

you greatly appreciated it, especially because you adored those moments between the both of you: late night dinners, where you would always force him to eat, sitting beside him while he teaches you the technical details about composing (which you didn’t understand) and one to one talks when things have gotten too heavy.

jihoon was a pillar of strength to you. you have always seen him as the most reliable figure in your group. and that admiration had turn into adoration, where you began noticing the little things about him:

how his eyes always stared at the ceiling when he was trying to come up with new ideas, or how he would always put you to sleep despite his busyness.

and true enough, he felt the same way, causing your relationship to turn from late night buddies to a lovey-dovey couple, one which people didn’t expect.

because a few years after you debut, in your second year of university, it was announced by the company that you and jihoon were in a relationship. fans were not surprised, knowing how close the both of you were, and how both of you enjoyed each others’ presence.

but to non-carats? that piece of news blew the internet up within seconds.

even though you have been in the group for quite some time, the public still had some mixed reactions. which includes your schoolmates in your university.

you had amazing friends. friends who supported you through your idol journey, updating you on lectures, or giving you a heads-up on an upcoming project.

on the other hand, there were some people who can’t seem to comprehend the fact that you were in a relationship with THE woozi from seventeen.

until one day, you were on the way to the campus, when you noticed news spreading on social media, about some carats posting photos of you and jihoon at a cafe, talking and laughing with one another while waiting for the drinks.

you remembered that day vividly. it was dance practice for the comeback. the members gathered to play a round of hongsam, and the first 2 to be out of the game would need to buy coffee for the staff and the members.

but some of the comments twisted the story, mentioning how a few days ago, you were seen with another man, who was wearing a navy hoodie, and a person that doesn’t resemble any of the members.

those comments blew up, and eye-witnesses came to flood your feed with many photos, with an aggregating number of remarks.

‘isn’t she dating jihoon, and she’s outright cheating on him with another man??’

‘poor jihoon. he made her entire career successful, and now she’s stabbing him in the back, he deserves better!’

‘y/n is a traitor! just leave the group, she didn’t deserve to be part of them anyway.’

those comments hit your like the tides of the waves, the weight of their words crashing down one by one.

you continued scrolling, until you saw the trending hashtags:

top in trending:

#SVTIS13

#LEAVEY/N

#SVTDESERVESBETTER

you didn’t know what to do. you were already on the way to campus, there were definitely people that would talk about this. until you saw a notification appear on the top of your screen.

hoon🤍: i know you’re reading them, and i suggest you to stop. when you’re done with classes. come to the studio.

his message, stoic and cold, stung right at your heart. you patted your chest, trying to reassure yourself that he knows the truth, and that you, in fact, would never cheat on him.

you would never risk your image like that.

you would not risk your career with SEVENTEEN like that.

and most importantly, you would never risk your relationship with jihoon like that.

and before you know it, the moment you stepped into the building, you could hear murmuring from the people around you. pointing fingers, giving disgusted faces, and laughing mockingly at you.

the moment your eyes landed on your friends, they immediately walked up to you, surrounding you while trying to bring you into the lecture hall.

“are you alright, y/n? have you eaten?” yoonji asked, a hint of worry lingering in her tone

“don’t think about it, don’t listen to them. you know the truth and you would not have done that.” jiyeon whispered, patting your back gently.

“i’d never cheat on him, i love him too much to cheat.” you mumbled, your voice firm, but your throat continued to tighten. your head hung low, your hands clasped against the cold wood of the table in the lecture hall.

“you should get to the studio right after this class. i’m sure you need some time with him, right?” haesol suggested, her smile reassuring, like always.

you nodded, your mind beginning to flood with the image of jihoon, probably disappointed, or maybe disapproving.

would he believe those rumors?

no he wouldn’t. he trusts me, right?

the lecture hall began to flood with students, some of them turning to your direction and whisper amongst themselves, letting out giggles and disgusted looks.

you tried, you tried your hardest to ignore them, and focus on the lecture instead.

their words shouldn’t get to you. it’s just a rumor.

during the lecture, you felt your phone vibrate in your bag. confused, you took it out, to see a message from chan.

twinstar⭐️: y/n-ah, not to scare you, but during practice today, the members were talking about what happen. you know already, right? but jihoon hyung has been quiet. he didn’t talk much. just.. observing. i thought i should let you know first, because vernon hyung and i are worried.

you sighed. the worry in you escalating. you quickly typed a respond back, your fingers shaking slightly from fear.

you: i’ll be there. my lecture is ending shortly.

at that moment, your lecturer concluded the lesson, and left the hall. that led to the rest of the students to start packing up, talking and laughing while walking out.

you packed your things swiftly, waving your friends goodbye before practically sprinting out of the hall.

on your way to the exit, you heard even more whispers. this time, they were louder, almost as if they were trying to force you to hear them.

until one of them shouted.

“hey! isn’t that the cheater? where is she running off to, her side kick?”

and that sent the people around in a series of loud laughter, mockingly and filled with bad intentions.

you couldn’t take it anymore. it felt more humiliating that it should, given the fact that you were so well-known. you rummaged through your bag, digging out a cap that you stole from hoshi, before flagging a cab to the HYBE building.

you were texting chan, trying to get any possible updates; about the company’s reactions, to the situation between the members, and especially how jihoon was acting. and when you looked up, you saw the crowd.

photographers, reporters, fans, or just people passing by, trying to catch a glimpse of you.

you told the driver to stop at the side, so that you could rush over without the people swarming the cab like a bunch of bees. but when you stepped out, everyone came rushing over, hovering over you to get a glimpse of you, and with some underlying motives.

“is it true that you are in another relationship except for woozi?”

“who is that male? and how is he related to you?”

“unnie, why would you do this to him.”

“woozi deserves better!”

you shifted the cap to cover your face more, your breath getting more staggered. you clenched onto the sleeve of your jacket, trying to catch your breath while focusing on what’s in front of you. there were cameras shoved in your face, light flashing from all the clicking, and people screaming into your ear.

the more you tried to move, the more people began to dig into your skin.

“leave the group, y/n!”

“you b!tch, how could you do this??”

you couldn’t take it anymore. you didn’t even realise that tear streaks started to form on your cheeks. your mind was clouded, with so many thoughts, and was just so overwhelmed by what was going on around you.

you shoved yourself through the crowd, the voices around you beginning to muffle as you clenched your fists tighter. and before you knew it, you felt someone tug on your arm firmly, pulling you into the building.

you yelped in surprise, thinking that it was another reporter, but when you looked up, the familiarity began to fall into its place.

mingyu.

“shit.” he mumbled under his breath, pulling you into his arms and escorted you further into the building. you felt something hover over you, almost as if to cover you. you glanced to the side, to see dokyeom following beside, with a concerned look on his face.

you heard the security screaming outside, telling everyone to disperse and leave the building.

mingyu’s arm still stayed around you, while dokyeom just stayed behind, making sure no fans or reporters could reach any of you.

but you heard another familiar voice, whispering, as if he was talking to someone.

“it’s bad… panic… taking her… there…” and you couldn’t hear anymore of it.

mingyu leaned his head closer to your ear, talking to you in the most gentle way.

“would you like us to take you to woozi hyung’s studio? i’m sure you don’t want to be swarmed by the members, right?”

you nodded, your fists tightening further as you did so.

“hoshi hyung, woozi hyung’s studio.” mingyu said, turning around to face the guy, who was on the phone at the time.

“coups hyung just called. the security are dealing with the crowd, and the company are going to release a statement soon.” hoshi replied.

mingyu nodded, tapping the key code to enter the next part of the building, one which screams familiarity.

on the third door along the hallway, purple lights peaked out of the creaks of the door — your favourite colour. and your ost, one that you sang for a drama that was recently released, can be heard from where you’re standing.

standing at the front of the door, hoshi knocked on the door. the music stopped abruptly, paused at the climax, where you have belted out your high note, which jihoon absolutely adored. the wheels of the chair began to roll, as footsteps started to approach. dokyeom patted your back, giving you a reassuring rub, making sure that you were fine.

your heart thumped. you didn’t know what to expect. you were bracing yourself, hoping that seeing jihoon’s stern expression wouldn’t break you down immediately. rubbing your hands together, you tried to catch your breath, still trying to recover from the effects of the moment.

the door creaked open, the purple LED light spilling out of the room. a man, familiar yet distant, stood before you. your breath hitched, the tensions of the atmosphere heightening. you fixed the cap, facing it lower so you couldn’t look at him at the eye.

jihoon stared for a moment, exchanging glances with the 3 men around you, before mouthing a ‘thank you’.

mingyu let go of you, dokyeom patted your head gently, while hoshi whispered “whatever happens, we’re here for you.” into your ear before moving away.

jihoon opened the door slightly wider, welcoming you to enter, but you stood there, still hesitant, almost afraid that you would cross any boundaries if you did so.

he let out a sigh. he wasn’t usually a guy filled with expression, and isn’t keen on expressing acts of love with people around him. but this time, he took your arm, so gently that it felt like if he wasn’t careful, you would break. he pulled you closer, pressing a kiss on your head, whispering, “don’t be scared, we’ll talk when you’re ready.”

that triggered you to take a step forward, scared but determined. you entered the room, while jihoon nodded the rest goodbye, giving them the signal to leave.

the studio, the one that you used to call your comfort place, was feeling so distant, so cold, and something with a lingering sense of discomfort.

closing the door behind you, he guided you over to his table. the screens were black, none of them option, except for one, showing your ost, the one which he paused.

he sat you down on the couch beside him, his hand never leaving yours.

that couch, the one where you slept on when he worked wee hours, and the one where you and him talked and laughed about anything in the world.

but now, it was anything but comfort.

sensing your discomfort, he pulled you by your waist, inching closer to him. you were surprised. he rarely initiated any forms of love, but today was different.

that was when you felt his arms wrap around you, hugging you tightly, like he was protecting you from the vast world.

you stayed there, surprised, but immediately crumbled under his touch. the tears you have been holding onto started to fall uncontrollably, as you let out sob after sob. you buried your head into his shoulders, trying to stifle the cries.

the both of you stayed there for a few moments, jihoon remained silent, like he was trying to comprehend the fact that you were crying in his arms.

something that you did rarely, even to him.

to him, you are the strongest figure that he has ever seen. so firm in your decisions, so quick to pick up something new, and the first person that people go to when they need people to talk to.

you are so admirable to him.

and the fact that not everyone sees it breaks his heart.

he could feel every single emotion of yours, like his heart was connected with yours.

or maybe it was.

he inhaled a sharp breath, whispering gently into your ear:

“that ost you sang. ‘strength’. you expressed the complicated emotions that a woman live with. writing that song, i was so conflicted. i wasn’t clear about what a woman was facing, but when i see you. how you live like it’s your last day, how you bottle your emotions, caring too much about everyone, you are the inspiration to my music. you are my star, y/n. i don’t know how to explain this feeling, but i trust you. i know you would never do such thing, and it hurts to see the media hate on you like that.”

he was silent for a moment, seeming like he was trying to process his inner thoughts. he pulled apart from you, holding your hand as if he was afraid to let go. he stared into your eyes, the eyes he wished he never had to see tears covering.

you were just so precious to him.

“i know you better than anyone, you know that right? although dino may be my competitor, you are the only reason i continue to smile, the reason why i continue to do what i love today.”

you just stared at him, his words hitting harder than it should. although the members had always supported you, and had been your constant cheerleaders since the beginning, hearing it from jihoon always pulls heartstrings that you could never find.

“i just wanted to live my life. you know i would never cheat on you, right? i-i just wanted to have some sibling time with my brother, but people always twist stories to make me look like a bad person. i’m not, i’ll never do that to you, you know that right?”

“i know that, i know that too well god it hurts. it hurts to see you so broken, and so afraid of the world because the universe is against you. i’ll help you through it. i swear by it. do you believe in me, love?”

and that broke you. he usually calls you by your name, and never by a nickname. you immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you.

“always, i have always believed in you, no matter what.”

you could feel a smile forming on your forehead, his lips pressing against your temple now, placing a gentle kiss on it. he began landing a kiss each of your facial features.

“i’ll protect you.” a kiss on your left eye, kissing the tear away.

“i’ll help you get through this.” a kiss on your cheek, a place where he always does it to ‘play safe’.

“i trust you so much,” a kiss on the tip of your nose, the place where he would always wipe when you get a dot of ice cream right there.

“i love you.” he mumbled, before gently placing a soft kiss on your lips, almost like he was trying to memorise your movements, how you react, and how you would return it right back.

the moment lasted for some time, letting the both of you savour each other.

pulling away, he gave you a soft smile, leaning his forehead against yours, his gaze still glued onto yours.

“we’ll clear the rumours, we will always stand by you.” he whispered against, like a promise he would never break.

you placed your hand on his arm, finally smiling after a long day of distress.

“i love you hoonie, so much.” you said, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek.

“i love you too.” he responded, his arm circling around your waist.

the rumours may still be spiralling across the internet.

but right now, that was not any of your concern.

as long as you have him, the world would stop spiralling anyway.

[ttdamian]

I apologize for erm not updating for like 2 weeks... i've been very unmotivated to write and even thought of quitting (´∀｀；) but hello hi i wont do that... as apology please take this little snippet of the next chapter i just started working on. Thank you so much for all the support as well, it has really been the reason why i keep writing.

It had been two weeks.

Fourteen days of waking up in sheets that didn’t feel like yours.

Fourteen nights of lying awake in a bed too big, too stiff, too quiet.

The silence here wasn’t peace. It was something else. Something heavier.

The kind that pressed on your chest when the lights went out.

The kind that made you flinch at every creak in the floorboards—because even the house itself seemed to sigh in disappointment when you moved.

Wayne Manor wasn’t a home. It was a museum of people who used to matter. Every hallway whispered someone else’s name. Every photo on the wall looked like it had been taken just to be seen by the world, not remembered by a family.

You weren’t part of the curation. You were something left in the margins. A misprint in an otherwise perfect collection.

And nothing had changed.

Bruce still hadn’t looked at you.

Not directly.

Not once.

You’d memorized the angles of his avoidance.

The way his eyes would land just past your shoulder.

The way his footsteps would speed up when he heard yours down the hall.

The way he spoke only when he had to, and never in words meant for you.

He was the kind of absent that didn’t need distance.

And Alfred… Alfred tried.

You saw it in the soft way he said your name. In the tea left outside your door that was always still warm. In the way he didn’t flinch when you asked the question you already knew the answer to.

“Why won’t he talk to me?”

Alfred’s pause was long. Weighted. Then, in a voice full of gentle regret:

“He’s grieving, Miss. He sees… her. When he sees you.”

Her.

Your mother.

The ghost you wore on your face.

In your laugh. Your smile. The slope of your nose.

Maybe that was why Bruce couldn’t bear to look at you. Because you weren’t just a reminder of what he lost. You were living proof that she’d been here, once—and that she was never coming back.

So, you tried. You really, truly tried.

Tried to stay quiet.

Tried to make yourself small enough not to bother him.

Tried to be good—whatever that meant in a house that didn’t know what to do with you.

But the thought still came, uninvited, gnawing at the edge of your mind.

‘He could still grieve… and love me.’

It repeated like a heartbeat. Soft. Steady. Inevitable.

You hated yourself for thinking it.

Hated the way it made you feel—needy, demanding, like a child too greedy for affection.

Selfish.

You were being selfish.

That’s what you told yourself.

That’s what your mother would’ve said, wouldn’t she?

She raised you to be reasonable. To be patient. To understand that people were made of hurts you couldn’t always see.

She raised you to make room for other people’s pain.

But still…

Still you wondered why no one seemed willing to make room for yours.

Some nights you cried into the pillow just to feel something warm. Some mornings you looked in the mirror and tried to smile, just to see if you still could. The reflection didn’t feel like you anymore. You didn’t recognize the girl with the tired eyes and the hope she kept crushing down like it was dangerous.

The girl who had stopped expecting good things a long time ago.

The girl who was trying so hard not to ask for anything, just in case the answer was silence.

At first, it hurt—like ripping out something soft and fragile from your own chest.

But then came the numbness.

The slow settling of silence in your bones.

The quiet understanding that maybe some things just weren’t meant for you.

You started telling yourself it was fine. That you didn’t need him to say your name.

Didn’t need him to see you.

Didn’t need to be loved by someone who’d already chosen to forget you existed.

And maybe—if you said it enough times—you’d start to believe it.

Because what other choice did you have? The longer the silence lasted, the more it started to feel like a kind of answer. Like absence was just another way of saying no.

No, he wouldn’t come around.

No, you weren’t part of this family.

No, he didn’t want you.

Not here.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

So, you stopped waiting.

And instead, you began to move through the house like a ghost. Quiet. Careful. Always out of the way. You learned which floorboards to avoid. Which rooms were safest to cry in. Which corners let you disappear just enough.

The walls never stopped groaning when you passed. Like even they were tired of your footsteps.

Like even they knew:

You didn’t belong here.

And maybe—just maybe—you were starting to believe it too.

taglist : @cssammyyarts @wendee-go @sadeem575 @c4xcocoa @time-shardz @whaaaaaaaaat111 @noone1233nobody @justanerd1 @bbmgirll @bakuraloverr @myjumper @cupid73 @lordbugs @cheappremingerfromdelululand @lovebug-apple @justafank @chemicalwindexbottle @welpthisisboring @totallynotacat13 @nininehaaa @yuyuzi-ling @yarn-mony @eyeless-kun 

[w0rnlolita]

eng / rus lang

I wanna share my opinion on this whole 'situation' with SourAppleStudio. This is MY opinion!! U can block me or ignore the post if u disagree, or argue with my points, whatever lol

IMO, I think it’s unfair to put SourAppleStudio in the same category as problematic Undertale community creators who groom kids and stuff.

First off, I don’t see an issue with taking NSFW art commissions (16+), or even drawing that kinda content—as long as the characters are adults. And yeah, I also don’t care if one (or all) of the characters are aged up. The point is, they’re not kids, end of story.

Second, canceling SourAppleStudio is dumb and way too toxic, bro. I get that you’re upset, but why are you spewing venom like the creator of Horrortale was out here grooming minors? It’s wild to me that y’all blew up a whole drama over nothing. Also, ditching a character/AU over something this petty is just… funny to me. I’ve been a hardcore Horror!Sans and Horrortale fan for 6 years, and I’m not about to drop something that means so much to me just ‘cause some people can’t separate fiction from reality. My perception’s fine, thanks.

Third, nobody gave y’all permission to claim this AU as public property. Respect the creator’s rights, even if you "don’t wanna". And trying to make Horror!Sans’ personality/behavior "community property" is even dumber. I hate fanon ‘cause it turned Horror!Sans into some cutesy bastard, a chef who eats everything in sight, or an “alpha male”—it’s gross. Y’all wanna make it worse? Go ahead, but don’t cry later when you’re sick of the cringey fanon you helped create.

Twitter cancel culture is the most miserable, braindead thing ever ‘cause this whole "situation" is made-up drama. And the Undertale community’s way too sensitive—y’all see something "problematic" everywhere. You scream about hating proship/comship/darkship, but then u turn around and ship selfship/selfcest/oc x canon/crackship like?? The double standards are ridiculous, lmao.

To wrap it up: I’m not a proshipper or anti, I’m a neutralshipper—I couldn’t care less about shipping ‘cause I’ve got better things to do than argue over who pairs up with who. I’m not friends with SourAppleStudio, just an independent anon online sharing my take on this mess. Got questions for me? Ask away—I’ll happily answer.

If you agree with me, I’d love a like or reblog (whatever floats your boat). If not? Ignore me or drop a constructive counter-argument in the replies.

Буду очень рада, если кто-нибудь из рунет сегмента андертейла скажет, что нибудь про это. Если есть можете писать в лс/комментарии! (for ru community)

Peace out, stay healthy & happy ^_^

[alllgator-blood]

I need to ask, because of it I CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT.

How do you make, not only long comics, but also VERY FAST. Like- I read one part that has 2/3 like pictures and then next day are again 2 or 3 and I'm like grabing my head and just screaming HOW??? (Also these comics are very yummy and I feel like getting stabbed after each one but in a good way cuz I like being stabbed (Kallamar got a bit too relatable in that one comic 💔))

THAT'S REALLY IMPRESSIVE AND ALSO SHOCKING FOR ME. Like- what is your secret??? 🤨🤨🤨

HAHAHA OH GOD I DID NOT THINK I WAS VERY FAST BUT- I'll try to do a list of tips I thought of off the top of my head, in case any of these help you or anyone else??? I try to not gatekeep anything I do because I think the world needs more comics honestly, so I tend to ramble a lot when giving advice.

click the read more to unleash many paragraphs of tips:

Okay these tips aren't 100% about being fast but also being efficient/keeping a good pace, I hope that's okay!

1: Originally the first tip was "draw every day even if only a little bit, so you don't lose steam" but I'm sure everyone has said that at some point. So I'll just say I Pavlov myself into drawing better by having little "rituals". Liiike...the only time I have energy drinks is when I draw. Or the only time I light candles is when I draw. I have specific songs I put on when I START drawing to get me into the Zone. I find that when certain circumstances are met, it helps the time fly by 'cause I stay focused enough to keep a steady pace. After a while of doing those things when you start drawing for the day, it tricks the brain into going "oh shit, we're drawing now? aight bet" and then you just. Go

2: SETTING DEADLINES FOR SURE HELPS. It's definitely nice hearing from people that there's no Real Pressure on me when I post comics...for free...of characters I have no obligation to draw...just for the enjoyment of doing it. BUT I work best when I have a fire lit under my ass, so I set deadlines like "I need to post this on saturday/sunday at noon so the algorithm will actually let people read this comic". I usually slip those into a description so it's a very casual announcement and I feel okay with postponing it if necessary, rather than making a text post like "NEW COMIC SATURDAY!!1" and then feeling terrible if I can't finish it in time. Lmao

3: I just fuckin GO when I make a draft. Like for this new comic I'm working on, I just sat down and started drawing like the world was gonna end; there's a lot of panels with very off model characters/wonky anatomy because I just wanted to sketch enough for future me to get the idea. I try not to look back on my progress for any reason besides continuity, because then I see how long the comic's getting and I sweat bullets. Literally so many comics have been ditched because I got spooked thinking about how hard it'd be to finish them. So if you just shut your brain off and don't think about the technicalities of it, just keeping mind the story you want to tell- it's SO much easier to complete. Breaking comics into parts is ABSOLUTELY necessary for completion :')

4: Maybe the most important piece of advice I learned from a published comic artist, is that people are gonna look at your comic panels for an average of like 10-20 seconds and will move on to the next. You don't wanna spend hours on a single panel that basically only exists to convey a tiny bit of the plot. So I like to draw just *enough* to convey the general environment/mood, but not feel obliged to put in a million little extra details. I really hate doing backgrounds but my art, to me, feels incomplete without them. So I'll add like PART of a room or a general Nature area just to say hey, this takes place in the temple/outside/whatever! As long as your story is engaging and the pacing is comfortable, I don't think people will mind (or notice) if you take shortcuts.

5: I listen to specific things to help maintain a good speed while not being distracting or understimulating. During the sketch stage, I usually have something slow/instrumental going so I can focus on the little movie that plays in my head and draw what I feel like a scene would look like. It also helps not distract me from what they're saying. For tasks like lining/coming up with color schemes/reworking dialogue, I have something more stimulating playing but not like distracting, so a video essay I've already watched or fast music I already heard a lot of times. THEN for the absolute fucking slog that is the coloring stage, I blast shitty breakcore or put on an actually interesting video so I can zone out while I click my mouse ten billion times to fill in all the colors >:)

Basically, comics are funny to me because it's like a frantic fucking race to the finish line before your motivation completely abandons you. There's been a few comics where I was ABSOLUTELY sick of even looking at them, I think it was specifically "in little ways, everything stays" where the comic itself is sweet and inoffensive but OMFG. I WAS SO TIRED OF DRAWING GRASS AND REWORKING DIALOGUE. KALLAMAR AND LESHY JUST HUG IT OUT ALREADY SO I CAN STOP DRAWING.

This post probably reads like "I HATE COMICS!! I HALF ASS THEM TO GET THROUGH!!" but I really do love making them and it's kinda the only thing I like doing nowadays, so the other aspect of why I get them done fast comparatively is just that it's what I spend all my free time doing. Some comics take weeks of me working on them daily to finish them, because working on them is my main coping skill rn so it always feels worth doing. I know it can't last forever so I try to just get as many stories as I can out before my circumstances change! Maybe don't be motivated by fear of the future though. Just do these because it's fun and people love reading your comics :') I KNOW I DO

In any case- here are the lines for the beginning of the new comic, I KNOW you love the funny squid so here's mine as a kid flexing on narinder for being able to summon his crown weapon:

[pucksandpebbles]

𝒃𝒆𝒕 𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂, 𝒒𝒉⁴³ - 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒

<<< previous part next part >>>

Bet you miss me Bet you're reminiscing I bet you hate the way that you said goodbye And you still can't even tell me why

a/n : it's hereeee! this is the penultimate part, there will be a nice chapter to finish it all off but this is basically the end of the story so thank you everyone. i was inspired by the very changeable british weather... i am sorry this is not proofread lmao, looking for a beta reader coz I'm lazy af.

thank you for all the love and support, especially on this series, you guys keep me going so remember to show this and all the other writers on here some love coz we need that in the world rn. So like, comment, reblog and hit up my inbox - I love y'all :)

wc : 2.2k

The sky outside crackled with anger, letting harsh streaks of light through the sky, followed by the ominous rumble of thunder. Quinn was curled up, alone, on his sofa, bundled in a blanket and his Canucks hoodie as outside the rain lashed his window so furiously, he thought that it might break. The weather was horrific, had been all week, long downpours of rain which left puddles outside the rink that he always managed to walk through and a gusty breeze which always seemed to put people in a bad mood - chilling them to the bone, but more importantly fucking up their hair for their walk-ins. Someone in the locker room had complained incessantly the other day that if the wind persisted he’d have to resort to the beanie as it was messing with his perfectly styled quiff. Quinn had rolled his eyes at that.

But still, the weather outside had been dampening his quickly souring mood. The whole week he’d been wallowing a little in his own grief at the end of your relationship - or whatever it was supposed to be. And now, at the end of the week, sitting alone and trying to wait out the dreadful weather outside - when if you were here you’d be passing over a warm hot chocolate, putting on a rom-com and sharing the small blanket between the two of you - made him feel shittier than usual about the situation.

Sniffling back an onslaught of emotion, Quinn took to scrolling through his phone lifelessly. He ignored the messages from his brothers, and tried to push back the thought of moping over the photos of the two of you still safely in his camera roll and instead mindlessly scrolled through his Instagram For You Page, liking photos of blondes in bikinis. But even Quinn knew that his heart wasn’t in it. He had really fucked it up. Jack might never forgive him, maybe the two of them were more alike than he thought, both managing to break the same girl’s heart.

Quinn threw himself into practice the week following your explosive break-up, there was no other choice to him. There was little to go home to and the thought of going out to the bar or finding a girl on hinge to hook-up with made him feel sick. He needed to be on top of things before the game at the end of the week, on top of his game, to get a much needed win in the bag. He’d get up earlier in the mornings, head to the rink earlier than anyone else - just get out on the ice, get himself warmed up on the cold ice and try to clear his head before any of his teammates got there. 

It didn’t work though. He’d come off the ice more frustrated with himself than before and he knew that he was being grumpier than usual in the locker room but just couldn’t manage to brush off the irritation that coated him. If his teammates in the locker room could tell, and Quinn guessed they probably could, judging by the quiet looks they kept passing each other, they kept it pretty quiet. 

He’d drive home seething, gripping his steering wheel until his knuckles turned white - he could’ve slammed his head into the horn in the centre of the wheel over and over if it meant salvation. But it wouldn’t. You and him were finished. 

“We’re so over, get out.”

“Fine, consider us done.”

Quinn knew, logically, that bottling it up, pushing it down and trying not to talk about it wasn’t going to do the situation any good. The problem was, however, that he had no-one to talk to about it. You were the one he’d go to about everything, anything, you always had an answer for it and now he was lost. 

The crackling storm outside and the blanket wrapped around his legs reminded him of the last time stormy weather had come to Vancouver. Quinn had been all in his head about an issue with one of the guys on the team, and as a Captain, was struggling to work out how to deal with him. It was driving him insane. When you’d come home, though, hair damp from the rain, you’d slid onto the sofa beside him, drink in hand and told him to spill. Then, like it was easy, provided the most life saving advice.

“You should be Captain, Jesus.” Quinn laughed, rubbing the side of your arm gently, with a playful but sincere smile which told you he half meant it.

You fell into his side, collapsing, exhausted from the long day and sighed, “Too bad I’m dreadful at hockey. Plus you are an incredible Captain Quinn, you just need to have better conviction in your words and actions.”   

Quinn missed that. You weren’t his therapist by any means, but you understood and just for a little while helped him hold some of the weight. 

Now that you were gone, Quinn felt like he might crumble under the pressure. 

Quinn scrolled past your latest post, breath quickening and chest tightening as he caught sight of your bright smile. He was utterly fucked and had nobody to talk to about it. It wasn’t a topic that he was comfortable talking about with anyone on the team, Jack would for certain kill him, it was never going to be a parent safe topic. On the other hand, there was no way that he could navigate this on his own, unless he wanted to continue to wallow for the rest of his life.

He opened up his contacts list, scrolling through dumbly, in the hopes of finding somebody. His finger stopped on ‘Lukey’.

Luke. Maybe. 

Being the youngest, Luke was still in college, enjoying college hockey at UMich which Jack had missed out on. Despite being the young one, their mum had always joked that he was the most mature around the opposite sex, and he was surprisingly grounded, could give good advice when needed. Maybe his younger brother wasn’t the best one to reach out to in this situation, but he was the only one that Quinn could reach out to.  

Quinn pressed dial on his phone, holding the device up to his ear as he lay slumped on the sofa, back slightly aching from holding the position. There was a soft click as Luke answered his phone, thousands of miles away in Newark. 

“Quinn, is everything okay?” His voice echoed through the other end.

Quinn’s voice cracked in return, “Not really, can we talk?”

There was the slight noise of some shuffling and a soft voice that Quinn couldn’t identify, probably a college roommate and then Luke replied, gentle and understanding, “Of course.”

“I’ve kinda fucked things up with a girl,” Quinn admitted, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, warning off an oncoming headache thanks to the humidity that the thunderstorm had brought.

There was a muffled chuckle over the line, “I’m sure you haven’t. You’re talking about Jack’s ex, am I right?”

“Yeah, he’s gonna kill me.”

Luke’s laugh came out clearer the second time, “Not if you fix things. She’s very amicable, and I know you well enough to know you haven’t fucked it like Jack did.”

Quinn whined, heat pulsing behind his eyes and kicking at the blanket over his feet frustratedly, “But what if I have. Lukey I just need someone to tell me what to do?”

“Come on then, spill, how did you screw it up with her?” Luke countered, voice a little muffled.

“We were just supposed to be friends, but-”

With that, Luke’s voice mellowed significantly, “Oh, shit Quinny.”

Quinn's voice pitched upwards and he writhed with annoyance, “Oh so you do think I’ve bombed it. It’s over and it’s all my fault.”

“Hey, hey come on now, I never said that.”

There was a delicate silence that hung in the air between them, the only noise being the crackle of the storm outside Quinn’s apartment and the muffled background noise over the line with Luke. Quinn tipped his head back, letting a sigh up into the humid air of his apartment and relaxing into the sofa with a mild huff.

Luke broke the silence first, “Have you tried talking to her?”

It was a sensible suggestion. Actually, it was a very sensible suggestion. How in the hell had Quinn not even considered that. Tensions were high that night, it might be a good idea anyways to smooth things over. He hadn’t even thought.

“Luke, that is genius!” Quinn whispered with excitement.

“Uh, is it? I-”

Quinn interrupted, leaping off the sofa, “Thank you, I’ve got to go. Bye!”

Luke’s voice came out distant and confused, “Oh okay, bye-”

Quinn almost rushed out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him, forgetting both his coat and his car keys until he was down by the door. It was too late then, he was a man on a mission and he was not going back for them.

In the pouring rain and the incessant thunder and lightening, Quinn ran through the darkened streets of Vancouver for god knows how long until he reached your apartment. Despite how his legs burned, despite the treacherous weather, despite his lack of preparation and the fact that he had not considered that he had practice to contend with the next day, he would not let up. He only came to a stop once he reached your apartment building, panting furiously and he stood outside the block, rainwater and sweat dripping into his eyes. He eyed the little button to ring up to your apartment wearily, reaching out hesitantly to push it with shaky fingers.

He waited for what felt like hours, but was likely only five minutes. And then you appeared, on the other side of the glass, looking at Quinn like you’d seen a ghost. You were still in your work clothes but had your head pushed back into a ponytail, like he knew you always did as soon as you got home. His heart ached in response.

Apprehensively, you approached the door, opening it and letting it swing open.

“You should come in. You’re, uh, pretty soaked through.” You said, inviting in the poor man.

As soon as Quinn was given the chance, he took it, stepping inside he drew in a deep breath, “Listen, you don’t have to hear me out, but please do, just give me a chance because I fucked up so badly earlier. I don’t care what I said before, I need you with me. We were never just friends, we were never just fucking. You were always and still are everything to me. I was so scared that if I voiced it, it would all go away, but then it did anyways and I realised that I don’t have anything to lose. I just want you back, I want you to be my girl. And if I have to get on my knees and beg I will because I think I love you and I think i’ve loved you this entire time.”

Quinn's voice was strained, raw from the running and teary - he looked a complete and utter mess as he poured out his heart.

You stepped forward, similarly drained as you spoke, “I didn’t want to have sex with anyone else. I couldn’t because they weren’t you.”

“Yeah?” Quinn smiled, stepping forward.

“Yeah.” You repeated. 

“And for the record,” You stepped forward, taking Quinn’s rain-wet face in your hands, “I think I love you too.”

Then, with utter care and precision, Quinn tilted your head upwards and pressed his lips softly to yours. The kiss was sweet and innocent and apologetic. But there, in your apartment foyer was Quinn Hughes, dripping with water, in little more than a t-shirt that clung damply to his abs and sleep shorts that had ridden up to his upper thighs during your run. When you pulled back, he pushes the wet strands of his long hair back and let out a soft sigh, and you - for lack of a better word - pounced.

Lacing your hands behind Quinn’s neck, you pulled his head down and tilted your head to kiss him. Hungrily this time, desperate. Once your lips met, it was like fire. Your movements were quick and greedy as you worked your way into his mouth.

His hands slid down your body, feeling through the thin material of your shirt and eventually cupping your ass, lifting your body upwards. You wrapped your stockinged legs around Quinn’s middle, deepening the kiss and letting out a soft moan as his hands wrapped around you.

Your bones burned with desire. Quinn had the power to ignite a fire inside you, which is what made him so special, so perfect and so right for you.

Breaking away from the kiss with a sigh, you asked, “Shall we finish this in my apartment?”

Quinn groaned in response, “God I love you.”

You buried your face in Quinn’s neck, kissing there softly and whispering gently into his ear.

“I love you too.”

[americaswritings]

Headcanon: Being Mason Thames Acting Partner in HTTYD and Falling in love

I have no idea how Hollywood works so this is probably completely unrealistic, but who cares, let a girl dream...

Masterlist

HTTYD is your first big acting gig so when you found out you got the role as the female lead you were so excited!!

But also so nervous

And then you were told Mason Thames would be the male lead and your acting partner in most of your scenes so obviously you googled him right away

And oh god that boy is handsome!

That didn't help your nerves at all :))

You actually told your friends you would be in trouble, if he was nice, because how were you supposed to not develope a crush on him when you would spend literally all day together for months (and kiss)??

Well, he turned out to be so sweet and funny so sigh there went your heart...

It was just you two your age at the beginning of filming so you spent a lot of your (limited) free time playing Mario Kart, watching movies or just hanging out

And you looove re-creating silly tiktoks or coming up with your own ideas for videos (you are so goofy together)

You keep them private though (for now)

“If we post this TikTok, we’ll either go viral or get disowned by the internet.”

“Perfect. Let’s make another one!”

If you're both tired or spend too much time together you develope peak chaotic energy

and there is always lot's of banter

You two grew close quickly, because you're both so young and going through this together

“You know, I’m really glad it’s you I get to do all this with.”

When you get homesick he comforts you

He is so funny and always joking around, but if you have something serious to talk about he always listens and tries to give you advice

And if he doesn't have any he is just there for you or tries to distract you - whatever you need

Also you fall asleep on set A LOT and he always takes photos of you

“Delete it!”

“Never. It’s going in The Archive.”

“THE WHAT?”

“My private masterpiece. 11 photos and counting.”

Yeah, the boy has a whole album on his phone just with photos of you passed out somewhere just to annoy you with them later

"What do you think? Should I post this? Or maybe put it in my story?"

"Don't you dare!"

But he actually thinks you are so cute :))

You fall asleep on his shoulder once and he doesn’t dare move for like an hour, because he doesn’t want to disturb you and for you to wake up and move

Someone else takes a photo then (and he loves that one even more) ;)

With time you grow more comfortable touching each other and eventually it has just become natural for you to be touching in some small way a lot of the time

For example you reach out and fix his hair mid-sentence

"Your hair is always in chaos."

Or you rest your head on his shoulder during a break

"That way you can't take a photo of me, if I fall asleep."

You always have excuses though, if someone else points it out

"It's just for the photo so we look like we don't hate each other!"

"Oh we don't?"

"Only most days."

And you like to jump on his back

"You’ve got to stop doing that without warning.”

“But you always catch me!”

“One day I won’t, and you’ll regret it.”

“Liar.”

Oh and he is tall

"Wow I can see the whole world from up here!"

"You're so ridiculous!"

Sometimes he gets overwhelmed and tired, because he is the lead of the film and therefore has the longest hours and the least breaks

And there are huge expectations...

You always notice he feels that way when he grows quiet

When you two are alone you sit down and tell him how good of an actor he is and how perfectly he fits the role

"You don't have to carry it all alone. We're all here to help."

You are not proud of it, but you get a little jealous when you see people on the internet being so open about their crush on him and how good he looks

It's a little overwhelming and makes you feel small and not good enough

Because how could he ever see you then...

Which is ridiculous, because you get to spend time with him every day while the people on social media don't even know him, but feelings aren't rational...

When you accidentally get hurt filming a fight scene he is so worried at first

You are a bit embarassed about all the attention

"It's just a little nosebleed, I'll live!"

And he keeps checking on you to make sure you're really okay

But at the end of the day you both laugh about it

"You should have seen your face!"

And it makes the cut which you both think is really funny

"Some editor out there really watched me bleeding and went, ‘Yeah… that’s cinema."

“Method acting at its finest.”

One day near the end of shooting you admit to him that you’re scared of filming to be over...

“I don’t want it to end.”

“The shoot?”

“Yeah. I mean… yes and no. I’m excited to go home and sleep for like twelve years. And eat food that doesn’t come from craft services. But also…I’ve gotten so used to seeing you every day. And when this is over, we’re just going back to our lives, right? You’ll be on some new set. I’ll be… somewhere else..."

You don't want to lose the close friendship you have developed

You actually tear up and he is so helpless at first

But then he tells you he is going to text you all the time with updates from his life

"Constantly. You’ll block me out of pure annoyance."

And that you are going to FaceTime a lot, send each other funny reels and visit each other whenever possible

"You are going to be so famous now, you will be busy."

"Come on, I'm never too busy for you!"

"Promise?" "Promise."

And when you wrapped he is the first one to start clapping and give you the biggest hug

When filming is done you still have press to go

(It‘s so exhausting)

At first you’re both sooo nervous and try your best to give good answers and speak all grown-up

Interviewer: “You two seem very mature for your age.”

And you just look at each other and think about the dumb tiktoks you did together the night before

But at one point you’re both so jet-lagged and tired you can’t keep it up anymore

When you accidentally say something unfiltered and weird, he bursts out laughing

“I take it back!"

“Too late. That’s going viral.”

After that you just have fun together and laugh a lot and the fans and interviewers love that too so :)))

It’s is so hard though, seeing him dressed up like that every day ;)

You love all the dresses and outfits you get and how you get styled ("I look like I have my life together")

but you’re also just so tired???

He loves seeing you dressed up too OBVIOUSLY and sometimes you swear he keeps looking at you WHICH IS RIDICULOUS WHY WOULD HE

You both talk about how you’re so excited for a day in sweat pants all the time

You have amazing chemistry in the interviews

That's what the fans say and maayyybe you obsess over it a bit

You even found some fans making compilations of your cute moments and you secretly torment yourself watching them and wondering if he feels the same

(Yeah, you really shouldn't go on social media these days...)

But you do have become such a good team that when one gets stuck on an answer, the other jumps in to finish or redirect it smoothly

When it's time to test your knowledge about the other

"So how well do you really know each other? Ready?”

you exchange a playful look with Mason

Needless to say you perform well on all the friendship tests (duh)

But you still learn something new about the other too and it’s your favorite thing

"I once posted a cover of me singing a Taylor Swift song on youtube and it blew up for a moment."

"Wait? Did you really? How did I not know that? I need to find that!"

The thought of him listening to you sing makes you blush

"I am definitely looking that up later!"

"No, you're not!"

"I so am!"

"I need to take down that video!"

Some questions are hard to answer though, because they put you on the spot

“How do you manage the pressure of being part of such a popular movie at your age and staying ‘picture perfect’?”

Like what are you suposed to say to that?

Or they get very personal and sometimes hurtful

"You joined a really beloved franchise, and with that comes a lot of pressure. There was some noise around your casting at first, and as the female lead opposite Mason, fans have a lot of opinions. How do you deal with that kind of feedback or hate when it shows up on social media?

These questions always stress you out and raise your anxiety and bring down your mood

“…so yeah, I try not to read too much of it and remind myself why I love doing this. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t get to me sometimes.”

Mason notices when that happens, because he knows you so well, and he always makes sure, in some small way, that you feel better.

If he can with words:

"People forget there’s a real person behind the screen — and she’s one of the kindest, most hardworking and talented people I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t want to be doing this with anyone else.”

Or he might give you a reassuring look if the camera isn’t on him

Or he initiates some little touch and contact with you

Like brushing his knee against yours under the table

You also have quite unique press dates like recording a day at a theme park (which was so much fun!!)

Or answering the webs most searched questions like you have seen real celebrities do

Sometimes you get sexist questions though. At your age it's not so bad and obvious, but whereas Mason gets asked about the action of the film you get asked about fashion...

You bring it up to him once because it's annoying and hurtful and you come up with a way to deal with those questions together

And when it happens the next time he remembers and helps you shut down the question :))

And when press is over

you did the premieres

and watched the final film together (you definitely did not cry over it)

it's time to say goodbye (there might have been even more tears involved)

But you promised

and so you hadn't even taken-off when his first message pops in

and when you land there are a dozen more

and you make it work

in between schedules and life you face-time and call and text and one day...

...Mason stands in front of your door

"Surprise!"

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[captain-huggy-bear]

Going to break my heart and everyone else's. I cried writing this. I'm not okay. Requests are open for specific people only, please see my pinned post for details :) Writing Masterlist

"I don't want you to go..."

You launch yourself at him, arms wrapping around him tight like if you hold on hard enough, long enough he won't have to pack his bags to get on a flight out to Buffalo tonight. Like if you hold him hard enough both teams will change their mind and let him stay in Utah, where he belongs. Like you are the one thing that's able, capable of doing the impossible.

"It'll be okay..." Michael's choked up, but you can tell he's trying to be brave for your sake, arms wrapping around you just as tight as you start to cry into his chest because he's going...because he's supposed to be here with you and now he's going to Buffalo and you don't know when you'll see him next. It might be that you see him next when he's playing against his best friends like all of the past few years never even mattered. You hate this. You hate the teams for making this decision, for putting him through it, for putting you through it...

"I...I don't want you to go, you belong here. With the team, with the guys...with me." Maybe it's the quiver in your voice, maybe it's the sobs that you can't stop letting out, the hiccupped breaths or maybe it's the way you cling to him like he's going to disappear. Whatever it is, it breaks that last hint of resolve Michael has, his next words heavy with tears, droplets falling down onto the top of your head like the splatter of rain.

"I...I don't want to go either...fuck, baby...I don't have a choice."

Both of you hold each other like that, sobbing in the other's arms for what must be at least half an hour. He's crying, you're crying, clinging to each other even as you both find yourself folded over each other on the floor, unable to hold yourselves up any long through the weight of your tears.

"I'm scared...You're gonna forget me." Your forehead presses into his shoulder but it's real, the fear, the feeling like he's going to go to Buffalo, make new friends, find a new family, find a new girl...and you'll be left behind as cold as the mountains outside your window.

Michael pulls back from you, hands cupping your face and forcing you to look at him. Big brown eyes red rimmed and wet, cheeks blotchy from his crying, brown strands of hair falling cross his forehead, even like that he's perfect, he's beautiful.

"Never." Voice so serious, almost stern like if he tells you harsh enough you'll believe him, "You're it for me. I'll come back every holiday and we'll spend all the off-season together and...and you can come join me at some point? Right?" He's so hopeful because God, Michael hates this. He hates that he and Josh are being moved, upped from everything they know to somewhere else. He hates that he's leaving his best friends. His hockey family. He hates that he's leaving you...and he hates that he has to get on a plane in a matter of hours, that there's no time for you both to process, to deal with it. He's living his dream, but all dreams can turn into nightmares sometimes.

"I..."

"I know your job is here and everything and...but I want you with me, baby, even if it's in 3 years or 5 or 10." He'll wait, he can wait. He'll do the long distance thing...as long as he knows at the end of it the two of you will be together again.

"Okay..." and the truth is you'd drop everything for Michael. A new state. A new life. A new everything, just as long as you had him. Just so long as you didn't have to spend your entire life waiting for the few moments you could see him.

"I love you. No trade is going to change that, you understand that?" Thumbs wipe at the wet tracks across your cheeks, press gently under your red rimmed eyes and tap against the snotty tip of your nose.

"Yeah...yeah, I love you, Michael, you know that?"

"Yeah, baby, I know." His forehead presses to yours and maybe neither of you are okay right now, maybe it feels like your heart is breaking, but it's going to be okay...because you still have him, no matter how far away he is. He's yours, he loves you and you love him and you're both choosing this, choosing to make it work even if you're miles and miles away from each other.

It'll be okay. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, it'll be okay.