#sorry if the perspective is off and or there are errors | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bnpd · 2 months ago

Text

❛❛ NERD-JO .ᐟ >ᴗ< ❜❜ :

SYNOPSIS: you're a new transfer at a big prestigious private university. what happens when the first friend you make is a cute nerd? will you get your chance to start fresh? or will your newfound 'friendship' bring you unwanted drama in the future.

DRABBLE WRD COUNT: 2.6K pairings: rich nerd!deans nephew gojo x reader tags: cute nerd gojo, reader is kind of mysterious, gojo makes me chuckle here. NOT PROOFREAD (sorry) ill come back and remove some grammatical errors. this might be cheeks fr

NOTEᝰ.ᐟ : im late to the nerd gojo party </3 but please enjoy! please do not steal my little nerdjo pngs just because they have my 'bnpd' if you want the individual png pls just shoot me a text :) lmk if there are any issues, so i can fix them !!

a tall man sits in the far back of the lecture hall. figure hunched over the desk as he scribbles away intensely in his journal. 30 minutes earlier than the usual start of the lecture.

the glasses that sit delicately on his nose bridge slide down every once in a while. his white ruffled hair stays still as he shuffles in his seat to adjust his posture.

many are intimidated by his silent and blank stare. everyone but students in his science club feel that way. he’s quite the chatterbox contrary to popular belief. ask him about his favorite physics theories and he’s chatting your ear off.

he doesn’t go to parties, but invite him to a museum or a bookstore? he’s already in the car.

he’s quite polished. gojo can be one of those pretentious nerds, but he doesn’t mean to! he has lived a privileged life and acts like any other rich college student would.

comes from a wealthy family and doesn't hide it, but he also doesn't run around telling everyone.

it might seem like he dresses like a regular guy but his clothes are still expensive. you'll occasionally find him wearing a sweater vest and button up tucked into his well-tailored pants altered to fit his long legs on formal days when he has a research symposium presentation or a meeting with the steam department about improving certain aspects he finds are not up to his standards.

most of the time, he’ll wear comfortable clothes. wears glasses, cliche, but he wears them more out of practical appeal and necessity.

his eyes are sensitive due to a medical condition he has. so, the glasses he wears are tailored to prevent his eyes from straining. his parents urge him to wear the endless supply of contacts he has but he’s quite comfortable with his glasses.

every pair of glasses he owns has his initials engraved on the temples, whether it’s gold or silver. whatever matches the aesthetic of the pair of glasses.

when he was younger. his parents would fund his personal ‘academic’ projects. he’d be busy every summer at a science or math camp. if they sent him to a summer camp that wasn't academically related; at camp you’d find him reading far away from everyone else. whether in front of a lake or a quiet little place in the woods.

now? he’s still the same. just bigger. doesn’t go to summer camp but definitely stacks up his summer with internships or side projects. on top of that, he’ll spend time volunteering at local schools, teaching students in high school or middle school.

very good with kids, and more patient with them than he would be with his uni study partners.

donates whatever money he earns at internships to local communities to aid students in pursuing their education. he strongly believes that if he can pursue education freely, so should everyone else.

his timer goes off quietly and he stops scribbling down his memorized equations. he huffs out a breath of relief yet frustration.

i’m still missing one… he thinks to himself. if anyone with an outside perspective were to see him they’d imagine gears turning inside of his head.

he flips the page, resets his timer, and starts again.

time passes and he realizes class has now begun. he was so caught up studying, he failed to realize that the class is now packed with other students. a few scattered seats remain vacant.

the professor enters the class and silently unpacks her bag before greeting the class and breaking the silence, “let’s have a great semester.” she wastes no time diving into the lecture.

gojo, contrary to popular belief, sits in the middle section of the lecture hall. he’s not fond of the back because for starters, he’s easily distracted and he can’t hear from all the way back there. the middle is just right.

he’s kind of a loner, by choice. he's just always being productive on campus.

you’ll often see him sitting alone, busying himself with his studies unless he has a meeting with his club about an upcoming math or science competition. if it’s not the season of academic olympiads, he’s alone.

he only has two close friends: geto and shoko. geto majors in psychology. shoko is, of course, pursuing her dream of being a doctor. she’s a biology major undergoing the pre-med track.

gojo has yet to have a girlfriend in college.

not because he can’t find someone interested in him, absolutely not. he’s handsome, intelligent, quiet, kind, and rich. he's the most sought after bachelor on campus. with his brains and looks, he's every girls wet dream.

unfortunately for him, women are always hitting on him but quite frankly, he’s not interested. or sometimes he doesn’t catch on to the fact that a woman is subtly flirting with him.

not because he’s dense, but how would he find something he’s not even looking for?

like right now, when you gently plop down on the seat next to him. you’re quite fond of sitting in the front but the lecture hall was overwhelmingly full. there were other open seats but he looked to be the most productive and you needed that.

you were a transfer. which is odd to be one this late into college, given that you’re a senior trying to complete your last year.

the university is a pretty big private school so no one notices new transfers nor do they care. but within them, are those who do.

like gojo.

he doesn’t realize you’ve sat next to him until the end of the lecture. given that he was too busy scribbling away in his journal.

one thing about gojo is that he likes to leave when everyone is already gone and the professor is free to approach. he’s a tiny bit surprised to see it seems you think the same. but for reasons he’s not aware of, you’re there for a reason other than academics.

he silently observes you as you approach the professor. his eyebrows raise a bit when you share a hug and it has him adjusting his glasses to make sure he’s seeing things correctly.

interesting

you continue to sit next to him in the following weeks, seeing him twice a week on tuesdays and thursdays. you began to find yourself looking forward to it. you get to sit next to a tall dorky handsome stranger? you’ll be getting perfect attendance.

you rarely catch a glance of him outside of class, but every time you do he is so focused.

the more you studied him while he studied something else, the more you realized how attractive he was. even if you knew that prior to your silent observations.

from the outfits you could tell he spent some time on in the morning—you assumed he woke up earlier than everyone else, to the way his obsession with organization—you took note of when he set his things down for class and neatly organized his pens, pencils and journal for notes.

don’t be mistaken though. one tiny peek at his journal was enough to see that despite his need to tidy things on the outside…his notes were written haphazardly and quick. notes are a reflection of your mind, and if you’re constantly thinking then your notes will be a reflection of that.

you had also come to the conclusion that he was a man that was yet to become aware of his height. he moved around like he didn’t know how much of a walking tank he was. you hoped he never found out.

the best thing about him wasn’t any of the things you listed, but it was a few of the habits he had.

everything he owned was personalized. from the pencils he used, to his backpack. you made that discovery when you forgot your pencil pouch in the library.

it took you a total of 2 minutes to gather the courage to turn to the mysterious man beside you, and ask him for a pencil.

“excuse me,” you said gently, “im sorry, but can i bother you for a pencil? im so sorry.”

he stared at you and you thought he would explode you with his bright blue snow glazed eyes.

he cracked a tiny toothless smile and you figuratively crossed your fingers, hoping he wasn’t silently judging you or worse—came to the conclusion that were unprepared and incompetent.

you watched him intently as he reached to grab his backpack, taking in the way the black expensive leather had his initials engraved in the bottom corner. he reached his hand into his backpack and pulled out–what looked to be the most elegant, technologically advanced sleek black mechanical pencil.

“don’t worry about giving it back,” he says politely but then he goes for the blow “i know you might need it in the future.” with a hint of pretentiousness. oh!

“well… thank you,” you say a bit taken back as you reluctantly take the pencil from his extended hand. your face falls a little at his response and you deflate a little in your chair.

did he think you were…poor? god forbid a girl asks for a pencil. you’d, unfortunately, been perceived. and in the worst way possible. he probably thinks you’re irresponsible, and an idiot!

you look at the pencil and realize that–of course–he has his initials engraved in his mechanical pencils too.

g.s.

you bite back a smile that might give away how endearing you found it. that is so cute.

he has his initials on almost everything. you try not to crack a smile at how adorable yet endearing that is.

unfortunately, you couldn’t really put the pencil to good use because he kept fidgeting in his seat the entire class. it distracted and worried you at the same time. which was odd because he never did that.

is he upset that he had to give you one of his spare pencils? will he ask for it back?

as you were packing your bags to leave, you felt him heavily staring at you. it makes you pause your movement and then turn to him, and sure enough, he was looking at you. you a tiny sigh leaves your lips.

“yes? is this about your pencil? because i have my own i just needed–”

“im sorry.” he interrupts you and it shuts you up immediately.

what?

he might have seen the confusion in your eyes. “about what i said about the pencil, i didn’t mean for it to come off that way. i was just saying because i have a lot of them so it wouldn’t have made a difference. and i was guessing maybe you didn’t. wait–no. i meant like if you didn’t–.not that i think you can’t get your own pencils or anything like that because i am super sure you can. but if you need it you can keep it. not that you need it right? because everyone needs a pencil. like one time i–”

you stare at him as he rambles on. you’re completely endeared with the way he doesn’t look you in the eyes and the way his hands move around to prove his point.

he huffs out a breath of frustration. you on the other hand huff out a breath of amusement and the stranger before you finally moves to look at you.

“it’s okay.” you dismiss his worries, standing their idly as you mirror his movements.

“i just thought i might have inconvenienced you by asking,” you tell him honestly, you grab your computer and gently store it away in your backpack as you continue your conversation, “im usually prepared, but i accidentally left my pencil bag in the library this morning.”

he gives you a tiny affirmative nod, taking in your words. he swings his backpack over his shoulder, and loops both arms into their respective loops, wearing the backpack on both shoulders.

cute.

there's an awkward silence that follows you both before the door slams shut and you realize then that the professor has now walked out.

the stranger huffs out a small awkward laugh, “you didn’t–by the way,” he speaks then, “inconvenience me, I mean”, he clarifies. now it’s your turn to nod at him.

this is so awkward, it almost makes you laugh.

he breaks the silence again, “im satoru gojo, by the way.” he politely introduces himself by extending his hand in a respectful manner.

you extend yours in return, shaking his hand before sharing your name with him as well.

“i have time to kill,” he offers, “why don’t we take a walk around campus before then? the weather is great.”

after your shared walk with gojo you learned a lot about him.

he recently discovered his interest in kpop after his friend, shoko, played a song during a shared car ride.

he’s a senior, like you, studying engineering and double minoring in business and mathematics. he originally wanted to minor in physics but he said his father urged him to do business instead. he had to compromise.

that doesn’t stop him from taking physics courses out of pure enjoyment though, exceeding the 18 credit limit.

he’s also an on-campus tutor and does a work study job at the library. the old librarian on campus loves him and appreciates his extensive knowledge on literature and figured that if he spent all his time there already, might as well let him get paid for him.

when she approached him, his ears turned a light shade of pink and you could just imagine gojo pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose before they slipped as he hurried to apologize.

she waved him off and urged him to just work there already. gojo then started working with them a week later after financial aid finalized the paperwork. he remembers the look of the financial aid lady when she looked at his file and saw that he was beyond in need of financial aid.

all she did was raise and eyebrow but clicked away. thankfully, gojo managed to get the work-study payments signed off as a form of volunteering hours rather than an extra below minimum wage salary.

he didn’t share with you the last part about his tiny altercation with financial aid though. he assumed you had no idea who he was. and you hoped to keep it that way.

you in turn shared with him that you were transferred from another school. he already knew that (he paid a visit to the dean but he’ll never tell you that, given that the dean is his uncle afterall) he didn't know why. so, he asked.

“i transferred because there were some personal issues there and now i just want to start fresh.”

gojo raises a questioning eyebrow, but decides to respect your privacy. he hopes one day you’ll trust him enough to tell him.

the rest of the chat was quite delightful. you were about to invite him to the cute nearby cafe you saw on your way to school, but before you could muster up the courage.

a chime was heard from gojos pants pocket. he excused himself to check his phone. you stood there idly as he let out a tiny groan of frustration.

“im sorry–” he apologized again. the look of pure regret made your lip quirk up again. he was so cute and polite.

“i hate to cut our…trip—short but it kind of slipped my mind that i scheduled a study group with a class i T.A. for.”

you wave him off, “it’s okay!” you reassure him with an upbeat tone in your voice, “we share a class so i’ll see you around.”

he bids you a quick goodbye and you watch his retreating figure. you sigh and head to the opposite direction.

this semester will be exciting.

feel more than welcome to submit a request <3 . join my tag list : ⟢ join my girlypop disc: link ‹𝟹

TAGLIST : @luvwithau : @sugacor3 : @bloopsstuff : @fushitoru : @serenityfauna : @luna-v-roiya : @rjswrld : @fartm : @bammbi-jeon127 : @gojoslefttoenail : @laviefantasie : @red-viewe : @danakul : @xchannelorange : @honoredalone : @plutosgold : @jotarohat : @shadowytiger : @um-no-ok : @lavender-hvze : @nvmlolo : @rintcrous : @jaelahh-blog-blog : @fuckerenyaeger : @bigbodiezz : @simp-plague : @lialia3945 : @gojostit : @fangirlingoverfanfic : @deluluforcarlos55 : @manyno :

omg! i didn't realize how many people signed up for my taglist <33 tysm ! currently working on a masterlist too. long shot gojo. i have not forgotten you.

773 notes · View notes

blue-arkhamknight · 5 months ago

Text

SKETCHES.

Warning: None. (Damian, Jon, and reader are age ten to make the story a bit more sweeter.)

── .✦

── .★

School wasn’t so bad! If you look at it from Damian’s perspective it’s awesome. He gets to learn AND play music. He’s a very tasked kid, playing about 5 instruments. Impressive isn’t it? Violin, guitar, trumpet, viola, and harmonica. Let me say, he’s proud.

For his age the boy shared a love for classical music. A habit of scrunching his nose when he heard some of the school bands play harsh music. It wasn’t like an abomination or something, but just not his cup of tea. Jon, his friend really was just the opposite. From insulting Mozart to shredding his messy and loud electric guitar in his main solos.

Lunch was one of his favorite parts of the day. The food he got to eat and practicing of his instruments, sounds of the bow hitting the strings of his perfectly tuned instrument. Truly it was heavenly to his ears. “You messed up again.” a voice he had memorized rang in his head like an echo, immediately looking embarrassed with the biggest frown. “I certainly do not mess up. Clean your ears.” he told you with a scowl.

You looked up at him from your sketchbook, doing a sketch piece that you forgot as homework in lunch time while you listened to him play. “But you did- you played C minor instead of D.” you said and pointed at his music sheet. Damian huffed and looked where your finger pointed. “Yeah, I knew that. I was just testing you.” he said, his tone betraying him and saying in a hidden way ‘Yeah I messed up.’.

The assignment you had wasn’t difficult, hence to why you forgot to do it. The instructions were: ‘Draw someone or anything as many times as you liked, but you had to fill the whole page.’ your teacher had spoken in class. Damian tried to peek at your page, failing. Your arm was hiding it like a person who wouldn’t let anyone cheat off their exam. He fairly came to the conclusion that it wasn’t fair. You never showed him your art! He always showed you his paintings and musical errors without hiding them!

He still made no fuzz, no matter how much he wanted to look at the sketchbook he respected that maybe you didn’t feel comfortable with sharing your drawings. Damian understood how most artists were embarrassed of showing their works and that was normal. He continued playing his violin, from playing his piece to playing Howl’s Moving Castle. For a moment you stopped with the pencil strokes.

You mentioned many times before Howl’s Moving Castle, though they were mindless thoughts and some homework doodles. Damian had taken his time to memorize the famous melody in his violin. His gaze was torn between you and his fingers on the violin strings and his other hand on his bow. The gaze was intense, like a stoic way of saying ‘Hey! I learned this for you.’. Other students and teachers paused to look at Damian, ones impressed and others recognizing the tune. Equally, your gaze fixated on him also.

Soon your hand moved on the paper once again, calm with the familiar melody as you drew the familiar boy in front of you with his violin. The drawing wasn’t an exact copy of the moment of course, but it was very clear it was Damian Wayne. That was the reason you didn’t show him your drawings. It would be weird to show your friend he’s secretly your muse. The stop of the music made you look up, his face scrunched up in a way of silently saying that you should be excited. In a quick panic you just clapped your hands, making others that had heard clap along.

It was priceless. His red face full of embarrassment. The claps died down and his face went back to normal slowly. He frowned at you and gave you a huff, “I wished to be appreciated, but not from the whole school.” he stoically stated, exaggerating in the slightest. “Sorry, Wayne.” you said back apologetically, only getting a “Tt.” from him.

────

“I will walk today, Pennyworth.” the boy addressed the man through the passenger window the butler had rolled down. Alfred was indeed surprised. “Alright, Master Damian. Are you sure you will not even drop your violin in the vehicle?” his father’s butler asked, making Damian open a door and leave the violin case securely on the seat and closing the door again. He ran to his friends (whether he liked to admit it or not, you and Jon were his friends.), stopping right in front of the guitarist and artist.

After a while of friendly banter, Jon waved and walked away. Now being alone with Damian he took a notice of the hour. “I will walk you home.” he stated. Not even a ‘Can I walk you home?’. You didn’t comment on it since you didn’t have a ride home. “Okay, Damian.” you spoke with a grateful nod.

He walked with you to your home, making small talk and getting a few laughs and smiles out of you which were secretly his goal. Damian also carried your lunchbox. It was a habit he got from the first day of school, which you guys met. You had teasingly asked him to carry your lunchbox and he surprisingly did it. Grumpily, but he still did, after that he developed a habit of doing it. As you stepped foot in front of your door step you turned around, looking at the boy as he made a call for Alfred to pick him up. You dropped your bag mindlessly and companied him in front of your own house to wait for his ride.

“Thank you for walking me home.” you thanked, earning a nod from him. “No problem.” he brushed off, setting your lunchbox next to your bookbag and without you noticing he grabbed something from your bookbag and closed the zipper quietly, putting the item on the inside his jacket. “You okay?” you asked after seeing his rapid movements. “Yes, I am alright.” he said looking over at you and pretending to fix the cuffs of his jacket.

Alfred arrived after about 10-20 minutes, stopping right in front of your house. “Bye Damian! See you at school!” you said with a smile and a wave. He returned the wave and a small “Yeah, bye.”. He hopped in the back seat of the car and Alfred rolled down the window. “Thank you for waiting with him.” Alfred said gratefully, “No problem, Alfred. See you soon!” you responded. You knew the Wayne family for a bit now, Alfred and Bruce being very fond of Damian having another friend aside Jon.

You got inside your house when you took your backpack and lunch box and Alfred made sure. The car got out of view once he made sure you were safely inside. Now that Damian was alone he took out the thing he had taken. Your sketchbook. He knew he was doing something very wrong, but curiosity killed the cat. He flipped page through page of your art assignments. There were studies and all, but he mainly saw himself. Damian realized that, one; your drawings were awesome, two; he felt- happy? How would he work this out? …

How would he tell you that he was Robin?

──── ⋆˚✿˖° ────

I wrote again!! I need to add more dialogue to my stories and better them. I don’t know if i should continue this.

#robin #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #music #instruments #x reader #dc #gn!reader #damian wayne x gn!reader #dc comics #batfam #art school #art #musician #artist #jon kent #artist reader

327 notes · View notes

sortagaysortahigh · 22 days ago

Text

Nobody Gets Me | Joaquin Torres

A/N: Heyyyyy sexies...so don't be mad but I'm in my angst bag, this is giving Hurt/no comfort and I'm not sorry! I've been in my emo era so EVERYONE SHOULD SUFFER TOO!!! ugh anyways, i might do a pt 2 with a happy ending eventually, but I present: Divorced exes to something hopeful?? HURT!! WOOO HOO! Also, I did give Joaquin a sister for this universe specifically (hopefully i continue it </3) Everyone say thank you to @love-chx for beta-ing this and apologize to her for not having a happy ending <3

Summary: Getting married young had it's risks, unfortunately for you and Joaquin, that marriage didn't work out, it's been years since you've been in contact, so why do your hearts still ache?

Warnings: Hurt/no comfort NO HAPPY ENDING!, OOC joaquin (he's mean, jealous, exhausted fr), the Blip </3, john walker jump scare!, SAM BUCKY SUPREMACY!, heartbreak, angst, failed relationships, divorce, mentions of joaquin's accident, spelling and grammar errors (we all know who I am atp), a lot of crying, mentions of loss of virginity, mentions of sex (no smut/sex depicted). dual perspectives? switching b/w joaquin and reader??? idk im sorry if its all over the place

Word Count: 10.4k (of sadness)

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader (THEY'RE DIVORCED GOD DAMNIT! Reader also has long-ish hair/hair long enough to braid with 2 white stripes by her ears (this holds a future plot purpose </3)

Joaquin baby I'm so sorry for the angst i put you thru in this but maybe next time, do better! </3

Joaquin Torres is amazing at his job, he easily worked his way up in rank during his time in the Air Force, as a Lieutenant he met Sam Wilson, who he would eventually work very closely with and even consider family. It was a no-brainer when Joaquin had become a Captain, and while working side-by-side with Captain America, he was also able to take on the mantle of the Falcon.

He poured his all into his job, and from the outside looking in, he loved every second of every day. Joaquin was always positive, always putting on a happy face, always committed to making sure everything was going smoothly and that everyone was alright at all times.

He truly was a hero in every sense of the word—at least to the public.

After his accident in the Indian Ocean near Celestial Island, he’d spent months in physical therapy and rehab, pushing himself past his limits, working harder and harder with the end-goal of getting back into the sky.

It was accomplished after one year and three months.

One year of long days and even longer nights. A year and three months of being on the ground and being reminded of everything he’d swallowed down, all of the pain, all of the hurt, he did his best to ignore the ache and emptiness in his heart. But when he couldn’t drown himself in work and distract himself with the literal thrill of the skies, all of that bottled up emotion was bound to overflow.

That’s also around the time that he resorted to one night stands. He’d always hated one night stands, not because he didn’t enjoy the sex, but because sex without a genuine emotional connection was never enough for him. If anything, the random hookups had him spiralling even more.

His physical therapist had also told him several times that he shouldn’t have been partaking in any ‘strenuous activity’ which happened to include sex—or at least the kind of frustration fueled sex he was having.

She’d eventually referred him to an actual therapist, who he avoided like the plague, purposefully missing meetings every other week to force the therapist to schedule him bi-weekly. Opening up to a complete stranger was hard enough, but having to provide a co-pay to be questioned about his lackluster decision making and emotional trauma was a lot on him.

Especially after the incident in the ocean.

The therapist had recommended he spend more time with his friends, which he did for a while, and it worked the first few months. Catching up with friends on and off base, but traveling back home to Miami was what had sent him into a downward spiral in the fourth month of his recovery.

Joaquin Torres has always been a family man, he spent his childhood telling his abuela about how excited he was to grow up one day, get a beautiful wife, and have his own little family. As a teenager, he admittedly did have two pregnancy scares with his then girlfriends, except each time he was fully committed to being a father, even at sixteen.

He didn’t exactly love his exes, but he loved the idea of being a father, and he knew that one day, he would be. At seventeen Joaquin had only hoped he’d be married and not screwing anything on legs before having a kid.

The day he’d flown back to Miami he expected his sister to pick him up from the airport. It wasn’t a shock to see Ximena there, clearly on the phone with someone, however when he heard his ex-wife’s name slip past her lips, he was overcome with a sense of nausea that he hadn’t felt since the day in court when his divorce had been finalized.

Joaquin Torres hated telling people that he was divorced, being a divorcee at the age of twenty-nine wasn’t exactly the biggest green flag in the world. Nor was it something he was proud of. It’d been three years since the divorce was finalized, three years that he’d been drowning himself in work and a faux sense of positivity to ignore the rage and hurt he felt deep down.

She’d muttered a series of apologies for being there, stating that her husband couldn’t make it, before mumbling some excuse to Joaquin while simultaneously hanging up the phone.

He couldn’t be mad at his sister, not for having a best friend, even if that best friend was his ex-wife.

You and Ximena Torres met in the fourth grade, quickly bonding over a shared love of seashells. That bond quickly spiraled into running around the playground hand-in-hand while scaring the fifth grade boys—one of which being her older brother Joaquin.

The two of you hadn’t gotten along until your sophomore year of high school, when your then-boyfriend cheated on you and left you sobbing under the bleachers as if it was the end of the world. (To your fifteen year old self, it was the end of the world). Ximena was comforting you, and eventually, she managed to convince Joaquin and his friends to ‘go scare’ your ex-boyfriend and the group of guys he hung around with.

Joaquin was on the soccer team at that point, and he also knew several of the football players as they all did winter track and field together, so the fist fight that broke out two days later was a no-brainer.

The day you’d stormed into his house, quickly greeting his Abuela before rushing up to his room, slamming the door open and kicking his then-girlfriend out before cursing him out for thirty minutes while ranting about how ‘wildly wrong’ it was to ‘organize a fucking royal rumble’—your words not his—had marked the beginning of your friendship.

That friendship would later develop into something else when you complained about lacking a date to your senior prom. He’d been home from bootcamp and had a month before getting deployed overseas, so he simply shrugged and said he would take you.

Prom night Joaquin had taken your virginity, or rather, you’d given it to him on a silver platter.

From there, things just flowed naturally. He’d taken you on a few dates the month before deployment. During his first eight month deployment you’d written to him constantly, and those letters, plus photos, and occasional phone calls, gave him something to look forward to when he got back home.

He left for deployment in June, then came back in January of the following year. He was actually stationed in Florida, closer to Florida State University where you went to college. Although he hated FSU on the principle that he would always be a Miami fan, he had no issue in visiting you on campus. The both of you were casual for the latter half of your freshman year.

Then that summer he asked you to be his girlfriend, ‘in the official sense’—his exact words being ‘well, we’re always together, and I really like you, and you really like me, so will you be my girlfriend in the official sense because you’re already my non-official girlfriend’.

At that point he was twenty and you were around nineteen. The both of you dated consistently for two years before he proposed to you the week before Christmas on the beach. You’d obviously said yes, squealing in excitement as he slid the ring on your left finger.

The wedding happened four months later, it wasn’t anything major, something small on a private beach, but at the time, in 2016, it was the best day of both of your lives.

The following two years were amazing, at least until the Blip happened and Thanos had managed to snap half of the universe’s population away. Joaquin was lucky that he and his wife hadn’t disappeared off of the face of the Earth. But life got harder much faster than expected.

Work was difficult, the sense of impending doom never really disappeared, not when dread was so common amongst global leaders. There were a few positives of the Blip—well, positives if you ignore the long lasting repercussions after the Avengers had reversed the Blip. Homelessness had found some sense of a ‘cure’, politicians using the available resources to make themselves look better, and to finally do something about the hundreds of thousands of people living on the streets and starving worldwide.

The first year of the Blip, things weren’t horrible. Not between you and Joaquin, or on a global scale. The sudden surge of resources did have some positive outcomes, however, the resources also led to a growth in greed. The greed led to a downward spiral on a global scale.

Sure, the global economy might’ve been great from a corporation-based standpoint, but day-to-day life for regular people wasn't.

Job hours got longer, the price of items did increase, inflation was actually an unpredicted issue for a lot of nations, then of course was the need to expand and grow militaries to account for the loss in actual soldiers and enlistments. That directly impacted you and Joaquin, to the point that you had to uproot your life in Florida and move to the West Coast.

Prior to the Blip, Joaquin had been deployed two additional times, one before you were married for six months, and a second for eight months the year after you’d gotten married. Both deployments were overseas, and each time he’d come home, he wouldn’t leave your side for days.

Following the Blip, Joaquin was never home, or never at the house that you’d purchased off base in California. It wasn’t a bad house per-say, it just wasn’t home. It lacked any real warmth, and it felt like it was draining you. It was difficult to find work as a journalist and publicist, not because there wasn’t anything to be done, but because you freelanced, and during the Blip, major news outlets and magazines weren’t looking for freelance writers.

That also led you to working on base, which should’ve brought you and Joaquin closer together, but it did the exact opposite. Especially when he’d see other Lieutenants flirting with the ‘pretty new media relations’ girl, you usually smiled and laughed it off, doing your best to keep your job.

However, Joaquin Torres was the jealous type, and when you’d both get in fights at home about it, he’d constantly say that you were flirting, that you were feeding into it, as if you had asked for men to flirt with you during your day job.

His job was beyond stressful, which also led to him always being irritable, that combined with the grief that both of you were feeling over the loss of family and friends following the snap.

You and him both were shells of who you once were before the Blip.

The blip had lasted five years, your marriage was over by the third. It wasn’t until the Blip was reversed that you’d both finished fighting one another in court.

Prior to that, you’d been sleeping in different rooms, and acted more like roommates that tolerated one another rather than husband and wife.

Once the divorce was finalized, Joaquin stayed in California while you went home to Miami. He hadn’t heard from you since, and he had no idea where you actually had been, considering you were never big on social media, and now it was like you were nothing but a ghost from his past.

He did his best to ignore the nausea in his stomach after hearing your name, it wasn’t just your first name, no it was your full name, as if you’d said something so outrageous that Ximena was yelling at you over the phone while laughing.

Joaquin knew you were still friends with his sister. He’d never hold that against you, but it did hurt.

During his time in Miami, he did his best to ignore his intrusive thoughts, telling him to call you, or to reach out to your family, or to figure out where the hell you’d actually gone, or who you were now. It’d been three years, three years since he’d seen you, three years since he’d heard your real actual voice, not just the recordings and videos on his phone and laptop.

With his skillset, he knew he could’ve found you, but you didn’t want to be found, that much was clear to him.

Whenever people would ask about you, he’d just laugh it off, shrug, and force a smile. He was so used to being positive all the time that he easily slipped into that persona, most people had never seen him irritated, and he liked it that way.

Then he ran into your mother at the grocery store, she pulled him into a hug with a wide smile and started talking his ear off, asking how he was, congratulating him on becoming a ‘real superhero!’, then she’d gone on a tangent about you. That’s how he found out you were in Washington D.C. working directly under James Buchanan Barnes.

The same James Buchanan Barnes that Sam Wilson was best friends with, and the same person that he’d assisted in taking down the Flagsmashers. He’d seen Bucky several times over the past few years, and never, not once, did he see you.

So he knew you were avoiding him. It wasn’t just a weird sense of paranoia, no, Joaquin knew you. He knew you like the back of his hand, he knew the best parts of you and the worst, and he was absolutely positively sure that you’d been avoiding him.

He also knew that both Sam and Bucky most likely had no knowledge of you being his ex-wife, or even of Joaquin himself being married at one point. It was more likely than Bucky knew, mostly because getting the level of security clearances needed to work for a Congressman required several in-depth background checks.

Joaquin feigned happiness as your mother spoke to him, and as soon as he could, he got the hell out of there.

Slowly, but surely, his composure cracked. He wasn’t the happy-go-lucky guy anymore with nothing but optimism. The thread of pessimism within him was unraveling, and he found himself slipping into a never-ending anger.

He used that anger to push through the next few months of his recovery once he was back in Washington. He went on a strict diet, stuck to his training plans, and started pushing himself even more, striving to go back to being the Falcon, to find some sense of purpose, and something to drown himself in.

The only vice he truly had was the lackluster one night stands. It was never enjoyable, but he needed to let off some steam, so he’d go to some of the bars in D.C., flirt a little bit, and go back to someone’s place with them, slipping out in the early hours of the morning without a word. It worked for him, or at least, he told himself it worked for him.

He also told himself he wasn’t going for women that reminded him of you—which was a definitive lie.

Eventually, once he was back in the sky, back running drills, back working on his flips, kicks, and spins he stopped with the unhealthy coping habits. He’d even gotten a new suit from the Wakandans, a gift from M’baku himself after Sam had told him about Joaquin’s accident. The suit was carbon black, had some green detailing, and it was constructed from vibranium, the same vibranium that absorbed kinetic energy and released it.

Joaquin had never felt more unstoppable with the mantle and new suit.

But with the whole ‘New Avengers’ fiasco occurring in New York, Sam had been stressed, and he’d been doing his best to work with Bucky, trying to find some kind of work-around to the ever-present legal issues associated with there being two Avengers groups.

When he got the call that they were headed to the renovated Avengers compound in Manhattan, part of him was excited to finally see the place, but the other part of him was dreading the possibility of seeing his ex-wife. He didn’t know if she still worked for Bucky, and he never bothered to ask, he hadn’t even brought it up again after speaking with your mother.

He was tense on the flight to New York, and when Sam tried to pry it out of him, he lied about having a stomach bug.

By the time that Joaquin and Sam had arrived at the tower, it was nearly seven and the sun was setting. Admittedly, the place was nice, a bit too modern for him, but nice either way.

He followed Sam’s lead, mostly because he had no idea how to navigate the tower and getting lost wasn’t exactly something he wanted to do. But the second the elevator doors opened, he heard your laughter, a series of loud, high pitched, wheezy laughs and giggles that he’d fallen in love with a lifetime ago.

Sam’s brows knit together as he looked at Joaquin, then he looked around the elevator and into the large common space. “You alright kid?”

Joaquin blinked a few times, nodding his head, snapping out of his daze as he looked at Sam. “Uh-uh yeah sorry, I just, zoned out—nothing to worry about. Anyways, where's Bucky?” he was talking too fast, the composure he’d worked so hard on building up easily crumbled. Then he heard your laugh again followed by ‘Wait! Stop—put me down Parker!’.

He must’ve been on fire, that would explain the heat raging throughout his body.

Sam shrugged him off, motioning for Joaquin to follow him as he made his way towards the commotion, Bucky easily spotting them, standing from his front row seat to your ‘fight’ with Peter.

Joaquin quickly followed, jaw clenched as he finally spotted you. You looked so different while also looking just like yourself. Your hair was longer now, pulled into two thick braids trailing from the top of your head, down your back. It also had two large white streaks near your ears, which was different—but then again, Joaquin had been shaving his face religiously because the thought of your compliments on it left a sour taste in his mouth.

He noticed the way you smiled, wide and full of life. A look he hadn’t seen in so long, a look he missed desperately, every single day.

When Peter Parker finally put you down, you laughed again, shaking your head as you sat up, still not noticing Joaquin’s presence. But Joaquin couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. It was clear that you’d been much happier and healthier, having put on some weight—but it wasn’t bad—the opposite really.

The last time he’d seen you, you were stressed, exhausted, and that reflected in your features and body. You’d never been super skinny, and he loved that about you—at one point he loved everything about you—but the years leading to your divorce, you’d dropped weight at an unhealthy pace from the long days and even longer nights.

His eyes traced your entire figure from top to bottom, noticing the small things you’d changed as well. The few new tattoos and piercings stuck out to him, the small gold rings on both sides of your nostrils, and the alligator tattoo on your leg were very apparent. Joaquin also tried to ignore the faded Air Force t-shirt you had on, it was clearly his, and he remembered the shirt well.

Then you finally turned and noticed him. Eyes widening at the sight of Joaquin, and he kept his eyes on you the entire time.

Everyone seemed to notice the shift in the room, well everyone except for Sam and Bucky who were too busy talking amongst one another about a few legal documents, and Sam throwing in several of his typical ‘anti-government’ remarks.

It was as if time was frozen.

You blinked a few times, eyes on Joaquin—your Joaquin.

The same man that you’d loved and hated at one point in your life, you weren’t even sure how you’d felt about him now, but you did know one thing, you had done your very best to avoid him at all costs. Sure, you knew one day it would probably bite you in the ass, but you hoped that was years from now.

Then again, you knew there was a risk when you’d taken the job as Bucky Barnes’s media relations secretary. This was your wheelhouse, you specialized in media relations and journalism, you would’ve been a complete idiot to decline the job.

But now, it was as if karma was coming to kick your ass.

You stared at him, unmoving as you processed seeing him again for the first time in almost four years. He looked different, more mature in a way that you hadn’t expected. He still had that boy-ish charm, but he looked older, stronger, and sturdier.

He still shaved his face, something you always told him to stop doing. Constantly telling him he looked good with facial hair, making sly comments and innuendos in public, giggling whenever he’d pull you into him, burying his face into your shoulder, covering any inch of exposed skin in gentle kisses as you laughed trying to shove him away.

But now he had a very visible burn scar along the right side of his neck, clearly stretching to his shoulder. You knew about his accident, and you’d been traveling with Bucky during that time, having sat in the waiting room while he spoke with Sam.

Part of you wanted to see him, desperately, but you couldn’t do it.

Bucky had asked you several times, stating that he ‘just wanted to make sure’, but each time you politely declined, shaking your head.

The Joaquin you were seeing now wasn’t your Joaquin, not anymore at least.

You knew something was off about him, his eyes weren’t as bright anymore. Then again, neither were yours. Heartbreak and grief had the tendency to suck the joy out of things.

“You alright Lightning?” you blinked a few times, registering Peter’s voice, nodding your head as you finally glanced back at him, then after clearing your throat, you gave everyone an awkward smile before muttering some half-assed excuses and making a beeline out of the room, towards the other set of doors, far from Joaquin.

He watched you leave, scoffing while shaking his head.

Everyone made their introductions, but Joaquin didn’t have it in him to keep up his faux positivity, giving everyone tight lipped smiles and head nods. Mentioning his name and rank a few times, forcing a laugh when Sam made a joke about being the ‘Falcon’. When Peter tried to talk to him about the mechanics of the new Falcon suit, Joaquin brushed him off.

Sure you two weren’t together anymore, but he had every right to be jealous. Even if Joaquin was just your ex-husband. Peter had a nickname for you! That was enough to piss Joaquin off and make him dislike the kid.

When John Walker tried to question the entire interaction prior to the introductions, Bucky shushed him, giving him a pointed look which was received with a small head nod, and a loud sigh. Followed by Yelena elbowing him.

It was clearly a touchy subject.

That night Joaquin couldn’t sleep.

Neither could you.

For the first time in years, you found yourself fishing your old phone and it’s charger out of the small lockbox below your bed, the box filled with some of your most prized mementos, photos of friends, family, birthday cards, small trinkets, a few necklaces, an old camera, the phone in hand, and most importantly, your engagement ring and wedding band.

It had taken a few minutes for the phone to turn on after connecting it to the charger. Then you sat on the floor, leaning against your bed in the darkness, eyes focused on the screen as you unlocked it—your old anniversary being the password.

Your bottom lip quivered as you opened the photos app, the most recent photo being of you and Joaquin at the zoo three months into the Blip, when you were still trying to find a sense of normalcy. Back when the both of you would still go on dates and try to cheer one another up, when you still fought the grief instead of wallowing in it.

He looked terrified while you had a wide smile on your face, three parrots on you, one perched in each hand and the other on the top of your head.

Then you started scrolling, eyes burning with unshed tears as you went through the photos, happy moments forever frozen in time. Moments you wish you could relive, just for a day.

Finally you found it, the wedding video. You turned your phone horizontally, playing the ten minute video, a perfectly edited version of your wedding ceremony and reception, with a few blooper pieces of your family members giving their commentary on the wedding. Ximena put it together for you and Joaquin.

You looked so happy as he held you in his arms, both of you laughing and smiling, embracing the newly-weds title.

The choked sob that slipped past your lips at the sight of your first dance unleashed the floodgates, you were full on sobbing now, watching the video with your knees to your chest, hand perched atop them.

Joaquin used to look at you as if you hung the moon and stars.

You remember that look, the look of unconditional love.

You might’ve had a crush on Joaquin in high school, but he was the one who fell the hardest. He was the first to say ‘I love you’ and the day he proposed to you, he couldn’t stop himself, it was such a candid moment. He had a whole day planned for it, but then you two had gone to the beach, and the sunset painted you like an angel sent from above, the second you’d turn around, squatting to pick up seashells, he knew it was time.

He’d tapped your shoulder that day, as if he was showing you a shell, then you turned around—laughing at the awkward movement while still squatting, then you practically fell backwards onto the sand at the sight of him on one knee with an open engagement ring box.

Ximena had a thing for dramatics, so at the end of your wedding video, she also added in the video of your proposal, which was shakily taken from his phone, propped up against his water bottle in the sand, the angle a little crooked, but it captured the moment nonetheless.

Three knocks on your door interrupted your sobbing sessions. You were quick to wipe your tears away, hoping you’d have enough time to tuck the phone away and climb into bed, pretending to be asleep.

But then Yelena opened the door with Bob at her side while you were trying to grab the box from below the bed, still on the floor. The two squinting into the darkness, letting their eyes adjust to the room with the helpful aid of the hall-way light streaming in.

Bob noticed you first.

“McQueen? Why’re you on the floor—wait, are you crying? Shit, Yelena she’s upset about something.”

You laughed at him, shaking your head as you finally looked over at them, tear stained cheeks, red eyes, and a quivering bottom lip. Not to mention your frizzy hair, and tear soaked sweater sleeves.

They easily entered the room, Yelena turning on your desk lamp as Bob shut the door behind him. Then Yelena was sliding onto the floor beside you, and Bob in front of the both of you.

The both of them were an oddly comforting duo, they were the best of friends, and honestly, after helping Bob start working through a lot of his issues, he had helpful input on most emotional situations. Plus, the fact that he cared was enough for you to let him in, and that went for Yelena as well.

Yelena noticed the phone, picking it up and looking at it, her brows knit together at the sight of the paused video, seeing a younger version of you in the arms of Joaquin Torres, smiles on your face while you flashed your wedding ring. Then she noticed that you were in a wedding dress, and he was in a full suit.

She squinted slightly, using two fingers to zoom into the paused video, eyes widening at the realization that the Air Force Captain she’d met today, was the same man in the video that you were very clearly marrying.

“We got married young. Like idiots. Then the Blip happened and I dunno, we just hated each other after a while, there wasn’t anything to fix. Then we went to court—spent almost a year going back and forth for the sake of arguing. Honestly, I only prolonged the divorce because fighting with him was better than not speaking to him.”

You sighed, now leaning your head on Yelena’s shoulder while the two listened and nodded.

“I don’t think it was idiotic to marry him if you loved him—did you?”

You blinked a few times, glancing at Bob, then down at your hands again. “I do—I did. He used to make me feel like nothing could ever go wrong. Then suddenly, the fantasy all came crashing down.” You sniffled a few times, shrugging.

He nodded, looking at Yelena who was swiping through the different photos and videos, then her eyes widened as she let out a loud gasp, throwing the phone to the side, where it now sat face-up, a video of you and Joaquin in a very intimate position on the screen.

Your eyes widened as you rushed to flip the phone. It wasn’t like a full blown sex tape, but you were half-naked on top of him.

“So I take it you had a healthy marriage at first? Based on that-” Yelena pointed to the phone. Then she finally broke, loud boisterous laughter filling the room. Her laugh was always contagious, and it led to the three of you laughing amongst each other.

They’d managed to cheer you up in minutes, and that reminded you of how lonely you’d felt before meeting them. How mundane life felt, how every single task was draining. It reminded you of how draining life really used to be, when you’d always feel so alone in a room full of people.

When you’d seek comfort in the one person that couldn’t provide it anymore.

“I really do love you guys.”

Yelena smiled, nodding her head. “I love you too, in a completely platonic way, don’t try to mount me the way you mounted him—wait what's his name again?” Her brows knit together as she thought hard to remember Joaquin’s name, but she was drawing a blank.

Bob finally stopped laughing, shaking his head. “Joaquin—I think? Yeah, that sounds right.”

You nodded. “Yeah, it’s Joaquin, Captain Joaquin Torres. Y’know when we were married he wasn’t a captain yet—” you stopped mid sentence, afraid of the potential word vomit or tears that might come out of this conversation.

On the opposite end of the tower Joaquin was pacing back and forth in one of the guest bedrooms. Not only was he angry, he was hurt, so hurt, in fact, that he’d spent thirty minutes crying silently in the shower, hoping the scalding hot water would numb some of the pain he was feeling.

It usually worked for physical pain, but emotional pain? It did little to nothing.

Seeing you was like opening Pandora's box. Joaquin always knew he was angry, angry at you yes, but he was angrier at himself. He’d never really forgiven himself for letting you slip through the cracks, for taking his frustrations out on you, for being overly jealous and never understanding, and for pushing you away. Constantly.

The Blip had taken a lot out of him, he was hurting, but so were you.

He forgot about that, about the pain that you’d been in.

Your mother was blipped, and she meant the world to you. Anytime you’d call your father, you’d lock yourself in the bedroom after, sobbing for hours, holding a pillow against your chest, trying to find some kind of comfort.

In the beginning, he’d slip into bed behind you, arms wrapped around your torso while you silently cried and mourned your mother. You were never really the blind hope type—he was. Joaquin had been there for you, there to comfort you, to bring you a sense of reassurance, and most importantly, to ground you.

His abuela had been blipped, he knew how it felt, the grief, but it wasn’t nearly as substantial as yours was. He loved his abuela, but he also knew she was an older woman who lived an entire life, and anytime they spoke, she’d always say ‘I love you Quino, if this is the last time we talk, just know i’ll always be there in spirit! Make sure you tell my princessa I love her too!’—or something along those lines.

He used to tell her not to talk like that, but his mother said it came from a place of love and of understanding. Every moment with someone was precious and needed to be valued, life was really too short to leave things unspoken.

So how he managed to leave so much? He didn’t understand.

He blamed himself for the divorce, Joaquin knew that he was pushing you away. Then you’d gotten that job on base, and at first he was excited to visit his pretty wife during lunch. But then his jealousy took over, jealousy mixed with pessimism and all of the negative emotions he’d been swallowing down started surfacing.

It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You were constantly talking to him, constantly checking on him, spending nights with your hands in his hair while you asked if he was alright, telling him you were always there to talk.

His job was stressing him out, he was under so much pressure, constantly. Tensions were rising at work, there were deadlines that needed to be met, tasks he didn’t have the time to do, and yet he still had to.

So he’d come home late, and he was bitter about it. Then you’d show up with a small smile on your tired face, mumbling something about making dinner, but he was tired, too tired to eat. He just wanted to sleep.

Some days he’d snap at you, and you were never one to sit and take it.

That’s when the fighting would start, and the screaming for hours on end. You two would go back and forth until eventually you’d slam a door in his face and tell him to sleep on the sofa.

Even now, as he paced back and forth, he remembers the sound of your muffled sobs, the way you’d cry after every fight. Then you’d pad out of the room in the middle of the night with a blanket for him, he’d pretend to be asleep as you covered him, kissing the top of his head, mumbling a rushed ‘I’m sorry’.

You always cared, you did your best.

He didn’t.

He stopped trying, and he knew that. He was just so tired, so angry, so jealous, so frustrated. The world didn’t stop spinning, tomorrow would always come, but he was so angry as he focused on each individual day, then he couldn’t find comfort in you anymore.

At one point, you were able to calm him down within seconds, you’d wrap your arms around him and tell him you loved him, then ask to talk. He’d melt against you, an entire breakdown of his day would follow. Sometimes you’d comment, other times you’d nod your head while he spoke.

But eventually, the hugs, kisses, and gentle gestures stopped. Even the sex didn’t solve anything. It was just another way for the both of you to let go of tension, then he was grabbing a pillow and leaving the room, going to the sofa, and eventually, to the guest bedroom that had turned into his personal bedroom.

What made things worse was that you were both so young when you’d gotten married, young and naive. In a world where alien invasions were common, jumping the gun on marriage wasn’t that irrational, not when you were truly in love with someone.

But sometimes love isn’t enough.

That’s what had truly broken Joaquin, the realization that love wasn’t enough.

Joaquin was twenty-six when the divorce was finalized, you were twenty-five.

When he was twenty-two people told him it was idiotic to get married that young, that it was a mistake. So many people doubted you and Joaquin’s marriage, and now, he had to admit that they were right.

He wanted to hate you, the last year of your marriage was the hardest. It was as if neither of you wanted to let go while simultaneously making one another’s lives a living hell. Buying a house together made it much harder to separate from one another, which also presented its own legal issues in terms of needing to be separated prior to divorcing one another.

Then there was the fact that you’d been married in Florida, seeking a divorce in California, while Joaquin was actively in the Air Force, and you also worked on base. It wasn’t like either of you would’ve been able to avoid one another, and truthfully, neither of you wanted to avoid each other.

The arguments and fights were never ending during that last month. Anytime he’d see you or you’d see him before a meeting with your attorneys, a screaming fest would start. Most of the fights had nothing to do with any divisions of assets, and you’d both already agreed to sell the house.

But Joaquin knew that he preferred fighting with you over never speaking to you.

The sound of his door slamming open caught his attention, his pacing stopped while he turned to look at the door.

Sam stood here with Bucky by his side, a singular brow raised as he shook his head, the two men inviting themselves into the room.

“So you mean to tell me, this entire time, you had an ex-wife? Kid, you were married?” Sam was loud as he spoke, shock evident in his tone as he entered the rooms, hands moving as he spoke. “I had to find out from Buck! Of all people!”

“Hey—what’s that supposed to mean!” Bucky sounded offended while he leaned against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest, shaking his head at Sam’s comment.

“It means, I’ve been working with the kid for almost four years—wait! When we first met, you’d barely been divorced? Is that why you were in Tunisia?! On some finding yourself through work journey?”

Joaquin was frozen in place, eyes wide as he looked from Sam to Bucky, then back to Sam. He didn’t know the best way to approach this situation. Sure, he knew that eventually he would’ve had to come clean to Sam about you, but that wasn’t ever a priority of his, mainly because he preferred to act as if nothing was ever wrong and swallow all of his feelings down.

“Yeah, when you introduced me to the kid, they’d only been divorced for around four months? I found that out from McQueen. Honestly, I’m surprised Joaquin held it in for so long, five drinks in and she was crying on my living room sofa.”

Bucky sounded so nonchalant as he spoke, which only irritated Joaquin. It made sense that you’d be spending time with him, he was your boss. But, you? Drinking with him? Then spending time at his place?

Joaquin’s jaw was clenched so tight he was afraid his teeth would crack.

“Buck, why were you drinking with her—you don’t drink often.” Sam paused, looking over at Bucky.

“I wasn’t drinking, we were at a fundraiser, y’know they’re boring as hell. People kept passing her drinks, she didn’t want to be rude when she was technically working, I told her to just chuck the drinks into some plants—then she started rambling about plants and their root health. Anyways, long story short, she’s an emotional drunk.”

Joaquin stifled a laugh, a sad smile on his face at the story.

You’d always been an emotional drunk, even as a teenager when you and Ximena would sneak into his mother’s liquor cabinet, sneaking out to drink in random parking lots or at the beach. Then someone would inevitably call him to pick you both up, he’d always feign reluctance, but he never had an issue getting the two of you, and whatever other friend was there.

That’s also one of the first times you’d kissed him. He remembers the day as if it was yesterday, you were a junior in high school, he was a senior, it was after the big homecoming game. You were clearly plastered, laughing and shrugging with Ximena, both of you practically falling over with wide smiles on your faces as you stumbled into Joaquin in the parking lot.

He lectured you both that night, Ximena had fallen asleep in the front seat, so you opted to help haul her out of the car with him, giggling as you backed into him a few times. Joaquin kept shushing you, and after you both managed to get his sister into the house, you smiled at him in the dimly lit hallway.

Then you kissed him. It was quick, as if the moment you realized your lips were on his, you were immediately reeling back. Apologizing while giggling, then you’d gone into Ximena’s room, waving at him before closing the door.

“Hey stop daydreaming over there! You’ve got some serious explaining to do!” Sam’s snapping caught Joaquin’s attention as he slowly nodded his head, acting as if he was listening—he very clearly was not.

“Start from the beginning, let’s hear it.”

Joaquin nodded at Bucky, letting out a deep sigh as he sat on the edge of his bed.

He’d spent the next two hours explaining everything to them both, from the start of your relationship, to getting engaged, then to the Blip, and of course, the end of it all. The divorce, the fights, the anger, all of it.

In a way, Joaquin felt like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders. He’d spent so long bottling everything up that it had just become normal to him.

“So you’re still in love with her and from what Bucky’s told me—she’s still in love with you. So what’s the issue here? Clearly you’ve both grown up, and Ray Charles once said, time heals a broken heart but time has clearly sat still while you two have been apart—”

Bucky cut him off, “I don’t think that’s how that saying goes, Sam.”

“You shut the hell up, I’m giving the kid some emotional motivation to win his woman back! Sure, they’re divorced, but they’re young and clearly stupid!—no offense Joaquin. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other! You’ve heard her side, Buck, now we’ve heard his! They’re in love!” Sam’s hands moved rapidly as he spoke, constantly motioning in Joaquin’s direction and the opposite direction, most likely where you metaphorically would be.

Bucky sighed, shrugging. “Okay, you’re right—” he turned to look at Joaquin. “I get you two went through a rough patch during the Blip, but I can guarantee, things’ll be better now. At the very least, you should try. Lightning McQueen’s not gonna reject you outright.”

Sam and Joaquin shared a confused look before Sam spoke up. “Why the hell is everyone calling her Lightning McQueen?”

Bucky shrugged. “She wears Lightning McQueen slippers around the tower, sometimes she’ll stop mid sentence and say ‘kachow’. At first I didn’t get it, then she forced me to watch the entire Cars franchise with her. She cried during the last two movies.”

Sam blinked a few times, meanwhile Joaquin couldn’t hold his laughter in.

“That’s one of her favorite movies, something about a coming of age story—I dunno, she’s loved it forever.”

Sam and Bucky looked at one another, then back at him, speaking at the same time, the mixture of “you’re both idiots” and “idiots in love” sounded a bit jumbled and confusing, but Joaquin got the point.

The next few days Joaquin’s only goal was to actually talk to you. It was easy in theory, there were only so many places that you could run off to. However, you knew the compound much better than he did, and anytime he finally caught sight of you, you were gone in seconds.

It was obvious you’d been avoiding him, and that was only irritating him more and more. He’d gone from being slightly hopeful that maybe you two could start over, to feeling himself slipping into that same pessimistic mindset he’d tried to swallow down and drown out with work.

He was hanging on by a thin thread.

That thread snapped the moment he walked into the lab in search of some data on a few samples of adamantium that was recovered near a small island neighboring the Celestial mass in the Indian Ocean.

He still had a job to do, even if he was also simultaneously trying to win his ex-wife back.

The moment Joaquin stepped foot into the lab, you were there, standing beside a large metal table where Bob was laying flat. Not only was the man laying down, he was fully shirtless and your hands were on his abdomen. From Joaquin’s angle he couldn’t see what you were doing, but he did hear your laughter.

Yelena leaned against one of the tables behind you, her arms crossed as she questioned your motions, pointing down at Bob where you’d been stitching him up, “If you go any slower, it’ll prolong the pain.”

You scoffed, glancing at her over your shoulder. “Well, if you hadn’t been sparring with knives, none of us would be here right now. This is the closest thing we have to a med bay, besides, if I go faster, I’ll fuck up the stiching and unfortunately for you, you don’t exactly have health insurance in the state of New York. Actually, I don’t think any of you do outside of Bucky and Walker.”

Bob winced slightly as you pulled the thread through his skin, teeth clenched, one hand over his eyes. “Why couldn’t I have a drink or something again? No offense Lightning, but this hurts.”

You sighed. “Remember your whole addictive personality thing? Sorry, but the best I can do is get Yelena to knock you out cold. But I think that would be another issue. Besides, aren't you supposed to be like a God or something? You’ll heal just fine! Don’t be such a baby!” Then you started laughing.

He groaned, wincing as he laughed as well, which made Yelena laugh too.

Joaquin finally walked into the lab, jaw clenched as he walked right past the three of you, his own metaphorical storm cloud following him. Except this time, you couldn’t run away from him, which he was grateful for, but he didn’t really feel like discussing your past relationship with people he hardly knew.

“Good afternoon to you too, Captain Torres!” Your eyes widened at Yelena’s words, fingers pressing a bit too harshly into Bob’s skin—earning a loud groan.

Joaquin scoffed, nodding his head to acknowledge Yelena while mumbling. “Yeah—afternoon.”

He found a more secluded area of the lab, but it still had a direct line-of-sight to you. So Joaquin sat, stewing in his own jealousy for thirty minutes while you stitched up some gash on Bob's side.

Then Yelena was helping Bob get back up, stating that she’d be back shortly, but once she was out of the lab, the lights dimmed, then flashed red for a few seconds, before settling on a blue-ish hue. That was followed by Yelena’s voice over the intercom. “Sorry Lightning! But you two need to talk it out, or sex it out, whichever you prefer! I’ll shut down the cameras! Oh and don’t try to do any other work, Peter’s shutting down the systems externally.”

Once she finished speaking, you were left in a tense silence as you cleaned up the area. The sounds of metal clinking, plastic shifting, spraying from the disinfectants, and the sounds of your frustrated sighing practically echoed in the room.

“Are you gonna say something to me? Or just be angry and clean the whole time. Not that I’m not used to that.”

You blinked a few times, pausing your motions before practically slamming the metal tray in your hands against the countertop as you slowly turned to face him. He was still several feet away, but now Joaquin was standing up, leaning against one of the larger free-standing countertops that you typically examined samples on.

“I have nothing to say to you Joaquin.”

He shook his head at that. “Well, I have everything to say to you Ms. Torres.” He noticed the way your eyes widened as he shook his head, then he ran his tongue along his top teeth. “Y’know what’s absolutely insane, that I had to find out from Bucky—your boss—that you hadn’t ever gone through with changing your name. So you’ve been walking around with my last name, while fucking whoever the hell you want.”

You scoffed at that, there it was, the jealousy. “Excuse me? I’m sorry that I didn’t feel the need to go through another extensive legal process to change my goddamn name, when I already made a name for myself with the last name Torres. And seriously? Fucking whoever I want? I’ve gone on dates—I’ve had sex with other people. Oh well! Do you want flowers and a fuckin handwritten apology? Like oh I’m so sorry Joaquin that I kept your last name after being married to you for five years! My bad!”

Joaquin let out a sardonic laugh, followed by a scoff before speaking again. “Well, if you hadn’t disappeared off of the face of the earth, maybe I wouldn’t care that much. It’s like the second we were over, you were gone!”

“What the hell was I supposed to do?! Stick around? Fight with you some more?! As if it was ever fucking enjoyable? I choose to leave, I’m not mad about it! I had to get the hell away from you, I had to remember who the hell I was—who I am! I didn’t even know who I was outside of being with you! So sorry if I choose to put myself first and go live my life Joaquin!”

Your voice got louder and louder as you spoke, chest rapidly rising and falling, feeling the waves of irritation and anger rolling through your entire body.

He shook his head. “Did you ever think that maybe—just maybe I didn’t want the divorce. That sure we could’ve used some space and time apart but that I still loved you?! Did you ever consider that! Or maybe I still love you! That I was never able to move on?!”

You paused, lips slightly parted, brows knit together at the confession.

Joaquin scoffed, rolling his eyes, leaning his head back slightly as he looked up, silently praying to whatever God truly existed, that this wasn’t a mistake. Then his eyes were back on you.

“There hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t thought about you. Every single worthless hookup I had, I thought about you, I purposefully went after women that reminded me of you just so I could fucking feel something—anything! But they were never you!”

He ran his hands through his hair. “I swallowed down every shitty emotion I’ve felt for years, drowning myself in even more work, I mean I guess it paid off-or at least it had paid off until I fucking crash landed into the Indian Ocean!”

Joaquin laughed again, sniffling slightly, doing his best to ignore the burning in his eyes “The worst part was, when I woke up from a week long coma, I was delirious and high on whatever the fuck they were giving me for the pain—and I asked for you. I asked every single nurse for you. I get it, you wanted to go off and live your life without me—but you didn’t call, you didn’t text. Hell, I even asked Ximena if you knew and she avoided the subject.”

You cut him off. “Shut the hell up Joaquin.”

He shook his head “No, I’m tired of holding this shit in, and if this is the only chance I’ll ever get to talk to you—then so be it! I waited for you, I waited in that goddamn hospital hoping and praying that maybe you’d show up with your sad smile and concerned eyes and tell me that I was an idiot and things would all be okay. But you didn’t, come to find out, you were there that day—the day they rushed me in.”

You shook your head, jaw clenched, eyes watering. “Joaquin, stop.”

Joaquin laughed again, shrugging. “Bucky told me you were there with him, that you hounded all of the nurses and the receptionists, but you never once went to see me. What? Hate me that bad you couldn’t even spare me five fucking minutes when I’m unconscious after nearly dying?!—”

“Jesus Christ! Shut the fuck up, Joaquin! You don’t know what you’re talking about. For once in your life, shut your big fucking mouth! I’m sorry I didn’t go—you think I didn’t wanna see you?! I was fucking terrified! Terrified that you were gonna die on that table when they were operating on you! I was sobbing the entire time, I was so afraid of losing you—”

You wiped your tears away, brows knit together, bottom lip quivering as you stared at him. “I’d already lost you once. I didn’t have it in me to lose you again. I couldn’t see you like that, I tried—I wanted to. I couldn’t do it. You don’t get to hold that against me—”

You pointed at him as you spoke. “You don’t have the fucking right to hold that against me.”

Joaquin blinked a few times, watching as your walls were crumbling. He knew you were still hurt, that much was obvious in the way you’d been avoiding him—but to know you were hurting like this?

It broke part of him, and for a second he felt like his nineteen year old self again on the night he’d taken your virginity. He remembered the way you tried not to cry, word vomiting your insecurities and vulnerabilities to him while the two of you sat in his childhood bedroom. Joaquin remembered the way you looked, the way you couldn’t meet his stare, the way you held the blanket to your body to shield yourself from him, even if you were still in your dress.

He knew you so well, he used to know exactly how to comfort you, exactly how to make your worries disappear.

Now he didn’t.

Now he was the cause of them.

“I loved you until the very end of our relationship. Don’t ever sit and act like I didn’t—like I don’t care about you. Joaquin, you were my first love, you meant everything to me. I married you when I was twenty-one like an idiot because I had so much faith and hope in our relationship—in our love. I know I was wrong to up and leave once the divorce was finalized, but I didn’t want to work through things just to be your friend. I could never in my life be your friend Joaquin—not when you knew everything about me—every single insecurity, every hope, every dream.”

You weren’t wiping the tears away anymore, a sad smile on your face as you looked down at your hands, then back to him.

“If I could do it all over again, I would. Just to get the chance to love you like that again. That’s why I left, because I knew if I stayed, I would’ve been right back with you—right back to wanting to hate you, knowing I never could and I couldn’t take it.”

He was at a loss for words, tears finally flowing along his cheeks while he looked at you. Joaquin finally processed how he’d broken your heart—broken you. He’d broken you down time and time again, letting his own insecurities, exhaustion, and pessimism get to him.

He’d hurt the one person he never wanted to hurt—you.

“Everyday I think about you. I think about how you’re doing, I wonder what Sam’s got you wrapped up in, I laugh at the stupid jokes you make during press releases and media statements as the Falcon. Hell, I even pray for you, which is crazy because I don’t even know if there’s even a higher power—but the faith that you’ll be okay each and every day is enough for me. I ask Ximena about you all the time. Whenever I go back to Miami, I make sure to go see your family.”

Joaquin was genuinely speechless. This entire time, he thought you just didn’t care. That you wanted as much distance between the both of you as possible. He’d been so angry for years, angry at you, and angrier at himself.

“I don’t think I’ll ever not love you Joaquin, and that in itself, is enough to make me avoid you. I don’t want what we had, I hated it. I hated every fight, I hated watching you leave after we had sex, I hated the sight of you sleeping on our sofa. I hated all of it. I know life was really hard at that point, I know I wasn’t the best wife or partner, but I tried. I tried everyday but you held everything against me, constantly.”

You sniffled, biting your bottom lip while trying to recollect yourself. The tears were flowing, and you couldn’t stop them.

“You were so mean, all the time. You weren’t the Joaquin I had fallen in love with, honestly, I know I was a shell of myself, but you—you were so much worse. You never let me back in—” a short sob slipped past your lips while you cried, looking down at the ground, taking a few deep breaths. “I wanted you to let me in again. I remember purposefully forgetting documents and prolonging our entire attorney experience, just so I could spend more time with you. Because I knew the second it was over, I was leaving.”

The silence was suffocating.

You were doing your best not to sob. Joaquin was processing everything—he’d never truly known how it all affected you. He’d never seen you sob at night, sure he knew you cried, but he didn’t see it, he didn’t notice how broken you truly were.

“I’m sorry.” Joaquin spoke softly “I’m so sorry—baby—I didn’t know. I just—I didn’t realize how bad things were until it was all over. And I was just so angry all the time, everything made me so mad. Then I’d see you, but everyone was always gravitating towards you, and it makes sense because you’re beautiful, funny and so intelligent, but it bothered me.”

He paused, now stepping closer to you, hesitating before gently caressing your face, angling it towards him, away from the ground. His thumbs softly wiping your tears away.

“I was so insecure and jealous and downright mean, and I’m sorry for putting you through hell. You meant the world to me—hell you still mean the world to me. I’ve been so angry this whole time, I thought I was mad at you, but I was mad at me. Mad that I’d fucked up so bad, mad that things hadn’t worked out, that I stopped trying.”

You leaned into his hand, teary eyes now looking into his.

“I’ve never stopped loving you. I want you to know that, even if nothing comes from it. I’ll always love you, there’s nobody in this universe that gets me the way you do, I know it’s been years, but I don’t think I’m ready to just let you go again.”

Joaquin’s vulnerability shocked you, not because you didn’t think he was capable, but because this Joaquin, this was your Joaquin. This is the man that you’d fallen in love with.

“I never wanted you to let me go, Joaquin.”

He’d been the one to suggest the divorce, and it had taken a few months of fights before you’d actually considered it.

By that point, Joaquin was rarely sleeping with you, and the only time the two of you weren’t fighting was when you were both on base at work. Outside of that, the fights and arguments were constant, an unrelenting cycle, and you had finally hit your breaking point.

The last major fight before the divorce ended in you screaming at him before tossing a large yellow envelope on the kitchen island.

You both signed the papers that night. Then the filing process started.

That night you cried into the stuffed bear that he’d won for you at a carnival when you were nineteen. It was one of your first real dates, and you’d been so excited when he’d managed to actually win the ring toss three times in a row, scoring the large panda bear, giving it to you with a dopey smile on his face.

“Please—give me a second chance, I’ll do everything right this time—I won’t fall back into old shitty habits—I promise baby” his voice was strained as he tried not to cry. It took everything in him to not fall to his knees to beg for you back.

You sighed, pulling away from him as you shook your head.

“Joaquin, I think time apart might’ve been what we needed. But I still see the way you look at people around me, I still see the same shitty habits, and honestly, I think we might be better apart for now. We both have stuff to work through, but I won’t up and disappear from your life again”

He nodded as you spoke, biting his bottom lip, watching as you shrugged, sadness pooling in your teary eyes.

“I can’t be your wife again—not now at least. But maybe one day when we’re in a better spot.”

Joaquin sniffled a bit, looking up at the roof, then back at you. “One day for sure.”

Then you kissed him, it was soft, hesitant, but he knew it wasn’t a welcoming kiss. It was similar to the last kiss you’d given him the day your divorce finalized. As if you were saying goodbye again.

Joaquin only hoped that the goodbye would be temporary.

Thanks for reading my lovers <3 as always feedback is appreciated!!!

#joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x fem!reader #joaquin torres angst #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres x y/n #joaquin torres fanfic #joaquin torres imagine #joaquin torres my beloved <3 #joaquin x y/n #joaquin x reader

179 notes · View notes

juyeonszn · 2 years ago

Text

CYBER SEX

PAIRING eric sohn x f!reader x kim sunwoo

WORD COUNT 3.11k

GENRES smut yktv

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, mature language, this is Literally Porn With Plot, gamer!eric, gamer!sunwoo, i’m so sorry but sunwoo is a bitchless loser incel until he’s not a bitchless loser incel, eric has Game literally and figuratively, jealous sunwoo 🤭, exhibitionism, voyeurism, phone/video call sex?, vaginal fingering, male masturbation, unprotected sex, going at it on eric’s gamer chair 💪 , a good amount of praise, degradation (the words dumb and slut) 🫨, soft dom!eric, mean? dom!sunwoo, sunwoo is a little mean at one point but i’m not apologizing 😁👍, pet name princess is used, creampie 🥸, sunwoo is an idiot, lmk if i missed anything!

SUMMARY eric is determined to show his best friend the benefits of having a girlfriend.

MORE hey… LMFOAOOO so i ended up finishing this in like… a day… 😭 what can i say ?1?1!1? when i have an idea, i Must stick with it <3 ANYWAY i got the inspiration for this after watching eric’s wv live on 09/25/23 and thus it has consumed my every waking thought since then ajejfwjdnen also shout out to reese to feeding my delusions and another shout out to doja cat for having the most out of pocket songs and titles bc she came in clutch fr 🤞 pls reblog if u enjoyed! i’m exhausted! (also this is not beta’d bc everyone was asleep and i also had to go to sleep so if there are any errors pls lmk)

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble

“Eric.”

Silence. You hear nothing but the sound of his keyboard clacking and his mouse clicking under his fingers from where he sits at his desk. You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes.

“Eric Sohn.”

Again, you’re given nothing to work with. He curses under his breath, something about him being outnumbered and needing a cover. You don’t even know what game he’s playing, just that he’s been playing it for over an hour. You’re starting to get annoyed.

What kind of boyfriend tells his girlfriend to come over and then plays his stupid online game instead of talking to her?

When you get out of a long day of work, you just want to relax. You don’t want to lay on your boyfriend’s bed all by yourself, forced to watch him play a game you didn’t care for, much less understand. You burn holes into the back of his head when he starts swearing at the screen, hovering over his chair and leaning closer to the PC.

“Youngjae!”

That finally catches his attention, pushing one side of his headset off so he can hear better. He keeps his eyes on the screen but turns his head towards you, humming in response. “What’s up, baby?”

“Is your girlfriend there?”

“Yeah dude, shut up.”

You recognize the other voice as belonging to his best friend, Kim Sunwoo. Your lips form a pout and you flop backward on his bed. “I’m bored. And I wanna cuddle.”

“After this round, I promise.” He smiles at you, returning his focus to the match he was in. His fingers move quickly on the same four backlit keys, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in concentration. From your perspective, it just looked like his character was running aimlessly. (Apparently he had an agenda.)

“Bruh, you said we were gonna play until we won one.” Sunwoo complains. Your mouth forms a scowl. No wonder the guy was still bitchless. He had no concept of how girlfriends were maintained.

“I’m gonna kick your ass.” Your boyfriend says into the mic, tone monotone and no mirth behind the words. You know he wasn’t trying to be intimidating, but it kind of turns you on to see him so focused, his jaw slightly tensed and his bottom lip now between his teeth.

It had been about a week since you last did anything sexual, and you think that paired with your mind numbing work day was the cause for your sudden rush of hormones. You’d think dating a gamer would mean he wasn’t skilled in the sexy department, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, being so adept with his fingers made him that much better than the average person. Eric’s eyes narrow when he sees a group of players in the distance.

“Dude, back me up. We can take them, we can take them,” he commands, sitting back down at the same time he starts shooting at the other characters. Sunwoo’s comes into view on the other side of the monitor, also firing at the group of maybe four.

With a lazy sigh, you stand from his bed, sitting yourself on the edge of his desk. He offers you a small smile before resuming the intense gameplay he was engaged in. You cross your legs not so subtly due to his appearance, his hair falling into his eyes and his brows knitted together. You wanted him so bad right now. Fucking Kim Sunwoo would pay for being a cockblock.

You nudge his knee with your foot, silently whining in hopes he gets the hint. He holds a finger up to you, leaning into the monitor again. You know what they say; if you want something done, you gotta do it yourself.

You perch yourself on his lap, grinning in sweet victory when his expression falters and he accidentally releases the mouse from his grip. The momentary distraction is enough for his character to get killed, the screen flashing to showcase Sunwoo’s character’s point of view. Eric’s shoulders sag and he gives you a pointed look. You simply bat your eyelashes at him, lips curling into an innocent simper.

“What the fuck, Eric? You said we could take them.”

“My fault,” he apologizes, reclining in his seat and wrapping an arm around your waist as he watches Sunwoo. “You got this, bro.”

Right as he says that, his character also dies, the monitor reading ‘Match Over’ almost instantaneously. He shares an amused snort with you upon jinxing his best friend, one of his hands rubbing up and down your bare thigh. You can hear Sunwoo cussing him out through his headset. Eric winces, unplugging it from the headphone jack so his friend’s grievances weren’t directly in his ears.

“—And it’s all because you can’t keep your dick in your pants, you fucking horndog.”

You snicker at that, slapping a hand over your mouth when you realize that it might’ve been a little too loud. Eric shakes his head at the other male’s irritation. From where he stood, it sounded a whole lot like jealousy rather than anger. The guy really needed to get laid before gaming consumed him entirely and he stayed a loser incel for the rest of his life. Eric was lucky enough to have you in his corner.

“What’s so funny, Y/N?”

“You,” you shrug even if he can’t see it. “I think it’s kinda comical that you’re mad Eric gets pussy. You should take notes, Kim.”

Your boyfriend bursts into uncontrollable laughter, squeezing your thigh gently. You can hear Sunwoo sputter over your words, stumbling and stuttering every time he opens his mouth to speak. You’ve rendered him speechless, because you’re right. He is jealous that Eric has a girlfriend.

If it were any other girl, he doesn’t think he’d give a shit. But it was you. He wasn’t envious of the fact that his best friend was cuffed and he wasn’t. He was envious of the fact that he had you.

Something that doesn’t get brought up a lot, is how Sunwoo actually introduced you to Eric. He knew you first. Naturally, he thought that his tiny crush on you would blossom into something greater, especially because you saw each other twice a week. You were lab partners for Gen Chem and you became friends outside of class pretty quickly. He didn’t think he was terrible looking, and his personality wasn’t that bad either, so he hoped you might’ve been into him too.

And then you met Eric. God, he should’ve known bringing you together was a horrible idea. His best friend was not only extremely handsome, but also quite the flirt and a little too friendly. You were hooked from the get go. Sunwoo really shouldn’t have been that surprised when the two of you started dating.

That didn’t mean it didn’t suck though, having you constantly ask about Eric during your lab and slowly watching you distance yourself the closer you grew to him. It explained why you were so comfortable shitting on his lack of relationship experience, because once upon a time, you were something he could confide in. It was actually sort of hilarious that you were the same reason why he lacked said experience.

Now it’s been over a year and he still doesn’t think he could ever fully get over you.

“Damn, Sunwoo, you really just got your ass handed to you.”

The older of the two males deadpans at his screen, despite knowing neither of you can see him. But now that he’s been backed into a corner, all he can do is save face. “Having a girlfriend is the least of my worries.”

Eric hums, unconvinced. “Maybe I just have to show you what you’re missing out on.”

You turn in his lap, raising an eyebrow. What the hell did he mean by that?

Luckily for you, you don’t have to wonder for much longer. He clicks on his and Sunwoo’s chat in the bottom taskbar, pressing the video call button and allowing it to ring for a few seconds. This gives you the smallest idea of what he has in mind, and deep, deep down, you’re excited by the thought.

Sunwoo answers after the fourth ring, his face appearing in its own window on Eric’s monitor, pouty lips formed in a straight line and headset hidden under his hoodie. He looks sexy like that, in his element. You would never admit that out loud though. He was too attractive for his own good. He didn’t even know what to do with the beauty bestowed on him, resorting to being a gamer who holed himself away in his apartment.

“What am I supposedly missing out on then?” He finally says, and even with the not-so-stellar quality of his video, you recognize that dark look in his eyes. It has you shifting uncomfortably on Eric’s lap, desperate for some friction.

“Well first of all,” your boyfriend starts, brushing your hair behind your shoulder and sneaking a hand under the t-shirt of his you were wearing. “You should cut your losses now. Because no one could ever be better than my precious, Y/N.”

You crane your neck to the side, giving his lips access to your skin. He starts to pepper gentle kisses along the side, making eye contact with you in the smaller window that reflects yourself. Your mouth parts with a sigh when he reaches that sensitive spot just below your ear, and again when he nips at the juncture where it meets your shoulder.

It’s hard to focus on anything but Sunwoo’s expression and the way his jaw clenches upon not being able to touch you himself. And fuck, if Eric wasn’t right. He could never truly find anyone better than you. This was the closest he’d ever get to the real deal.

“You gonna be a good girl for Sunwoo, baby?” Eric murmurs into your ear, nibbling the lobe as his hand travels further up your shirt to palm your bare breast. You merely nod, a small whine escaping your lips when his thumb grazes your peaked nipple.

“Are you seriously about to fuck your girlfriend in front of me?” His best friend asks, voice a bit strained. The concept of you naked in just his head was enough to have him creaming his pants like a goddamn high schooler. But actually getting to see it with his own eyes? Getting to see your face when you orgasm? He doesn’t think he has the mental strength.

“Do you not want me to?” Eric slips his free hand between your legs, pushing your panties to the side. “I can easily end this call and keep this all to myself.”

Your boyfriend takes his silence as an answer, continuing to pleasure you. He helps you pull off the t-shirt, exposing your chest to both him and his best friend. Sunwoo holds his breath, leaning back into his gaming chair with his bottom lip between his teeth. You raise one of your legs, placing your foot on Eric’s knee to give him a clearer view of what’s going on with your lower half.

Eric holds the thin material of your underwear out of the way, languidly thrusting his ring and middle fingers into your hole. You rest your head on his shoulder with a low moan, observing Sunwoo’s different reactions, though he tries to mask them. Even he knows he’s doing a shitty job, because how could any sane person not lose their mind perceiving what he is.

“Need more,” you whimper, tongue darting out to swipe across your lips. “I need more, please…”

“Well, since you asked so kindly,” Eric grins against the side of your head, kissing your temple as he adds a third finger and begins to circle your clit with his thumb. “How could I say no to you, princess?”

The stretch burns slightly, but not too much that it distracts from how good you feel. You half wished your boyfriend suggested this a long time ago. Having someone else’s eyes on you while he fucked you open with his fingers just added more fuel to the fire, rousing the squelching sound your pussy made. The fact that it happened to be Kim Sunwoo just made the experience that much thrilling.

Your heavy eyes glance back to the screen, getting a glimpse of his entranced face. It took everything in him to bite his cheek and keep his mouth shut, longing to extend an arm through his PC and put his own hands all over you. You looked so hot, legs splayed open so he had a perfect view of Eric’s fingers scissoring in and out of your cunt.

“Please, Eric…” You plead. For what? You’re not sure yourself.

“What do you want, baby?”

“Want you to fuck me for real,” you attempt to meet his fingers, telling him all he needs to know.

He grabs your jaw and turns you to face him so he can kiss you, lips moving against yours so softly you might melt in the palms of his hands. You aid him with ridding his pants and his briefs, shoving them down to his ankles so he can kick them off. Your mouth nearly waters, having missed his cock in the past week you’d been apart.

You take a hold of the edge of his desk, eyes rolling to the back of your head when he slips the tip of his dick into the warmth of your cunt. A drawn out whine bubbles up from your throat, risking a look at Sunwoo. He’s still, legs manspread and arms crossed over his chest. By the time Eric’s bottomed out, you’re no longer coherent, brain jumbled.

Your boyfriend begins to move after allowing you to adjust to the fullness of his cock sheathed to the hilt in you. You sit back on him, practically cradling his head as he leisurely fucks you. In spite of him moving without a rush, you can feel all of him, so deep inside of you, you think you could faint.

“You’re— oh god— Eric…” you moan, unable to formulate a comprehensive sentence.

He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating along your spine. “Don’t forget to include our guest, baby.”

“T-Take off your pants, Sun,” your tone wavers, vision cutting in and out as Eric’s pace increases. “Wanna see you get yourself off…”

Sunwoo groans, covering his face and dragging his hand down to his mouth. He’d barely put his dick inside of you and you already looked so fucked out. He wants to follow through with your wishes, but how can he with your boyfriend right there? Then again, it was Eric’s idea to do this and he did have you spread out in front of him. He needed to act fast, for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

He pushes his sweatpants and underwear down mid thigh, freeing his painfully hard cock. He doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed by the pearl of precum that’s sitting pretty on his slit, using his thumb to smear it around his tip. You mewl, digging your nails in the armrest of Eric’s chair and tugging at his hair.

Your boyfriend’s best friend grabs the base of his dick hesitantly, sighing when it brings momentary relief. He starts to jerk the shaft, twisting his wrist and pumping his hand up and down. He feels so much lighter, like a part of his guilty conscience had just been lifted from his chest. He didn’t have to feel so ashamed of jerking himself off to the thought of you now that he’d been given permission to do so. And in front of you, nonetheless.

“Fucking look at you,” Sunwoo all but growls, fist wrapped tightly around his cock as he bucks up into his hand, head falling back with a groan. “Nothing but talk, aren’t you? Getting off to the loser watching you get fucked like a dumb slut.”

You moan loudly, keeping your hooded eyes on his video. Eric tightens his grip around your hips, holding you in place as he fucks up into you almost brutally, face buried into the crook of your neck. You feel insane, Sunwoo’s degradation inching you closer and closer to your sweet release.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Eric coos, pressing open mouthed kisses on your neck and shoulders. “Taking me so fucking well, like the good girl you are.”

The contrast between the two males’ approach has your head spinning. On one hand, you had your doting boyfriend and his endless praise. The thought of impressing him always multiplied the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. You wanted to do anything and everything to keep him satisfied. On the other hand, you had Sunwoo and the string of near insults he kept hurling at you. Something about him calling you demeaning names while still fucking his own fist at the sight of you had those butterflies going rampant.

“I’m— shit— I’m so s-so close,” you babble, reaching down to rub ovular motions into your already sensitive clit.

Sunwoo didn’t think he’d last long from the second he touched himself, so he can’t imagine what will happen when he takes in you orgasming. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, tasting the bitter metal-like flavor of the red fluid as his hand speeds up.

“Cum for me, princess,” Eric groans in your ear, fingers sliding down to help you apply more pressure to your clit. “Cum all over my cock for Sunwoo.”

You wail as you hit your climax, toes curling and back arching into your boyfriend’s chest. Your walls squeeze around his dick, triggering his own release. He paints the inside of your cunt with sticky white ropes and a grunt, plugging you up as your breathing regulates and your body stops shaking. You both gaze through the monitor as his cum starts to leak out of you, your pussy filled with so much that you’re surprised he didn’t pass out.

Sunwoo follows after that, coating his hands and thighs in his own ejaculation. He sits there for a minute, eyes closed as he process what the fuck just happened. Once the fogginess of the moment subsided, he feels his heart rate spike. Now that he knows what you look and sound like, how could he ever see you the same?

“Uh, woah that’s crazy, someone’s calling me. Gotta go, bye!” He lies, ending the call before either you or Eric can properly register his words. He reclines in his chair with a pinch of the bridge of his nose.

There was no going back from this.

#the boyz #the boyz x reader #the boyz smut #tbz #tbz x reader #tbz smut #the boyz sunwoo #the boyz eric #tbz sunwoo #tbz eric #kim sunwoo x reader #kim sunwoo smut #eric sohn x reader #eric sohn smut #sunwoo x reader #sunwoo smut #eric x reader #eric smut #juyeonszn

1K notes · View notes

totallynotslothhh · 2 months ago

Text

HOLD ME TIGHT PT.2

pairing: joost klein x fem!reader

word count: 4,380

warning: angst, smut, fluff, spanking, crying, smoking, fwb

description: The relationship between Joost and y/n seems to be going well, seemingly about to evolve, but an event drastically shifts y/n’s perspective, starting to make everything crumble.

author’s note: Hi everyone, you have no idea how eager I was to publish the second part. I absolutely love writing heartbreaking and painful stuff, you’re going to have to suffer a little, BUT FEAR NOT, I’m already working on the third part, which I’ll try to release by the end of this week, or at the latest, the beginning of the next. Please be patient. While I was writing this fanfic, I had a vivid image of Joost in 2022, so I based everything on that version of him. However, since I kept the descriptions pretty broad, I think you’ll be able to imagine him from any early era in his career.

That said, I’ll leave you to the reading now, and I’ll see you soon (probably with some meltdowns).

big kisses!

(sorry if there are grammatical errors, I tried my best, English is not my first language!!!🙏)

part.1 part.2 part.3

——————————————————————

The first rainy days of September had started to appear: grey, cloudy days, with the humid air that still hinted at the summer heat, yet gently pushed you into the thought of the cold that was soon to come.

I inhaled from the cigarette filter, savoring the bitter but damnably familiar taste of smoke, staring out at the courtyard of my apartment and the street that stretched out from my bedroom window.

-You’ve been smoking more since you started seeing Joost.-

It had been two months since my first time with Joost.

Two months since the subject of my thoughts and worries had shifted. Two months since someone had come into my life who I didn’t yet know would become the most important person in it.

We had built a relationship of unstable balance. There was always a little piece of my day dedicated to us. Whether it was in the morning, afternoon, or evening, a quick text, a call, or a meeting, whether there was sex or not.

Sex was the major protagonist of our encounters and desires. It’s true, our friendship had become mostly physical, but there was always a margin of interest in each other. We shared a mutual affection that went beyond just the act.

It showed in the small things, things that seemed small but were actually huge.

For example, he remembered the brand of cigarettes I smoked, what foods I liked and disliked, he knew how to handle me when I was sad, knew what to do when I was nervous, could read me just from a glance.

I had become an open book. Even if I tried to pretend I didn’t care about him, I couldn’t pull it off: do heart-eyes come with every look?

-Your heart’s beating fast.-

Feeling that explosion of emotions terrified me: the thoughts that always drifted to him in my free moments, the desire to see him, that kind of anxious excitement before meeting up, the chills running over my skin the moment our eyes met. That wave of sensations scared me. I didn’t want to fall in love, didn’t want to start something new, especially since the wound from my last love was still fresh.

No longer bleeding, but still open and fragile.

So fragile that a single touch could make it bleed again.

Joost was healing a wound he hadn’t caused. Without knowing it, he was soothing me with a beautifully calming rhythm, slowly making me trust him.

-Did you sleep more last night, or am I wrong?-

But it wasn’t time yet.

Would that time ever come? I didn’t know.

What I did know was that this relationship would end. Like everything else, even the good things come to an end.

Especially the good things.

The question was: would it end by evolving into something deeper, or would it break under the weight of our anxieties?

-Breathe. Relax. Enjoy the moment.-

I sighed, letting the smoke out through my nose. I rested my chin on my palm, holding the finished cigarette with the other hand.

That day, I felt particularly overwhelmed. I’d been working all morning, hadn’t carved out even a tiny bit of time for a break. Cigarettes were my “break,” if you could call it that: two minutes of filling my lungs with filth, paradoxically relaxing. Paradoxically warm.

I chuckled at the thought, glancing at my desk. It was messy and mirrored my state of being perfectly: scattered papers, small pencil sketches covering their surfaces alongside important notes, my laptop dying and about to shut off.

I took one last drag, then crushed the filter on the cold windowsill and finally closed the window.

Sniffling, I returned to my spot and checked my notifications.

No notifications.

-I want to be with Joost.-

I furrowed my brow and, without thinking twice, opened our chat, filled with quick messages but also silly or meaningful conversations. When we couldn’t see each other, any excuse was good enough to stay in touch.

Just a few minutes to make sure we weren’t letting go of each other. Holding on to that safe place.

“Wanna meet up later?”

Sent today at 5:16 PM.

Surprisingly, I got a reply immediately, before I even had time to put my phone down.

That was strange, considering Joost usually took forever to answer a message.

A carrier pigeon might’ve been faster at showing signs of life.

Sometimes I almost felt lucky to have him in my life. He was always busy with creative work, but still made the effort to give you attention.

“I was just about to text you and ask the same.”

Sent today at 5:16 PM.

That message brought a shy, stupid, useless smile to my face. And as soon as I realized it, I shook my head, biting down on my lower lip.

-Was he thinking about me?-

“At your place?”

Sent today at 5:16 PM.

“Come over when you’re free.”

Sent today at 5:17 PM.

So, after reading that last message, I turned off my phone and stood up, stretching and mentally cursing the version of myself that had bought chairs as uncomfortable as they were beautiful.

Needless to say, I left work on hold, weighing the desire to see the guy who gave me orgasms worthy of divine classification, against the need to finish the work I had piled up.

A good worker would’ve chosen wisely.

At 9:00 PM, I was in his bed.

My exhaustion gone after yet another round of sex that served as a release from those heavy, endless days. The simple feeling of his lips on my body, his hands in my hair, his gaze on me, and his dick buried deep inside me while he praised me and told me how beautiful I looked naked. Well, it made me feel good.

My head rested peacefully on his chest, legs tangled in the white sheet and with his, while I lazily caressed his calf with the top of my foot. I felt his fingers softly travel across the warm skin of my back, his calm breathing rising and falling beneath the hand I’d placed on his chest, playing with the hair there, mimicking his movements.

The welcoming silence thundered in my ears. His heartbeat set the background to the thousand thoughts flowing gently through my mind. The feeling of truly being wanted cradled me.

It was those moments.

Those moments I lived with premature nostalgia, thinking of when we’d part, of how much I’d miss them when I’d be alone, of how stupid I was for starting something like this.

“What are you thinking about?” His deep, raspy voice, thick from silence and exhaustion, made me shrug, caught slightly off guard.

“Nothing” I answered in a whisper, letting my hand glide across his stomach and down his side, trying to cuddle closer. In response, he gently turned toward me, letting me curl into him even more.

“Liar, you’re too quiet” he said, wrapping me in his warm, pale arms, brushing a hand against my cheek, which was now tinged with a soft blush.

“Just tired” I whispered, almost not wanting to break the silence between us.

I looked up at him, seeing his eyes, now narrow slits, likely trying to focus on me. He looked so innocent with that little curious pout, without his glasses, and with messy hair.

“Hungry? Want to order something?” he offered, stroking my cheek with his thumb, keeping his gaze on me, at least as much as he could.

“Maybe later” I nodded, savoring the warmth his palm gave me as it cradled my face. Touch was definitely a language that went beyond words. It was an expression of love that reassured me I wasn’t making a mistake.

Physical closeness made me feel safe, made me feel wanted.

“I really want to kiss you” he murmured a moment later, making me smile as I felt the grip of his other hand tighten, more eager, on my bare waist. I looked at him and noticed the hint of sleep in his expression. It made me laugh, because I already knew where this would end: kissing sloppily, filling the room with wet sounds, soft moans, and giggles.

“How will you do that if you can’t see?” I raised my eyebrows, watching his confused frown fade as I reached toward the nightstand and grabbed his thick glasses. Both his hands slid to my hips, and I felt his lips lazily rest on my shoulder.

“I still don’t get how you manage to see anything” I shifted slightly, putting his glasses on him and holding his face to lift his gaze toward mine. His sleepy expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes were more focused now, filled with desire, mirrored in the way he gripped my warm, tingling skin.

This boy made me feel everything.

In seconds, I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. We started kissing, our tongues dancing inside each other’s mouths. I felt his breath growing heavier, his grip dropping to my ass. I kept one hand on his face and the other resting gently on his chest. He bit my lower lip and pushed his hips involuntarily against my thigh, his half-hard length pressing against me. He squeezed one cheek and kept kissing me hungrily.

I moaned into his mouth and instinctively brought my other hand to his cheek too, caressing him with my thumbs and pulling myself closer.

I felt overwhelmed, and it was the most beautiful feeling, because I knew, no matter what, Joost would be there to handle it.

He pulled away for a second to look at me. To observe my flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, glossy lips parted just enough to breathe. He gently pushed me under him, letting his hands explore my waist again.

“I could kiss you without stopping” he murmured warmly against my cheek, making me smile and move my hands to his shoulders. He began kissing his way from my cheek to my lips, then down my body, leaving little bites that drew soft moans from my throat.

“I’m bringing you to my next concert” he whispered against the warm skin of my chest, looking up at me but never stopping his trail of kisses.

“What?” I giggled, running my fingers through his hair and pulling him up for a kiss. I hadn’t quite caught the meaning of that sentence, I was more focused on how wet he’d just made me again.

-Didn’t catch it, or didn’t want to?-

“You said you’d like to come. I got you a backstage pass” he repeated, kissing my lips again before nestling into my neck, not giving me time to fully process it. I paused, eyes widening, pulling away slightly to stop him from kissing and distracting me more.

“Really?” I whispered, laughing and halting my hands in his hair. He looked up and locked eyes with mine.

“Yeah, You told me once you’d like to be there.”

I had told him. Almost a month ago. And he had remembered.

He had remembered that tiny sentence buried in a much larger conversation about his budding music career.

“you remembered it..” I whispered, unable to hold back a smile, which brought one to his face too. I felt his hands grip my hips, and his face disappeared from my view as he buried it once again in my neck.

“Of course I did. I remember everything you tell me” he said, sliding a hand between my legs, pressing his middle finger against my clit, then moving it between my already wet lips. I clenched around nothing, arching my back slightly and grabbing a fistful of his blond hair.

“You like it when I touch you, huh?” That phrase made me shiver and moan, writhing under the continuous pressure at my throbbing center.

“Yes… don’t stop- keep.. keep going” I murmured with closed eyes as I felt his fingers slowly push inside me, deepening the sensation alongside the bites he placed on my skin.

“I can’t wait to take you backstage, to fuck you, to cover your mouth while I pull your hair” he murmured. That image only heightened everything, his fingers curling inside me, his thumb circling my clit. I bit my lower lip, my breath quickening as chills ran down my spine. The heat from his body, the sheets, and the pleasure itself was so comforting I could’ve melted right then and there.

I felt his hips press against my thigh, his growing hardness brushing against my skin.

“Please, Joost…” I whispered, opening my eyes and tugging gently on his hair to lift his face. He did so, increasing the rhythm of his fingers, eyes locked onto my expression, entirely lost in pleasure.

“Turn around” he instructed softly, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to my lips. I opened my mouth and welcomed them, tasting myself as I sucked them hungrily. His breathing grew heavier, his arousal harder against my leg, and his smile deepened as he pushed his fingers further into my mouth. I licked them thoroughly before releasing them.

“You’re beautiful. Always” he whispered as he slowly sat up, supporting himself on his knees to give me room to turn over. I rolled onto my stomach, tucking my shoulders in and arching my back deliberately, accentuating the curve of my hips.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, but seeing you naked beneath me… you’re even more” he said, making me blush and bury my face into the pillow. His hands took hold of the soft skin of my backside, giving it light taps and gentle squeezes as he leaned forward, trailing kisses down my spine, focusing on the dimples just above my hips.

After a few moments, I sensed him move away to grab a condom left ready on the nightstand. I raised my hips slightly, feeling exposed. When he returned to the bed, he didn’t take long to land a sharp smack on my right cheek, making me gasp and moan into the pillow, the sound fading into the rhythm of our heavy breaths.

He slid into me, gripping my hips tightly with urgent hands, which soon after struck my skin again, reddening it. He plunged his full length in and began to move at a steady pace. That position was one of his favorites: I could tell by the way he groaned, the way he caressed my back, the way his voice faltered with each thrust. I was starting to understand those parts of him too.

“God.. I- fuck..” he moaned roughly, driving into me with force, pressing his chest to my back, panting against my ear, leaving wet kisses on my shoulder. One of his hands smacked me again before grabbing both cheeks, spreading them slightly, as if to remind me he was in control. The pleasure was overwhelming. My face was pressed into the softness of the pillow, one hand clutching the pillowcase, the other buried beneath it. The sound of our bodies meeting filled the room, layering more heat between our naked skin and the craving for a physical pleasure that somehow calmed the soul.

I tightened around him, moaning loudly as his fingers moved to my clit again, adding an electric edge to the sensation.

“Come for me, baby, come” he whispered through ragged breaths, keeping the same intense rhythm, his circles on my sensitive bud pushing me closer to the edge. His other hand found mine, intertwining our fingers, still gripping the pillowcase.

I felt my legs tense, breath caught in my throat, and the knot of orgasm unraveled, taking me over in seconds. I closed my eyes and let the wave crash over me, breathless, as Joost continued his movement until he followed, spilling into the condom, giving his last thrusts meaningless, still clutching my hand like it was the only anchor he had.

He covered me in kisses and caresses, the urgency of sex now wrapped in the softness of intimacy.

“Of course I did. I remember everything you tell me.”

That sentence echoed in my head for days. It was etched into my heart, engraved in my memory. He was taking me to one of his concerts because he had read between the lines of my words. He was taking me to his show, and all our friends would finally see the kind of bond that held us together.

We had done everything in secret without even meaning to. It wasn’t about hiding, we had just kept things private.

It wasn’t supposed to be more than sex.

Supposed to, because whether I liked it or not, I felt it that day.

Something romantic was growing. I was becoming more aware of the bond forming between us, strengthening with each passing day.

I saw it in his eyes. I saw it in his smile. I felt it every time we were together, heard it in the whispered words, in the how are you? he’d send me throughout the day.

The fear was slowly slipping away. I was starting to let go, to trust him more and more.

-You’re moving forward. Letting yourself be led by the depth of the passion that binds you… isn’t that what love is?-

And finally, the day of the concert arrived. A day that was meant to be the most beautiful of all, the fullest, the most emotional. I would finally see him perform, I’d see him on stage, full of life. I would be there for him.

A day that was meant to mark the beginning of something deeper.

But happiness crumbled all at once. Reality hit me in the face, suddenly. My eyes saw what they shouldn’t have seen, not during that time, not on that day, not in that moment.

Not in those fragile, delicate moments.

It was the morning of that fateful day, a quiet and strangely peaceful Saturday.

There was something in the air, tranquility tainted by the joy of being part of such an important event for Joost. I had decided to go for a walk, planning to stop by the supermarket and grab something quick for lunch with him. After that, we’d leave together. We’d go together. I’d be with him all day.

But everything changed when I found myself walking down the aisles of that supermarket, torn between which instant ramen to get, trying to remember the favorite of the guy with whom I had, more than once, shared that simple meal.

I turned my head slightly.

Maybe it was an involuntary movement.

Maybe deep down I knew I was about to ruin that day for myself.

Or maybe it was just pure coincidence that led me to do it.

But I saw him.

I saw my ex-boyfriend standing right there, next to me, mirroring my action, holding two different packs of ramen. Probably to share with his new girlfriend.

My shoulders tensed, and without realizing it, I tightened my grip. I stood there, staring at his body, leaning casually on his right leg, his face caught in some sort of indecisive thought… And just his presence, so coincidental, so close, froze me.

My knees started to tremble. I could feel my heart pumping faster, sending blood coursing through my body. My mind was completely fogged.

I was so disappointed, so angry, and so sad that I got swept away by the confusion that took over my thoughts.

And it all got worse when our eyes met, when I saw the surprised look on his face. And then, that smile.

That damn smile I used to be so in love with, so lost in…

And for a moment, I was almost afraid of it.

“Hi, y/n.” Hearing his voice again didn’t do me any good, not at all. It caused a painful tightness in the middle of my chest.

My breath caught in my throat.

Every muscle in my body tensed.

He stepped closer, and I forced a weak smile.

“Hi” I answered coldly, shifting my gaze back to the ramen that had now taken on the role of distraction puppets, something, anything to keep my mind off his presence.

-Is your heart beating fast for him too?-

“It’s been a while since we, uh… saw each other” he continued, his tone almost regretful, dripping with guilt. In three years, I had never heard him sound like that.

“Yeah” I replied, lifting my gaze again, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw how he was looking at me.

“I never really got the chance to apologize… for how I ended things.”

-Why was he telling me this? Why now?-

“It’s fine. I guess our paths were just meant to part” I replied simply, feeling the tension in my shoulders release just a little.

But… he had made the effort to say sorry.

Maybe…

“How are you? You look good.”

He slipped into my thoughts just like he used to. I smiled at that memory, nodded slightly, and let out a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“I’m good. And you?” It came out naturally, as if some part of me still wanted to know. And that scared me.

-You should hate him for how he treated you.-

We talked for maybe ten minutes. The most adrenaline-filled, fastest ten minutes of my life. Ten minutes that ruined my day, and the days that followed.

He said he’d like to see me again, to “talk things through, over a cup of tea.”

But would that really solve anything?

Was my racing heart just a reflex?

Or was I still caught up in him?

Did his presence matter as much as Joost’s?

-Did Joost matter as much as him?-

That question, that thought, those words, they haunted me the entire day. They made me distant, stuck in my head, detached from reality, drowning in guilt. Every time Joost reached for my hand, for my gaze, tried to read what was going on inside me. Every time he sought even the smallest touch, I felt myself sink deeper into the dark pit of guilt.

I could see it in his eyes, he wanted to talk to me.

He wanted to ask what was wrong.

But he didn’t have the mental space for it, not on that day, not like that. His face showed worry, but I gave him no room to ask. If he had asked too much, my guilt would’ve broken me, I would’ve cried. And that would’ve made things worse.

That day was his.

And I ruined it.

I ruined everything because of my mood.

I was finally backstage with all our friends, Joost’s team, and Joost himself, who was getting ready for the concert. I held a plastic cup with something alcoholic in it. The atmosphere was buzzing: nervous energy, joy, laughter, light teasing.

It would’ve been warm, welcoming… if I weren’t drowning in this internal mess. I lifted my gaze and looked at Joost from afar. He was laughing with a mutual friend, probably at some joke they’d shared. I heard his laughter from across the room and my expression softened.

A wave of pain hit my stomach, only slightly dulled by the sparkling liquid I swallowed.

-Why am I acting like this?-

My eyes dropped to the dark floor. My thoughts were clouded with images of both men.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about my ex, but how could I not?

“You sure you’re okay?” Joost’s voice startled me, a mix of concern and warmth. I met his gaze and smiled, but he didn’t smile back.

This time, he saw through me.

He knew I was lying.

“Yeah, hey, don’t worry about me.” I said, placing a hand on his arm, squeezing his shoulder, trying to stay close.

“I know something’s off. You’re not having fun? You don’t feel comfortable?” He asked again, clearly worried but I detected a flicker of irritation in his tone.

I couldn’t tell him what had happened that morning.

Not then.

That would’ve been cruel.

“Joost, really- don’t worry… I’m fine” I insisted, brushing my lips gently against his cheek and giving his shoulder another caress. He forced a smile. Pretended to believe me.

But the tension between us was unbearable.

When he came back to me after the concert, he was buzzing with energy, his white tank top soaked in sweat, face flushed, hair tousled. He couldn’t wait to hold me.

I saw it in his excitement, the adrenaline coursing through him. Everyone congratulated him, but I stood aside… feeling like I didn’t belong in that explosive moment of joy.

And as he came toward me, all I could think was that I can’t handle this. His energy, his light, it’s too much for someone like me.

-I have to talk to my ex. I need to know what he wants to clarify.-

That thought, beating in my head since the morning, was shattered in one instant. Joost cupped my face and pressed his lips to mine.

Time froze.

I tasted his freshness, felt his heart beating against my lips, his breath caught in the branches of his lungs, his hands holding my face so close. I kissed him back. But the weight of the moment broke me.

Everyone had seen us. And instead of feeling enchanted… I felt horrified.

Terrified.

Tears welled in my eyes. I gripped his wrists and when I pulled away, I couldn’t even look at him.

It felt like I had betrayed him.

“Hey…” His soft, breathless voice wrapped around me like a thread. He gently moved, trying to lift my face toward his. The tears slipped down freely.

I bit my bottom lip and shook my head, overwhelmed by shame.

“Please, talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.” His pleading made it painfully clear I was the problem. I was the one hurting this still-forming relationship.

Maybe it wasn’t even going to form at all.

I held back sobs, eyes shut tightly.

I felt so small in front of him.

“This morning, I saw him… and I don’t know if I’m ready to move on.”

I confessed. I didn’t even have the strength to look at him.

I had ruined everything.

Me and my insecurities had ruined it all.

And I didn’t want to ruin Joost.

That pure soul didn’t deserve it.

#joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost x you #joost fanfic #joost klein smut #joost klein x y/n #joost klein fluff #joost klein x you #joost klein angst #joost klein fanfic #joost klein rpf #fanfic #fanficz

131 notes · View notes

larcenywrites · 9 months ago

Note

Hi English is not my first language, so sorry for the mistakes, but I could do a Kurt Wagner x reader, in which the reader follows the Wicca religion, or something linked to witchcraft, they are both in a relationship and I would like to see how their different beliefs would affect their relationship (already that Kurt is Catholic although I believe he has no prejudice in dating someone with a different religion I would like to see how this would affect their coexistence)

sorry for the writing errors

I have lots of thoughts about this that I can’t reflect in a single one shot, so for now I’ll do some headcanons! However, it would be interesting to parallel this with a spin on Kurt’s 2004 solo series! So I will probably do something with that :) Obviously, I can do research, but I am in no way knowledgeable about the practices nor those who practice wicca or witchcraft. I don’t want to generalize and say, like, “Kurt x witch reader”, but I’m not quite sure what else exactly to put :(

Nightcrawler with a Witch S/O

Headcanons

Warnings: aside from mentions of religion and witchcraft there’s nothing | I mean there’s some cute stuff here and there if it counts :)

⚜️ Kurt may be catholic, but his background is full of diverse people with different perspectives and practices!

⚜️ Scarlet Witch, his adopted mother, and his adopted sister all practice witchcraft, and he has a… well, decent enough relationship with all of them! But any of their spats have nothing to do with their way of life!

⚜️ He means well when he wants to drag you to mass Sunday morning. Really! He does! It’s something he’s done with every one of his friends by now, anyway, but it’s just that it’s a huge part of his life! He genuinely just wants you there! Sure, he can’t deny there’s always going to be some part of him that wants you to also be on some level of his own religion, but again, it’s from no place of ill will.

⚜️ After all, even though he has seen firsthand that this rule is relatively loose, I think it’s normal for someone in his belief system to worry whether their life partner will be able to join them in the afterlife :( He’s going to worry about it from time to time. He’s also definitely going to pray about it a lot. Take it in a sweet way— he just really cares about your love so much that he’s afraid it’ll have to end 🥲

⚜️ He also means well when he brings home various herbs and wildflowers he’s seen you use!! He probably even tries to make a cute little bouquet to present them! Obviously the source of said plants might not be ideal 😅 So maybe it’s time to expand a little garden! Plus, having a small garden if your preferred ingredients or offerings is a good way to teach him a thing or two in case he needs it (again), and he enjoys helping out in non-direct ways! Besides, gardening is a cute activity to do together 😘

⚜️ Speaking of which, while he’ll always be grounded in his faith, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t acknowledge everything around him! He’s seen demons and gods, magic and ghosts, heaven and… well, not hell, but you get the gist! So don’t worry, he knows well enough that not only what you do is real and powerful, but still a respectable craft. In fact, I’m sure he holds a deep respect especially if you tend to be one who thanks the Earth/ask permission for resources often. And you just might rub off on him! While he would be thanking God instead, it probably makes him more mindful of his everyday interactions with the environment 😌

⚜️ But because of his own beliefs, I’m sure certain practices or spells would make him nervous 😅 Because of this, if there’s a specific deity/god/goddess/etc you answer to/pray to that really clashes with his morals and beliefs, a relationship probably won’t last long.

⚜️ But just because some things make him nervous, it doesn’t mean he’s going to leave or anything. He might not partake in a tarot drawing or participate in certain things, but he still respects it and trusts you.

⚜️ But, uh, there might also be times when he’s literally in the next room holding the cross around his neck and praying aloud while you’re trying to do something 🤧 But this also works the other way around! Not only does it probably throw off either of your thoughts, but I’m sure it doesn’t help either of you when you both might be putting very different energy into the room rn 😅

⚜️ If for whatever reason you ever need something from him, like a bit of his fur, you probably have his permission already to just walk up to him with a pair of scissors! Even so, he usually asks billion questions 😒 So is it worth the hassle?

⚜️ While your beliefs and intentions may be different, you both might share quite a few daily rituals! Kurt won’t at all mind sharing the rug or the lawn with you if you meditate as often as he does. You both use it for similar reasons, really. It might even be both nice and interesting to have a conversation about any thoughts and experiences afterward 💙 Maybe, for once, you both found the answers you needed this morning and can share it :)

⚜️ But there are some other things he considers more “harmless,” so to speak that he does participate in. If you tend to journal things like dreams and daily experiences to cross reference later for any signs and such, he might do it too. Well- he’ll probably tell you his dreams or a reoccurrence he’s noticed (especially if it’s something that has been stressing him or maybe he’s just got a gut feeling he can’t explain) and see what you have to say about it! Just because you have different beliefs doesn’t mean he can’t find value in what you have studied and what you have to say!

⚜️ I’m sure many mornings he likes to drink teas with specific herbs and what they’re known for, and you might also partake in this! Of course, there’s probably much more intention behind the herbs you use, the way you prepare it, the way you stir it, but sometimes Kurt just likes to feel involved :)

⚜️ You don’t have to worry about him messing with any of your stuff! It’s probably out of both respect and paranoia, but he won’t mess with any alters or offerings or generally just the way you have your side of the room set up (though, probably after some gentle explaining here and there…)

⚜️ However, he may have a hard time with wanting to look at and touch any rocks and crystals… In a very respectful way, he just thinks they’re pretty and neat, okay? ;w; To be honest, get him one or two to have of his own that you think he needs when he’s stressed or when he’s out on missions. Kurt will carry them with him everywhere ❤️‍🩹 Because while he might not always believe that they carry this or that type of energy, he knows it means you care 🥰

#nightcrawler #nightcrawler x reader #nightcrawler imagine #nightcrawler headcanon #kurt wagner #kurt wagner x reader #kurt wagner headcanon #kurt wagner imagine #x men #x men headcanons #x men imagine #x men x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel headcanons #marvel imagine #huhbsmsj

155 notes · View notes

weirdly-specific-but-ok · 1 year ago

Text

pt XVI good omens season 2 (still not traumatic) episode 3 EDINBURGH

HELLO IT'S ME IT'S THE OFFICIAL GOOD OMENS MASCOT WHY DO I STILL KEEP INTRODUCING MYSELF IDK. If you don't know who I am, thank God and Satan for their mercy and flee. Also, the day after I post this, I'll be watching the last three episodes on livestream for the first time so. You know. I'm hyped on the energy of this being my last day not enveloped in tears. Take the summary:

Before the episode starts, someone asks why Crowley said in the last episode that Aziraphale couldn't fall because look at him, all angelic when Crowley looked the same as starmaker. I reply that "Crowley thinks he deserved it, he sees Azi as something beautiful and untouched while he probably sees himself as idk marked in some way so god kicked him down."

I am told that I am learning too fast to weaponise the narrative to induce angst. So then I say oh, I go too fast for you. Tears ensue.

The episode begins! Everyone shrieks about Edinburgh, David Tennant, how it is their favourite episode, and SCOTTISH CROWLEY.

We open with lesbians being gay, and then Muriel enters as Inspector Constable! They are very sweet and very determined to do their job right, and they are adopted by Crowley and Aziraphale just like Jim.

Crowley sits on Aziraphale's chair's arm. The maggots all swoon.

Fine, I also swooned.

Aziraphale gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss-mansplain-manipulate-manwhores his way into getting Crowley to give him the Bentley keys (BOUNDARIES. BOUNDARIES.).

WHAT PLENTY OF USE DO BOTH OF YOU GET OUT OF THE BOOKSHOP?

The really ineffable plan is whatever the fuck was happening in Aziraphale's brain when he somehow went from London to Edinburgh via Loch Ness (check the map) and then proceeded to disguise himself as a detective who pretends to be a journalist.

Crowley slays in sleeve garters and a cardigan keeping house in the bookshop meanwhile, does not sell books, instead cleans with Jimbriel and periodically yeets book stacks into corners when distracted.

Aziraphale reads his old diary entries about Crowley, a (6000+) 13 year old with a crush.

MINISODE MINISODE. They are in Edinburgh during the mid 1800s. Victorian outfits, check. Scottish Crowley, check. Capitalist Karen Aziraphale, che-wait what.

Huh. Well. There's a wee bit of body snatchin' going on, to sell to doctors for medical research because there aren't enough murderers, and to make enough money to survive.

Aziraphale channels his inner capitalist judgemental Karen and ruins that plan, come on Aziraphale you have religious trauma but you're better than this, and long story short, Wee Morag dies after Aziraphale realises his error, her friend Elspeth has to sell her corpse for pennies, and is about to commit suicide with laudanum. Azi, oh god. I'm glad you underwent character development at least.

NOW CROWLEY HERE SLAYS. I KNOW THIS IS AZIRAPHALE'S PERSPECTIVE AND IS BIASED. BUT WITH THIS POV, CROWLEY SLAYS.

He calmly educates Aziraphale about how his whole "the poor have more opportunities and you shouldn't give them money or they'll lose the virtue of poverty" is absolute bullshit, and he does this understanding Aziraphale's situation and not losing his temper.

The framing. The framing of the shot when they see Wee Morag and Elspeth sitting down on a step and explaining their situation. Aziraphale stands above, bustling with righteousness, and judges them. Crowley sits down. He sits down next to them, rather than taking the high ground. He meets them where they are and empathises. It is the fact that he is fallen and damned that makes him behave really divine and sorry I wrote a whole hymn on him have it I'll stop rambling just know I love him.

I think his amusement is a facade so hell won't think he's genuinely being good. I think he's morally grey and incredibly brave and kind.

When Elspeth is bouta kill herself with the laudanum, Crowley grabs it and drinks it himself, and grows tiny and then huge, absolutely high off his head. David Tennant takes the opportunity to travel Scotland from east to west in terms of accent variety.

He gives us the good message of NO DYIN'. NO MORE DYIN'. IT'S NOT ON. And then forces Aziraphale (who doesn't want to ruin her virtuous poverty) to give the girl all the guineas he has in his pocket, and tells her to go off and start a farm or something. BUT NOT JUST PRETENDY GOOD, BE PROPERLY GOOD.

He then gets pulled into hell. To be punished for this. Aziraphale is frightened and heartbroken for him, looking around desperately, and we find out that Crowley didn't meet him for a while after. And later he wanted holy water. To protect himself? He got punished by hell. For how long? The whole month in between the incident and the diary entry? There can't be anyone better at punishment and cruelty than hell.

Sorry I'm just screaming here.

Never mind fuck I started this summary really happy and bouncy and listening to a dance playlist. Dionysus by BTS and Italian pop is still playing and now I'm crying.

Is this the natural progression. Fuck I'm crying. Sorry guys something else happens with Aziraphale politely talking to a phone and Crowley smiling really beautifully while unsuccessfully trying to manipulate two lesbians into a relationship and something about a visit I don't care everyone's being morally dubious as usual and then lovely Scottish music outro I CAN'T FUCKING ELABORATE I'M SITTING HERE CRYING OVER CROWLEY.

right summary done, time to go sob, lmao i thought i wouldn't cry today over good omens HAHAHAHA still not traumatic eh HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

428 notes · View notes

ughgoaway · 4 months ago

Text

all those dreams where you're my wife

Word count; 10.8k (my longest fic ever??)

Content warnings; Swearing, being sick, excessive/unsafe drinking, fighting, many emotions, sex, unsafe sex (time is of the essence here), public sex, in this universe men wear engagement rings okay, jumping perspectives, mediocre writing, defo spelling errors however if I read this again I'll die, and hurt no comfort… (sorry not sorry).

Authors note; it's taken me fucking forever to write this monster of a fic, and it might be shit and all be wasted time, but at least I had a fun time doing it for the first time in a while. Hope you all enjoy <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

A cheesy pop song blasts in your ears as you watch your sister unwrap yet another thing with “bride to be” plastered across the front, and somehow she's still just as thrilled by it every time. She's wrapped up in the dressing gown you got her, once again with “bride” sprawled across the back, but you ensured her name was also embroidered on it, reminding her that she does still have an actual name that is unrelated to the man she’s marrying.

Matty sits next to her, faking excitement and feigning smiles with every unwrapping, cooing and beaming, putting up a pretty good act. But knowing him as you do, you can see in his eyes that all he wants is a cigarette and some peace and quiet. Still, it looks like he’s doing a pretty good job fooling the rest of the room judging by the swooning from the other bridesmaids. You hear the hushed whispers shared between your sister's so-called friends, trying not to roll your eyes as each word falls from their lips.

“Oh, isn't he just so sweet?”

“He can't keep his eyes off her!”

“Ugh, he’s so perfect. Does he have a brother? I need to find someone just like him”

The last comment cuts especially deep, and it takes everything in you not to mutter under your breath that she just needs to wait until her older sister gets a boyfriend and then simply steal him out from under her and marry him. But to make it authentic, she would need to make sure she told that sister throughout the entire relationship how awful and manipulative said boyfriend is. And finally, to really ensure accuracy, she would need to only wait 3 weeks after they break up to text him. That's how your sister found Matty, after all.

Not that you were bitter, or anything.

Despite seeing right through Matty’s devoted fiancee act, you can't deny that every smile that passes his lips is like a bullet to your chest. Each present is a new shot being loaded in the chamber, even tacky gifts like matching “his and hers” mugs and “Mr and Mrs Healy” engraved watches are agony.

You swear you could hear the click and spin of the bullets being slowly loaded in with every balled-up piece of wrapping paper. The shared coy grins hit you harder than anything, and if you looked down you were sure crimson would be spreading over your dress, distorting the dusty rose satin as the blood pools in your gut from the bullet holes left behind.

A shrill scream forces you to focus again, but every fibre of your being wishes you had left your head swirling in your nightmare. Matty's eyes are filled with something other than distaste for the first time in the evening, but not because they're meeting yours as you had hoped. Instead, he watches with a sly smile as his bride-to-be opens the present from him, a brand new Hermes Birkin bag. It’s a garish shade of bubblegum pink with silver hardware, the stiff leather detailed so carefully was almost taunting you, a perfect representation of your nauseatingly perfect sister.

The pure bliss on his face, matched with the tears pouring from your sister's eyes becomes too much, and suddenly you feel bile rising in your throat. You manage to slip away unnoticed, mainly due to the ear-piercing squeals coming from your sister's stuck-up housewife friends as they internally damn their husbands whilst acting happy for the future Mrs Healy.

You barely make it to the bathroom before the 6 glasses of champagne you downed unceremoniously come up again, gripping the cold ceramic basin as you vomit, tears streaming down your perfectly made-up face with each gag.

Slowly you stand again, head rushing as the blood pooling in your head trickled down your body. Too quickly you’re faced with your reflection, staring into the mirrored cabinet as you turn on the tap, letting the water wash away the contents of your stomach. You can't help but trace over your features as you stare, the bags under your eyes are decorated with smudges of black mascara and tears, making the deep purple they already were more obscured and sunken.

Snot drips from your nose, and you feel out of your own body when you see your hand go up to wipe it, but you swear you didn't move an inch. Your eyelashes are clumped together, sticky makeup gripping them harshly, and your once-freckled skin is caked in thick layers of foundation and concealer, hiding any sense of personality you have. Baby pink blush is delicately placed on the apples of your cheeks, faking laughter and smiles that you couldn't muster if you tried. Lastly, your eyes finally meet themselves, staring into your soul unwavering, it’s cruel and intrusive as you see your every emotion leak from them.

You bear your teeth at yourself, watching your cheeks wrinkle as they tug themselves into a grimace, fighting so hard to pull it harder into a smile, but your skin fights back. One day you'll learn how to hide how you feel, plaster on that grin in a way that doesn't look like a wince, but today is not that day. The wrinkles that decorate your face tell the story you can't, the story of agony and yearning, of missing someone you let go. Pink lipstick is pulled across your face, tugging your dull and lifeless skin as your hand smudges it on purpose, desperate to see colour back in your face.

The rose colour fills the smile lines on your face that were once deep and full of joy. Now, they're replaced by frown lines and crow's feet, sinking deeper and pulling any youth and joy left out of your face. Every day, more of each leak from your soul, replaced by envy and disgust, by the memories of the life you had, by watching the life you were meant to live being played out in front of you, with your sister in your starring role.

A harsh knock on the door pulls you away from dissecting each and every inch of yourself, a familiar voice ringing through the wood.

“You alright love? I saw you run off, guessed this would be the only place you'd be” Matty’s voice leaches through the barrier between you, and you can't decide whether you need nothing more than to see the pity in his eyes or if that would just be another bullet. Still, you unlock the door with a click, meeting his eyes with your practised smile, praying it's not the poorly guised scowl you did earlier.

His eyes flutter at the sight of you, fighting the cheap look of sympathy he wants to give. You watch his chest expand, his mouth opening and closing as his hand reaches out to yours. The warmth of his skin was so close to radiating on yours before it was snatched away, your sister swooping in and grabbing it, draping herself over his shoulder with a pouted lip and a look of pity covering her face.

“Oh god, what happened to you?” she asks brashly. Tact never was her strong suit, any thoughts she had always either decorated her face or simply fell straight from her lips.

Honesty tickles at your throat, and you feel the words clawing their way out, “I was so disgusted at the idea of you marrying the only man I've ever loved that I was fucking sick. And I'm so jealous and jaded that I can't even face myself one more day. Every time I see you both a part of me dies, and I don't know how much of me there is left to lose.”

But obviously, you push that honesty so deep down it once again becomes resentment, and you muster up a lie, “m’ so sorry. Someone at work has a bug and I think I've caught it. Had to run and make sure I didn't ruin your day.” your voice dripping with faux sorrow.

Matty's eyes narrow at you, his fingers fighting to loosen from the vice-like grip of your sisters, but she doesn't budge, cooing at you before speaking, “Oh dear! I hope you'll be okay by Saturday, you're doing the cake!”

For a second there you thought you were about to get actual sympathy from her, but no, just another selfish desire clouding any semblance of sisterly love left in her body. So you feel less bad when you answer her saying, “No no, I should be fine, but only if I miss your bachelorette tonight. I'm so sorry, but we can’t risk you getting sick too.”

Her full body cringes at the idea of getting sick before her big day, so she begrudgingly agrees to let you have the night off, but not before adding that you “owe her big time.” You have to fight the part of you that wants to say her stealing your boyfriend pretty much absolves you of any favours forever, but instead you nod and smile solemnly.

Sickly strong perfume swarms your senses as she wraps herself around your body, rocking you from side to side as if hushing a baby, “we’ll miss you so much! I'll have a drink in your memory, yeah?” she remarks as if you're dead already, gripping your shoulders so hard that her acrylic nails leave crescent-shaped marks in your skin. She pulls away a few seconds too quickly for most families, but honestly, any contact with her at this point makes your body practically break out in hives.

Before you can process it, a familiar aftershave overwhelms you, hands sliding behind your back just had they had done a thousand times before. Matty strokes your skin how he used to, 3 long drags across your back and a squeeze before locking his fingers in the hollow of your back, resting his chin on your head. Seconds drip like honey in his hold, and your eyes flutter shut as memories cascade over you.

But the cold unforgiving air rushes you soon enough, Matty’s hand once again caught in the stronghold of your sisters. Matty's eyes hold yours as he's dragged back into the garden, nodding at you three times to ask if you're really okay, the way he used to when it was just you two, the same caring look pooling in his eyes.

You don't nod back.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

The burn is familiar when another glug of tequila slides down your throat, the very last drops falling on your tongue as you shake the bottle dry, desperate to feel anything other than the pain caused by the shitstorm in your head. But whatever tequila you managed to force down your throat wasn't even enough to make you tipsy, let alone enough to start to forget. You're starting to think you won't ever forget, you know that physically he’s gone but he’ll never truly leave.

The cupboards in your kitchen rattle as you throw each and every one open, desperate to find another bottle of something. It could be half empty or full to the top, you just needed something to dull the everpresent ache. You’d never felt like this before, it's all so painfully new. But fuck, you wish it was somehow a familiar kind of new, maybe even the same new as it was when Matty first met you. A warm new rather than one so icy and cold you feel forever frozen. Empty cabinets taunt you, and eventually, you throw yourself on a chair in your kitchen, tapping the wood of the counter as exasperation fills your bones.

You try to stay where you are, alone in your empty house, your leg rattling the chair you're sitting on with every impatient bounce of your knee. But an empty house isn't ever really empty; it's simply sitting and waiting, just like you. Soon, the waiting becomes too much, and your inability to forget drags you from your house with your keys in hand, walking to the closest bar with the cheapest shots.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

The bell over the bar door jingles as you skulk in, moving straight to the corner, preparing to hole up there the rest of the night. But a familiar chortling laugh fills your ears whilst simultaneously filling you with dread. Slowly you turn your head, letting your hair obscure your vision in some delusional hope that you don’t know exactly who that laugh came from, and that when you turn your head your eyes aren't going to meet his.

But you turn anyway, pulling your hair away from your face and everything clicks just as you thought. A table covered in bottles and glasses, cheap crowns precariously placed on each head around. Raucous laughter poured from every drunk body sitting around the filled table, except for one. Matty’s ring finger traces around the lip of the half-empty beer he has been nursing all night, his eyes unfocused and staring off into the distance, his friends oblivious to him as they chant “Chug! Chug! Chug!” at George downing yet another cheap beer.

You want to move away from the vision before you, but you stay locked in, looking, staring, studying.

Waiting.

And then, he shifts his view, so subtle anyone would miss it, but you don't. Recognition gradually turns his downcast features, the light slowly filling them back up. You can't bear to see the relighting of whatever fire is still glowing inside him, so you rip your gaze away, spinning off the chair and ripping open the door to the smoking section, welcoming the harsh biting air.

The clatter of the door makes the few drunks outside scatter like cockroaches, avoiding your eyes as they filter back inside. Blood pounded in your ears, once obnoxiously loud music overshadowed by your heart's racing. Shaking hands make you drop the cigarette you had viciously ripped from the pack onto the cobblestones, soon trampled by your pacing feet.

Your vision begins to blur, the view of your body quickly unfocusing and focusing as if you're looking through a shattered camera lens. The familiar bile rises in your throat again, now replaced with the vague flavour of tequila compared to the cheap champagne of earlier.

Hunched over a plant you start to gag, fighting the urge to vomit with every fibre of your being, unwilling to lose the buzz you need to even think about going back in there. But a familiar hand on your back rips any tipsy feelings from you violently, sobering you up so quickly you're sure you could ace any drunk driving test thrown your way.

Your body rips itself away from his touch as if it set your skin ablaze. You’re sure if you looked at your back there would be a red and blistering burn in the shape of his hand, engagement ring brandished into your weeping skin, taunting you.

Silent staring is all you can manage, sucking in deep breaths of the smoky air, trying not to look like you're a deer in headlights, and failing miserably. Matty hides his shaking hands, forcing them into the pockets of his jeans, fiddling with the loose blunt in there and fighting the desire to pull it out and light it.

Someone has to talk eventually, but it physically can't be you, it feels like something is sitting on your chest forcing the air out of your prickly lungs. If you opened your mouth, it would be nothing but a discontented squeak, a measly attempt at trying to stop this before it happens, to undo this night and never see Matty again.

Is that what you really want? To never see him again? It hurts like hell whenever he's near, but you've come to find it a comforting sort of agony. The kind that makes you feel validated in your hurt, that you're not just making it up for attention. Seeing Matty feels like pressing on a bruise just to remind you the pain was always real. You can hear your therapist screaming at you in your head right now that this is not a “healthy attachment” but maybe it doesn't need to be healthy, maybe-

“Nothing to say, then?” Matty stops your internal monologue from spiralling any further, breaking the ice and plunging you both into the cold water below you. Fight or flight fills your body when you start to feel the metaphorical freezing water fill your lungs as you suck in desperate breaths.

But you choose to fight, Matty is blocking the doors, and scrambling over the bushes next to you whilst tempting, doesn't feel practical considering the state you’re in.

“Why are you here?” is the first sentence that rips itself from your chest. It's a stupid one, you know it is. You see the husband-to-be badge on his chest, you saw the gaggle of drunk mates that surrounded him at the table, all with the same half-askew crown that is sitting on his sea of curls.

He steps closer, sucking in a breath to speak, you can’t help but flinch helplessly, hot tears already brewing at your lash line. Fuck. You didn't want to be emotional, you wanted to be calculated, fierce, cutting. You wanted him to walk away with a hole in his chest no doctor or therapist could ever heal. They say you can't stare at your wounds forever, but you need him to be eternally marked by the memory of what was.

“Should be asking you that really. The smell of tequila coming off you doesn't scream “I'm deathly ill” so,” Matty shrugs, dying to inch closer but fighting the urge just enough so he doesn't have to see you flinch at the sight of him ever again.

You sigh heavily, looking down at your feet and tugging at your shirt, every feeling you'd had in the past 6 months rearing its ugly head all at once. He’s here. He's here and he feels real, his eye bags look more sunken than they had earlier, the harsh moonlight casting shadows on his faded skin. She isn't here attached to his hip or draping herself over him like an overattached mother at her son's wedding. Suddenly any chance of a simple goodbye flashes away, leaving only behind the horrible memories and questions of what was not even 6 months before.

“Do you ever think-” you stop yourself, word vomit scratching at your throat violently, but you swallow it down. Matty can't stop himself anymore, taking a single step closer, but you don't flinch, instead gazing up at him and letting whatever fills your chest pour from you.

“Do you ever think that I know you better than anyone will ever know you?” you say quietly, almost hoping he doesn't hear, but he does. You can tell from the way he shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out a lighter to fiddle with, the same thing he always did when anxiety started burning his lungs.

“We can't have this conversation.” Matty sighs out, hovering his thumb over the flame and letting the black soot build up on his skin, the slight warmth of it reminding him what's real. Well, that reminds him, and the way the light of the fire gleams off his engagement ring.

“You really think we can just move on? Go to the wedding and play happy families for eternity? I lost my soulmate that day Matty. My best fucking friend, and the only person I wanted to tell that I lost you, was you. And every time I see you it all comes flooding back.” You whine helplessly. The blood is finally flowing, you had ripped open the wound you'd been carefully picking at for the past six months. Any healing was gone, the only way out was stitching it back up yourself or letting it pour.

“I'm engaged. You can't be my soulmate, it has to be her. Or at least we have to do an incredible fucking job of pretending she is.” defeated breaths come with everything he utters, accepting whatever fate he resigned himself to the second she messaged, the second he realised there was no going back.

“Please. You're just using her as fodder for your shitty music.” you huff like a teenager talking under their breath, kicking a loose pebble

Matty’s eyes harden, clenching his jaw before he speaks “Don’t do this. Start jabbing at me like it's going to solve anything. We aren't 18 anymore, no arguments are going to be solved by me strumming my guitar like a twat or your passive-aggressive comments that drag on.”

“Oh please, like you getting engaged wasn’t a “jab” to me.” You gesture wildly before crossing your arms and sighing heavily. Matty opens his jaw and starts pointing at you harshly, “No it-” but you speak over him without a second thought.

“You know, Sometimes I feel sorry for you.” you hiss, “I know how awful losing us was. But mostly, I’m just fucking angry. I went through exactly what you did, and I could never hurt you the way you did me.” shaking hands force you to shove them in your pockets, the anger making the very fibre of your being feel like an uncontrollable fire getting another log thrown on the blaze.

“I never did it to hurt you. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, I can't.” Matty says softly as if he's trying to placate you. It doesn't work. He lost every right to be a source of comfort for you the second he replied to that message.

“You wanna know what I hate the most? The part that makes me so angry I can't think straight? I hate that everyone knows but no one ever says anything. They act like it never happened. Like we never happened. Does what we have suddenly vanish from existence just because you're playing dolls with my sister?”

“Had,” Matty says quietly.

“What” you huff, tensing your muscles and fighting the desperate breaths that claw at your lungs, scratching at your throat to try and force them down.

“What we HAD. not what we have. You made sure of that. You always seem to conveniently forget that YOU ended this, it's so easy to make me the villain but don't pretend you don't remember that night in your apartment. I got on my fucking knees and begged for you to stay. You don't get to stab me and act like you're the one bleeding. You did this.”

“What, so you'd think we'd still be together if I didn't end this? You're fucking delusional. Surely if you're so in love with her, it would've happened eventually.” you spit “her” like its ash on your tongue, burning your mouth to simply say it. Silence hangs for a few seconds too long, your eyes magnetised to each other, helplessly intertwined.

“I buy her your favourite perfume you know” Matty swaps topics so quickly it hurts your head, every ounce of air is huffed from your lungs as you ready yourself to interject, but he keeps talking, “She doesn't wear it all the time, practically never. But every once in a while when I close my eyes and night and pull her close, I recognise that smell and i can pretend it's you. And when the moonlight hits her engagement ring, I don't feel sick to my stomach.”

Fuck. the emotional whiplash suddenly feels all too real, every ounce of air is ripped from your chest and replaced with a crushing burst of realisation.

You caused this. Every crying session, every drunken night cursing his name, each hour spent stalking her social media. Every time he wished it was you in his arms at night, or even the times he pretended it was. It was all your fault. He wouldn't have let go, you left his life with claw marks left in your skin.

Before Matty can even process what he said, you sprint away slamming the doors behind you as the world spins in your vision. Everything wrong in your life is the cause of your own hand. Your feet feel unsteady, the wood below you shaking as if an earthquake is rocking only where you stand, following each step, rocking you so hard your nausea feels bone-deep.

The bones in your whole body feel wrong under your skin, tugging and poking, attacking you from the inside out as you slam the bathroom door behind you, shaking hands, fighting to lock the door but failing. Eventually, you drop your hands, giving up on the metal click of the lock so you can hover over the sink, staring at your wet cheeks and bloodshot eyes. It’s the image of someone whose very being has changed beneath them, someone you don't know if you'll ever recognise as yourself ever again.

Desperate, warm breaths fill your empty lungs. You’re drunk on oxygen, but still, you can’t catch your breath. Everything around you falls in and out of focus, the image of the stranger in the mirror distorts with each hungry inhale. Her face swirls and distorts, you feel like you’re trapped in a Picasso painting. Warped faces stare back at you, with some humanity trapped behind layers of paint and years of waiting.

Just as the focus pulls your eyes back, the door swings open, and you're met with Matty huffing as he stares at you hopelessly, wringing his hands nervously before slowly shutting the door, easily locking it with one hand.

He cautiously steps closer and closer, as if he’s trapped in a cage facing a lion, testing the waters and hoping he gets out of this alive. You stand motionless, fear and realisations wracking every nerve in your body, zapping you with taps of electricity, forcing your limbs to freeze in place and allow the pain to skittle through you.

Metres become inches that become centimetres; goosebumps begin rising on your skin, your heartbeat rushing and jumping to the same rhythm as how Matty used to laugh. Before your eyes can meet he envelopes you in a hug, his shaking arms wrapping around you. His familiar hands hurt your heart, sliding down your spine the same way they had one thousand times before.

“I wish I hated you,” you whisper, pressing your face into Matty’s neck and allowing your senses to be overwhelmed by him. The simple scent of patchouli, the familiar scratch of his shirt against your cheek, the warmth of his skin radiating onto yours. If you opened your eyes, you know what you’d see, what freckles dance across his skin where your gaze would meet it; you know every mark on his body forevermore.

Matty’s vocal cords feel frozen in place; all he can do is nod and pull you closer, letting tears flow down your cheek and drip onto his shoulder. Eventually, he tries to pull away, but your arms tighten. “I can't look at you,” forces itself from your lungs, the idea of facing the man you’ve spent the past five years loving so deeply it hurts your chest. They told you that kind of love for him would pass, that it always does.

It didn't pass.

Part of you regrets ever loving him, of ever letting him so deep into your soul that it has become hopelessly intertwined with his. Everyone who knows you knows him. And vice versa. The time passes, no matter if you’re together or apart, but you're never truly apart. There's no one without the other.

Your fingers loosen of their own accord, your mind unaware you're releasing the grip around the only body that feels as if it fits right with yours. Your gaze lingers on the room behind him, refusing to see whatever swims in his eyes. It feels exactly like it was, but somehow, it still feels so different, if you were standing in the same room with your arms around each other eight months ago, meeting his eyes would have been the greatest comfort you could imagine.

But everything changed, as it always does, and now the mere thought of looking into them makes the butterflies in your ribs that used to delicately flutter instead hammer against them as if they're trying to shatter you. Furiously trying to warm the heart you're now not even sure still resides there.

You hold his gaze. Just for one second, you tell yourself, but one quickly becomes two, which then becomes ten, even 15. They flitter away for a millisecond sometimes, but only to watch his lips that you could swear were inching closer and closer to you each time your gaze flicks down.

You only realise they had indeed been getting closer when they pressed against yours for the first time in months, slotting together as they had millions of times before, a heat you knew all too well. The voices in your head are berating you, screaming at you to take a step back, to shove him away with every ounce of your strength, but they all muffle at the very feeling of his body against yours, screaming as if they're trapped underwater and you're standing on the surface oblivious.

There’s no time for buildup, both of you terrified the other would soon realise what you're doing, as if there was some trance tricking you, forcing you to stand dead still against your will. A trepidatious press of lips soon becomes ravenous, hushed breaths and stolen moments finally rearing their head after being pushed down one too many times before.

Sharp fingernails dig into his scalp as you tug him closer, his moans reverberating against your lips as he walks you backwards, letting your back hit the sink behind you, pressing his whole body into you as far as he can, your limbs slotting together in familiarity. Wordlessly you jump on the hardwood, opening your legs and allowing him to come even closer. You have the realisation then that you’d let him inside your skin at this moment if it meant he could somehow just be closer.

Warm hands slip from your cheeks to the hem of your skirt, wrenching it up so quickly that you wouldn't be shocked if you heard the fabric tear in his vice-like grip. But you welcome him warmly, locking your heeled feet behind his back, somehow tugging him even more into your space.

Every tug of his hair forced his hips forward, groaning as the tent in his trousers brushes your panties, an involuntary move you remembered from evenings just like this one. Sneaking away from family dinners to find an empty store cupboard or stall to just feel each other, to try and stifle the ever-burning fires inside you both, it only got stoked with every shared glance and slide of your heel up his calf under the table.

Matty’s belt clinks as he wrenches it open, the soft leather tugging at his palms as he rips it off. The only reason he’d ever remove his hands would be fighting to get endlessly closer to you, every other second they’re blindly memorising every curve and dip of your skin. You follow suit, tugging down your panties as far as you could with your legs still locked in the hollow of his spine, tempted to just rip them so you don't have to disentangle yourself from him. Matty doesn't let you contemplate it for another second, ruthlessly tearing at the lace until that familiar ripping sound stops and you feel the fabric drop to the floor below.

He yanks down his boxers as best he can with his lips attached to yours, “Fuck, I need to be inside you, I need it” Matty huffs pulling away as if it pains him not to be connected to you, a magnetic force dragging you together. Messy top-lip kisses make you dizzy, his tongue pressing into your mouth and hypnotising you, but he has to tug himself away one more time, his eyes painful before they start roaming your skin as if he's studying fine art.

They dance across your figure, focusing on the small parts he never thought he’d see again. The familiar freckle on your inner thigh, the very place he kissed each time he ventured down between them, his self-professed favourite place in the world. Or the scar on your knee from childhood, he remembers you covering your reddening cheeks, telling him the story of how you got it. Falling whilst chasing a boy, desperate to kiss him despite his obvious non-interest, and all you gained from the experience was lifelong embarrassment and that very scar.

Suddenly, he needs to see everything; every memory of your body connected with his comes rushing back, and desperation fills his every vein. He wordlessly tugs up your shirt; his focus trained on the very spot he knew it would be, the rib tattoo he always warned you not to get exactly where you did. He was there when you got it, your carefully manicured nails digging into the flesh of his hand as you winced, leaving marks he wished had scarred so he didn't have to rely on his fleeting memories of you, instead, you could permanently initial his skin with those familiar crescent shapes.

He shakes his head, trying to focus on his words rather than the vision in front of him, “Shit, sorry,” he pants, “you deserve something more romantic, but all I can think is how badly I've missed you.” soft hands slide up your thighs, tracing a comfortable path over and over, thumbing those familiar marks.

“Y’know, I could have you forever and it still wouldn't be enough. You wouldn't be close enough,” he grunts, wrapping your legs tighter around him. It’s then he finally sinks in, your body welcoming him home, the familiar feeling giving you a comfort you thought you’d lost forever.

Your visions of a reunion never looked like this. They were soft and sweet, wrapped in white cotton sheets with hot sun flickering over your skin as it pierced through the trees. But this was fervent and desperate, hunger gripping your soul and tugging in his, no time for sweet words of adoration or full breaths. You simply gasp when you can, sharing his exhales in the few seconds Matty can bring himself to stop kissing you, only to lose your breath again with every thrust.

Whines and whimpers seem to travel through you into him, every cry you make is soon mirrored by an aching grunt from him, pressing himself as deep inside you as he can and sitting there, feeling your body contract and shake around him. His touch somehow coaxed you closer each time, his fingertips skittering down each bone of your back, swirling and pressing as he reminded himself of the feeling of you, the gentle warmth and softness of your very being.

Every unforgiving buck of his hips made your skin prickle, your whole body arching into his touch helplessly, magnetised to him. But his very presence was enough to lure you closer to that teetering edge. The rush of heat made your head swell, foggy with the heady and intoxicating feeling of the togetherness you’d been yearning for. Your heart thrummed under your skin, matching the pulses Matty felt around him, nerves igniting under your skin as you inch closer and closer.

Before you can feel that all-consuming rush Matty drags himself out of you, grunting as he watches himself disconnect, paining him so deeply he swears it's like a stab wound. But no complaints can slip from your lips before he's scooping you off the side and spinning you around, holding your body against his, your back pressed on his heaving chest, feeling each hungry breath he sucked in. He keeps you there for a few seconds, one hand on your hip the other splayed over your ribs. Your head falls to his shoulder, your closed eyes letting you fall into him.

Slowly his hand slides from your hip up to your shoulders, pressing you down until you're bent over in front of him, your overheated body pushed into his pulsing bulge, forcing a huff of air from his already empty lungs. Sluggishly, your eyes open, met with a reflection themselves, your blissed-out face, and your flushed glazed skin. They inch up, watching as you bite your ruby-woo-flushed lip when you finally see Matty staring back at you as a predator looks at its prey, hungry for something that's almost insatiable.

Almost.

Without warning he slowly starts inching himself inside you, so leisurely that if you didn't see the look on his face you would think he doesn't really care how quickly he can sink back into you. Your eyes flutter shut on their own as Matty brushes your walls, tugging at spots that would make anyone twitch and whimper. Harsh fingertips dig into your jaw, forcing your gaze back on him, his jaw ticking the second you refocus, a cheeky smirk tugging at his cheek.

That smile only growing when he watches your jaw shake, your eyes rolling so far back in your skull only the whites are visible, your hand clutching helplessly at nothingness as pleasure wracks through you. Eventually, his body melts into yours, filling you up so perfectly it feels as if his body was only made to fit with yours. Goosebumps rise in anticipation, dancing over your skin as Matty stays motionless, the seconds dripping like honey, dragging on so long it made your head fuzzy.

He groans heavily as he pulls out as slowly as he went in, teasing you mercilessly just so he can keep watching your jaw clench and your body tremble in his grip. But patience isn't his strong suit either, and when it's just the tip of him inside you, he can't help but drive himself into you, splitting you open with each vicious roll of his hips. Bending over to whisper in your ear, “Say thank you sweetheart” with a flash of that familiar cheeky grin.

“Thank y-” your first try ruined as a cry rips itself from your chest, Matty waiting until you open your mouth each time to bury himself to the hilt inside you, watching you stutter and fight the grunts leaving you. Eventually, you can force out a whisper, “Thank you fuck-” making Matty kiss the side of your head, groaning as he mercilessly fucks into you.

He planted kisses along your jawline, the sound of skin slapping skin almost overpowering the constant mumers and whines falling from your bitten lips. Pink flush danced across your skin, decorating your neck and chest and obscuring any marks on your body, the mirror in front of you was too steamed up from your needy breaths for you to see anything clearly, but your eyes were so far back in your head that you wouldn't be able to see your reflection anyway. “Fuck” you manage to whisper under your breath, using every ounce of energy in your body to form a word rather than incoherent pleads and begs.

Matty’s pace was erratic, not giving you a chance to breathe before jackhammering his hips and sinking back into you. You can't help but shudder each time he fills you up, your body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure skitters up your spine, pooling at the base as he pulls out, only to electrocute you as it shoots up with every merciless thrust. Death could come and get you here and now and you wouldn't mind. This is life and death, existence, non-existence, bliss, lust, love; it was everything wrapped up into a fuck in a bar bathroom.

Words were stuck in your throat, helplessly tugging at you but coming out as broken cries and whines, your hands gripping the cold porcelain basin as you felt the waves of bliss start growing. Matty always told you to tell him when you were cumming, you remember evenings spent with him trying to get you to utter that phrase as many times as he could in one night, with every forgetful moment punished with a deliciously painful slap to your thigh.

“Close” you force out with a grunt, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you’re sure you taste that familiar iron of your blood overwhelming your tongue. Your body writhes trying to hold it in, desperate to let the shockwaves of pleasure crash over your body. Hooded eyes eagerly force themselves open, your body needing to see that familiar nod, those three shakes of his head that meant you could let everything building up in you go.

Finally, after the clock seems to freeze and time ceases to exist, he nods, biting his lip and focusing on you, the very idea of looking away killing him.

You don’t try and hold back any noises, moans ripping out of your chest helplessly, your whole body writhing as the electricity you'd been forcing down finally starts shocking you, from the tip of your toes up to your scalp, unmissable and unmistakable. You savour each second of bliss, letting your hips stutter and your walls contract around him, pulsing and trying desperately to feel him fill you up.

“Fuck- I love you. Holy shit-” you mutter under your breath thoughtlessly, it falling from your lips as easy as it was to breathe.

Shit. Every part of you freezes at once, itching to know if he just heard what you said.

If he did, he's playing it off very well, not even faltering in his thrusts, keeping his laser focus on finally finishing with the woman he's spent months fantasising over. Visions of you swirl around his head almost constantly, even in moments he knows very well they shouldn't be, but it's impossible not to. When you're so effortlessly intertwined with his very being, how can he not spend each day affronted with the memories?

But none of that is in his head at this moment, he doesn't have to imagine you or think up what you'd be doing in this moment, you're here. Your body is in his grip and he's inside you, the very connection he had been yearning for.

You watch in the mirror as he finally empties himself inside you, one last thrust pressing every drop of cum into you, wanting the memories of this night to be stuck in his head forever. Huffs and groans fill the space around you, and it's then you know he definitely hadn't heard you, he's as oblivious as he always has been. The only emotion on his face is pure bliss as he pulls out, watching his cum drip from inside you, decorating that familiar freckle on the inside of your thigh.

Wordlessly he grabs a paper towel from beside him, wiping you delicately all whilst studying his cum painting your skin. You poorly stifle a laugh, and Matty finds himself smiling too, raising his eyebrows at you in the mirror as if to incredulously ask “What?”

You shrug, simply stating, “You're such a boy” with an eye roll. Matty pinches your hip teasingly, silently tugging your skirt from around your waist, trying hopelessly to make it look like he didn't just fuck you within an inch of your life in this random bar bathroom.

He tries to be sly as he bends down and pockets your destroyed panties, but Matty hasn't ever been known for his subtlety, and judging by the schoolboy grin on his face, he has them buried in his trouser pocket just as he wanted.

“C'mon, I'll call an Uber. Best we wait outside, I think someone banged on the door about 10 minutes ago, must want to fucking kill us,” he grips your hand, his effortlessly wrapping around yours as it had 100 times before, no baggage dragging you down.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

The Uber ride was quick, your apartment was realistically a walk away from this bar, but you were all too happy to spend the 8-minute ride with your tongue down Matty’s throat. He pulled away reluctantly only once, finally answering the slew of texts coming from his groomsmen back at the bar. You know you shouldn't, but every part of you needs to read the text over his shoulder.

You wish you hadn't.

Ross: where have you run off to? George is begging to down your beer, not sure how much longer I can fend him off.

Matty: sorry had to rush home, missus just missed me too much, see you on the big day x

Ross: Really? Can’t be apart for even one night? You two are sickening, see you then mate x

It made that familiar pit in your stomach start growing again, filling it with the knowledge that you’d just fucked your sister's fiance at his bachelor's party. And the worst part was, you didn't feel even slightly bad about it. In fact, you only feel bad about the fact you don't really feel bad, at all.

Just as you start to pick at the skin around your nails, Matty grabs your attention, his warm hand cupping your jaw and forcing your eyes to meet his. He flashes you a gentle smile before kissing you, starting slow but ending up with your hands tugging at his hair and his hand gripping any part of you he could hold.

You couldn't disconnect, keeping up your act all through your lobby, and in the elevator up to your place, ignoring the camera in the corner and the creepy man who was definitely currently watching the footage. But it was helpless, your bodies stuck together in perpetuity. So it continued throughout your apartment, clothes slowly appearing in rooms along the way, marked with the memories of tonight represented by a rogue shoe or shirt.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

Your vision unfocuses and refocuses as you blink heavily, trying to make sense of the darkness around you, moonlight pouring through your window, your curtains still pulled to the side. A smile creeps onto your cheeks when you remember why you're there, and why your bare skin is pressed against your blanket, your hand smoothly sliding to the other side of the bed, waiting to hit Matty's Body.

But they don't stop, instead, the only feeling under your fingertips is lukewarm cotton and wrinkles in the shape of his body. You have to hold in a sigh when you realise what this means, but you soon hear rustling, followed by a muted “fuck” when Matty stubs his toe on the foot of your bed whilst shrugging his shirt on. You close your eyes for a few seconds, deciding if this was really worth it, or if it would be wiser to just roll over and pretend you never noticed him leaving.

Is it better to have never spoken up and allowed him to slip through your fingers one more time, or should you speak up and risk the very thing you've spent the last months begging whatever god there might be to bring back?

Your voice breaks as you speak, cracking your eyes open just a few centimetres, staring at Matty’s shadowed figure in the doorway, “Please just stand there for a bit. Just- Please.” you see him falter for a second, his fingers stroking the handle of the door, slowly pressing it down.

More words pour from you before you can stop them, “Life feels long but it's not, it's so bitterly short. Just spend a few more seconds with me, even if it's so fucking uncomfortable and awkward, stay. I need it, you.” his fingers freeze at your hushed words, and slowly they slide off the shiny metal and his head turns. His features are shrouded in the 4 am darkness, but you know the look in his eyes. You always do.

He only stays for another minute, but those 60 seconds heal cracks in your soul that were so deep they felt irreparable. But soon enough, the doorway sits blankly and the figure once cloaked in darkness is replaced with the cherry wood door you know all too well. The pillows and sheets welcome you as they always had before, but this time the ghost of someone else lays next to you, the sheets still scrunched from the echos of his body.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

The light drips through the curtains, fingers of sun piercing through your room. Sleep was fruitless anyway, visions of the night before clouding your already muddled mind. If you slow your breathing and allow darkness to overtake you, you can still feel the warmth of Matty's body on yours. His hands gripping your headboard, sliding across your skin, marking you the way he always loved to. In the back of your mind, the mistakes made fade away with every breath you shared, each desperate kiss fixing things you thought were beyond repair.

Maybe this time would feel different, maybe this time it will just be different. Maybe there could be a this time.

The shrill ringing of your alarm reminds you of what today really is, and suddenly any chance of a this time starts to fade away. But you push that to the back of your mind, letting the familiar feeling of denial take over your brain.

It's just your sister's wedding, who she's getting married to is irrelevant. You just need to get ready, get to the venue and go. You can decide everything there, with him. It's finally time to stop letting things go.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

At the venue, people flutter all around you, talking on headsets furiously trying to figure out when the next flower delivery is set to arrive. You can't fathom where more flowers could fit, the whole place is already a sea of jasmine, roses, and lilacs.

Anger skitters up your spine when you see the delicately placed lilacs scattered around, the flower you’d held close as your favourite since childhood was now an accessory in the wedding of your nightmares. She knew it was your favourite, everyone did. The mural etched onto your ribs was reminder enough, your first and last tattoo.

Still, you sighed heavily, shaking the building tears on your lashline away and painting on a non-agonsing smile. You know your priority should be going to the bridal suite and gushing over your sister as she gets her hair and makeup done, but as you walk down the long winding corridor a different room is calling your name.

Matty had his own private room, you remember it was something he refused to compromise on in the planning stages of the wedding, making finding a venue almost impossible. You distinctly recall accidentally eavesdropping on an argument between the two of them early on in the planning.

Baby please, just stay with all your groomsmen like everyone does. You don't need your own room! I don't even get one and I'm the bride!” your sister winged like a child, tugging at Matty’s sleeve and pouting.

He sighed heavily before speaking, fighting the eye roll pulling at his eyes, “M’sorry love, but I can’t. You chose every other bit of this wedding, just let me have this one thing”

“Ugh. drama queen” she muttered under her breath, violently striking off another venue on her list, almost ripping the thin paper with her ballpoint pen.

Well, maybe not so accidentally eavesdropping. You took any chance to hear your sister to prove she was actually human, and not some perfect robot child here simply to make your parents resent you.

Your knuckles crack as you nervously pull your hand into a fist, all the breath in your body is wrenched out of you as you knock, nervousness tugging at every nerve. What would his face be when he answered? Would he even answer? If he knew it was you, would that change his decision? A million questions cascade through your head, repeatedly punching you in the gut, a vicious reminder this wouldn't be as simple as you'd deluded yourself into believing it would be.

But he does answer it, and it’s like you can breathe again when you see him, the dejected look on his face swaps for light filling his eyes when he realises it’s you on the other side of the hardwood, tugging you in wordlessly, and pressing the door closed with your body.

“Hi,” he smiles, bending down to peck your lips, the warmth sending you rushing back to last night.

“Hi,” you reply helplessly, your head too hazy to think of an original response, your brain would have parroted any words that came out of Matty’s mouth no matter what.

Neither of you can wipe the cheesy smiles covering your face, your features too lit up by the presence of one another. Matty’s hands slide a familiar path as he gazes down at you, sliding the silk of your dress over your skin, pausing them in all the places with the marks he remembered making the night before.

“How are you?” you say dumbly, staring up at Matty as if he hung the stars and the moon, as if he created every emotion you've ever felt, as if he made you as he knew you now.

“Better know you’re here,” he teases, bending down to capture your lips in a kiss, letting it drag on for too many seconds, your lungs desperate for another breath, but you can't drag yourself away from him, not even if you tried.

But biology gets in the way as it always does, forcing you just far enough apart for oxygen to fill your systems once again. But you stay gazing, admiring, memorising. Studying the way that singular curl drops on his forehead, or the way the bags that looked so heavy under his eyes yesterday have a certain new lightness today, the freckles that decorate them glowing through instead of being obscured by the darkness that was.

“Who would I be without you?” you say softly, watching as your hand cups his cheek, sliding that curl behind his ear and looking at it as it defiantly pops back out, springing as it falls back into place.

“Whoever you were meant to be” Matty answers, his smile faltering only slightly, quick enough that anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but you do. Before you can call him out on it, a harsh bang on the door makes you jump, Matty’s hand quickly sliding over your mouth to muffle the scream that came with it.

His finger goes to his lips in a shushing motion as he slides you behind the door before opening it, keeping one hand in yours behind the hardwood as he speaks to whoever is behind it.

You can’t hear whoever is speaking, but you can hear Matty’s replies, “Yup sounds good Adam.” Matty huffs, “What? No, I don't need to see it, Mate. Really I-” A heavy sigh leaves his lungs before agreeing.

“Ugh okay, let’s go then” he concedes dropping your hand quickly and closing the door behind him, trapping you in the suite of your nightmares, surrounded by reminders of why you were here, why you were both here.

You wait for the footsteps outside to stop before slithering out of his suite, your eyes shifting around making sure no one caught you. Luckily you got away unharmed. Or, mostly unharmed, your ego the only thing that took a bruise.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

You keep getting so close to grabbing Matty to talk all day, but every time you start someone drags one of you away. It starts with Adam grabbing him to confirm the seating, then another bridesmaid grabs you to calm down your sister, a task you'd rather die than do. A comedy of errors continued all day, the conversation broken up into one-word meetings before one of you got guided away for something totally unimportant.

But despite the conversation being broken up 100 times over, you both know what you're saying. Are we doing this? Is this wedding really going to stop before it's even started? You still don't have an answer, desperation to just know is clawing at your chest.

Finally, you catch him, miraculously alone in the entryway to the ceremony room, the flower-petaled aisle just starting at your feet. There’s no time for pondering and deep consideration, before you know it someone else would pop out of the woodwork and drag one of you away, so you go for it, no more room for subtlety left inside you.

“Well? Do you wanna leave? Go at the same time?” you almost whisper, playing with Matty’s fingers as his hand rests in yours, anxiety boiling over in your head. Your palms slowly grow clammy as your chest tightens, awaiting the response that would make or break this whole messed up situation. That would make or break you. Still, his eyes don't meet yours, laser-focused on your connected hands, his thumb brushing over your skin.

All it would take is a nod, half a nod, a movement so small it would be impervievable to almost every other person on this earth. This is the first time since you first met Matty’s eyes across a crowded room that you truly have no idea what he's thinking. His face is always decorated with his every emotion, clear as day. At least it always has been to you, feelings painted across his cheeks, swirling in his eyes, exposing themselves by how he licks his lips, or exactly how his eyelashes brush his cheek. Practically screaming at you.

But not now, something different is shrouding his features, some unreadable unknowable version of a man you thought you knew every facet of.

Finally, after what feels like hours, his tongue darts out and wets his lips, readying himself to give you the answer that decides if you’re just running, or if you’re running with him.

“I-”

“Matty!” a feminine voice behind him hisses, carefully manicured pink nails wrapping around his suited arm and gripping forcefully, tugging his hand from your gentle hold. It's then Denise slides into your vision, offering you a soft smile before returning to scowl at her son.

“I've been looking all over for you! We’re running late, let's get you where you need to go love, come on.” she gently tugs his arm, Matty following wordlessly, keeping his eyes trained on the floor below him as if it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen. “See you in there darling!!” Denise says cheerfully turning to you, winking with the biggest grin spreading across her features.

The oxygen in your lungs gets completely ripped out, and it suddenly feels like every limb in your body could collapse under you, he didn't answer. If it's not a yes, it's a pretty fucking clear resounding no. That means the past 12 hours were nothing but a slip backwards, something he regrets. You're something he regrets.

But before he reaches the top of the aisle, Matty calls your name lightly, wrenching his head as far back as he can, your eyes meeting his gaze immediately. It's then he nods, 3 times. Your sign. Whatever this is, is happening.

All of a sudden the anxiety comes rearing its ugly head, but now it’s nervous excitement fueling it rather than a gut-wrenching fear. A plan starts formulating in your mind of exactly what you need to grab, where you’re going, and how this is all going to unfold. Is this going to work? Will it actually be different? Has this experience changed you both enough to never let this go again?

Maybe you could go on their honeymoon? You're sure Matty paid every penny for it, so does that technically make it his? You could buy clothes when you get to Greece, the bridesmaid dress you're wearing now is comfy enough for a flight, plus you'll be too distracted to think anyway. The second he’s yours again none of this will matter, you can throw your phones in the ocean and forget it all. It can be fresh again.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

Anxiety-ridden feet tap against the stones as you wait by the back doors, fighting the urge to check your phone for the thousandth time since you snuck out of the venue. It takes a long time to ditch your wedding, it's not like the movies. Or that's what you tell yourself when it's been 15 minutes and there’s no sign of Matty, and no noises of commotion coming from inside.

You decide that if it gets to 20 minutes and Matty still hasn't come out, you'll intervene. That must be around the “does anyone object” bit right? Or maybe you can just cause a general drama, pretend to have a heart attack, just something long enough to let Matty slip out unnoticed. But if you're honest, you think that might be impossible when you’re the groom.

Tick, tick tick. 20 minutes pass, and still no sign, not even a buzz from inside. With a huff you decide to sneak in, tiptoeing through the kitchen readying yourself to peek your head through the door, maybe he just needs to see your face again, a reminder of what's waiting on the other side of the ruin.

“-sickness and in health” you hear Matty’s voice before you see him, the microphone shoved into his face by the priest, something your sister insisted on, makes him echo through the whole venue.

When you finally step out of the kitchen, your world suddenly collapses in front of you. There he is standing up hand in hand, with not a single sign he's about to run for his life. He feels you enter the room, the way he always has. It's what happens when you spend every waking second together, something in your brain becomes fine-tuned to knowing when the other is near, and the tug between you starts.

But he flicks his eyes for only a second, avoiding any chance of seeing the look on your face, even though he could see it every time he blinked. Suddenly his tie felt tighter, tugging at the skin of his neck rougher than it was before, strangling him. The air felt thinner like he was climbing Mount Everest without an oxygen tank, his body starved of air. But he had to keep pushing, he couldn't look.

“Matty?” the priest prompts, and it's then Matty realises in his panic he’s missed some kind of prompt, looking around helplessly as if it's going to be written on the officiant's forehead.

“Your personal bit, honey” your sister hisses at him, quickly swapping her face for a calm grin and a giggle as she turns to the crowd, performing for them as she always does. She doesn't spot you standing in the corner wishing the ground would open up and swallow you, drag you down to the depths of hell that you’re sure would feel better than standing here watching your universe crumble.

“Oh right, um” Matty coughs awkwardly, his head darting to the side rapidly, fighting the urge to stare at you as he speaks, desperate to ditch the vows and instead blurt out an apology.

“You are my closest friend, my warmest love, and I can’t imagine my life without you in it. You are part of me, and you know me better than anyone I've ever met. Thank you for knowing me the way you do, thank you for loving me,” his voice breaks as he speaks, a gentle cough coming up as he tries to fix the waver in his voice.

The crowd coo at his emotion, Isn't he so sweet getting choked up over how much he adores her? But that's not the emotion clawing at his throat. Its guilt. It’s regret. It’s knowing he is honestly confessing his devotion, but he’s confessing it to the wrong person. It's knowing if he turned your head, he'd be facing exactly who he wants to speak to. But he can't. His head is glued exactly where it is, and if he moved it even one degree, he wouldn't be able to live with himself because of the look on her face, on your face.

The rest of the ceremony sounds like you're underwater, dragged under by the cold waves and forced to listen to muffled voices and cheers. Watching helplessly as he nods three times after saying I do, and studying the way his mouth meets hers when they say “You may now kiss the bride!”

Well, sometimes time changes everything. Sometimes it changes nothing at all.

#matty healy angst #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy smut #matty healy x reader #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 angst #wedding angst #or maybe non wedding... you'll have to see ig!!!#if you hate this dont tell me it will be my final straw #im so fragile #this has taken me like 5/6 months so

132 notes · View notes

labryveinth · 7 months ago

Text

HELLO TUMBLR!!! LONG TIME NO SEE ... sowwy 4 not posting. been up 2 some MISCHIEF!!! anyway. this is my first oc post EVR.... his name is ethernet! he's an epic sans-turned-error variant.... :3 this is his official ref!!! me & my friend (@tearcynical) created an ask blog 4 ethernet & 4 his oc, crosswise, since they both play important roles in each other's stories. there, i'll reveal more about him as a character!!! the ask blog is named @wirenet (still a wip however...)

for now, you can have a short summary of his personality ( that is quite old but nonetheless... still an ok summary... ) — since an epic without whimsiness isn’t an actual epic, ethernet continues to be just as dorky as his original self, only to a certain extent. due to the multiple malfunctions and distortions of his code, his personality underwent a dramatic transformation. the once patient and calm demeanor he displayed gave way to a volatile and explosive temperament as if he were a time bomb ready to go off at any moment. years of depravation and sleepless nights have contributed to his short-fuse and paranoia, as even the smallest of irritations could ignite his anger, sending him into a tirade. and if you don’t play into his games or entertain him in any way — you may as well dig your own grave. as for his role, from an outsider's perspective, ethernet is considered a digital "destroyer", a threat to the multiverse. however, if you were to ask ethernet himself - he would not identify with any of these terms. due to the destructive nature of his abilities (and his fucked up code), he ends up destroying most things he touches. him "destroying" aus is him desperately searching for a part of himself that he's lost. his ultimate goal!! the reason why he's even touching other aus in the first place. what that "part of himself" is??? I'M NOT TELLING YOU!!! I'M LEAVING YOU ON A CLIFFHANGER!!! (until next episode) his main ability is his cables. it has two uses. first is "extraction", which allows him to extract information from any au by ripping an orifice in the fabric of the timeline & plugging his cables in (praying this made sense). the consequence of this ability is that, upon finishing extraction, the au becomes distorted (and on most occasions, self destructs). the second, replication, allows ethernet to copy an au’s extracted code and temporarily apply it to his own before it malfunctions. here is an example of how extraction would look like.... </3 vvv

here is what (half of) his skeleton looks like ! scandalous, i knoiw... :/

AND FINALLY.... HERE ARE SOME DOODLES I MADE OF CROSSWIRE & ETHERNET. they r canonically doomed yaoi crepic. their ship name is called wirenet how cool is that.!

CROSSWIRE BELONGS TO TEARCYNICAL!!! ok sorry 4 the massive art dump & yap. goodbye,.....

#epic sans #epictale #error!epic #utmv #undertale au #sans au #i know his name is stupid but its silly ok. be nice to him....#cross x epic #crepic #but its actually doomed error crepic #theyre both errors #how do i tag #error cross is friend's oc heh #wirenet #sorry this is a crazy dump

113 notes · View notes

thorough-witness-enjoyer · 1 year ago

Text

The Witness and Why It (and its demise) Means Everything to Me (A POC Perspective)

Hey everyone!! The Final Shape has ruined me and has brought me to levels of not only grief, but hope, that I did not think possible, so I decided to give my thoughts on the different aspects of it that moved me to a place where I can be at peace with many things in my life and look forward to paving a better future!!! I think I’ll be making many posts pertaining to the Final Shape as a way to help me express my thoughts on how important this DLC was to me, but we will see!

Please note that these are just my loose, not fully structured thoughts and I’m yapping. My opinions are subject to change and I’d love to hear the input of others! We will be talking about subjects such as slavery, religion, black experiences, and personal experiences of mine!!! It’s very long too, so I’m sorry about that and any writing errors!!

Though I do not believe what I speak of was fully Bungie’s intentions when making the character, the implications and views you can take on the Witness do relate to what I will discuss.

I wanted to start off my return to tumblr with one of the many, many reasons why I have such a deep attachment to the Witness (Precursors and Dissenters will get a different post bc they mean the world to me too!!) , because truly, this entity owns my whole life. I think of it all the time, it lingers in my thoughts, my art, my writing, all of it. It has been so deeply intertwined with my enjoyment of Destiny since it appeared and has offered so much to my perception of the world. I do not think I will truly get over it and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t draw it every chance I get. It appears in every single thought of mine, it’s bad you guys.

I love the Witness so deeply because I have never harbored such a personal level of DISGUST for a character before. As much as I joke about it being silly and the love of my life, the very existence of the Witness revolts me to the core and the tragedies it has directly or indirectly caused squeeze my heart empty. This festering rot of an egregore SICKENS me as it is the beliefs that has robbed me and many others of family, culture, and livelihoods given form. My love for the Witness comes from how it instills in me such HATRED, and truly, we were far too kind to it in game.

For context, I am Caribbean American and have a tumultuous relationship with my heritage for many reasons, but it wasn’t until the Witness and its many victims that I felt like the religious imperialism that has affected my heritage was represented in a way that crept into my spirit.

My Caribbean mother always said to me that we are of this world, not in it. That the hearts of men are wicked and sin (cruelty) was embedded in existence itself. It is only when we give ourselves to a higher purpose that we will be free in the end from all suffering. To her, this life and everything in it did not truly matter for it was a temporary challenge to overcome in order to earn an eternity of salvation. A perfect paradise was awaiting us all if we just gave into the way and left everything else behind.

These were all convictions she held to her very core as she tried to shed away all other aspects of herself to give into this “truth”, especially her Caribbean culture.

She did not always believe this way, but to her, the island she came from did not truly matter at all. Those “wayward people” she grew up with were not worth anything and would die as nobodies on that nowhere island for their lives were not saved, even if they knew of the “truth”. In her adopted views, those people believed in false gods and practices (such as Vodou and beliefs that belonged to those taken from Africa and indigenous populations), they invited in frivolous wants of the flesh such as lust (with „improper“ attire and certain dances), and committed crimes that proved to her that they could never be anything more than what they already were (though she would be blinded to the fact that these behaviors are a result of hostile environments created by the systems established for slavery and racial subjugation). If she wanted to be fit for “walking the right path”, those people had to be left behind for they were lost causes who could not be saved unless they were delivered by the “respectable” ways of life. She had to discard her black mannerisms, hair, speech, and more to have a place amongst the truly chosen.

Religious imperialism has a long history of being heavily tied to discussions of race and colonialism as those who participated in subjugation believed themselves to be more enlightened than the people they brought devastation to, giving them an entitlement that drove them to force their way of viewing religion onto populations. After all, in their minds, they were doing the greatest good for they were setting the people they subjugated on a path for eternal paradise. There was no cost too high in this finite life for infinite salvation to colonizers and all efforts to convert populations who did not see this truth would be “necessary”. People would die or be forced into servitude in mass to support the ambitions of the “enlightened” ones, whole cultures and populations being scrubbed from the face of this Earth in an attempt to “heal what is sick”, to “break broken bones again to heal them right”. I think of all the generations lost to war, slavery, colonialism, and every other act done to deliver “purpose” onto others, all the people whose names will never be known because others used the breath needed to utter it on preaching of their own virtue, and I am left in ruin.

I think of how my mother speaks of those lost to destitute lives because of the social pillaging of the island as an unfortunate side effect of guiding them to the truth and I look at how her world view has been ruined.

My mother thought she was saving me by keeping me from my culture, my people, my family. I did not get to know the language, the customs, the land, but I did get to know how much my mother thought those were distractions. She spent my whole life trying to cement the truths given to her by the same people who left her island in such as state that she felt like she had to run from it, to ensure I would not grow into a person, but a vessel of the righteous message. After all, to be a person is to be complex, nuanced, and flawed and there was no room for that in the visions given to her. The complexities and human flaws that came with our culture would only distract us from giving our whole lives to freeing ourselves from the curse of existence.

The cruelty the Witness delivers with such gentleness as it razes civilizations, its unwavering belief that it is the objective truth and other perspectives are blind to this truth, the means it will use to get that “justified” end, its gut wrenching to me and all that has been lost throughout human history to ideologies that bear the same qualities. Its zealous, static nature that relies on circular reasoning keeps me up at night and makes me mourn what could have been if the unfamiliar and hard to understand parts of human expression were allowed to flourish instead of being eradicated for diverging from someone’s vision of what makes a life worth living. I see this big eyed vessel, incapable of growth and convinced of its own righteousness and my chest feels like it is going to cave in. I see its disciples and pawns in the faces of too many people I know and recall their stories in moments that remind me how poisonous what the Witness represents is.

The Witness is an evil that has hollowed out lives, homes, land, and futures, especially for those who come from heritages that have persevered against attempts to “rectify” them. I still grieve the empty life my mother lives and the people left to suffer the consequences of daring to create their own meaning. I look at the face of the Witness and think of the “burdens lifted off my mother’s shoulders” by those who thought themselves as witnesses of a truth that could not be contested with interpretations that could not be questioned. She prides herself on being a weapon wielded to correct the sinful hearts of men, but I just wish she prided herself on being a person because those who “delivered” her robbed people of color of personhood entirely.

The Witness is not a person, but the embodiment of these deeply rooted ideologies and concepts that affect so many. It’s horror, both in game and the parallels it has in reality, is far too grand and unfathomable for me to bear its weight on my soul and not agonize. Its very existence is monstrous, despite the understandable intentions that went into its making, and my stomach churns at the mere thought of it.

How many species in the Destiny universe will we never know about because their whole galaxy was used to get closer to the Final Shape? How many star systems were left barren because of the Witness’ ambitions? How many children, spouses, artists, philosophers, siblings, neighbors, and more, people who were something, became nothing because of eons of the Witness‘ justifications? Bile boils just thinking of it.

What the Witness represents has hung over my head my whole life and its perverse touch lingers on the whole Destiny universe, tracing many of the depraved atrocities in the game back to itself. It’s death in the Final Shape, at the hands of those it had turned into victims and left to deal with the repercussions of its influence united together, moved me in ways I do not think I could ever properly articulate. To see beloved characters I had given a decade of my life to come together from different backgrounds with different reasons to defeat such a heinous entity, I felt like I could do my part to bring others together, despite our struggles and differences, to rebuild what had been taken from us.

As a person of color from a group of people many still think are undeserving of life, seeing so many characters I have related to over the years say “I matter because I decided to and you can’t take that away from me” to an entity who thought itself so refined that it got to determine everyone’s worth strengthened my entire being. Existing as a person of color is bold in and of itself, but the defeat of the Witness at the hands of people who wanted to exist so bad they risked everything for it ignited in me a flame to be audacious. My existence and culture as a poc is unsightly and heretical, but TFS encouraged me to take on the prejudices of others by saying “Here, despite generations being molded into a “perfect” image and so many lives lost in the struggle to live personal truths, ergo sum. Ergo sum and there is nothing wrong with that”.

To me, the Witness’ death showed me that the stains left behind by social structures such as religious imperialism and colonialism can be overcome by people banding together to make the future different from the past. When we embrace the subjectivity of existence, we can create spaces for different views on life to flourish and reconnect with the nuances of this world. We can better the lives of our people, no matter who they are, not by abandoning all cultural practices and ways of life that were deemed meaningless, but by rebuilding our societies to allow for fulfilling lives and self efficacy for all.

My people no longer have to let imperial powers decide our fate for us or decide that we can be nothing other than the „nature of our race“ that they believe is inferior. Instead of looking up at others who asserted themselves as more enlightened for salvation, we can look at each other and realize there is no one truth to life, especially one worth all the devastation and cruelty placed against those who lived differently. The intricacies of life often lead people to belief systems that allow for comfort and understanding, alleviating the anxiety of possibly living an improper life that will forfeit a desirable afterlife. It is up to individuals to decide what makes their life fulfilling and what beliefs will guide their actions, for no one can make your fate but you.

My mother still likes to wear the patterns of the island and keeps paintings of island scenery in her room. She talks on the phone in patois when she doesn’t feel the pressure to be “proper”. She misses her mother because she used to make dishes from home. To relate it to Destiny, she still has the coordinates to her Lubrae in her pyramid despite convincing herself abandoning it all was for the best and there was nothing there worth keeping. I once thought reconnecting with our heritage alongside her would be a frivolous endeavor, but I hope that with time and understanding, the Witness may not have power over her anymore and she won’t look back on her disassociation with relief. Time and understanding will make our island grow and flourish, free to decide what it wants to be, not held back by preconceived notions of the worth of its existence.

Despite all the Witnesses in the world, I will persist on and try to acquaint myself with my culture without shame. The Witness is everything to me because I hope one day it desecrates nothing ever again. I hope the Witness becomes nothing at all and the cultures it has corrupted make themselves something audacious.

Thank you guys so much for reading!! I hope you guys don’t mind the vague language, I chose to spare some details for my own sake and to make the message more applicable!! I’d love to hear the takes of other people about this bc I love hearing people’s perspectives!! And always remember, no one makes your fate but you!!! Go be audacious!!!!

#destiny 2 #destiny #destiny the game #the witness #destiny witness #d2 #the final shape #everyone get a brick it’s beat the witness o clock #my witness I HATE you like no other #I love you like no other my witness #i need some one to talk about the grander implications and ideas behind the witness or I fear I may pass away #i feel for the victims of the witness so hard that I have cried whole rivers over them #do not hug the witness pls bc I’m already doing that and then I will be punching it #i should make posts agonizing over all the disciples and pawns as well if you guys are interested #destiny the final shape

161 notes · View notes