#will make longer posts about each of these

[firingstars]

preciously mine

bucky barnes x medic!reader

summary: based on this request — recruited by the falcon himself and dragged out of your early retirement, you've started to work for the avengers as their one and only medic to keep them functioning and working after each and every mission. after a mission gone wrong, bucky barnes is forced to acknowledge your presence and finally seek out your assistance. after that? it's like the man can't leave you alone.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, unprotected sex, creampie, handjob, oral (f receiving), makeout sesh, slight body worship, light choking, no use of y/n, language, fluff, brief angst, descriptions of injury, flashbacks of ptsd/trauma for reader, bucky's flirting in strange ways, reader is lowk horny, pet names (sweetheart, doll, soldier, sarge)

word count: 16k

a/n: i said i would post this yesterday...... i thought it was in the queue.......... my bad everyone. here it is now. also this was much longer than i intended it to be whoops

masterlist

Sterile antiseptic and latex is all you can smell right now as you work on sewing shut the body in front of you. You’d already followed out the previous steps– things that were automatic to your process. The bleeding had already been taken care of, and you were fine to continue on with the rest of your procedure. The wound was cleaned, the site was numbed, and you had the proper tools in hand to start your suturing. 

Your hands were smooth, your movements were precise– there’s no sweat coming off your brow. There’s nothing to be worried about.

“You know,” Sam murmured beneath you, “it would’ve been real nice if you were this calm back when we were on the field in Afghanistan.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at him. “I was a rookie back then. So were you. Now shut up before I ‘accidentally’ stab you with this needle the wrong way, just like the old days.”

“That’s cold,” he whispered, but there’s a smile playing on his lips despite the pain that he’s in– a good sign. There’s some color that’s returned to his face now, and his breathing had finally evened out from how it was when he was first brought to your table. 

You finished out your work on his torso, and bandaged him up. You could go into a long winded spiel on infection, and how he needs to keep the wound area clean to make sure that he doesn’t get sick otherwise he’ll have to come see you, but one look at Sam’s face tells you that you don’t even need to say it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed off, carefully rolling over to his side to push himself off the table. You cringed slightly at the way he sat up– he’ll pop his stitches at this rate. “I know. You talked my ear off for years.”

“And here I thought, you never listened,” you scoffed, beginning to clean up the area around you.

“Oh, I don’t. I just let you think I do.”

You fight back the desire to roll your eyes at him, and he laughed– or at least he attempted to. Sam’s hand flies to his side, and he groans in pain. Instant karma. The numbing injection could only do so much for the pain, after all.

“Want me to prescribe you some painkillers?” you offered, a hum on your lips.

“Fuck you.”

You grinned, already pulling out a bottle from the medication cabinet to toss over to him. He catches it, obviously, but if he was who he was a few years ago? His reflexes wouldn’t have been this sharp. Sam had come a long way since the Air Force, and you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t proud of him.

Hell, you had come a long way from the Air Force.

You still remembered when he knocked on your door, and asked you if you wanted to join the Avengers initiative. You laughed in his fucking face, thinking that it was a joke– that it was just some funny opener that he was hitting you with after not seeing you for a while to make you smile after your shared grief of losing Riley. But Sam didn’t laugh. 

He said they needed someone reliable, a good medic on the team to patch them up after their missions— told you it was too much work and money to keep flying doctors into the country from other parts of the world. 

You had the same experience that Sam did, which was what he used to argue with you that you were more than qualified to join this team. You couldn’t really say anything against him when he brought up your history together. The two of you had been hand chosen straight out of basic training for the Falcon initiative, which was covered up to be known as the pararescue team that served two tours. 

Sam spent two weeks knocking on your door daily— sometimes multiple times a day. He wasn’t asking anymore. He was begging you to join him, to come back and fight beside him like you once did.  

You told him that you didn’t know if you were worthy of being an Avenger– not after what happened all those years ago. You couldn’t even save the people that you were supposed to protect during the war overseas. How were you supposed to protect the entire world?

So, you compromised. You would be their medic, just like he was asking you to do– but you didn’t want to necessarily join the Avengers in the way that he was doing it. You would keep up with the training to keep your body in shape if they really needed you– but you told Sam that you couldn’t live with yourself again if you lost someone right in front of you on the field. 

He understood. So, saving the world became his thing, while saving the Avengers’ lives became yours.

More times than not, you still ended up joining the Avengers on their longer missions away from the base. You wouldn’t necessarily join them on the ground, but you would stay back on the jet. You would keep an eye on the monitors that tracked each and every single one of their vitals, making sure that none of them entered dangerous territories of stress levels or suddenly passed out somewhere without anyone knowing. 

You were also there as their emergency evac if it was ever needed. You had military experience on the field, but Natasha helped train you to move more stealthily so that you could get across a battlefield without anyone noticing. 

When things were said and done, and if everything went miraculously well, all you had to do at the end of missions was just check up on everyone. Do quick, fine tune-ups, to make sure that everyone was alright– that they were cleared for the next mission without any concussions or any other traumatic brain injuries that would put them out of work for a couple of weeks. 

You’d treated almost every single one of the Avengers at one point. 

Shit– you’d become somewhat of a mechanic and a scientist overnight for what you had to do for these guys. After all– they weren’t fully human.

Steve was the first one to trust you with a more interesting question based on his genetic code. You should’ve expected it, honestly– Steve was the closest to Sam, and Sam constantly sang your praises to anyone that would listen.

“The serum that I was given– I don’t know if you know too much about it,” Steve said with a sigh as you patched up a gash on his arm.

“I’m kinda aware of it,” you hummed. “What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s supposed to accelerate my healing,” he said slowly, “but I feel like my muscles are still too tense these days? Like knots are forming all over my back– I think it’s affecting how I move on missions.”

You paused at his words, nodding slowly. You finished up on his arm before going around behind him, slowly running your hands around his back before sucking in a deep breath. 

“You do have some muscle tension,” you murmured softly. “Do you ever get massages? I think it might help.”

“I didn’t think super soldiers need massages.”

Your hands stopped their examination, and you stared at the back of his head, blinking at him. You let out a slow, deep breath before closing your eyes, taking a moment to calm yourself down. 

“Steve… You’re still human. You know that right? Your body will still hold tension and trauma whether you like it or not,” you said slowly.

“... Ah.”

You made Steve come back to your lab once a week so you could bully the knots out of his back, digging your elbows into his muscles until there was nothing left that could cause him discomfort. Then, you made him go see a massage therapist once a month. 

After that, you studied more of his mannerisms. You took note of how long his body healed compared to a regular human, and how fast he could run a mile– how much food he ate compared to Sam. You were studying everything about this enhanced human’s biology in case he came to you with something else.

Except the next person that came to you was Rhodey. Asking if you could help him out with his prosthetic because it wasn’t working properly and he wasn’t able to walk like he usually was.

“I’m not a mechanic,” you said slowly.

“Weren’t you in the Air Force?”

“Yes, but–”

“With Sam?”

“I mean–”

“Then you should have some basic understanding, right?”

“Rhodey–”

“Tony’s not here. You’re the closest help I can get, please.”

You prayed to every God out there that you didn’t fuck up the delicate technology of his metal braces. Honestly– this was more stressful than any other life saving technique that you had to do on the field. 

That night, you studied Stark’s machinery. You opened up his manuscripts and went through his lab. You made his stupid A.I. walk you through everything to help you out with the things that you couldn’t wrap your head around– and when Tony came back from wherever he went? You slammed his blueprints in front of him and made him explain.

That man was a little too excited to talk your ear off. 

Just when you thought that you had finally gotten a break, you had another visitor. One that made your blood run cold when you saw her waiting for you outside your med bay. Still, you invited her inside and asked her what you could do to help her. 

“Sometimes I feel a burning sensation under my skin," Wanda told you as she sat on your examination table. “Do you know what causes that?”

You could only stare at her blankly, a million different thoughts racing through your head. 

NO! you want to scream at her. I DON’T KNOW!!

Instead, you give her a smile and nod in understanding. “Does it feel like that right now?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Is it okay if I take a sample of your blood?” you asked, already moving towards your supplies. “And the next time you feel that burning sensation, come to me immediately so I can take another sample. I want to compare the two different blood samples to see if there’s a difference.”

Wanda nodded like you had somehow made a dent in cracking the code towards her existence as an enhanced individual– but you had no idea what you were doing past rubbing an alcohol wipe on the inside of her elbow and wrapping the tourniquet around her bicep.

Strangely enough– there was a difference in her blood. 

“Overuse,” you told her, exhaustion thick in your voice. “Your powers are burning into your blood, and mixing into your bloodstream. You’re basically ripping your blood cells apart. You need to be more careful, or just get a better grasp on your powers. Try to train more and increase your endurance.”

The only person that you have not had the pleasure of helping?

Sergeant James Barnes.

Part of you believed that he didn’t even know you existed. In fact, if it wasn’t for his curt nods of dismissal when you tried to check him over after missions, then you would’ve completely assumed that he didn’t even know that you were around. 

Bucky had been injured. More than once. You’d seen him walk onto the jet before, limping, holding onto his side, and closing his eyes while trying to pretend that everything was alright. Each time– he denied your help. Well, he didn’t even deny it. He didn’t even talk to you. He actively avoided your gaze, and only nodded at you if it was unavoidable.

You would’ve thought that you had done something to offend him, to bother him– but you had never even had a conversation with this man. No– you’d never even spoken one word to this man. Your interactions with him were limited to a nod, a head shake, and one second eye contact from across the jet. When you were in the compound? He walked straight by you in the hall like you were part of the air in the room.

You wondered if it had anything to do with his former Winter Soldier status, even though he wasn’t that guy anymore Right now, he was just another one of the Avengers to you. Albeit, he was a little grumpy, a tad bit mysterious, and very easy on the eyes.

You weren’t bothered by his lack of visits to your med bay. You figured that he just didn’t want strangers to touch him. You didn’t blame him for that. Besides, it’s not like he was required to use your services whenever he was hurt. You were there to help out if any of them needed you, and that’s all. 

After all— if none of them needed your help ever again, then that was the best gift they could ever bestow upon you.

The supply drawer slid shut with a satisfying click, and a smile fit over your face. 

Finally, you were done organizing the med bay. You’d gotten a new round of supplies a month back while you were out on a week-long mission with half the team, and returned to find that some of the recruits had just… haphazardly restocked your place. You wanted to scream when you saw everything. 

The rational part of you made you realize that you didn’t label any of your drawers or cabinets. Then again, you didn’t ever think that you needed to. It was only you that went through the items, only you that restocked the med bay, and only you that distributed everything. You had your system in your own head, and you didn’t need to explain it to anyone.

Except, it seemed that you needed to now.

You didn’t even have the time to organize everything for a while. The back to back missions, the influx of injuries that rolled through your doors– you had to make do with what you had, and fix everything as you went along, grumbling under your breath.

Now? Everything was right where it should be, even though it was nearing three in the morning. Still, sacrificing your sleep for this was worth it. You would wake up to find your workplace fully functional and prepared for another work week, and you would send out an order for the next restock to be simply left in its box if you’re not around to take care of it yourself. 

“Visitor outside Med Door One,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice suddenly rang through your lab, alerting you.

You paused, sitting up straighter on your stool as you turned towards the door– Med Door One was near where the hangar was. It was where the team would filter in after they came back from missions. You weren’t aware of anyone being dispatched. 

“Unfrost the glass, please,” you muttered, eyebrows still furrowed.

“Right away,” the A.I. replied immediately.

The entire glass wall turned clear, and you startled. Bucky was standing on the other side of the glass, a trickle of blood coming down from his temple along with a bruise on his cheek. He was nursing his vibranium arm, clutching it towards his torso, and leaning against the glass slightly. His eyes met yours without the obstruction in the way, and you immediately shifted out of your seat, breath catching in your throat.

“Unlock the doors,” you ordered, already moving towards him.

The glass slid open, and Bucky pushed off the walls. The man gave you a brief nod of acknowledgment as he attempted to appear undeterred by the injuries all over his body. 

“Didn’t think you’d be awake,” he forced out.

“I didn’t think you were gone,” you breathed, hands shooting out on either side of him in case he stumbled forth. “What happened to you?”

“Solo op,” he grunted, a low hiss escaping through his teeth as he took a few steps forth. “Left early this mornin’.”

“Jesus, Barnes,” you whispered, backing up slowly as he continued to step forward. Your eyes raced all over him, trying to take in his physical state. It was hard to decipher how badly he was injured with all his tactical gear still on his body, but from the way he was limping? “Why didn’t you radio back to base?”

“I made it back in one piece, didn’t I?” 

You don’t know whether to feel relieved or to shoot him where he stands. 

For now, you choose to lead him to the examination table instead, and you’re grateful that the soldier doesn’t dismiss you like he usually does when he’s injured. There’s a soft noise of pain that exits his lips when he manages to sit down, and you’re already reaching for your gloves.

“Is it okay if I take a look at you?”

“My arm is what’s killin’ me the most,” he muttered. “If you can do anything for that, then shit– go ahead. I think there’s a wire out of place in the bicep.”

Your hands freeze mid-pull of the latex glove, and your eyes drop down to the glistening vibranium arm. You can see it– the slight tremor of the metal, the involuntary twitching against his body as Bucky attempts to keep the prosthetic under his control. You suck in a tight breath, and remove the gloves on your hand, and go for a different drawer in your office– a toolbox that you had for when Rhodey came to bother you. 

Bucky looked briefly surprised when you turned back towards him, dragging your stool with you to sit in front of him, but there was no protest. His flesh hand dropped back down to his lap, and he let out a small sigh.

“Do the plates just pop out?” you asked softly, swallowing thickly. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous about this. Now that you were sitting right in front of him, you could hear the faint buzzing coming from within his arm, almost mocking you about your lack of experience with this kind of thing.  

“Yeah– just… be gentle,” he murmured, his voice tight. 

Your eyes flitted back up to his face, meeting his gaze. He didn’t look nervous per se, but he didn’t look relaxed either. His body was wound up tightly– and you had always known Bucky to already be a pretty tense guy. Even for him, this was pretty bad. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders were squared off– even his thigh muscles were flexed like he was waiting for the impact of something to hit him.

You could chalk it up to the fact that he had other injuries that were bothering him, but that wouldn’t be right either. You weren’t sure where his solo mission took him, but if Bucky didn’t even try to patch himself up on the way back to the base, then you were certain that he wasn’t even able to take care of himself with the amount of stress that his arm was putting him in. 

Shit– you weren’t even sure that Bucky ever had an issue with his arm in the past before, let alone let anyone touch it before. You didn’t even think Tony was allowed to make tweaks with it after Wakanda gifted it to him. If there had been any issues with his arm, then there weren't any incident reports logged in that you were ever made away of. 

“Can you take your arm off for me?” 

“With how it’s shocking my every nerve right now? I really wish I could.”

A shaky breath exited your lips as you looked back down at his arm– the vibranium seemingly shining back into your eyes under the sterile lighting of your lab. It really was pretty. You enjoyed looking at his arm– to steal a glance at it on the jet whenever you had the chance. 

Slowly, you reached out to touch him. You wondered briefly if he could feel the weight of your hands underneath the metal– if there were some sensors that were built into the new prosthetic that was gifted to him. You wondered how badly his arm was hurting him right now, and if your touch only added to the pain he was feeling.

You gently traced over the vibranium, your eyes studying the onyx and gold design as you felt each groove and plat beneath your fingertips. You were searching for the point of impact– where he had sustained the most damage for him to be complaining of some kind of pain. 

You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you the entire time, watching you with an intensity that made your heart race.

It could be from the fact that you’d never treated him before. He’d never been under your care– he’d never been one of your patients. Out of the lengthy time that you had worked with him, this was the closest that you had ever been to the man, and this was the first and longest conversation that you had with him. You could laugh, honestly. You wanted to, if it weren’t for the fact that you had to deal with Wakandan technology and the highest level of technology you were ever formally trained to deal with was U.S. military.

You reached for your toolbox, and released a breath. You steadied your hands. This would be like any other procedure– you didn’t have to be nervous. If anything, the stakes were lower. There was no blood. Just some open fucking nerve endings that were directly connected to his arm, shooting pain directly into the rest of his body.

No pressure at all.

Gently, the plates on his arm came open. A soft puff of air escaped your lips– one that you didn’t even know you were holding. Your heart still hammered in your chest regardless, and you were certain that Bucky could hear it from how close you were to him. Maybe he could even sense the anxiety rolling off of you. If he did, he didn’t say anything– didn’t even make it known that he noticed. 

You were careful as you placed each of the vibranium pieces on the bedside table next to you, memorizing exactly which piece went where, and not taking out more than what needed to come out. You studied the hinges inside his arm, making sure that there wasn’t anything that you were missing as you took him apart.

Then, you saw it. 

The soft, electrical shock in his arm– a wire connected inside. 

“Fuck– what happened?” you murmured, eyes narrowing at the inside of his arm before you reached for the next appropriate tools.

“Asshole jammed this thing in between the plates– pumped me with several thousand watts of electricity. I think I’m lucky only one wire came loose,” he murmured back to you.

“Thing, huh?” you repeated with a laugh. “Can’t even tell me what it was?”

“I was a little busy trying not to die, sweetheart.” Despite the amount of pain he was feeling, he was well enough to hit you with a sarcastic remark— a great sign of his physical and mental wellbeing.

“Well, you did good on that front,” you told him, and looked up to meet his gaze before giving him a grin. “I’ll put you back into one piece, soldier.”

There was a soft chuckle of a response from him— gentle and light. Your hands paused, allowing the moment to pass before you went back into his arm to start poking and prodding once again. (This was an excuse. You wanted to listen to the soft rumble of his laughter.)

You tore your gaze away from his face, and looked back down to his arm, trying to focus once more at the task at hand. 

“I’ll contact Wakanda tomorrow morning… Talk to Princess Shuri, make sure that there isn’t anything else I need to do for you,” you said softly as you began to connect the wire back into its rightful socket. You took a mental note of the positioning, the color of the wiring, and everything else that you could think of. “Make sure that there’s nothing that we need to replace or fix so that it doesn’t become some sort of chronic pain for you.”

“You don’t have to do all of that,” Bucky sighed, shaking his head in dismissal. “It’s fine– I’ll figure it out if it happens again.”

“Are you gonna be able to pry apart the plates yourself if your arm goes to shit— You wanna scratch Wakandan vibranium?” you asked, glancing up at his face briefly.

Bucky met your eyes, and closed his mouth. He just stared back at you, and didn’t respond. You gave him a small smile, then turned back to the metal in front of you. You let out a small gasp as the wire finally connected, and the small buzzing noise in his arm stopped. 

“Flex your hand– be careful. Your arm is open. Think of it as if your arm is skinned,” you quickly warned him, almost frantic with your words.

“You’re kinda dramatic, Doc.”

“I’m being cautious, Sarge. Have you ever tried that?” you shot back.

A small scoff fell from his lips, and Bucky rolled his eyes– but there was a twitch of his lips, like he was mildly amused. It was there, just ever so slightly there, before it was gone– replaced by the perpetual stoic and generally irritated look he usually wore. 

Bucky’s fingers twitched first, almost as if he was afraid to move. The movement was slight and slow, but he eventually created a full fist with a slow breath exiting his lips. Soon, his palm opened back up, and he felt brave enough to lift his arm halfway up, and your own sigh of relief escaped your body. 

“You fixed me,” he reported, his entire body relaxing with his words.

“Told you I would. Now try not to die from things out in the field,” you hummed. 

“Alright—“

“I’ll get some replacement parts for wires and plates sent over from Wakanda,” you cut him off, humming to yourself. You reached for the loose plates that were at your side table, ready to put him back together. “I think you got lucky that nothing was fully damaged– just dislodged– but you’re not leaving my med bay without stitches on your flesh wounds though.”

Thankfully, Bucky didn’t argue with you. After you carefully put back together his metal arm, you were able to move onto his actual body– which was a hell of a lot easier on your nerves than the vibranium Wakandan tech on him. 

You breathed easier when your mind wasn’t racing a thousand miles an hour, and you didn’t have to force your hands to stop shaking under the constant pressure of fearing that something would go wrong. Bucky, of course, was as still as a statute the entire time. You were just glad that he didn’t complain when you told him to take off his gear so you could inspect his body. 

The sun was coming up over the horizon by the time you were done with your full examination on the soldier. You’d gone through several syringes of lidocaine in stronger doses– something that you learned that needed to be done when you had to patch up Steve– and had laced even more stitches through Bucky’s skin, but the man was finally in one whole piece before you. 

“If you take those stitches out yourself, I’ll kill you,” you threatened under your breath as you watched him slide off the table. “Come back here in three days.”

“Only three?” he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

“You and Steve heal faster than the others,” you dismissed, clearing off the last of your workspace. “I’ll come look for you in two days and check your progress, but I think three should be more than enough. How’s the arm?”

Bucky’s arm rotated from the shoulder in a quick circular motion, and you could hear the gears whirring as he moved. His hand opened and closed experimentally, then he extended his arm outwards. All the while– the light shined upon the vibranium plates, the golden detailing gleaming against the black like starlight. It really was like artwork attached directly towards his body. 

You had to remind yourself to not openly stare at him.

“Good as new. I’ll let you know if it bothers me again,” he told you, grabbing his gear that you had stripped off of his body so you could have examined him properly. 

He was barely halfway out the door when you spoke again.

“I’m putting you on bed rest until those stitches come out, soldier.”

Bucky froze in his place, and turned back to look at you– to see if you were being serious about what you had just said. You could only give him an innocent smile before you sent off the report on your tablet. Moments later, a matching buzz resounded on his own phone– everyone on the team was now aware that he wasn’t allowed to be on missions or in training.

“You fuckin’ traitor,” he whispered, betrayal and a hint of respect written all over his face.

Strange things began to happen around you.

You sent out the order to make sure that no one would restock your lab on their own, only to find out that someone else had already done it for you.

Except, there was no log of it.

There wasn’t an incident report, and none of the recruits would tell you. In fact, they all looked like they were about to shit their pants whenever you brought it up. Last time you pressed one of the recruits, they ended up scrambling to check the security cameras because they mistakenly believed that you were asking because someone else had restocked your med bay without your permission and they needed to find out who to rat out. 

You had no idea what was going on. You didn’t even get a chance to tell them that no one had restocked– that you were just trying to get answers on who gave the order out before you could. In the end, it benefitted you, so you weren’t too upset about it. 

If this was all that happened, then maybe you would’ve left everything alone. Maybe the coincidences wouldn’t have bothered you as much.

You mentioned to Natasha that you were running out of your preferred bullet rounds– but it wasn’t urgent for Tony to order since it wasn’t often that you actually ended up going out into the field. You just wanted to let her know for whenever she did a bulk order of her own rounds so she could add your casings to it.

Two days later, you had a whole box on your bed, along with two extra handguns. It was the exact same brand and type that you specifically used– one that Natasha normally told you had you waitlisted for a few months when she ordered it directly from the supplier from how difficult it was to make. Naturally, you brought it up with the assassin the next time you saw her.

“I didn’t order anything yet,” she said, shaking her head. “I order everything at the end of the month, remember?”

“But on my bed…” you trailed off, gesturing down the hall towards your room. “Who got me the casings?”

Natasha only tilted her head at you, eyebrows furrowing as she stared at you. “I didn’t order anything,” she repeated to you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” you said slowly then shook your head. “Never mind. I must’ve– uh. Sorry. I thought I was running out of ammo. I’m good. You don’t have to order me anything.”

Her confusion only deepened with your words, but you were spiraling. You managed to dismiss yourself from the conversation before you made things even more awkward. 

It wasn’t even limited to supplies or work-related items. 

After sending out a text in the shared group chat asking to borrow a phone charger for a couple hours because yours was acting up, you found yourself with a new phone charger in your room that same night– in the box with the plastic wrap untouched and everything. 

Later, you found a gift box on your work desk. Upon further inspection, you found that someone had mysteriously gifted you an assortment of your favorite time of the month snacks along with a fresh bottle of Tylenol. You were briefly disturbed, only until a brief memory came to mind of you asking Clint to pick up some feminine products from the store for you when he went out into the city.

“I only got you those pads and tampons you asked me for,” he said, holding his hands up in defense when you cornered him in the hall. “Besides, how would I know that you liked Ferrero Rocher chocolate? Or dried mangoes? You do your own grocery shopping unlike the rest of us– we make Tony have our shit delivered to the compound every other week since we’re too fuckin’ lazy to go out into the city. I only went out because I was getting some shit for my kids, and stopping at the store was just on the way–”

“You’re the only one I mentioned to that my period was coming up,” you hissed at him, frowning. “Are you the one that got me those guns, too?”

“Shit, someone got you guns and chocolate? You have a secret admirer, doc?” he asked, a teasing grin matching the light in his eyes. “I’m not gonna lie, that sounds like one hell of a way to flirt. Has your suitor tried getting you a new scalpel yet? Maybe some latex gloves?”

You’ve never wanted to strangle the archer so bad in your life. Unfortunately you took the Hippocratic Oath, and you had to let him free.

Your breaking point came when you said you wanted to start reading again in your free time, but had no idea what to read. An assortment of different books were waiting for you— science fiction, self help, and fantasy. All different things you enjoyed, but had never once spoken out loud. 

You searched the security cameras. You set up your own cameras in discrete corners, and didn’t tell a single soul. Whoever was leaving you these little gifts either didn’t exist, or had some sort of power that allowed them to be undetected by modern technology because you could never catch them. 

F.R.I.D.A.Y. was specifically ordered not to allow anyone into your room or med lab without your permission— only for you to find a pair of brand new combat boots waiting for you at the edge of your bed. 

The stupid fucking A.I. wouldn’t even tell you who managed to break through her security protocols. Tony couldn’t even figure it out, much to his dismay. Part of you felt bad for giving him something else to work on, on top of upgrading the entire team’s gear— but shit someone managed to bypass a Level One order and there wasn’t a trace. 

“I thought you were my friend,” you said into the void. 

“I apologize, doctor,” the A.I. replied to you. 

“I’m not a doctor,” you scoffed, shaking your head as you organized your notes on your most recent findings on Steve— the man purposely didn’t sleep as much as he should, but when he didn’t have anything to do? He slept like a man who had more than twenty four hours in one day. 

“The others refer to you as a doctor,” a new voice chimed in as the doors to your med bay slid open. 

“Didn’t go to med school, Barnes,” you said, pushing back from your desk to take a look at him.

Bucky was dressed in a compression shirt that left little to imagination, and you wondered if there was really no other size left for him to take when he joined the team. Then again, he also could’ve just gained all that muscle. Still, he could’ve worn another fucking shirt before coming to your lab. You could see every single line and ridge of his muscles with each movement and breath. 

“How can I help?” you asked, deciding to play off your blatant staring as a medical check.

“I have a contusion,” Bucky said.

“What?” you barked out before you could stop yourself. 

“You know, internal bleeding caused by—“

“I know what a bruise is,” you cut him off, holding a hand up to stop him from speaking further. “I— what do you want me to do about that?”

“Don’t you check out our injuries?” he asked, as if he was speaking the obvious. Which— yes. Obviously. You did check out their injuries. But none of them came to you for a fucking bruise. 

You could only stare at him, briefly wondering if the man was bullshitting you. Was this his attempt for conversation after fixing his arm, after ignoring your presence for who knows how long?

He wasn’t backing down from this. 

Bucky held your gaze, expectant and waiting for you to do something about his playground injury. You quickly realized that you would be fighting a losing battle if you didn’t just give in to his request. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Show me your… contusion.”

He took off his fucking shirt.

Your mouth went dry– and if you weren’t blatantly ogling him before? You definitely were now. You thought the compression shirt left little to your imagination? You were wrong. There was plenty hiding underneath the thin piece of fabric that he uncovered for you, now fully showcased. 

A thin layer of sweat clung onto his body, and you guessed that he had come straight from the gym— which would explain why his body looked so fucking massive right now. You watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath, how his abdomen muscles rippled as he shifted to the side to drape his shirt over a free table. 

Last time he was in your med bay, there was no need for him to strip down to his skin. He didn’t complain of any torso injuries, just some lacerations on his face, arm, and another cut to his leg that you took care of. 

Honestly, the human body shouldn’t affect you like this, not when you’ve studied it like your life depended on it, but this was different. This was a walking statue of pheromones and all things unholy and filled with temptation. 

“Doc?” Bucky called out to you, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Where’s the bruise, Sarge?” you asked, snapping out of it as fast as you could. 

The soldier turned his back to you, and you felt the final nail plunge into your coffin. He straightened his spine, his back muscles shifting along in the process as he did. You couldn’t help but lock your gaze onto him, the broad shoulders, the large wingspan of him—  Jesus Christ. 

Yeah. You were going to hell.

You forced yourself to collect your thoughts, clearing your throat lightly as you looked down his back. You saw it. The light purplish blue spot. Gently, you reached out, fingers resting upon his warm skin. Bucky didn’t flinch, but you didn’t press against him to elicit such a reaction either. You simply just grazed upon the hurt, feeling for any swelling or lump.

“Doesn’t feel like a hematoma, doesn’t appear to be large enough to be one either,” you muttered, a frown settling upon your face. “You’ll be fine, Barnes. Why did you come to me for this?”

Bucky shrugged, already reaching for his shirt. “Just making sure that it wasn’t anything serious.”

“I’m watching the discoloring fade back into your regular skin color in real time,” you pointed out, still zoned in on the injury. It was a fascinating scene– being able to watch as his body healed itself before your very eyes.

“Then write it down in your notes,” he said, tugging the black fabric of his shirt back over his head. “Better yet– start a file for me with all the other freaks on the team that you take care of. James Buchnanan Barnes, in case you forgot my full name.”

You almost missed it. The hint of jealousy in his voice– the way he didn’t turn back to meet your gaze. Your eyebrow twitched slightly as you stared at the back of his head, assessing him in a way that you had never seen him before.

You cleared your throat, and reached to push a couple files to the side. Bucky couldn’t help but let his curiosity get the better of him as he heard you shuffle some papers around.

A smile fit over his face as he saw it on your desk– clear as day. A folder with his name written on it, with your handwritten notes already tucked away neatly inside of them. When his pretty blue eyes met yours, you couldn’t help but mirror his smile.

“I’ll add your little boo-boo to your incident report log, soldier.”

“You fuckin’ suck, sweetheart.”

Despite his words, Bucky still kept coming to you. In fact, you began to see more of him than you had ever seen before. It’s as if the barrier between the two of you had somehow got torn apart like it was never there.  

The next time he came to you, you almost ripped your brain apart. You were completely, extremely, and utterly distraught, as if you had somehow managed to miss something in the few years of research that you had been doing on Steve.

“You… have a headache?” you asked him slowly.

“Yeah. A horrible migraine,” he replied, nodding to you.

“Rate it on a scale of one to ten,” you told him, already reaching for your computer to pull up Steve’s archived notes. “Ten being: Please sedate me bad.”

“Uh– six.”

Your fingers paused over your keyboard. That wasn’t a horrible number, but not the best either– especially not for a super soldier. Six usually meant that the pain deterred a person from being able to do their tasks without thinking about the symptoms they were under, and he described his headache as a migraine. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you took in a sharp breath, looking back at him.

“Yeah, fine– sorry,” you muttered quickly, quickly browsing through Steve’s medical history. You didn’t find a single thing that could help you, and a soft curse exited your lips. You reached for your gloves, and quickly crossed the room towards him, already herding him towards where you wanted him to go. “Can you get on the examination table for me?”

“It’s– it’s a headache,” he stuttered, bewildered at your sudden hovering.

“Steve said that he doesn’t get headaches, and the serum that you got was developed after him which means that technically– you should be developmentally better than him biologically speaking,” you told him.

From the look in your eye, Bucky couldn’t help but listen to your orders, and got on the table. You kept him in your med bay for a while, trying to figure out why the hell his head was hurting– but he stuck to the same script. Said he woke up wrong, and the pain just kept increasing throughout the day.

There was an abnormal amount of muscle tension across his neck and back when you ran your hands across his body, but there weren't any of the same muscle knots that Steve had. 

“I stretch before and after training,” he muttered when you brought it up. His voice was a bit lower, slightly thicker. You figured it was from the pain he was feeling in his head. 

“You and Steve might just be carrying tension in your muscles differently,” you said with a frown, smoothing your hands over his shoulders. “He has back pain. You get headaches– makes sense though– are the headaches left side dominated since the metal weighs you down? I see you compensate for the weight, but when you’re tired you sometimes lean.”

Bucky paused for a second, then looked over his shoulder at you. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything, Barnes.”

His eyes stayed fixed onto your face for a bit, something unreadable in his gaze. You watched as he wet his lips slowly, and turned to face forward again. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the actions under your hands.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Left side dominant migraine.”

“I’m prescribing you 2000mg of ibuprofen.”

Bucky spun around to face you once more, and you could read the expression on his face this time– fucking shock and doubt. “Sweetheart, are you trying to kill my liver? What the hell are you going to do when it shuts down from shock?”

“Did you forget who you are, soldier?” you asked, staring at him with equal amounts of disbelief. “Your liver will chew through a regular dose of 200mg of ibuprofen and shit it out like it’s a tic tac– take 2000mg or you’ll spend the rest of the week with your own personal drummer using your head as its instrument.”

He grumbled, but you watched him swallow down the cup of pills you poured out from your stash in the medicine cabinet along with the water from your own personal water bottle. You quietly realized you would need to get a water dispenser in the med lab. Even so, you weren't in any rush to do so as you drank out of the same water bottle when he left.

Bucky continued to come to you for more… superficial wounds that didn’t require you to do a full body examination on him. You never meant to downplay the injury or the pain that he may or may not be feeling, but the super soldier came to you for you to blow on his scrapes. You were wondering what the hell his thought process was in his head, but you also couldn’t just turn away a patient. 

He had the leg of his sweatpants tugged up past his knee, but the fabric was strained against the thick muscle of his thigh. You had to force yourself to ignore the fact the stitches were basically ripping at the seams.

“This will heal in like, an hour, Bucky,” you told him. “You barely fell on your knee– this was definitely through the clothes.”

“You stopped calling me by my last name,” he said, ignoring your words of examination. His voice was soft– softer than you had ever heard it before. “When did that happen?” 

Suddenly, you were keenly aware of the fact that you were kneeling in front of him– the position you had so naturally assumed when he had exposed his leg to you, and he was just staring down at you. You could feel the warmth creeping up your neck, and you knew that he could see it. 

“Focus, soldier,” you replied, snapping your fingers in front of his face. You pointed your index finger between his face and yours, connecting a line between his eyes to yours. “Back to the scrape.” 

You didn’t know if you were telling him or yourself, honestly. There was a smile on his face that you would later categorize in your notes as devastating. You could barely tear your eyes away from his, looking back down at the already healing injury.

That day, you sent Bucky away with a saline wash and a bandaid slapped onto the joint, knowing full well that he would be fine. You hoped that he wouldn’t come back with something stupidly bad for your heart, but no. 

He just came back with something stupid period. 

“Back in my day, people used to die from papercuts. Did the Aerospace Medical Training not teach you that, Doc?” he mocked you.

“Did you Google which training I got?” you rolled your eyes at him. “Didn’t know that you knew how to use search engines, Sarge.”

“I asked Sam, actually,” he grunted, almost like he didn’t even want to admit it to you. 

“You spoke to him. Good for you,” you said, pretending to look impressed. “Did you guys argue before he told you who trained me? Did he tell you that I graduated top of my class, too? While we’re on the topic, let me tell you that I also retired from the military with the highest of honors–”

“Can you shut the hell up and look at my injury before I die from some unknown disease?” he cut you off.

You held his pointer finger in your hand, glaring at the tip of it like the pad of it owed you something. “There’s nothing here, Buck.”

“Do you need glasses? Goggles, maybe? I’m sure Sam can hook you up with that,” he chuckled, clearly happy with himself for the jab.

You really tried to fight back the smile that threatened to creep up onto your face, but failed miserably. You couldn’t help it. You also made fun of Sam the first time you saw him in his hero uniform– sent the picture straight to his sister and the two of you spent a good two hours on the phone cackling in front of him.

“There’s no papercut,” you told him again, releasing his finger. “And even if there was– people don’t die from papercuts anymore. Of course, unless you’re not fully vaccinated. And at that point… I don’t know what to tell you. Are you not vaccinated, soldier?”

“I’m vaccinated against everything that exists,” he informed you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’s the vaccine called? H.Y.D.R.A. serum?” you shot back.

His reply came just as quick. “Yes, actually.”

“Sounds like some good stuff– how many times did you have to get it for it to be this effective? Do I gotta get it once a year like a flu shot?” you joked. 

“Just once, but there were all these different side effects, doll. Like, frying my brain, my personal agency ripped from me for several decades, and insane amounts of trauma– crazy shit. Don’t recommend it. I’d stick to what the CDC pushes out to the regular civilians,” he said, and waved a dismissive hand in the air. 

You had to bite back a laugh, covering your mouth with a hand as you looked to the side. You weren’t even sure if you were allowed to laugh at his trauma laced up with a pretty bow. 

“It was funny, you gotta admit,” Bucky said, nodding to himself more than to you. When you looked back at him, there was a charming smile on his face, one that you couldn’t even believe that he had on at that moment.

“You are awful.”

“And I’m still at risk of dying from an infection. Sweetheart, you gotta get me right,” he told you, a hint of a Brooklyn accent peeking from under his words. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a slight tingle than ran through your entire being at the sound of his voice.

You cleared your throat, attempting to steel your mind and soul once more since your body clearly wasn't listening to you. “Didn’t you just tell me that you were immune to every disease possible?”

Bucky’s lips parted, and he cocked his head to the side as if he was trying hard to formulate an excuse. You waited patiently as you watched him shut his mouth, and look over to the side as if your closed medicine cabinets would give him some answers.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he settled with.

“Do you just come here for me to lick your wounds?” you asked, moving to go sit down at your desk. You couldn’t help but tease him a little. “Because I’m starting to think all you do is come here to waste my time.”

He shrugged, a little noncommittally. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to a friend.”

“A friend,” you echoed, a chuckle leaving you. 

“Yes, a friend,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow at you suspiciously. “Why do you say it like that?”

“I just– I didn’t realize that’s what we were,” you admitted.

Once more, the man in front of you paused. This time, there was a crease between his eyebrows as he looked at you, and his hands fell to his sides. Confusion was evident on his face. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, the start of a frown beginning to settle over his face.

The change in the air was clear. Colder, and even though he was right in front of you, he had felt farther away than he had ever been before. 

A sigh escaped your lips as you looked away from him, down at your desk in front of you. “We’ve worked together for years. You didn’t bother with me until three weeks ago, Bucky. Coworkers, yes. But friends? I didn’t think we were close enough for that.”

“You take care of the entire team as it is– was it wrong for me to try and take care of myself?” he defended himself.

Your gaze flitted over to him quickly, finding that he was leaning over one of your worktables, arms crossed in front of him. He was genuinely upset, you realized. You couldn’t figure out why. 

“No, Bucky– I’m just saying. You never even talked to me before,” you sighed, shaking your head. “At some point, I just gave up on communicating with you all together. If it weren’t for the fact you nodded at me during missions, then I would’ve fully believed that you just didn’t think I was there.”

“Of course I knew you were there,” he replied back instantly. “But you were busy. With everyone and everything else. Me and Steve heal faster than the rest of them, but you always seem to try and check up on us first.”

“Because you two never seem to take care of yourselves— it’s my job to take care of you,” you stressed to him. 

“I never asked you to do that for me!” he shouted at you.

You blinked at him, taken aback. Did he just yell at you?

 It took you a second to collect yourself, to be able to even look him in the eye without the last bit of your patience snapping. 

“It’s in my job description, just like it’s in yours to take care of me if I have to go out in the field for an evac, Barnes.”

“We’re going back to last names?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you. The edge in his voice was sharp, thick. It made you want to smack the attitude out his mouth. “So we really aren’t friends after all?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, leaning back in your seat. You brought your hands up to cover your face. “What the fuck is your issue with how I address you? Barnes is your name isn’t it?”

“Well, excuse me– I thought we were closer than that,” he said, spitting your words right back at you. 

You sucked in a deep breath before dragging your hands down your face to look at him without any obstruction.

“Okay, sure– then why did you ignore my existence for so fucking long despite us being on the same team? Even if you don’t need my help, it doesn’t explain you pretending I’m nothing but air around you up until recently,” you demanded from him. 

“I just– I didn’t want to add to your workload,” he told you, shaking his head.

“And you think that coming into my med bay with a fucking papercut isn’t increasing my workload? I have other shit to take care of,” you scoffed at him, voice laced with sarcasm. Your body felt the regret before your mind caught up with you– and you wanted to scream. The words had come out faster than you could stop it. 

Bucky’s body tensed, and his eyes dropped down to the metal table before him. His fingers tapped along it, a soft beat resounding against the silence as he nodded slowly, processing your words. Then, there was a wave of calm that rushed through him. His body loosened. Accepted your words as if they were scripture. 

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice softer, and his fingers stopped moving. He stood up tall, and didn’t look at you again. “I got the message. I won’t add to your busy plate. I know you have a lot going on.”

Bucky moved towards the doors. Something told you that he wouldn’t come back if you let him leave– even if he had some sort of grave injury. He would definitely try to take care of it himself.

There was a tightness in your chest that you wouldn’t be able to explain in medical terms. There were no heart palpitations or anxiety attacks. No, this was just you being a fucking asshole to him. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., lock the doors and frost the glass,” you ordered as fast as you could.

Bucky had to step back quickly, otherwise his foot would’ve gotten caught with how the doors came sliding shut. Finally, the soldier turned to look at you where you sat at your desk, frowning at him.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. unlock the doors,” Bucky said, holding your gaze.

“I can’t do that, Sergeant,” she replied, making a sigh of relief exit your lips. 

“You stupid fucking A.I. —“

“We’re in my lab,” you interjected his words, running your hand through your hair. “Within these walls, she listens to me. Well, usually she does. I still need Tony to fuckin’ fix her and tell me who’s been sneaking past my shut down protocols to sneak presents into my rooms when I’m not around.”

Bucky tongued at his cheek as his eyes narrowed at you. “Thought we weren’t close. Why are you holding me hostage in your lab, sweetheart?”

You released a breath, and gave him a small, weak smile. One that you hoped looked sincere. You watched as Bucky’s exterior slowly melted away as he stared at you, and you let out a shaky breath.

“You’re not adding to my workload– I didn’t… I didn’t mean that,” you whispered, still keeping your eyes locked onto his. “I like it when you come to visit me, even if it's for some stupid shit that I have to log into your file, but if you just wanted to be my friend– you don’t have to make up excuses to come and see me. You can just… come visit me.”

The silence was loud. You didn’t dare look away from him, afraid he would take it the wrong way if he did. Then, you saw it. A slight shake of his shoulders. 

The smallest of laughs escaped his lips, and he shook his head, chin tilting downwards to his chest until he was looking at his feet. You could see the slight tug of his lips, curling upwards into a smile.

“Activate Override: Protocol Doc authorized by White Wolf, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Bucky spoke.

You pushed out of your seat quickly, lips parting. You felt betrayal deep in your bones as you watched as the doors slid right open, and the glass turned clear once more– and there was a disastrous smile on Bucky’s face that stole the air from your lungs as he met your eyes.

“It was you–”

“We’re not gonna be friends, sweetheart,” he told you, a chuckle on his lips as he turned towards the door. “I don’t leave flowers and chocolate for my friends on their beds.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Flowers? I haven't gotten flowers!”

Bucky didn’t respond to you. The man just walked right out of the med bay, forgetting about the papercut injury that threatened his health, and left you with that fat piece of information to sit on. 

When you regained your senses, you rushed out towards the door, but it was useless. He was already gone. You couldn’t find him on either side of the hall. Your next stop was your bedroom, and just like Bucky said– there was a bouquet of fresh flowers waiting for you on the edge of your bed.

You could feel your blood pressure rising with each passing moment. 

The monitors mounted on the walls of the jet were blaring at you with different warning lights on each of the Avengers– showing you where each of them had sustained critical injury. Every few moments, an explosion went off, causing the aircraft to tremble with you inside of it.

“Can I get a status report?” you asked, eyes glued onto the screens.

Static crackled right back to you through your earpiece before it connected– you could hear the sounds of battle and gunfire. The sounds of the team shouting over each other to take cover, to watch each other’s six– it was too much. 

“Someone talk to me!” you shouted. “Do you need an evac?!”

“Stay put!” Steve barked on the other end. “It’s too dangerous for you to–”

The ground shook beneath the jet, toppling you over. The comms cut off into a buzzing silence as you hit the metal floors, your heart racing in your chest– that wasn’t just a mini explosion set off by Tony or Rhodey. That was something bigger. More lethal and heavy.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. get them back online!” you ordered as you scrambled to your feet, slamming your hands on the sides of the monitors to force them to reconnect with everyone’s suits. 

Slowly, the screens came back to life– and your stomach dropped through your body. Critical warnings were showing onto the screen before you. A gaping hole in the side of his torso that ripped through his gear. Foreign bodies were detected to have entered his skin– and the scans could barely show it but you were certain there were broken bones.

“Evac– Am I evacuating Bucky?” you demanded, trying to will your voice to stay even as you connected through the comms. 

Radio silence. The only noise that greeted you back was the sound of your own heart pumping wildly through your ears. 

You moved quickly, grabbing the keys to the motorbike that was docked at the end of the jet. There wasn’t any time to wait– not when the entire team was injured badly, and Bucky was potentially dying out in the middle of the field. You swung your leg over the seat, and removed the hooks that kept the bike in place–

You froze.

You had no information.

If you went out onto the field, you would be going into a warzone without any eyes or ears to let you know where to go. You’d be going in blind, creating more of a liability for the rest of the team to try and take care of while you pulled Bucky out of there. 

You had a failsafe. If they needed you to come out, and couldn’t reach you through the earpiece, then Tony would’ve contacted you through F.R.I.D.A.Y.. You had been instructed by Steve to stay put. Disobeying direct orders would put the entire mission, the team, and you at risk.

Your hands trembled as you rehooked the bike into place, and slowly unmounted the seat. All you could do was prep the examination table in the jet, pulling it from the middle of the floor, and grabbing out all the supplies that you could possibly need. 

All you could do was wait for the dust to settle, to watch the monitors for any more injuries that inevitably came– and pray to every higher being out there that Bucky’s heart didn’t give out before they brought him back to you.

Your earpiece crackled to life after what had seemed like an eternity. 

“Incoming!” Sam yelled, and you immediately moved to open the rear ramp. 

The shape that Sam was in– it made you want to throw up. His goggles were cracked, suit ripped in several different areas. This mission went sideways and been thrown upside down more times than you could’ve counted. 

But Bucky– he made your heart stop. His skin was nearly devoid of color, and blood fell down his body with each passing second in thick droplets. His lips were pale, dry, and cracked. Soot and ash caked onto his face, his hair sticking onto his forehead with a mixture of sweat and dirt. You didn’t even know where to start when you looked at him.

Sam dropped him onto the table, and you immediately took to his side, fingers pressing against the pulse point on his neck. It was faint, but there– but still wasn’t good enough for what you needed. 

“What happened?” you breathed out.

“Cap lost his shield– fucking RPG came out of nowhere. Bucky threw himself in front of it– blocked Steve from getting the blast, but he took the brunt of it,” Sam said, watching as you ripped open Bucky’s vest. 

Your eyes immediately fell on Bucky’s torso, your lips parting in shock. Shrapnel was buried deep into his side– but his body was already rapidly healing around it. You’d never seen this before– not with Bucky or Steve. This was different. Bucky’s body healed faster the more it was damaged.

“An RPG?” you whispered, meeting Sam’s eyes. 

Your hands were shaking. You didn’t see what happened, sure, but just from the looks of it– from what you were seeing in front of you? Bucky unconscious, the labored breaths, the blood seeping out from his side– the weapon that took him down– it was too much.

The flashbacks of everything were coming back to you. The failure, the fear–

“He’s still alive,” Sam cut through your thoughts, grabbing your wrist. “Don’t freak out on me now. We’re not back in the trenches. I need you to focus because Buck’s not the only one injured right now.”

As if on queue, everyone else started piling into the jet. A shaky breath exited your lips as you watched them limp on board, leaning onto each other and groaning in pain. For the most part– they were alive. They were doing much better than Bucky.

“How is he?” Steve asked, setting Natasha down onto the benches.

“He’s lost a lot of blood– Tony, we need to get back to base quick,” you told him, and watched as the man got out of his suit and assumed control over the front console. “I gotta get this shit out of his body before we get there– he’s healing around the metal.”

“How the hell are you gonna do that?” Sam asked, frowning at you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes darting around your supplies. “You guys are gonna need to hold him down… I don’t have any anesthetics on board.”

Both men froze in front of you, but they shifted to assume positions. Steve rested his hands on Bucky’s arms, pressing down firmly, while Sam held onto Bucky’s legs. You released a breath before you brought the scalpel to his torso– you needed to reinjure him. You needed to open him back up quickly to pull out every single foreign body within him otherwise it would only cause him some more issues.

“Starting,” you muttered out your warning.

Then, you cut into him.

Bucky’s body tensed immediately, eyes flying open as he jolted– Sam and Steve fighting to push him back down. His left arm immediately tried grabbing for you, only for Steve to readjust his grip to force Bucky back down.

“Shit– Buck! It’s just us!” Sam shouted at him, trying to get his attention. “You’re gonna fuckin’ hurt her if you don’t calm down!”

You could feel Bucky’s eyes land on you, the breaths coming out of his chest fast and uneven. Soon, he managed to fall limp under Steve and Sam’s hands, though his body still twitched as you dug into him, retrieving each and every single broken piece of metal within him.

“I’m sorry– I’m so sorry,” you kept repeating to him, wincing as your tweezers dug deeper into the tissue– as you had to reach for the scalpel again to cut back into him. His body kept healing before your eyes. You hadn’t had to deal with this before. 

You could barely keep your hands from trembling. Every ounce of your concentration was going towards the task at hand, trying to pull out the smallest pieces of metal while also trying to make sure his wound didn’t heal too fast, but also trying to stop him from actively bleeding out on you– you were panicking.

It was too similar. Too close to home. It reminded you too much of what had happened back on the war field all those years ago when you lost Riley. There was nothing that you could have done to stop his pain after he went down. You were ill equipt– you didn’t have the right tools with you to help him. Your team was too far away from your headquarters, and it didn’t even matter how fast you got there. He was already gone.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Bucky’s hand cradled your face, the metal thumb brushing away a stray tear that fell.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he muttered to you, forcing his eyes open to look up at you. He offered you a small, weak smile. “I got that crazy vaccine, remember? I can’t just roll over and die so easily.”

“You’re going to die by my hands if you don’t shut the fuck up and save your energy,” you whispered back to him.

Despite the pain, he laughed on the table. He regretted the action a second later, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he struggled to catch his breath again, but you appreciated him all the same. He was attempting to make you feel better. And it worked.

Bucky’s hand dropped from your face, but it lingered on you. He rested it on your hip, squeezing you lightly whenever you had to cut back into him– a quiet move to let you know that he was okay and to keep doing what you were doing for him. 

With Bucky’s comfort, his touch– the light tap of his fingers against you– you managed to calm down your nerves well enough to get everything out of his body before the jet touched back down onto base. The second the doors opened, Steve and Sam were carrying him onto a stretcher for you to do your full assessment on him.

With how fast his body was healing, you needed to move rapidly– faster than you had ever done before. You didn’t have time to give him any numbing agents, despite how badly you wanted to. The fractures that the monitors had detected must be already attempting to set into place during the time that you were focused on his torso, and you really didn’t want to have to rebreak bone in order for him to heal properly. 

Even after Bucky was finished up, fully patched and stitched, you didn’t even allow him to leave. You managed to get him transferred from your table to a more comfortable hospital bed, then you drugged him to really make sure the man wouldn’t be able to walk out of your med bay. 

He was pumped with sedatives that you knew knocked out Steve, and you felt some sort of comfort when you watched Bucky fall asleep without pain etching into his features. While he slept, you had fluids pushing through his body, replenishing him while you moved on to take care of the rest of the team. 

Thankfully, they weren’t as bad as Bucky was.

You needed to push a collarbone back into place, reset a broken nose, stitch some wounds together– but nothing like pulling foreign bodies out of a torso. You could breathe easier. 

“You okay?” Sam asked you as you tugged the needle through his arm. 

“I think we should invest in a medical team,” you replied. “I think just having only one of me around isn’t cutting it anymore.”

Sam let out a small chuckle, and shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

Your hands paused over his arm, and you looked up at him. You met his gaze– he looked just as exhausted as you felt. Your eyes dropped back down to his injury, and you kept working.

“The hell are you talking about?” you murmured, even though you knew exactly what he was about to start on. 

“I haven’t seen you act like that since Riley got shot out of the sky,” he said softly. “Damn near thought you were gonna pass out on the jet.”

Your jaw clenched as you released a breath. “Sam…”

“It scared me, too– don’t get me wrong. It was… I’m glad you weren’t there to see how it all unfolded on the field.”

The words died down between you. You could only hear the light sound of the sutures being pulled through his skin as you punctured him repeatedly, gently closing the wound back into place. 

“On another note,” Sam spoke, breaking the silence, “Don’t think I missed the way that Robo-Cop held you on the jet–”

“We’re not talking about this right now–”

“And he called you sweetheart,” he whistled lowly, and you could hear the grin on his face without even looking at him. “Is there something you wanna tell me–”

A sharp cry exited his lips, cutting off his words as you dug the needle through him. Your eyebrows furrowed in feigned concern as your eyes flitted up to meet his gaze in mock apology.

“Haven’t heard you scream like that since Riley was around,” you mused, tilting your head at him. “You gonna pass out on the floor of my lab?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

This time around, Bucky wasn’t discharged back into regular duties for over two weeks. You put him on strict bedrest, even though he hated every single moment of it. Thankfully, the other members of the team snitched on him every time they found him roaming the halls near the training grounds, and you would immediately herd Bucky back into his room.

He told you that it was overkill. Subconsciously, you agreed. He didn’t need to be out of commission for that long, and he was honestly fine after a week and a half. You had already taken the stitches out of his body. X-Rays showed that his bones had healed the right way, and he had made a full recovery. 

You were still worried. You couldn’t shake the memory— having to continuously cut into him, him bleeding in front of you… It really did mess you up, more than you wanted to admit. 

One look from you made Bucky concede, and follow your wellness plan without another complaint. 

However, it didn’t stop Bucky from bringing you gifts. Except he hand delivered it to you now, rather than leaving it in your room like some sort of off season Santa Claus. 

Bucky sat on the bench beside you, watching you open up the little package. He wasn’t even around you the other day when you said you’d been having a hard time sleeping recently, and now? You had lavender incense and some candles– peach scented. Along with the aromas, he also presented you with a small plush toy.

“How the hell did you know that I like Miffy?” you asked, raising your eyebrow at him. “Scratch that– how do you even know what Miffy is?”

Bucky shrugged beside you. “You’re not the only one that notices everything.”

“So you just… never talked to me, but you remembered everything I ever said? Even when you weren’t in the same room as me?” you mused. You took out the small bunny toy and placed it on your desk like a little guardian watching over your med lab. You tapped on its head, a smile coming onto your face. 

“I’ve had a crush on you for a while, doll,” he said, as if it was old news. “I just didn’t really know how to approach.”

“So you thought depositing a gun in my room was the best way to approach me?” you questioned, turning to look at him. 

Bucky paused, the words going over his mind and filtering through. The man took a slow, deep breath before meeting your gaze. Then, he smiled. That same smile that made you go weak and dizzy in the head. “Kinda romantic, right?”

The sheer audacity of him made you roll your eyes, a scoff falling from your lips not too long afterwards. Even so, you couldn’t help but mirror his smile. You did have to admit it– fine. It was a little romantic. 

“And here I thought, we were gonna be friends,” you teased lightly.

“I told you, sweetheart– we’re not gonna be friends,” he shook his head.

“Oh? Then what are we going to be?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Lovers,” he said, like it was the most obvious answer. “Do you think I just take my shirt off and tell you to look at a contusion without any ulterior motives?”

“You keep saying it was a contusion to make it sound worse than it actually was, but it was literally a bruise, Bucky,” you sighed, shaking your head. “You’re sick in the head for that.”

“And you’re a pervert,” he accused. “I could feel you staring at me. Don’t tell me that you weren’t.”

“I’m the pervert?” you repeated, eyebrows up to your hairline.

Bucky hesitated for just a second as he looked at you. His eyes roamed over your face for a few moments, then he shrugged. “Well, I don’t think I can really say much. I really liked seeing you on your knees that one day.”

You slapped his arm, the smack resounding off the walls of your lab, quickly followed by the rumble of his laughter. You stood up, needing to take a second to get away from him as heat crawled back up your neck and threatened to appear on your face. 

“And I thought you were a gentleman,” you huffed, moving to turn towards your workbench.

Bucky’s hands caught your wrist, pulling you back towards him. The action was so smooth– so quick, but so gentle all at the same time. You found yourself standing between his knees, barely any space between your bodies as he looked up at you. His hands slid down from your wrists to rest into your hands, lacing your fingers together.

“I can be a gentleman, sweetheart,” he told you, the softness of his voice matching the look in his eyes. “Is that what you want from me?” 

“You… are on bedrest, soldier,” you warned.

“What do you mean?” The corners of Bucky’s lips curled upwards slightly. “I’m not doing anything– is there something that you want me to be doing?”

Maybe you were the pervert after all.

All Bucky was doing was sitting there before you, looking up at you with those blue eyes that seemed to hold the world, and a soft smile on his face like you had given him that world– and you were coming undone. 

Was there something that you wanted him to be doing to you? Absolutely. You.

“Something about the way you’re looking at me right now tells me you don’t want me to be a gentleman right now,” he murmured to you, releasing one of your hands in favor of reaching up for your face.

“You spend too much time watching me if you can tell what my thoughts are just from looking at me,” you whispered back. You leaned into his touch, allowing him to pull you down into him until your forehead rested against his.

“You were mine before you even realized it, doll.” 

“Could’ve just hit on me sooner, y’know. Didn’t have to come here asking me to look at papercuts—”

“Shut up,” he sighed, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to close the remainder of the distance between you two. 

You could feel the smile on his lips against your own as he kissed you, tugging you impossibly closer to him. Your hands flattened against his chest for stability, a soft hum escaping your throat. 

Bucky’s teeth caught at your bottom lip, dragging down lightly until you willingly granted him the entry he was asking for. His tongue glided over yours, the hand at the back of your head pressing you deeper into him. 

He tasted sweet— like plums with a hint of syrup. You wanted more of it, wanted to consume him and his entire being into you. Thankfully, it seemed like he felt the same way. 

You found yourself fully situated on his lap, legs framing his hips. One of his arms looped around your waist, hand pressed onto your upper back to hold you against him as he kissed you harder. A sigh fell from your lips, one that he greedily swallowed up for himself. 

He pulled away, but didn’t stray too far. 

Bucky peppered kisses down your jawline and neck. You could only tilt your head to the side, giving him the space to play with whatever he wanted. 

“You’re so soft, sweetheart,” he murmured against your neck— right before he sucked a bruise right onto your skin. 

You forced back a gasp, your body tingling and screaming under his touch. He pressed his lips against the wound, tongue gently lapping over to soothe. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.—“ you called out, cut off by another nip of his teeth on your neck. You swallowed thickly, trying to get your bearings as you buried your hands into his hair, tugging him away from you to give you some space to think. 

“Yes, doctor?” the A.I. spoke, waiting for your instruction. 

You were breathless, just from one kiss and two hickeys. Bucky stared up at you, eyes filled with innocence, lips slightly swollen from the kiss you shared with him. From where your other hand rested, you could feel his heartbeat thrumming against his neck. 

“Block the glass, lock the doors, and turn the lights down. If anyone asks for me, I’m not here,” you ordered. 

“Understood.”

The room dimmed around you, and all doors slid shut. The glass and windows in your med bay turned to frost, while the blinds and curtains quickly got drawn shut. On the outside— it looked like you weren’t in. 

“Turning the lights down, doll?” Bucky whispered to you, a hint of tease in his voice. “Creating a mood for us?”

“Be quiet,” you muttered, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Bedrest. Now.” 

“Something tells me that this isn’t the same bedrest you prescribed,” he whispered.

“You don’t want me, soldier?” you asked, tugging on his hair again. 

A low groan escaped his lips, and his eyes shut for a second. You watched how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Don’t put words in my mouth, sweetheart.”

Bucky stood, carrying you with him as he crossed the room. He laid you down onto one of the recovery beds in your lab— the same beds that you would nap on if you ever spent too much time working. You were certain that Bucky knew that about you, too. 

His weight gently blanketed you as his lips caught yours again. Bucky slotted himself between your legs as if he’d always belonged there, like there was no place that he should’ve ever been. You wrapped your arms around his neck, a soft moan pulled from your lips as his hands dipped under the hem of your shirt, seeking skin. 

The contrast of the cool, smooth metal against the warm, calloused texture of his organic hand was enough to make your head spin. His hands continued their journey, fingers stopping just at the edge of your bra. 

“Is this okay?” he muttered against your lips. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “It’s okay, Buck.”

He exhaled slowly, breath mingling with yours as his hands ventured beneath the last piece of clothing. He cupped the mounds, feeling the weight of you, and cursed under his breath.

“Fuck– I might die,” he whispered, massaging your breasts slowly.

“What?” you breathed out, trying to focus on his words as his fingers caught the hardening peaks of your nipples. 

“I might die, sweetheart,” he repeated to you, eyes glued to your chest even though he couldn’t see anything from the layers of fabric over his hands.

“You’re not allowed to. I want you inside me.”

Bucky’s eyes shot up to you, brain malfunctioning for a second. Then, he dropped his head down to your neck. He was trying to catch his breath– and you hadn’t even done anything to him. This reaction was purely from your words, from just touching one part of you.

“I’m trying real hard to be a gentleman here,” he murmured against your skin.

You huffed, reaching between the two of you. Bucky’s body twitched as you undid the tie of his sweatpants, loosening the fabric around his waist. Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of the fabric, feeling him waiting for you. 

“You can be a gentleman while you fuck me,” you murmured, taking him in your hand. A low moan filled your ears as you began to stroke him– the hard, heavy length of him. 

You could feel his resolve breaking apart with every single slow pump of your hand. Bucky groaned into your neck with each of your movements, his hips pressing deeper into your hand as if to assist you. 

You could feel him throb in your hand, a thick vein coming to life against your palm. You took him from the very tip, thumb brushing over the head of him and smearing over the bead of precum that leaked over, and ran it all the way down to the base of him. 

Part of you thought it was a waste. You wanted to lick it up– swallow whatever leaked out of him. You wondered if you would be able to convince him to let you get down on your knees again for him.

Bucky didn’t even give you a chance to entertain the idea any farther. His hand gripped at your wrist, pulling your hand out of his pants as he sat up. His chest was rising and falling in slow, barely even breaths as he stared down at you.

The softness you saw earlier was gone. It was replaced with hunger, desire– you were about to be consumed by him. A tingle ran throughout your body, going straight down into your core as he reached for the buttons of your pants.

He moved slowly, peeling the fabric off of you like you were a present to unbox. Bucky even unlaced your boots, gently removing them and resting them onto the floor neatly before he was able to remove the rest of your pants. You could only watch with bated breath as he folded it, and put it on the bedside table, then turned back to you.

“Look at you,” he whispered, already shifting downwards onto the bed. “So pretty.”

He parted your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders before pressing a featherlight kiss to the inside of your thigh. He continued forth, more kisses trailing upwards towards where you need him most, but you couldn’t dare breathe a word to rush him– not when he was holding you like you were something precious, not when he was pressing kisses against your skin that felt more sincere than anything you’d ever heard before. 

“Do you like these panties?” he asked you, glancing up to your face.

“They’re comfortable,” you answered, resting up onto your elbows to look at him.

“You have more?”

“Yeah–”

The sound of fabric ripping filled your ears, then you watched as he chucked the ruined article to the side like it meant nothing. You didn’t even have a chance to say a word before his mouth closed around your heat, taking you in. Your head dropped back against the pillows, a shaky moan escaping your lips as his tongue flatted against you, then parted your folds. 

Bucky groaned at the taste of you, eyes fluttering shut like you were the best thing he had ever had. His hands tightened around your hips, tugging you closer to his face– trying to drown himself in you as his tongue nudged at your entrance, just barely dipping in and out. His nose brushed against your swollen clit, and your legs trembled around his head.

“Bucky–” you moaned, hands reaching for his.

His fingers laced with yours, and he hummed in acknowledgement. The vibrations only made your hips twitch against him, lifting off the bed and up into his face. You couldn’t help it– you were chasing the pleasure that he was giving you just with his tongue alone. 

Bucky’s thumbs brushed against the back of your hand in quiet encouragement– as if to tell you to let go whenever you wanted to. You wouldn’t be the one to deny him, not when he was giving it to you so deliciously. 

You came apart with his name on your lips, his head between your legs, and his fingers intertwined with yours. Bucky kept lapping up your arousal, desperate to not let a single drop go to waste. 

“Buck– shit– too much,” you gasped out, trying to wiggle yourself away from him.

A soft grunt came from him, but he relented. He came up for fresh air, licking his lips as he did. You caught the way your own slick glistened against his chin, how he looked so satisfied with himself– Jesus. It was a sight to behold. 

“Need you,” you whispered. 

“I’m all yours,” he replied. 

Bucky lowered himself back onto you without another second to waste. You could taste yourself on his tongue– the saltiness mixed with sweet. You craved more of him– all of him. You nearly cried out in relief when you felt him tug down the fabric of his sweats, pooling them around his knees.

You both moaned into each other's mouths as his cock pressed against your folds. Slowly, his hips moved, covering himself in your juices, the tip of his length nudging and catching on your clit every few moments. A shaky breath fell from his lips as you angled your hips just slightly, and his length caught slightly on your entrance. 

Very slowly, he stretched you out. Neither of you could say a word– you could hardly breathe as you took him in. You felt every single ridge and vein of his dick entering you, splitting you open and forcing you to learn the shape of him. 

“Fuck,” Bucky moaned above you, hips fully flushed against yours.

You could only nod in silent agreement, barely meeting his eyes. His breathing was labored as he looked down at you, eyes roaming all over your body before landing back onto your face. Bucky reached for you, and pulled your shirt up over your chest, taking your bra with it.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, grinding his hips against yours before he started at a slow pace. His hands ran up and down your torso, as if he was trying to memorize every part of you, catching every single contour of your shape. 

“You– you’re pretty, too,” you barely managed to force out as his thrusts naturally picked up speed, his cock dragging in and out of you in deep, hard strokes. 

Something mixed with a chuckle and a low moan ripped from this throat as he smiled down at you. Again– absolutely catastrophic. You couldn’t help but clamp down around him at the sight, and felt as his hips stuttered against yours. 

“You think I’m pretty, sweetheart?” he whispered, falling back into rhythm quickly. He found purchase at your waist, pulling you into him with each thrust, meeting you halfway– the pressure he was building was making you go insane.

“Mm– mmhm,” you nodded frantically, reaching to grab onto his wrists– his biceps– something to hang onto as he picked up the pace. “Your arms– fuck your arms are so pretty, Buck.”

“Knew you liked ‘em,” he chuckled, hips snapping into yours harder than before. A sharp cry ripped from you, as you dug your nails into him. “I always feel you staring, especially the left one. You really like this one, huh?”

Excitement shot through your body as you felt his vibranium hand trail up and close around your neck. Even against the dimmed lights of the med bay, the onyx and gold detailing still shimmered like stars against your eyes. You couldn’t help it– your walls clenched around him, fluttering madly.

You didn’t even need to warn him. Bucky’s efforts doubled in an instant, his cock hitting you deeper with renewed fervor. His other hand slipped between the two of you, fingers beginning to rub tight circles into your swollen clit. His metal hand tightened, just ever so slightly around your neck– and you were done for.

Bucky groaned out your name as you came on his cock, legs twitching on either side of his hips as he continued to fuck you through your high. It was too much, yet still not enough at the same time.

“Gonna– god, I’m close,” he grunted, his hands migrating towards your hips as he chased his own climax, using your body. “You’re so– fuck, you’re so warm, doll. So warm and wet and so fuckin pretty–”

His own words were cut off, your name falling from his lips once more in a choked out moan as his hips faltered against yours. You could feel his cock inside of you, trembling and pulsating as he emptied himself within you, painting you with a warmth that made you shiver beneath him. 

Bucky caught himself before he collapsed over you, forearms caging you on either side of your head. His breath fanned against your face as his forehead rested against yours. You tilted your head upwards, pressing a kiss to his lips– one that he returned right away. He kissed you slowly, moving against you with unhurried passion, just reverence and affection.

Slowly, his cock softened within you. The two of you sighed against each other as you felt him slip out. You could feel the remnants of him leaking out of you and onto the bed, but you would deal with it later. For now, all you could focus on was Bucky’s lips and the kisses he pressed all over your face.

Before long, Bucky carried you onto another bed– one that wasn’t soiled by your sinful activities. The two of you naturally shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, you tucked into Bucky’s chest with his arms thrown around you. 

“You still think we’re friends?” he whispered into your hair. You could hear the smile in his voice, and you nudged yourself deeper into his warmth.

“I’m gonna put you on bedrest for another two weeks,” you warned, though there was no edge to your voice. In fact, it came out a little sleepy. “You’re obligated to report to me daily in the med bay.”

“You’re threatening me with a good time, sweetheart,” he chuckled, squeezing you tighter against him. 

“That’s the point,” you muttered, settling into him. “You like my version of bedrest.”

Bucky didn’t argue with you, but you already knew that he wouldn’t. The soldier pressed another kiss to your hairline, then shifted to cradle your face, angling your head upwards towards him. His lips met yours once more in a brief peck– just to let you know that he agreed with your treatment plan. 

masterlist

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[crustyfloor]

On Till’s (general emotional journey), his place in the karmic cycle occurring in Alien Stage’s ending, how he subverts the cruelty of self-punishment into a journey of personal growth, self-reflection, and gentle closure

And the reconciliation with Ivan that he never got to have

——

(Pretty long post )

All Panels from the "Remember everything" comic are a fan translation by @/ka_akeakamai

All panels from the "Scars" comic are a fan translation by @/manipuIatedstar

Ivan and Till's relationship has miscommunication and misunderstanding threaded into every aspect of their story. It eventually becomes tragic and pitiful when you realize they would've been so different if only they were more honest and understood each other better, especially with the examples that will be shown in this post

This foundation set for their relationship then planted the seeds for the actions that will induce a consequence (for Till's karma), as is the principle applied to the karmic cycle that says every action will come with a consequence [ a search for atonement]

The meteor shower was the seed, the "catalyst" for Ivan and Till's earliest development and dynamic shift, one of the "causes"-- when Till turned back and ran to the garden without a word Ivan didn't notice his hesitance, to put it into Ivan's perspective, he internalized this moment by assuming the situation would be better off if he no longer imposed his feelings on Till like before [Ivan's emotional expression has always been shown in the way he provoked Till or stuck by his side constantly,] If Till really preferred going back to the garden where he would continue to suffer just to be with Mizi-- to Ivan it proved that he wasn't truly wanted, he didn't mean as much to Till as he might've hoped for. (In short, Ivan took it as a rejection of his feelings as a whole.)

In the aftermath, Ivan didn't dissapear, didn't stop loving Till, but he did change the way he approached him, he began creating emotional distance from Till in certain, calculated ways [Back to the way Ivan shows his affection, the way he started subtly withdrawing, stopping Till from fighting with him and starting to show concern in secret and looking out for Till when he wouldn't notice was Ivan closing himself off from Till and shutting him out, especially as they got older, Ivan learned to become more evasive, like a shield.] So he started repressing his emotions, and voluntarily accepted staying in Till's shadow ("just enough to stay without being greedy")

Till wasn't being intentionally cruel; he was also just scared, scared of abandoning Mizi to escape and face the unknown outside of his comfort zone. We never do see Till confronting Ivan during or after the meteor shower because what Ivan and Till do when they fall out is not communicate, they just barely float around each other for a moment until they come back together. In this case, because Ivan wouldn't bring it up, Till didn't bring it up either. Till's emotional response to what he can't understand or cannot reconcile with almost always circles back to avoidance and denial [for instance, the gist of Mi Vida Loca is Till's avoidance and fears, and denial of the reality, all because he cannot find himself letting go in the face of rejection or fear, but all he wants to do is keep loving and chasing regardless]

Till isn't adept at handling social situations, certainly not feelings. He's especially careless about his interpersonal relationships, even though he cherishes them deeply, but his mind is always somewhere else, or he's too absorbed in his music to really see it, and he always finds himself too afraid to make the first move, always waiting or yearning or keeping to himself

Really, he's kind of simple-minded -> Till resolves the situation by not confronting/handling it because of the shame he had [for years, I imagine he grew to suppress these memories and avoid them until the present day]. Hell, maybe he didn't even have the words to explain it without a proper understanding of himself or Ivan or emotional maturity.

At the end of the day, neither he nor Ivan said a word about it; they didn't stop being together all the time, but something about their previous dynamic changed. And it didn't fix a thing

For years, Ivan and Till functioned like that, close but always circling around each other, avoidance, suppression, ignorance, but with Till, I wonder if there was an implicit trust that they would always be together anyway (it really just reminds me that he didn't anticipate going up against Ivan, and even post-cure, Ivan is always meant to return to him)

Years later, once the consequence is played out through Ivan's death, Till is once again grappling with denial and avoidance as he is alone to process all of this at once. The guilt and the suppressed feelings come back to him. During round 6, Till wanted to escape this exact scenario; he was fully ready to forfeit his life to Ivan to avoid living with all the failure and sorrow in his life, but [Till's "karma"] is being forced to acknowledge the reality, face it for the first time anyway without his defenses, even the loss he couldn't handle

This karma of his was innately set up to be a cycle of self-blame and self-destruction out of grief and trauma. If he chose to keep running and avoiding confrontation. His guilt would always be there, tormenting him, and so Ivan would never disappear. Till would end up staying stuck, walking in circles because of the past, and finding relief in causing wounds to keep things at bay. Worst case scenario, he would've destroyed himself to death

But here's the part where I believe he subverts "expectations" or breaks the typical flow of this cycle before it has the chance to break him

A rebellion member is killed on a mission, and the stray bullet injures Till. Of course, Till would feel upset for the life of another, especially since he couldn't do anything for them, but I'm almost certain that this scene was meant to play out as a reflection of Till's guilt and fears. It's to convey that Till is still haunted by these scenarios where he's helpless to the situation, people die all around him, and there's nothing he can even do about it. His guilt and self-loathing are endlessly eating at him, mocking him (Just the same way his hallucination of Ivan would say, "look at you, you're nothing but a burden." [Till hates feeling useless, pitifully weak]

Till breaks down to Isaac, it's implied more directly that Till's guilt over that incident is tied back to how tormented he is by the past. Till would continue to crush his own heart over his guilt, if Till doesn't move on and forgive himself, he's just going to continue to suffer and hate himself for the rest of his life over and over again, he'll continue to be reminded, that's just the cycle of trauma, [and that is how self-hatred plays out in these little ways, repetitively. Because of the person's perceived wrongdoings]

It could've been entirely unlikely that Till would've escaped this on his own if not for Isaac's advice-- he's told he should let go of the past and move forward, but Till knows in his heart that he doesn't want to let go, even though he wants to be freed, he doesn't want to forget it, it's all he's ever known for the majority of his life. That's why Ivan stays. If Till meant what he said by wanting Ivan to leave ages ago, Ivan would have been gone, but there's something within Till that is keeping him here. (Something unsaid, that he and 'Ivan' both know. Questions that have come back to the surface, being suppressed again and again out of fear, linger after all this time. I believe that's what pushes Till to really "confront" Ivan)

As I explained in another post, Till gets agitated when "Ivan" is casually checking on him and making the situation seem more mundane and casual than it actually is, just like he would do in the Garden.

Rewinding back to their days in Anakt Garden, after the meteor shower, it is my speculation that Till had many instances where he felt confused and irritated with Ivan for his behavior. Ivan was not good at calculating how Till would actually take these actions, even if they were small and "mellowed out." And Till, for his part, grew accustomed to ignoring Ivan and easily biting back what he actually felt behind bitter curses

When Till is reminded of this exact scenario in the present, he's sincerely upset and wonders why Ivan would never just ask if he was alright, ever. What does the hallucination of Ivan do...he deflects the question just like Ivan would have in the garden

Beneath this, in Till's words, there is a want, there is the deep-seated feeling of waiting for the people around him to ask about his feelings, to reach out first because he was a lonely child, he craved understanding and people, but was too scared to ask for it. But when Ivan always stuck around him and bothered him but didn't ask him about anything, he was left wondering why Ivan didn't care about him more, he was left questioning if Ivan ever did, and there it is, the core misunderstanding of each other

[Just like the behavior Till's hallucination of Ivan exhibits by avoiding elaboration and deflecting, this is the reason why Ivan and Till never properly connected with each other.]

Ivan and Till don't talk; Ivan is stubbornly resolute in his mindset, and Till remains stuck in place with apprehension and simple ignorance [A simple-minded guy at the time]. If they're left to their devices, they ultimately come to misguided conclusions about each other. Like Ivan not caring, Till not caring, then they never ask each other

How is Till simple-minded? pt.2 -> Well, he's not dumb, but he's naive. Always distracted, especially in the past with Mizi, without looking deeper into it and only absorbing how Ivan treated him in comparison to how he desired to be treated by people he cared about, back then they were immature children after all, when Till was spending day to day just trying to get by and feeling mostly confused by Ivan, it was easiest to assume things about Ivan that weren't true, especially in the instances where it'd seem like Ivan didn't even consider Till a friend, yet Till always cared about him

Till wonders why Ivan never asked him if he was okay, but in these scenarios where you're left asking why, maybe it is just that the other person was waiting for you to ask, too. It is just that Ivan wouldn't have known Till wanted him to care deep down if he thought Till disliked him so much, just as much as it would've been near impossible for Till to decipher Ivan's feelings if Ivan was always running and hiding. They both needed each other, but were actively denying themselves that because they were too scared of initiation, too scared to ask and get hurt, the Till of the present is understanding enough to realize that, fairly quickly, when he starts thinking back.

So when it comes to Ivan and Till's mutual misunderstanding, that's why Till was so stunned to realize something like Ivan actually caring about what he did, when otherwise, Till was too embarrassed to show him, and didn't think about whether Ivan would like it or not, if he could never read Ivan's feelings clearly. In Scars, we see him once again dismissing the thought and suppressing that revelation and the feelings that come with it, because of fear. Till was still avoiding and tiptoeing around the past.

However, this time it occurs to Till just how much time has passed-- Till has always had Ivan by his side, never imagined anything but-- now he's simply growing up without him. Till realizes he's been free, he's been doing things on his own, learning to ride a motorcycle, drawing, but he's been alone. (even though his vision of freedom would've always been alongside his friends, over being alone like this.) He's not used to being alone; most of all, he doesn't want it. So he doesn't let go of Ivan, yet again lacking the initiative to confront the situation, it never fixed anything when Till first woke up in the rebellion. It torments him; he's alone. But loneliness... that's why Ivan is here too [that's why he's always been there.]

Rather than a figure shrouded in darkness or a corpse coming back to haunt Till, it's just a child. There's a gentleness to the way Till sees Ivan now in contrast to Scars when he's coming to confront his grief and regrets directly. He had lost something irreplaceably precious to him before he could realize what it really even meant, before it was too late .

He remembers it was always Ivan desperately finding ways to get excuses to be with him by any means, good attention or not. Till didn't notice that it was because they were so alike. Lonely and needed someone

Back then, he could've never imagined that Ivan was so timid

Till just didn't understand it at the time, and so couldn't find the words to elaborate on the subject of Ivan, but it was always Ivan in his peripheral vision, no matter what. If only they both knew the word "family" = [how to confront each other], they could've prevented their suffering

[it’s a pitiful circumstance], but what Till feels isn’t pity, nor sympathy, but rather Till is understanding. He’s finally understood why Ivan always followed him around and did the strange things he did in the past, which held him back from truly connecting with Ivan, because they both came to constant clashes because of their fundamental differences

That's the thing that makes Till's path different to me, it's that he could've easily spiraled further into guilt for not realizing it sooner,

Instead of continuing to be angry, resentful, afraid, remorseful--instead of falling further into self-hatred, etc. He acknowledges and understands Ivan. Till's compassion and care effortlessly reaches out to him, he accepts Ivan, knowing they were both going through similar things and that Ivan was also afraid, even though it will never be the same as coming to understand the real Ivan, the point of Till's breakdown is his realization that this is all coming to him way too late. If only they had the time and the knowledge, they could've fixed this. He's regretful, but through this, he's making amends.

I'd like to believe there is forgiveness in there, too. For both of them, effortlessly loving, unconditionally, is in Till's nature (and it seems like as he's grown post-cure, he has become a more understanding person). This is rightful reassurance for two characters who didn't know how much they truly meant to each other, and couldn't have a better relationship. For Till, who couldn't shake the regret of overlooking Ivan for so long that he believes he caused this-- he gets to finally understand himself and Ivan by seeing his own pains reflected in him, and then he comes to come to truly know Ivan after all this time

For Ivan to be acknowledged and accepted [and loved] just like he's always wanted, is in its own way, closure for them both. Even despite its tragedy. ["to love is to be seen"] <- in a way, you know, they both desired to be seen and healed. Now Till's own love and care for Ivan is shown more clearly in his actions as he finally allows himself to come to peace with what he's been avoiding for decades of their relationship

Really... Till is so filled with love, only love can do what he did for Ivan

This moment gives Till a freeing sense of peace, metaphorically and literally. After that day, years have passed, and Ivan still hasn't come back to him. Till is devoted to living alongside the suffering he knows and the memories, not leaving them behind or treating them like a disposable part of himself, since Ivan will always be someone he cherished and cared about.

-

Till's character being able to make it out of this in a gentle way, therefore reaffirming his nature, is what I value most. I say he subverts the outline slightly because, for Luka and Mizi, specifically Mizi, for instance, who also needs closure, she's stuck in a loop of self-atonement and loneliness for things she can't take back, she's been living in her own personal hell for ages, she can't forgive herself and she must still believe she deserves it. It's uncertain if she'll really be able to grow and continue living despite it, like Till did, or if it is certainly her fate to never be able to escape herself. The one thing she has to fight for is to understand and forgive herself first. But I believe they all have it in them to make it, I believe they're all meant to at some point

Till was just narrowly close to losing himself to grief and sorrow. But he's always had a knack for coming back from the brink, and with a newfound sense of bravery and growth and understanding, most importantly, love-- he does what he couldn't do before. He decided to confront Ivan and the suppressed feelings. He decides to search for Mizi because what they need together is family and closure. By doing this, he would be cherishing Ivan's memory, by repurposing the suffering and the love into something even more profound (you know 🫩)

[aphrodicci]

ꜱᴄᴏʀᴘɪᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʟʟᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴀʀ

𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐨/𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬.

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this post will mainly be focusing on the scorpio moon, but i'll interpret other placements in the end so you can understand how it can manifest <3

❦ lucifer is the main fallen angel and he is usually associated with scorpio. i know that capricorn is also associated with the devil but that's in a different way and if you guys want me to make a post about it, do ask!

❦ lucifer in some versions was known to be the angel of music and truthfully he is the most famous devil we know of. when people think of satan or other devils it is usually lucifer who is unintentionally considered. in some versions it was lucifer who was favoured by God but what made him fall was his pride and how he wanted to be above God.

[people try and say its free-will he wanted but if he didnt have free will the war in heaven wouldnt have happened].

❦ this can link to scorpio and it's connection to power dynamics and ego-death.

❦ in his own way he did become a "God" he is a deity to others. people practice to him, but he did not become God in the way he expected. he is a God in a way where people "sell" their souls to attain more wealth and fame.

❦ and scorpio is the sister sign of taurus. a known finance sign. but scorpio is a finance sign as well, chiefly the 8h. its about the money you get from other people. and it can be about fame as it rules over masses and obsessive attention.

❦ this can be interpreted in a way of how Lucifer was the first person to sell is own soul to become who he is. he is no longer in the "kingdom of heaven" he is a ruler of hell and allegedly chained to the underworld as it is interpreted that he can no longer walk the earth in his Human Form, or any of his forms, allegedly.

❦ and you still might be wondering how this correlates to scorpio. with my own research, i noted that many scorpio placements, especially scorpio moons THRIVE within the music industry. and what did i say in the beginning. scorpio/lucifer was the angel of music and right now he can even be considered the devil of music.

lucifer ⟶ music angel/deity associated with it.

moon ⟶ associated with audience.

❦ that's why a lot of scorpio moons are musicially inclined and have mass admirers and this could correlate with the 1/3 of angels that fell with lucifer. and that is a lot. [and im not saying the fans are devils im insinuating of how lucifer had the favour of many others].

how does this correlate with fame?

❦ lucifer is known as the demon of fame. he is usually considered to be who people sell their souls to, to gain attention and money. and since lucifer is connected to scropio it gives the sign a boost when it comes to success.

scorpio moon musician examples ⤵

❦ and what i find interesting is that whenever a scorpio moon is in entertainment like shows or music group. they tend to be the most popular one. and whenever they're not in a group they're compared to someone else.

❦ in destiny's child, it was beyonce who was the face of the group. and now, she gets "rivalled" against lady gaga, another scorpio moon native.

❦ you can find this happening in blackpink, where the 2 scorpio moons in the group are the ones other people tend to pit against each other, and that's lisa manoban and jennie kim.

❦ i looked at katseye's chart, and the leader of the group sophia, is a sagittarius moon but the degree would make her a scorpio moon in vedic. [though this is mainly focusing on tropical astrology].

❦ when it comes to television entertainment, miley cyrus and raven symone [two scorpio moons] were compared to each other as people argued who was the queen of disney.

❦ and katy perry? im not sure if there was an actual rival for her, but she was known to be the celebrity with many lookalikes and that was discussed in another post of mine and how scorpio is the sign that rules over doppelgangers.

❦ now looking at biblical references and theories. lucifer and michael were perceived to be brothers, and it is likely michael that took lucifer's place when it came to being God's favourite angel.

❦ what is interesting is that i dont think michael is governed by scorpio but is ruled by its brother aries. michael is known to be the warrior of angels. strongest angel that fought in the war in heaven. mars/aries is known to be the main warrior commodity in astrology.

❦ you might be wondering what does this have anything to do with the post? but it has to do with the comparisons like i have spoken about previously. not only is beyonce compared to lady gaga when it comes to fame and success, but she is also compared to jennifer lopez. another scorpio moon.

❦ another example is how kylie is the scorpio moon and is the favoured sister, even if kim is popular, the reason why they're successful besides their mother being very strategic. it is kylie who was more referenced than her older sister.

❦ whenever two scorpio moons are compared there's a side that is mainly perceived as evil, and a side that is mainly perceived as good. even if both jennifer lopez and beyonce receive hate, people tend to victimise jennifer lopez in order to defend her against beyonce. and people tend to victimise lalisa manoban when it comes to hating on jennie kim.

❦ and i find it really funny that one side will have both aries + scorpio while the other has just scorpio. so the dynamics can be switched. it just has to do with public perception because media switches on people very quickly. at first it was beyonce that was scrutinised for the likes of jennifer lopez, and how jennie was seen as the villian of k-pop. but as time passed, it is now jennifer lopez who is seen as an enemy, chiefly when people recall of the interview of beyonce speaking about her memory of her being pushed into a water fountain by jennifer lopez. [mind you beyonce did not bring up jlo's name. jlo said it herself] and now lalisa is scrutinised more than jennie [even though jennie does get intense hate].

❦ in this dynamic i see the "God" being the public. and its more in a way of judgement, and even being unreliable. even if you're a loved celebrity the public can turn on you as quickly as they became interested in you.

so what does scorpio do?

✿ as it has been implied before in this post, scorpio is a karmic fame sign. whenever it falls into an individuals' chart is about how they handle fame. will you be the "fallen angel" or the breaker of cycles.

✿ the scorpio sign symbolises the "fallen angel" and the placement it is in speaks about how they can gain fame but also how they can fall from grace.

✿ and we can see how it manifests through the ascendant to planet saturn.

scorpio on the ascendant ⤵

celebrities with this placement ⟶ justin bieber, katy perry and lana del rey.

❦ its evident how it is impacting them, especially with what they're going through currently. majority of them mainly justin and katy received fame at a very young age and they were idolised for who they are and how they presented themselves.

❦ the world fell in love with justin bieber and thats a textbook case of angelic rise, his fall from grace involves many circumstances for example his mugshots, his relationship with his wife and how he is as a father. he has this wounded prince aura people cannot look away from.

❦ katy received instant fame through her image and sexuality, and most of the hate does involve misogyny and sexism. also puritan culture but its interesting now that she is someone who works with people who have sexually harmed other people like kesha and is now seen as a try hard which is completely contrasting to how she was the natural rebel and theatrical princess.

❦ lana del rey has always been controversial, but her sad girl daddy issues era has been one of the things that has gotten her attention besides her beauty and alluring music. her critique does come from much information of her being anti-empowerment. siding with narratives that actually support issues that made her feel traumatised.

❦ with the ascendant it shows that they gain fame with how they express themselves and how they interact and view the world. for example katy with her heartbreak, women empowerment [embracing sexuality] music and lana del rey doing a similar thing along with her daddy issues. but now those things are the reason why they have fallen. now people think of them to be people who are fake when it comes to how they express themselves with the world.

scorpio sun ⤵

celebrities with this placement ⟶ drake, bjork and sean.

remember these are just examples about how scorpio and fame can manifest. bjork is nothing like drake or fucking diddy.

❦ when the sun is in scorpio we know that the commodity expresses itself intensely. there's a need to prove power with these people and with drake its something that is a ever longing cycle. drake is someone who knows how to control the narrative along with sean, prior they come off as people who are "real".

❦ they're people who build brands so they get connected to more power, like drake with OVO and diddy with his many shady businesses. in the beginning they're perceived as music alchemists only to be exposed as people who are predator, revenge-seeking and domineering. they like to get back in blood and even create collateral damage.

❦ they can be gate-keeper of souls, being who people allegedly sell their souls to. they put people on. especially drake and diddy. but compared to bjork who is a dark feminen force, her arch is drenched in depth, rebirth, love and nature. despite being globally known as is someone who remains elusive and very selective about who she lets in. she is worshipped by the misfits and always challening what is considered ugly or divine.

❦ with the sun, its quite similar with the ascendant and how they express themselves being what gives them attention but it is also authority and power issues being their downfall. the need to always prove people their spot and their high chair.

scorpio moon ⤵

celebrities with this placement ⟶ beyonce, jennifer lopez and jennie kim.

❦ the main focus point of this post. looking at these 3 women i see that their work ethic is something that is usually spoken about, beyonce being known as a power house, jennifer lopez a copy cat and jennie kim lazy. these women tend to have this high priestess of fame status, for example in the specific demographic they are in. they tend to be the most popular or one of the most popular, you'd be lying if you didnt agree that beyonce is one of the most if not the most famous black musician right now, chiefly the most famous black musician that is a woman.

❦ you'd be lying if you said jlo is not one of the most popular latina musician and jennie kim being one of the most popular women in k-pop. her belonging to a very popular k-pop group does amplify it but along with lisa [another scorpio moon]. she is one of the most spoken about within the dynamic. when these people learn how to control the narrative people do like to push narratives about them being evil people but silence is their power. not saying that they should never speak out BUT people often want their responses. almost like they're entitled to it.

❦ depending how controlled they are they are emotionally unreadable. chiefly jennie kim and beyonce. jlo is a very underdeveloped scorpio moon, many developed scorpio moons have this zen trait to them which is ironic because jennie kim does have a song called zen. despite the controversy these women are untouchable and people get mad that they're untouchable and cannot be cancelled.

❦ scorpio moon women tend to get overly sexualised and punished for it. especially when they are in an work field where they are in a controlled industry. i find it interesting that each of these women are considered as villains when majority of the time it is people reaching but jlo...has much evidence of her being a thief. so i would agree and say some claims are correct.

❦ depending how they portray themselves to the public, they're worshipped and rejected but if they are people who know how to bring out good entertainment it makes them have a unkillable career. jennie kim with her album ruby and beyonce with her eras. people might critique them but they always have an eye out for their next project.

❦ this placement is interesting because majority of the time the reason why they "fall" is usually because people's projections and expectations arent always right. on the other hand sometimes their "fall" could be because of how other people compete and compare them to other women. the secret things they do behind closed doors when their mysterious trait was what made people interested in them in the first place. BUT they do tend to have very extreme moments when it comes to expressing their emotions, the moon is in fall here.

scorpio venus⤵

celebrities with this placement ⟶ jay-z, cardi b and doja cat.

❦ well. its evident that these people have controversial love lives, jay-z and his cheating scandals, cardi b and her ex husband offset and doja cat and her romantic connections with people who have harmed other women. even if they are people who create excellent music their romantic controversies sometimes tend to make more noise than their craft.

❦ scorpio venus is in detriment here and it shows through obsession, intensity and possession. sometimes their obsession does put them through embarassing controversy like how doja cat and her controversy with stranger things star and how she wanted his phone number and cardi b being repeatedly embarassed by her degenerate ex husband. majority of the time the natives with these placements are transformed by what they have gone through.

❦ jay-z did fall from grace because of cheating on beyonce. even though he is still highly admired, many people do critique for what he has done as they should on the other hand there is controversy about him stealing money from others. both scorpio and venus are money commodities in astrology. for others it could be frustrating to why these people do not get cancelled, doja cat associating herself with a nazi and rapist boyfriend is enough to get her pushed to the side but instead of it "cancelling" her or even taking accountability she was able to transform herself through art.

❦ their relationship with women are very important in this life time. it even shows through the scorpio venus and is another reason why cardi b remains relevant, she is not bitter towards other women unless they do something to her because she is known to be someone who associates herself with empowering other women instead of trying to downplay them.

scorpio mars⤵

celebrities with this placement ⟶ taylor swift, madison beer and sydney sweeney.

❦ similar to the scorpio venus. scorpio mars here shows that the dynamic with men and how much you tend to their validation is something that can either be your rise and fall. along with your passion with attaining fame and this happens with taylor switft and sydney sweeney a lot, people critique taylor for being someone who will always release something for money whereas sydney is a person who would kiss up the status of men or what they like to receive wealth.

❦ when it comes to madison beer it could be debated that she is someone who has passion for fame, has all the tools but does not know how to become the magician and that can be her fall from grace. as she is someone who is very beautiful and is someone who is passionate for music, when it comes to women within the industry and music industry people expect you to have a brand and it is hard to pinpoint what is madison's aside from her fashion and allure.

❦ she is someone who used to be hated on because of her relationship with attaining men that others wanted like jack gilinsky. mars is powerful in scorpio as it is the traditional ruler of scorpio so the energy of being able to manipulate the essence is easy and 2/3 of these women weaponise their femininty when it comes to achieving their abundance. taylor with her revenge, being able to be the sweetheart, the villain and the mastermind and sydney with pandering to men due to this it could make them deemed as evil and have them allegedly cast out, though the scorpio energy doesnt allow that as they resume tending to their rebrand.

❦ madison beer was someone who was sexualised when she was a child. and it is likely a wound for her, being someone who was made desirable by the internet at an age that was uncomfortable, this scorpio placement does bring early sexual projection and i do see the chance of her reclaiming her femininity and sexuality as a way to build her brand, it is a reason why make you mine did well. as it centred around vengeful reclaimation of femininty.

scorpio jupiter⤵

celebrities with this placement ⟶ britney spears, nicki minaj and elvis presley.

❦ this one is interesting, we all know that jupiter rules expansion and the darksided traits of scorpio does imply exploitation and with this alignment we can see how that impacted britney spears. for these people fame comes with a dark edge, mass fication or an emotional complexity. these people dont just become famous they become cultural myths.

❦ as i implied that lucifer is the fallen angel of music and even the demon fame. scorpio being jupiter shows that these people rise through dark fame and emotional transformation and we can see that nicki minaj has not been able to handle that. with scorpio ruling over mass attention and jupiter making it more expansive, everything she does will be watched and remembered. she is someone who is both adored but i wouldnt necessarily say feared. the scorpio energy brings the intense judgement she receives from other people.

❦ jupiter is a royal planet and it is interesting that both elvis and nicki are given queen and king titles. some people even consider to be the princess of pop. elvis' energy still haunts pop culture as his legacy is tinged with obsession and emotional intensity along with the taboo habits he had when it came to the women in his life. looking back at britney, her entire life involved transformation, control and rebirth, i wouldnt say her downfall was legal battles and her shaving her head. howbeit the jupiter in scorpio energy shows that she has been pushed to extreme lengths to go against authority.

❦ looking at nicki minaj. she is a prime example of how a scorpio jupiter can be the cause for a natives downfall. both scorpio and jupiter are power commodities in astrology, and nicki minaj thrives on power, fame and attention. in the bible its said that lucifer wanted to take God's role along with free will but the hunger of it caused him to become obsessed and fall from heaven. nicki minaj is still someone who is praised of what she has brought to the table, just like how lucifer is praised to be the most beautiful angel. on the other hand, their dark/negative habits tend to overtake what they have wanted to build for themselves.

scorpio saturn ⤵

celebrities with this placement ⟶ marilyn monroe, miranda kerr and maybe kris jenner.

❦ these are people who are aware of the power they have over others. compared to the other placements these are individuals who have karma catch up to them later in life, chiefly if they are bad people. these are people who dont only just possess how to be magnetic but they study and refine it. and you can see this with how both marilyn and miranda had men on their knees for them and kris was able to teach that energy to their daughters.

❦ miranda is someone who married billionaires, and not too long ago two millionaires fought over her, on the other hand, kris jenner is someone who knows how to associate her daughters with powerful men to get what she wants. though right now i would say that she is the powerful man. people with this placement often become archetypes of femininty, seduction and control.

❦ even though the idea of billionaires fighting over someone could be exciting, the fame that comes with it is iconic but it can barely feel free. with the saturn in scorpio these people tend to take what the world could consider as shameful and transmute it into something that could last them power. these people have image discipline, compared to kris and marilyn. miranda does have a cleaner history compared to them.

❦ lucifer fell because he challenged the divine order and that can be interpreted as saturn. scorpio saturn individuals challenge rules through sexuality, fame and emotional power but they tend to pay for it in ways we likely are not aware about. but sometimes their pain could be ridiculed and put out for entertainment like marilyn. their taboo connections with men sometimes do play part in their downfall or add to their mental spiral. howbeit compared to the other placements their "downfall" isnt as open to the public and other people.

❦ thank you for reading! ❦

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[laufeysvalentine]

running back to you

spencer reid x fem!reader | masterlist

summary ༄ spencer reid x situationship!reader — in which you and spencer are friends with benefits… but you want something more.

most suggestive thing i've written so far, angsty (!!!), reader drinks, ooc spencer?? spring into summer/back to friends vibe

word count ༄ 3k

nora’s notes ༄ idk how i feel about the pacing for this... didn't proofread, pt 2 if you guys want it!!

The first time you slept with Spencer, it was an accident. Okay, a half-accident–a haze of a post-night out at a bar you lived close to, the soft sincerity in his voice when he offered to walk you home. The stars were drunk and stumbling beneath your feet and he warmed under your tongue like something you were always meant to taste. The second you kissed, you knew it was over. Not the night, not the friendship, but the version of yourself who hadn’t wanted more. You’d never be able to go back now. 

You’d met Spencer on the turn of the seasons, spring into summer into fall. You became good friends after that—friends who didn’t touch in the dark, friends who didn’t kiss and trace silly pictures into each other's backs as you sunk into sleep, friends who didn’t ask for more. Until you did. 

The second time you slid your palms over his shoulders, pinched the soft hair at the back of his neck, both of you were drunk. It was less of an accident, this time. You invited him over and cracked open some wine. He told you about the book he’d just finished. The last time he saw his mother. You didn’t speak about what you’d done only the week before. Just cleared your schedule and went back to normal. 

Just after tipsy, you’d told a joke that made him laugh so hard he fell over. It was an open giggle, one that made your heart swell just enough that when he straightened, smile still kissing his lips, your noses touched and you let him kiss you. Or maybe he let you kiss him. You couldn’t tell. 

That one was different, though. It left a chill teasing your skin, scared and rattled you. Because, as you lay next to him, eyes tracing the distance between the space between his brows and the dip of his cupid’s bow, your mouth opened. You weren’t sure what it would say, but anxiety rose on your tail anyway. If this kept going, it wouldn't be much longer before you fell for him. When you woke up, your hand stretched towards the other side of your cramped bed, but the sheets were cold. He’d left. Why did that make your heart twist? 

Third, there was no excuse. You missed him all week, so you had him over for dinner again. He said yes, again. You weren’t drunk, weren’t sorry. Just sick with some kind of adoration that nibbled at your self-respect. Later, you watch the muscles of his back shift in his sleep, place your hand on his shoulder to feel them. You’re not ready to sleep yet, because you know once you do, he’ll leave. This time, you’ll ask for an explanation. 

You’ll say let’s talk about it and he’ll say sure and he’ll ask you to let him be yours and you’ll kiss on the counter and the bed and the sink. Then, of course, you wake up to the remnants of his presence. His smell on your pillows is the only indication anyone was ever here. 

You told yourself it was just sex. But you were only lying to yourself. You wanted it to be more; you wanted him to want it, want you. Sometimes, it felt like he did. When he brought you coffee on his way to work, exactly how you liked it, or wrote you letters—handwritten—while he was away on cases. It was that hope that twisted the most, the not knowing. 

You call him later that week, fingers hovering over the keypad. “Spence?” 

“Hey,” he says. You don’t call much. His voice is different over the phone. “How are you doing?” 

“Okay,” you say back. Your fingers tap against the table. He sounds normal. You think back to your script but can’t remember the lines anymore. “How are you?” 

“Good.” There’s a pause between you. It hangs, kicking. “Do you… want me to come over?” 

Oh god, is this a booty call? You didn’t mean it to be. You meant it as a confrontation, but you can’t seem to get angry. Not when you can picture him out the other side, lips pressed in a half-smile, hair running wild. 

“Oh,” you nod. He can’t see you. “Yeah. Yes.” 

“Perfect,” he says, and it’s softer this time. 

Another silence. 

“How’s work?” You blurt, chipping at the nail polish you’d put on earlier that day. You almost pinch yourself for being this awkward.

Luckily, he just lets out a low laugh. “It’s good. Not on any active calls right now. Though the chances aren’t in my favor. Hey, did you know that we’re usually on a case–” 

Your spine releases. Everything’s normal. He’ll come over, you’ll talk, actually, really, about what happened, and it will all be okay. 

Shit. What should you wear? 

-

By the time a knock sounds on your door, just a few hours later, you’ve just showered and put on a fresh set of clothes that you feel especially nice in. You half-jog to the door, steeling yourself as you open it. 

“Hi.” He beams at you, holding up a bag of greasy takeout. “I brought food.” 

Your grin is bigger than you’d like it to be. He looks so pretty like this, on your doorstep just to see you, just to be in your presence. 

“Spencer,” is all you say, opening the door to let him in. You stand there like fools for a few seconds, doing nothing but staring at each other. 

He steps forward, then, and the two of you sit down to eat—set the table with two forks, two napkins, two plates. You ramble about his day and he watches the way your mouth moves as you speak, listens to you as you tell him about your annoying coworker for lunch, what you had for lunch, anything and everything that happened. You listen, too, as he interjects and lets you into that genius mind of his. You move from the table to the living room, still talking. The plates can be cleaned up tomorrow. 

You’re sitting on the couch, feet stopping just before his lap, when he rests his hand on your ankle, drawing slow circles on your fibula. He’s backlit by one of your new lamps, the light collecting his hair in a halo, and he has that baby smile on him, teeth peeking out. 

You stop talking. His hand surges up, up, up. 

“Spence,” you say softly. Stay strong in your resolve. 

“Mmm?” Your name slips out of him like the sweetest admission, curling around his tongue, and all of a sudden everything you meant to say fizzles into your gut. 

“I-I think we should—” 

He shifts closer. He smells like new books and something dangerously close to love.

It was a good effort, really. 

“Yeah?” He asks, all breathy and angelic. 

“Nothing.” 

-

You wish it didn’t hurt so much when you woke to an empty pillow. You wish that gnawing inside of you didn’t mean that you started to love him. You wish you could stop calling. 

But as the days melt to weeks, the more dread builds up inside you. You’re going to stop seeing him. You’re going to craft an ultimatum—date me or we’re done. You pray with everything inside of you that he chooses the first one. 

Every time he comes over, you tell yourself you’ll say. Then he’s all over, saying those sweet things he always says, angel, baby, love, and suddenly sleeping with a friend, your just-friend, doesn’t seem so bad. 

Then again, there’s those moments before, when you’re sitting in your living room and you remember those times before, when the clock crossed two and a puzzle was spread across your coffee table. You held cups of tea to your chest and smiled in the steam, laughing at something Spencer had said. It was easier then. You didn’t have to think about what he thought, what you looked like, how to make him want more. 

That memory surges something in you, and later, when your hair’s splayed against your pillow and moonlight is shifting against Spencer’s shoulders, you ask. 

“Spence,” you whisper, looking in those eyes. “What are we?” 

He stills, searches you before lowering his head. 

“We’re just friends, right?” He kisses that spot under your earlobe. “You don’t want it and I… I don’t have the time.”

A pit whirls in your stomach. He kisses you again, like his hand didn’t just reach into your chest and squeeze your heart, insides spilling out of its skin. 

You try to close your eyes, pretend his words didn’t make your ribs cave in. But they echo anyway.

Just friends, he said. The same way people say just water, when it floods your lungs.

He doesn’t want you like that. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want you. 

And when he pulls you under him, you wish with everything in you that you had the courage—that you wanted, really, to push him off. 

-

It’s a day when night coats the sky in inked clouds and the neon of the sign Pablo’s lights up over Spencer’s tall head. The bar near your house is crowded and loud, laughter spilling into conversations around the room. 

You slip into a booth with some of your mutual friends, shrugging off your jacket into conversation. 

“Hey,” he says, hand on your forearm. “Do you want anything from the bar?” 

“I’m okay,” you respond, mustering a smile. Why’s he going to the bar anyway? He hates drinking, you basically had to drag him out here in the first place. 

Your mouth keeps moving in conversation with someone, a work friend, while your eyes trail him. He perches his forearms onto the bar right next to a girl. A beautiful girl who looks like she’s swallowed the sun. 

Oh.

You’re proven right only a second later, when he doesn’t order a drink, instead just glancing at the girl, who, of course, turns to him. Her eyes roving all over. 

Your heart twists, clenches. Maybe you will need a drink after all. 

“I’m going to get something,” you yell to the friend next to you, already pushing yourself out of the booth and towards the furthest spot away from Spencer that you can get. 

The bar is sticky with warmth. You attempt to flag down the bartender, who nods at you from the other side of the bar, yeah, I’ll be there. 

In the mean time, you drum your fingers on the wood, knocking. It feels like hours as the bartender, a pretty woman with chestnut hair slicked back into a trimmed braid, meanders towards you, chatting on the way. 

You feel the presence before you see it, honeyed and bright against the dark of the bar. 

“Hi,” it says. 

You look up, trying to stop your jaw from dropping to the floor right onto that dingy floor. He’s beautiful. Hair swept to the side. Eyes kissed by angels. A sweet, sweet smile you want to taste. 

“Hi.” You really hope you’re concealing your blush right now. 

“I was gonna impress you with a cool drink order, but now I’m panicking. What’s good here?” He slides his forearms onto the bar, close enough to smell the tang of his cologne. 

His image flickers and he’s become Spencer, grinning up at you in the dark of the bar. 

“I–” you push that image away. You can’t be thinking of him. He doesn’t want you. Your eyes slide to where he was with that woman earlier, the one with beauty that lingers long after she’s left the room. 

They’re gone. 

You swallow. You think of him doing the things he does to you, saying what he says to you, and your insides roil. 

You glance back to the guy next to you. Eager, sweet. How could you say no to that? “I like to switch it up every time I come.” 

He nods along. “What did you get this time?” 

You point to the chalkboard next to the TV, at the daily special for happy hour. 

“A beautiful drink for a beautiful woman,” he says. 

You beam at him, flushed from the compliment. You haven’t been out in so long, not without Spencer at your hip, ready to head back to your apartment, that the attention is flattering you in a new way. 

Your mouth opens to compliment him back when his gaze flies upwards and he stands, addressing someone behind you. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were with someone,” he says to you. 

“What? I’m not.” Your eyebrows furrow, but he’s already gone. 

What the hell?

You turn around to a face that makes you whirl, spinning in hearts. Now, though, your grin crumples. 

It’s Spencer—who else would it be? He’s looking at you, serious. His hair is twisted up and mussed, and his expression is melting back from a glare, one he was clearly using on the guy who just left. 

You never even got his name. 

“What the hell, Spencer?” You hiss, standing. 

He’s taken aback, you can see it in the crease of his eyebrows, the smallest downturn of his pink pink lips. He’s searching for the words to puzzle you out, smooth it over.

Someone turns and you can feel their eyes on you, asking, silently, are you okay? You can’t do this. Not in here. Maybe not ever. 

You push past his shoulder and all the bodies packing the entrance, ignoring his shouts of your name. 

The sky is crying now, rain slipping dark from the twirling skies. You join it, tears and raindrops salty on your skin. You can’t tell where the outside ends and where you begin. 

“Angel!” A voice yells from behind. 

You turn. Spencer’s standing under the bar’s awning, droplets sloshing onto the dark fabric. He’s dry. Safe. 

But fuck, the sight of him looking so innocent boils an anger within you. Not just because he scared off that man, but for everything he hasn’t done. Somewhere deep inside of you, you know it’s not his fault that he doesn’t want to stay longer than the night, that he can’t bring you love, that it’s not yours either. But that knowledge is buried deep and right now, all you can see is the man you weren’t enough for. The man who left you and left you and left you. 

“Angel, are you okay?” He asks, and the lilting tenderness of his voice stabs you in the gut. 

“What were you doing there, Spencer?” You demand, taking a step closer. You’re just a few feet apart now, but a chasm has opened beneath you. If either of you get closer now, you’ll fall.

“I–” he stops. 

“Say it.” 

“I dont know,” he bites his lip. “I thought you needed help. You deserve better, you know.” 

You heave, disbelief pouring through your voice. “That’s not–that’s not fair. I don’t need saving. I’m a grown woman, not some damsel in distress.” 

“I don’t think you’re–” 

“No,” you shake your head. “No. Let me finish. Even if I don’t want him, that’s not your right. It’s not your choice to make for me.” 

He stops and you take a second to try and compose yourself, but the tears just keep flying. The rain’s dripping down your bones now. The words slicked onto your tongue won’t come back once you let them free. 

“I know you don’t want a relationship. I know.” Your gaze falls to his shoes now. The tips of them are dampened by splashes of rainwater. “I know I can’t be the one to change that for you. But I’ve still been wrecking myself. I’m more yours than you are mine and that’s not even the worst part of this, even though it hurts me so much that it feels like it should be.

“The worst, worst part about us–” you’re hiccuping now, but if you don’t say this now, you never will. “it’s that I would rather stay in this thing with you forever than risk it and leave and live a love that is half of this and you. I’m tearing apart, Spencer. I feel like I’m dying everytime I see you and it hurts so, so much. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t. I can’t.” 

When you look up, you see the red rimming his eyes, his cheeks glossy. You’re breaking into sobs now, shriveling into yourself, and he’s hovering around you, lingering, unsure where he should be, who he should go to. 

“I didn’t know,” he says. Desperation coats his voice. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t know.” 

“Spence, tell me,” you plead. “Tell me what I deserve. If not the man in the bar. Who do I deserve?” 

Something blooms inside of you. If he steps up, you promise yourself, you’ll forgive him. You’ll take him home and he’ll kiss you and when you wake up, he’ll be there. You’ll giggle when he insists on cooking you breakfast and giggle again when his lips fall onto your neck before you leave for work. 

Now, your hands slip into his. The wet is coating them now, frozen. His are warm, so warm, cradling yours with a tenderness you never thought you’d deserved. Come on, Spencer. Just step out into the rain. 

His lips drop open and your heart starts flipping. 

“I don’t know.” His voice molts into a whisper. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

Your fingers drop away, hang limply by your sides, twitching as if they don’t know what to do. 

“I have to go.” You hate how choked your voice is. Grief is blocking your throat, scratching at those walls. 

You turn. You can’t pretend you don’t linger for a second, praying he’ll say your name, lay his palm on your back. 

Nothing. 

The whole walk home, you let yourself sob. The thunder covers up the sound, an apology for the rain that’s stripped you bare and shivering in the open. 

Your whole body aches. But when you reach home, the first thing you do is strip your sheets, his scent still tracing the cotton. 

You throw it into the washer, watch it tumble into suds. 

Watch him wash away. 

pls consider reblogging if you enjoyed!! love u have the best day 💕

masterlist

tags @lydiasfalling @cowboylikemac @alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/789702546863374336/im-not-surprised-but-at-the-same-time-absolutely?source=share

I didnt read the whole ask so im not talking sbout any other things here besides the top part with the picture.

They arent entirely wrong. Sure homophobia IS a choice and they are wrong for being homophobic

But they arent wrong about people instantly reacting negatively towards any lgbt stuff nowadays BECAUSE of toxic fans and then slowly becoming radicalized against lgbt stuff

Im saying this as some who is queer. Im saying this as someone who enjoys queer media

But even i have turned away from ships and headcannons because of certain fans being unable to behave and dominate the space with hatred and toxicity to people who dont follow them

Whether choosing homophobia is wrong or right doesn't actually matter here. The fact of the matter is that people are being given a reason to hate lgbt stuff BY lgbt people or allies who cant behave.

And THAT is the problem.

Idk much about that artist or what they really mean but what i explained is what i mean.

Its no longer fun to headcannon characters as gay or trans anymore because EVERY character has to be some flavor of queer and if you disagree they you must be homophobic and should be driven out of fandom

I dont entirely blame people for wanting to then in turn remove lgbt stuff from fandom as retaliation for being unjustly pushed out themselves for the inexcusable crime of liking a character as they are in canon or "cis/het" in general.

It doesnt help that nearly every post about characters and their gender or sexuality now are incredibly passive aggressive about "cis/het"being bad or wrong.

So like ueah i agree that homophobia is terrible and people choosing to hate the gays now is a problem

But yknow maybe we should listen to why they choose that and try to be better? Like we've already acknowledged toxic fans exist so can we now acknowledge their existence has genuine consequences? Like real consequences that will not just affect random strangers but YOU and your community too?

We cant just defend or tolerate bad behaviour because the people perpetrating it support lgbt people and characters and media. Its not hard to be civil.

And telling people who once supported lgbt and are now homophobic because theyve been hurt by toxic fans that they are disgusting people and are in the wrong is not going to help. Dismissing their experiences because you don't agree with the outcome is not going to help anyone much less prevent it from continuing to happen or remedy the situation.

--

Oh, honestly.

Dude, annoying fans have been turning people off of things forever, but if a property is remotely popular—some Marvel thing or a big anime, let's say—then its audience is rife with regular homophobes actively trying to weaponize young dumbasses to make homophobia the norm.

All of those fandoms have just as many "How dare you make them gay???" toxic fans, but we don't assume that those people are why others don't ship het or don't write gen fic. There's this laser focus on Bad Queer Shipping instead of a general understanding that some fans are too intense, too assholish, and need to be blocked for one's peace of mind.

Even on Tumblr, many of the original posts in long chains about how "Wah, the toxic fandom for X made me only like het!" are open fundamentalist loonies. They word their propaganda in a way that appeals to tumblrites so that it will go viral, but Mean Queer Shippers aren't the actual reason. Jesus is the actual reason.

We, we, we. What is this we? There is no monolith of queer fandom that supports jackasses ripping each other's heads off for daring to ship the blorbo wrong.

"A black person was mean to me, so now racism is fine" fools are everywhere. They'll use queerness as an excuse. They'll use race as an excuse. They're either bigots or so far up their own asses that "I experienced pain once" is a valid reason for any level of shitty behavior. They don't need sympathy. They need boundaries.

[snappingturt3ls]

Danny has had many daughters, too bad they keep dying.

When Dani left to explore the world they thought she would be fine, that the destabilization was fixed. Unfortunately for her, the meds were losing effectiveness, slowly at first, then faster. Eventually, they stopped working entirely. A year after her "birth" three months after returning to her template, two hours after admitting her deepest secret, that she sees Danny as her father, Dani destabilized one last time.

Then she reforms. It's a miracle! Danny's baby girl is back, but she's different now. Her memories are almost all gone, her interests changed, even her obsession and core alignment were different. The only thing that wasn't lost was her love for Danny.

After two weeks Danny finally comes to terms with the fact that the girl who came from Dani's corpse was not the same one who died. Deciding not to place expectations on her to be someone she's not, Danny gave her a new name, Ellie, to show that she is her own person.

Then the destabilization began again. The meds were working again, but they both knew that wouldn't last. Frostbite wasn't able even find a cause of Dani's destabilization, and Ellie was no different. They couldn't stop it. And about a year later, Ellie destabilizes one last time.

And a new girl emerges, and Danny gave her the name Bella. The next was named Sally, then Rebecca, and so on.

Thanks to frostbite all of his baby girls were able to survive just a bit longer than the last, but that just made it hurt more when they left. Still, he never stopped loving them, determined to be the best father he could to each of his girls, and to make the most of the time they had together. He always remembers them, keeping scrapbooks and photo albums and almost a full petabyte of just videos, each painstakingly organized and backed up a thousand times over so they are never lost.

Danny is 56 years old. Danny has held 29 of his children while they died. Danny has watched the birth of 30 of his children. Danny's current child has survived longer than any of his previous kids, having turned eight last month. She's accomplished so much, she learned everything Tucker knew about computers, now being even more skilled than him. she's the first to be a hero, sorry vigilante, in 13 generations, she was even the first to graduate from college. But they both know she won't last much longer. The medicine has stopped working.

It's Barbara Gordon's turn to die.

Inspired by this post:

https://www.tumblr.com/novelistwriter/789068983730143232/her-guardian?source=share

[thetidesthatturn]

Just Pretend

Pairing: non-idol best friend Wooyoung x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, and they were roommates, sexual content (head freceiving , unprotected sex), alcohol use, mentions of cheating (not by Woo), heartbreak - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

You’re halfway through a tedious report when the door to your room flies open with a dramatic thud.

“I hope you weren’t planning on doing something tragic like staying in tonight,” Wooyoung announces, already halfway across the room like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

You glance up from your laptop, brow furrowed. “I am doing something. It’s called surviving my fourth Teams call of the day and recovering with a tub of cookie dough and a full-bodied relationship with your couch.”

Wooyoung scoffs, unapologetically flopping onto your bed. “You’re not eighty, Y/N. You need to rejoin the land of the living.”

“I got cheated on by a man who unironically calls himself a ‘sapiosexual,’ Woo.”

“All the more reason to come with me,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s not even my usual crowd. No club bunnies, no glow-in-the-dark cocktails, I promise. Just a chilled party, a few people from the studio, decent music.”

You narrow your eyes. “Studio?”

“Dance studio,” he clarifies, wiggling his brows. “Don’t worry, I already told them I’d be bringing a hot, emotionally unavailable plus one, who bites.”

You groan. “I’m not—ugh. No. No thank you.”

And that’s all the invitation he needs. With a wicked grin, he launches himself across the room, pinning you down on your bed in a blur of limbs and laughter.

“WOOYOUNG—get off—”

“Nope. Not until you agree.”

“Get—ugh—stop it!” You writhe underneath him, trying to push his weight off as he smothers you with a pillow and the infuriating sound of his laughter.

“Say you’ll come.”

“I hate you.”

“Say it.”

“Fine!” you gasp, kicking your legs in defeat. “I’ll come, you menace.”

He rolls off you dramatically, lying on his back like he’s just won an Olympic event. “God, I’m such a good influence.”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re the worst. You owe me ice cream.”

Wooyoung grins, already scrolling through his phone. “Only if you wear that dress that makes you look like heartbreak in heels.”

You chuck a pillow at his face.

You end up lying side by side on your bed, legs dangling off the edge, both of you catching your breath from the struggle.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been living here for almost five months,” he says suddenly, voice softer now. “Time’s weird.”

You hum in agreement, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah. Feels like it’s been five years and five minutes all at once.”

There’s a pause, the kind that only settles between people who’ve known each other longer than they’ve known themselves.

“You remember that time in Year One,” he starts, a mischievous grin already tugging at his lips, “when you bit that kid for stealing my crayons?”

You groan. “I didn’t bite him—”

“You absolutely did,” he says, laughing. “Left a mark too. You were feral. Tiny, violent, and terrifying. I knew right then we were going to be best friends.”

You smile despite yourself. “I was defending your honour.”

“You were defending glitter gel pens, let’s not romanticise it.”

“Same thing,” you mutter.

The nostalgia settles over you like a blanket. You’ve been by each other’s side since pre-school, through scraped knees, detention slips, teenage heartbreaks, and drunken post-exam rants on rooftops. You’ve seen each other through it all—his chaotic flings, your catastrophically bad taste in men, the ugly crying, the bad hair phases, the nights when neither of you could sleep and just lay on the floor, talking about everything and nothing.

This… this version of living together was never planned. You were supposed to be engaged by now—maybe not happy, but at least not living in your best friend’s spare room, wondering what the hell went wrong.

But Wooyoung never hesitated. The moment things blew up, he was there. No questions. Just “bring your stuff,” and a key pressed into your palm like it was always meant to be yours.

You glance at him now, his arm draped over his eyes, dark lashes fanned out across his cheeks, his mouth curved into that smug little smile he wears like armour.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you say quietly.

He peeks at you through one eye. “Obviously. Where else would you go, huh? Some sad little Airbnb with weird lighting and sadder wallpaper?”

You snort. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He nudges your arm with his elbow. “You’re not just staying here, Y/N. You’re home. You’ve always been.”

Something flickers in your chest at that. Something warm, something scary.

Before you can reply, he rolls to his feet and claps his hands. “Right! You’ve got approximately one hour to look disgustingly hot and emotionally unavailable. I’m gonna shower. Try not to overthink your entire life while I’m gone.”

You throw another pillow at his back as he disappears down the hall, still grinning.

You’re halfway through curling your hair when Wooyoung appears in your doorway again, this time freshly showered, dressed in his signature party fit—loose black button-down, rings on his fingers, and just enough cologne to make you consider poor life choices.

He whistles low. “Damn. You���re gonna make someone fall in love with you tonight.”

You smirk into the mirror. “Hopefully it’s the delivery driver bringing my pizza after I bail halfway through.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re coming. You look hot. I look hot. We’re gonna be the hottest duo there.”

You snort, grabbing your lip gloss. “We always are.”

The party’s already buzzing when you arrive. Warm lights spill onto the street from the open windows, bass thrumming faintly through the walls. Wooyoung nudges you with his elbow as you both step inside.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod, tugging at the sleeves of your jacket. “Yeah. Just… new people.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders and leans in. “Lucky for you, I’m incredibly charming and will carry every conversation while you vibe silently with your drink.”

He guides you through the crowd until a girl with honey-blonde hair and a cropped corset top spots him and throws her arms open.

“Woooyoung!” she sings, grabbing him into a hug.

You blink. She’s gorgeous in the intimidating, social-media-famous kind of way. The type you’d normally assume he hooked up with at least once—but the way he’s smiling is completely platonic.

“Y/N, this is Sienna,” he says, arm still slung around you casually. “Sienna, this is my best friend and live-in gremlin.”

You elbow him sharply, but Sienna just laughs. “So this is the famous Y/N,” she says, offering you a hand. “He never shuts up about you.”

You manage a polite smile. “Hopefully only the good things.”

Sienna winks. “That depends on how many drinks he’s had.”

Before you can respond, another voice calls from behind her.

“Babe—who are you talking to?”

Sienna lights up. “Oh! Come meet Wooyoung and his friend!”

Your heart drops. You know that voice. You know that casual tone, the slight arrogance that always bled into everything he said. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

He steps into view, and your world tilts sideways.

Him. Your ex. The one who shattered you and left you picking up the pieces in Wooyoung’s spare room.

Time freezes. He doesn’t see you at first, not until he’s standing right in front of you—and then his eyes widen, recognition blooming behind his smug expression.

“Y/N?” he says, startled.

Wooyoung’s arm tenses around your waist. Subtle, but you feel it.

You swallow, trying to keep your face neutral, your spine straight. “Hi.”

Sienna blinks, confused. “Wait… you two know each other?”

He recovers fast, too fast. “Yeah. We… used to date.”

Sienna smile falters. “Oh.”

The silence hums.

Wooyoung clears his throat, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. “Didn’t realise you were the infamous ‘other friend,’” he mutters low, just enough for you to catch it. He steps forward with a practiced smile. “Anyway, we were just going to grab drinks. Nice to meet you… whatever your name was.”

Your ex flinches at that, and you nearly choke on a laugh.

You let Wooyoung steer you away from them and deeper into the party. But your hands are trembling, your chest tight, and everything inside you screams that you need to leave—until Wooyoung pulls you to a stop in a quiet corner.

His face softens as he turns to you. “Hey. You alright?”

You hesitate, eyes wide, breath uneven. “I can’t do this, Woo. I can’t let him see me like this. Like I’m still… not over it.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leans in just close enough that your breath catches.

“Then let’s give him something to look at.”

You blink. “What?”

His voice is calm. Assured. “Pretend I’m your boyfriend. Just for tonight.”

You try to move your mouth, to form words, but you just gape at him blankly instead.

“Pretend I’m your boyfriend,” he says again, eyes locked on yours. Calm. Unflinching. Like this is just another harmless game.

You stare at him. “No. Wooyoung, no—absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if that’s not even a real answer. “Why not?”

“Because,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder toward the crowd, “Sienna already knows I’m your best friend. You literally introduced me as your best friend. She’s not going to believe we’ve suddenly decided to start playing house.”

Wooyoung shrugs, the picture of ease. “So? Best friend. Partner. Girlfriend. All the same thing to me.”

You gape at him. “That’s not how words work.”

He grins. “That’s exactly how I work.”

Your jaw clenches. “It won’t be convincing.”

He steps closer, voice dropping low. “Y/N, if I wanted to, I could convince them you were my wife. Trust me.”

You’re about to argue again—but his expression shifts, just enough to make your breath catch.

It’s the way he’s looking at you now. Like you already belong to him. Like there’s no one else in the room, no one who could possibly take his attention away. You know it’s an act. You know it’s Wooyoung playing a part, but damn if he isn’t good at it.

Still, you hesitate. “It just feels… messy.”

He softens. “Look, if it’s too much, we’ll leave. I mean that. But if you’re worried about what he thinks? Let me handle it. Let me give you the upper hand for once.”

You swallow hard. “You really think you can sell it?”

Wooyoung leans in again, so close your noses almost brush. His voice is nothing but smoke and honey. “Babe,” he murmurs, “I am the product.”

You blink. “Did you just—”

“Too much?” He flashes a devilish grin. “Too much.”

You let a moment of silence stretch just slightly. Then, slowly, you exhale. “Okay. Fine. But don’t make it weird.”

He smirks, already sliding his hand into yours. “Never. Now follow my lead—and maybe hold on tight.”

And just like that, Wooyoung flips the switch.

As you re-enter the crowd, his hand wraps firmly around your waist, fingers brushing the exposed skin above your hip. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second guess. When Sienna spots you again, her eyes flit from your intertwined hands to the way he’s looking at you now—with a quiet kind of possessiveness, like you’re the most captivating person in the room.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Wait, are you guys…?”

Wooyoung doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s new,” he says smoothly, eyes still on you. “Not that new. But… y’know. We didn’t feel like explaining it to everyone. Best friend, girlfriend—lines blur.”

Sienna glances between you, and for a second, you’re certain she’s going to call your bluff.

But Wooyoung tilts his head, presses a kiss to your temple, and flashes her that award-winning, heart-stealing smile.

She softens instantly. “Wow. Okay, I guess I totally misread the vibe before. You two are… actually kind of adorable.”

He winks. “Kind of? We’re nauseating, babe.”

You almost choke, but play along, fingers tightening in his. The way he’s guiding this—light on his feet, totally in control—you can’t help but marvel at it.

Your ex, still lingering nearby, catches it all. And his expression hardens.

You don’t relax right away.

Even after Sienna’s moved on, even after Wooyoung leads you into the kitchen and hands you a drink like it’s a peace offering, your shoulders are still rigid, your smile tight. His hand rests on the curve of your back like it belongs there, and you try not to flinch every time someone glances your way.

Wooyoung notices, of course. He always notices.

He leans in, murmuring low, “You’re doing great, babe. Really convincing. So natural.”

You elbow him lightly. “Shut up.”

He grins. “See? That’s the spirit.”

You take a sip of your drink. It’s something fruity and dangerous, the kind that goes down too easily. The first burn of alcohol cuts through your nerves just enough for you to breathe again.

He guides you through the party like a well-rehearsed duet—introducing you to his dance crew, cracking jokes that make everyone laugh, throwing in little things like “Y/N actually saw me practice that routine at 2am” or “She keeps me humble… which is exhausting, by the way.”

At first, you struggle to find your rhythm. You keep your hand wrapped around your glass like a shield, your responses clipped, a little too quiet. The words “my boyfriend” catch in your throat when one of his friends casually asks how long you two have been together.

“Uh… a couple of months,” you manage, eyes flicking to Wooyoung.

He jumps in immediately, nodding. “Yeah. We kept it lowkey. Didn’t want to ruin the vibe, y’know? But it’s been a long time coming.”

He shoots you a look then—quick, conspiratorial, like you’re in on some grand joke together. And you don’t know what it is about that look, but it loosens something in you.

The second drink goes down faster than the first. You start to smile more easily, even laugh when he throws an arm around you and announces to a group of strangers that “Y/N’s the reason I’m still somewhat emotionally stable. Don’t know what kind of spells she’s using, but it’s working.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm, and not just from the alcohol.

By the time you’re finishing your third drink—something blue and fizzy and far too strong—you’re leaning into him more than you mean to, your arm hooked lazily around his waist. He doesn’t comment on it. Just leans down to say something against your ear, voice low enough to make your stomach flip.

“I told you this would work.”

You glance up at him, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I’m starting to get it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Get what?”

You shrug. “Why people fall for you.”

He pauses—just for a moment—but it’s long enough to notice. Then he smirks, but there’s something else in it now. Something unreadable. “Is that what’s happening to you, sweetheart?”

You open your mouth to retort, but it comes out more breath than sound. He’s looking at you with that same infuriating confidence, but there’s a softness beneath it now. Less performance. More… something else.

You down the rest of your drink instead of answering.

He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Smart girl.”

You’re mid-conversation with Sienna, half-listening while she rambles about some yoga retreat she and your ex are considering when she hits you with it.

“I mean, he’s just such a gentleman. Always so respectful, y’know? He’s still kept it up, almost six months later. It’s so rare to keep that spark, don’t you think?”

Your blood runs cold. Six months. You broke up with your ex five months ago. You blink at her, but she doesn’t even realise what she’s said. Just keeps sipping her drink like she didn’t crack your world open with a single sentence.

You force a smile—tight, fake. “Excuse me for a sec.”

You don’t wait for her to answer.

You push through the crowd, tunnel vision blurring everything around you until you’re in the kitchen. You spot a half-empty vodka bottle on the counter and immediately pour a generous amount into a red cup. No mixer. Just burn.

The first sip stings. The second numbs. You’re gulping down a third when you feel a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey,” Wooyoung says gently.

You don’t look at him.

“I saw your face,” he murmurs. “What happened?”

You shake your head, the liquor sloshing slightly in the cup. “Nothing. Just Sienna being accidentally honest.”

He steps closer, hands now resting on both of your shoulders. Grounding. “Talk to me.”

You finally meet his eyes—and whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. “Do I need to kill someone?”

You almost laugh. Almost. “No murder. Just vodka.”

He nods. “Fair. But I’m here, yeah?”

“I know.”

He rubs his thumb along the slope of your shoulder, and it’s so achingly familiar, so safe—and yet, it does nothing to steady the storm inside you.

And then you see it. Over his shoulder, through the open arch of the kitchen doorway—the silhouette of him.

Your ex. Walking toward the kitchen. Toward you.

Your heart skips. Panic blooms. The air feels sharp in your lungs. And without thinking, without planning, you act. Your hand snakes around Wooyoung’s neck, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape.

You pull him towards you, your lips crashing into his.

He stiffens at first—just a heartbeat of surprise. But then he melts.

His hands find your waist, gripping tight like he’s been holding back all night. Your mouth moves against his, hungry, desperate. His lips part, and your tongue slips against his, tasting the faint bitterness of rum and something sweeter. His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him like you’re something precious, something claimed. The kiss deepens, grows hot and messy and all-consuming—every unspoken word, every buried feeling surfacing in the crash of lips and tongue and breath.

Your ex clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the fog like a blade, and you jerk back instinctively, lips still tingling, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Wooyoung’s hands remain on your waist a second too long before he slowly pulls them away, blinking like he’s just been snapped out of a dream.

His head turns sharply toward the door.

Your ex stands there, arms crossed, an unreadable look on his face—but there’s something simmering behind his eyes. Something smug. Or maybe threatened. You can’t tell.

“Anything I can help you with, bro?” Wooyoung asks coolly, voice sharp enough to draw blood.

“I’d just like a moment with Y/N,” your ex replies, gaze flicking briefly between the two of you.

You stiffen.

“No, thank you,” Wooyoung says immediately, stepping slightly in front of you.

“I think she can answer for herself,” your ex says, eyes settling on you now.

You hate the way your stomach twists, the way your throat tightens like you owe him something—an explanation, an apology, space—when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place, vodka burning in your chest, Wooyoung’s taste still clinging to your lips.

Your voice is quiet but steady. “What do you want?”

“Just to talk,” he says. “Privately.”

Wooyoung doesn’t move. “She’s not interested.”

You lay a hand gently on Wooyoung’s arm. “It’s okay.”

He turns to you, eyes searching. “You sure?”

No. Not even remotely. But some part of you needs to hear whatever bullshit excuse your ex is about to spin—just to finally shut the door yourself. Not for him. For you.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding once. “I’ll be fine.”

Wooyoung doesn’t look convinced, but he steps aside, jaw clenched. Before leaving, he leans in close, voice low and firm against your ear.

“I’ll be right outside. You say the word, and I’m back in.”

Your heart twists. “Thank you.”

You turn back to your ex, jaw tightening.

“Make it quick.”

He scoffs, arms folding tighter across his chest as he glares past Wooyoung’s lingering presence. “When did you start fucking your best friend, then?”

The words hit like a slap, but not because they’re true—because they’re so predictable. So typical.

You laugh. Short. Bitter. “I don’t think you’re in the position to ask me when I started fucking someone, Leo.”

He bristles. “Don’t make this about me.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you actually serious right now?”

He steps closer. “I just—” He sighs, frustrated. “I needed something, Y/N. Some kind of excitement. You were always working. You didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to party with me. We barely even had sex anymore. What was I supposed to do?”

The breath leaves your lungs. Rage bubbles just under your skin.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you spit. “Was I supposed to perform for you? Keep the house clean, cook dinner, work full-time, and make sure you didn’t get bored?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the floor.

“Yes, you did,” you snap. “You meant every word. You wanted someone shiny and new, someone to stroke your ego and party with your idiot friends. And you found her. So why the hell are you even here?”

He looks up again, softer now. “Because I miss you.”

You freeze.

“I miss the way things were. I miss you.”

He tries to step closer, reaching toward you, but you move fast.

You shove his hand away, fury tightening your every muscle. “Back off.”

He blinks. “Y/N—”

“I’m happy now,” you say, louder than you meant to. Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. “I’m with someone who doesn’t make me feel small. Someone who remembers how I take my coffee and listens when I talk about things that matter to me—even the dumb stuff.”

You don’t even notice that Wooyoung is still within earshot.

“He walks me home when it’s late, makes me laugh when I’ve had the worst day, and lets me cry without acting like it’s some inconvenience. He tells me when I look good, even when I don’t feel it. He knows me.”

Leo’s face twists. “He’s just your friend.”

You stare him down. “No, he’s not.”

His mouth opens, but whatever retort he had dies in his throat. You wait. He doesn’t say anything.

He just exhales sharply, scoffing as he turns. “Whatever. You’ve changed.”

You watch as he stalks off through the hallway and disappears into the party.

Silence falls like a weight in the kitchen.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your palms to the counter to steady yourself. It takes a second to notice him again—Wooyoung, standing in the doorway, where he’s clearly been the whole time.

You turn toward him, heart in your throat. “How much did you hear?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. Just walks toward you slowly.

“All of it.”

“Convincing, huh?”

You glance up at him, trying to ignore the way your heart is still racing from earlier.

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a comment that’s too dangerous to say out loud. Instead, he reaches out, links his pinky with yours, and pulls you back toward the party.

You’re immediately swept into a small circle of people on the floor, laughter bubbling from a group settled around a beanbag throne. Someone suggests a game of Never Have I Ever, and you barely have time to protest before you’re being tugged into the centre and dropped—unceremoniously—into Wooyoung’s lap.

“Claiming what’s mine,” he whispers in your ear.

You roll your eyes, but don’t move.

The game starts innocent enough. Never have I ever been skinny-dipping. Never have I ever called in sick just to sleep all day. You drink more than you mean to. Warmth blooms in your chest. And in your thighs. And, quite possibly, lower.

Wooyoung’s arms wrap lazily around your waist, holding his drink in one hand and resting the other casually on your leg. Too casual.

You lean back against his chest, your head finding a spot just below his collarbone. The bass of his laugh thrums through you when someone makes a dumb joke. He smells like cologne, spiked fruit punch, and something that’s just him.

The questions keep coming, getting more daring, and so do the drinks.

Then someone—one of the dancers, with glossy lips and a wicked smile—grins as she says, “Never have I ever had more than three orgasms in one night.”

You don’t even hesitate.

You knock back your drink.

There’s a moment of silence. A few gasps. One or two high-pitched “damn!”s. Your ex, still lingering with Sienna on the far edge of the circle, gapes like you just punched him in the soul.

You feel the corner of your mouth lift, slow and smug. You shrug one shoulder, utterly unapologetic. “What? Wooyoung is just that good.”

The room erupts into laughter and scandalised giggles.

“Damn girl,” one of the dancers whistles, shaking her head in admiration. “You’re so lucky.”

“Tell me about it,” you reply, knocking your knee against Wooyoung’s teasingly.

He chuckles into your ear, voice low and unreasonably hot.

“Careful,” he murmurs, the pads of his fingers brushing slow circles on your inner thigh. “You keep talking like that and people are gonna start thinking it’s true.”

You feel his breath warm on your skin. His hand creeps higher, just slightly, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You turn your head to glance at him, eyes half-lidded, your own pulse betraying you. “It’s your fault. You’re the one who wanted to be convincing.”

His fingers press into the soft flesh of your thigh, just once—firm enough to leave a message.

“That good, am I?” he whispers, his voice almost smug.

You bite your lip, daring yourself not to moan in front of everyone. “Apparently... Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

The game spirals after that.

Every “never have I ever” seems designed to push the limits—of shame, desire, memory. And Wooyoung’s hands, always somewhere on you, are the one constant through it all. A palm on your thigh, a finger brushing the underside of your knee, the heat of his breath whenever he leans in to whisper something cheeky in your ear.

You can’t think straight anymore. You’re melting into him. Every touch, every glance, every teasing word is sending you tumbling further. You laugh too loud at something someone says. Your head lolls back against his shoulder. His fingers slide a little higher. No one notices. But you do. God, you do.

You can’t stay like this.

You mutter something about needing to use the bathroom, rising quickly and slipping away before anyone can stop you.

The hallway feels too bright. Too loud. Your heart is hammering in your chest like it’s trying to break free. You find the bathroom and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the cool porcelain of the sink basin.

Get a grip, you tell yourself.

You stare at your reflection. Your lips are a little swollen. Your pupils blown wide. You look like someone on the edge of something dangerous. And maybe you are.

This was just a game. A cover. A night of pretending. But the way his hands felt on you? The way you leaned into him without thinking? That kiss in the kitchen?

That wasn’t pretend.

Wooyoung is your best friend.

You’ve known him since the sandbox. Since he used to trade his juice box for your crackers at lunch and draw on your arm with scented markers. He’s the one who patched you up after scraped knees, who held you when you cried over every failed relationship, who made you feel safe when the world didn’t.

He’s not supposed to make you feel like this.

You exhale sharply and grip the edges of the sink harder. Then—just as you start to regain some control—

The doorknob turns.

Your breath catches. “Occupied,” you say quickly, voice too tight.

The door creaks open anyway.

It’s Wooyoung.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him, locking it with a soft click. His eyes find yours instantly. You don’t say anything. You can’t. He moves slowly at first, like he’s making sure you won’t bolt. But when you don’t move—when you just stand there, still breathless, still unraveling—he crosses the room in two strides.

He doesn’t touch you. Just stands close, his chest nearly brushing yours, the air charged between you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

He raises a brow. “You ran off like you were about to combust.”

“I just… needed a minute.”

“To breathe?”

“To think.”

“About?”

You swallow. Your gaze drops to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. “Us.”

His eyes darken. “There is no us.”

“Exactly.”

The word hangs between you—biting, bitter, scared.

Then, softly, he says, “But that didn’t feel fake.”

You don’t respond. Can’t. Because it didn’t. And he knows it.

And now he’s here. In front of you. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to shatter whatever line you’ve been clinging to.

He leans in, lips barely grazing your cheek. “You gonna tell me to leave?”

You should. You should.

So you do.

“I think the party’s over, Woo,” you say softly, stepping back just enough to put space between you.

His eyes don’t leave yours. But he nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I think it is.”

You both stare at each other for a moment—too long, not long enough—before you turn and unlock the bathroom door. The moment it opens, he’s back in character.

“Think someone’s overdone it a bit,” he calls out with a cheeky grin, wrapping an arm around your waist like you’re a tipsy girlfriend who just needs a little help walking. “Gonna get her back into bed.”

Sienna giggles, completely buying it. “Aw, well thanks for coming! Hope she’s okay!”

“She’s in the best hands,” he says smoothly, already guiding you toward the door.

You manage a smile, nodding to the room. “Thanks for having us.”

As soon as the door closes behind you and the cool night air hits your face, his arm drops. The performance is over.

Neither of you say a word.

The cab ride back is silent. Not the comfortable kind you’ve shared a thousand times, but sharp and heavy—like everything that wasn’t said in that bathroom is now pressing into the space between you. The only sound is the quiet hum of the engine and the distant city lights passing by.

You glance at him once—just once. He’s staring out the window, jaw tight, thumb rubbing absently along his palm. Like he’s thinking too much. Or trying not to.

When you step inside the apartment, it’s all muscle memory. You toe off your shoes in the entryway. He walks straight to the fridge, a soft click as the door opens.

He pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to you, eyes unreadable.

“Here.”

You take it without thinking. “Thanks.”

He stands there a moment longer, like he wants to say something.

Instead, he just nods once. “Goodnight.”

You try for a smile, but it doesn’t quite make it to your eyes. “Goodnight.”

He turns and disappears into his room, the door shutting quietly behind him.

And for the first time since moving in… You feel alone.

You toss and turn, your sheets tangled around your legs, your pillow flipped a dozen times for some phantom “cool” side that never seems to stay that way.

Sleep won’t come.

The events of the night circle your mind like a swarm of hornets—buzzing with a venomous edge. That kiss in the kitchen. The way your body responded to every single touch. The heat in his voice. His fingers on your thigh. The silence in the cab. You keep telling yourself it was just for show. Just a stupid performance to get back at your ex. A way to take control.

But if that were true… why are you still thinking about the way Wooyoung looked at you? Like you were more than just a role to play?

You flip onto your back, stare at the ceiling.

This is ridiculous.

You throw back the covers with a sigh, deciding that maybe a shower will help. Something to ground you. To make your skin feel like your own again.

You pad toward the door, rubbing at your eyes, still trying to shake the weight sitting in your chest.

When you open it—

He’s there.

Wooyoung stands in the hallway; shirtless, his chest rising and falling steadily in the soft glow from the kitchen light. A pair of grey sweatpants hangs low on his hips, the waistband slung in that careless way that makes your mouth go dry. His arm is raised, fist suspended in midair like he’d been about to knock.

He freezes. So do you.

Neither of you moves. The silence between you sharpens, cuts deeper than anything spoken could.

“I—” he starts, then drops his hand slowly, eyes flicking to your face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

His eyes search yours, quiet, cautious. “I was gonna check if you were okay.”

You glance down, suddenly very aware that you’re standing in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. “I was just gonna shower.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

Another pause. It stretches too long. Too tight.

You should say goodnight again. You should step back and shut the door. Let him go. Let this go. But neither of you move, because neither of you want to.

You don’t breathe. Not when his gaze drifts down your body and back up again, slower this time—lingering on bare thighs, the curve of your hip beneath the hem of your shirt.

Not even when he takes a step closer. He doesn’t speak, he just moves.

One heartbeat. Two.

Then he closes the gap between you in a single breath, one hand rising to cup the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist. And before you can think, before you can second guess any of this—

His mouth is on yours.

It’s not soft, or careful. It’s nothing like the kiss at the party. This is urgent. All heat and hunger and barely-restrained need. You gasp into it, but he doesn’t slow down. His lips part yours like he already knows the answer, tongue sliding against yours with a groan that vibrates through your whole body.

Your back hits the doorframe as he presses into you, and you melt, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the feel of him. His hands roam—down your sides, over the backs of your thighs, gripping like he can’t bear to let go.

It’s overwhelming, and it’s real. There’s no pretending now. No performance. No party to act for. It’s just him, you, and the months—no, years—of something simmering beneath the surface finally boiling over.

He kisses you like he’s starving, and you kiss him like you’ve been starving, too.

Wooyoung’s hands slip under the backs of your thighs, fingers digging into your skin like he’s been waiting to do it forever. Then, without warning, he lifts you. A small gasp escapes you as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your arms clinging to his shoulders. He carries you into your room with ease, his mouth never leaving yours for long. Just enough to trail kisses along your jaw, to breathe your name like a secret only he’s allowed to know.

When he reaches your bed, he pauses for just a moment—enough to look at you, really look at you—and then he lowers you gently onto the mattress.

The softness of the drop contrasts the heat burning between you.

His body follows, settling over yours, warm and solid and real. His lips find your neck, kissing down slowly—pausing, tasting, breathing. Your fingers grip at the fabric of his sweats, tugging him closer, needing more.

But then he stops.

His weight still pressed into you, his mouth hovering at your collarbone, he lifts his head and meets your eyes. There’s heat in them—but also something gentler. Something uncertain.

“This is a line,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We don’t come back from this.”

You stare at him, breathless.

You know he’s right. You know this changes everything. But you don’t care.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re everything. Like he wants this, not just tonight—but always has. And you want to know how it ends. What it feels like to finally be wanted by the person who’s always seen you.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I need this.”

His jaw tightens, like he’s holding back a thousand things he’s never let himself say.

His mouth finds yours again, but this time it’s slower. Deliberate. Like he’s savouring every second. His tongue slips past your lips, coaxing a soft moan from your throat that he swallows greedily. You arch beneath him, needing more—needing him. His hands slide beneath your shirt, fingertips skating over the curve of your waist, your ribs, until he reaches the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

Instead, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head. You’re bare underneath—no bra, just skin, and vulnerability—and the look on his face when he sees you sends a fresh pulse of heat between your legs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening as they roam over you. “You’re beautiful.”

You flush, even now, but before you can hide from it, he leans down and presses a kiss between your breasts, then lower, worshipping you with lips and tongue until you’re gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

His hands are everywhere. Stroking, kneading, learning your body like it’s familiar and new all at once. When he finally peels your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, watching you the entire time, like this is some sacred thing he’s unwrapping. You reach for the waistband of his sweats in return, and he lets you. He kicks them off, revealing skin and heat and the kind of want that’s impossible to fake.

When he sinks down between your thighs, his mouth tracing a path along your inner thigh, you forget how to breathe.

“Wooyoung—” you gasp.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, just before his tongue replaces his words.

Your hips jerk, a cry slipping from your lips before you can muffle it. He eats you out like a man possessed—like this is his only purpose. Tongue curling, lips sucking, fingers pressing in deep. He builds you up fast, merciless and precise, until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, your fingers tangled in his hair, mouth open in a silent scream as you ride the waves, one after another, until you’re limp and breathless beneath him.

But he’s not done.

He kisses his way up your body again, his skin sliding against yours, and you feel the hard press of him between your legs.

“Still want this?” he whispers, voice rough and trembling.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He slides into you slowly, carefully, stretching you inch by inch until he’s fully buried inside. The breath he exhales is ragged, like he’s holding himself together by a thread. You both still for a moment, foreheads pressed together, hearts thundering.

And then he moves.

The rhythm starts slow—deep, unhurried thrusts that leave you gasping, clinging to him. His name slips from your lips like a prayer, over and over, each syllable tangled in pleasure and disbelief.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do. And what you see in his eyes unravels you more than anything else ever could. This isn’t just sex.

It never was.

He leans down and kisses you again—slow, sweet, lingering—and then picks up the pace, hips snapping harder, deeper. You wrap your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, and it’s everything. Raw. Real. Years of tension poured into every breath, every moan, every kiss.

You come again with a cry, body shaking beneath his, and that’s all it takes. He follows you over the edge with a groan, spilling into you as his arms wrap tight around your body, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The silence after is soft and heavy. His weight stays on top of you, grounding. His lips brush your shoulder, your cheek, your forehead.

His breathing slows against your skin, chest rising and falling in time with yours. The weight of him—both physical and emotional—grounds you, anchoring you to the moment. His forehead is still pressed lightly to yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours every few seconds like he’s not ready to move away just yet.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the city outside the window and the soft thrum of your shared heartbeats still catching up. His fingers, which had gripped you so tightly minutes ago, now trace slow, absentminded circles on your hip. Gentle. As if your skin might break if he presses too hard.

You stare up at the ceiling, skin warm and flushed, but your mind is racing. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, it felt inevitable. It felt like the only thing in the world that made sense.

You shift slightly, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft now, stripped of performance and charm. There’s no smirk. No teasing. Just Wooyoung. The boy you’ve known forever. The man who just touched you like he’s been waiting his whole life to.

His thumb brushes the side of your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and hoarse from the things he moaned into your skin not long ago.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Are you?”

He holds your gaze a moment longer, then gives the barest smile. “Yeah. Just… making sure.”

You bite your lip. Your hand reaches for his on instinct, fingers lacing together. It fits too easily. Always has.

“I don’t know what happens now,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

He exhales, resting his forehead against yours again. “Me neither.”

There’s no panic in his voice, no regret. Just truth.

“I wasn’t acting,” you say suddenly. The words tumble out before you can stop them. “Back there. At the party. I know it started that way but… when I said those things to Leo, they were all real. I didn’t have to fake any of it.”

His fingers squeeze yours, but he doesn’t say anything. So you go on.

“You really do remember how I take my coffee. You do walk me home. You always look at me like… like I matter.”

You finally meet his eyes again, your voice smaller now. “That wasn’t pretend for you either, was it?”

He hesitates, only for a moment.

Then, softly—quietly, but with no room for doubt—he says, “It never was.”

You stay like that for a while—limbs tangled, bodies bare, hearts still beating faster than they should. Time feels suspended. Like the universe is holding its breath just for you.

Eventually, he shifts. Carefully, reluctantly.

“I should… uh…” Wooyoung murmurs, starting to rise, muscles tensing like he’s bracing for something.

“No.”

Your voice is soft, but it cuts through the silence like glass. You reach out and grab his wrist, fingers wrapping around him, anchoring him in place.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Please. Only if you want to.”

He pauses.

Then he laughs—barely, breathily—like the idea of wanting you could ever be a question.

“Of course I do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes locked on where your hand still grips his.

“Y/N,” he says, voice cracking slightly, “I’ve loved you since we were five years old.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s no shield left. No act. Just Wooyoung, heart in his hands, offering it like he doesn’t even care if it breaks.

“I—” you start, but the words vanish as emotion floods your chest. “Stay,” you repeat softly instead.

That’s enough. It always has been.

He exhales, the tension bleeding from his body, and sinks back down beside you. You turn into him, your hand lifting to cradle his face, thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed at the touch, like it’s the first time he’s been held like this. Like he’s home.

You lean in, pressing your lips to his—slow and tender and real. The kiss is nothing like the others. It’s love, laid bare. When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

He smiles softly, and this time, you smile back.

Because there’s nothing to hide from anymore.

The light filters in slowly.

Soft and golden, it spills through the half-open blinds, casting long stripes across the sheets and the curve of his back where it rises and falls beside you.

For a while, you don’t move.

You just lie there, watching the steady rhythm of his breathing, his hair a mess against the pillow, lips slightly parted in sleep. One arm is curled under your waist, still holding you like his body doesn’t quite know how to let go yet. And maybe it never will.

Last night lingers in every part of you. In the soft ache between your legs, the warmth still curled low in your stomach, the ghost of his mouth on your skin. But more than that—it lives in the stillness. In the weight of what didn’t need to be said. In the safety.

You shift slightly, and his eyes flutter open.

He blinks against the light, then turns his head toward you, smile lazy and half-asleep. “Morning.”

Your heart flips.

“Morning.”

For a few seconds, you just stare at each other. No tension. No roles to play. Just you and him and the echo of everything that changed.

Then, softly, he says, “Are you okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.” He reaches up, brushing your hair out of your face. “You didn’t run away in the middle of the night, so I’m counting that as a win.”

You laugh quietly. “Did you think I would?”

He shrugs one bare shoulder. “Wasn’t sure. Thought maybe you’d pretend last night didn’t happen.”

“I couldn’t,” you say. “Even if I tried.”

His expression softens. “Me neither.”

Another pause. But this one feels different. Anticipatory.

Then he sits up, resting against the headboard, eyes suddenly more serious. “Y/N.”

You push yourself up beside him, drawing the blanket around your chest. “Yeah?”

He hesitates. And you know this is the moment—the one where everything shifts for good.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says finally. “To pretending. To calling you my best friend and pretending that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Your breath hitches.

“Because it’s not,” he continues, voice low but certain. “I want more. I am more. And so are you.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

Your heart swells. This should feel terrifying—but it doesn’t. It feels like home.

You shift onto your knees and lean over, cupping his face in your hands. “Okay.”

His brow furrows, just a little. “Okay?”

You nod, tears threatening. “Let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop calling it friendship. Let’s just… be.”

He exhales, the kind of breath that sounds like relief, and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap.

“I’ve wanted to call you mine for years,” he whispers.

You kiss him, slow and sure.

“You have,” you say. “You always have.”

And this time, there’s no going back.

[starcandybby]

9:16 p.m. - haechan x reader

drabble - fluff - mentions of Love Island - Idol!AU - reader has no pronouns but it’s implied to be she/her!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

“Baby, I’d never turn my head for a bombshell.” Haechan states, fully serious, making you turn your attention from the television screen in front of you.

You watch the light from the television dance across his face. His comment makes you smile.

“Oh really?” You teasingly question. He affirms your question with a nod.

“We’d be coupled up from the beginning and we would be together the whole time.” Haechan continues. He says it like he knows it’s true, like there’s no possibility of anything else that could happen on your imaginary dating reality tv show.

You were currently watching the newest season of Love Island; a new bombshell just entered the villa, causing one of the boys to turn his head, even though he swore to his couple that he wouldn’t.

Haechan swears that if it was you and him, he would never turn his head. There would be no way.

You entertain your boyfriend’s scenario and probe further. “What if I was the bombshell though? Like I walked into the villa.”

“Then,” He pauses to think for a moment, “I feel bad for the other woman.”

“Haechan!” You gasp, sitting up from cuddling into his side to playfully slap his arm.

“What?! There’s only you! If you were the bombshell, that’s the only time my head would turn!” He exclaims, defending himself. It’s a wonder- your boyfriend’s ability to consistently talk in a pout. If you weren’t into your bit at the moment, you’d kiss the pout right off his lips. It’s tempting though.

“That’s so disrespectful to your couple! You cannot mug off the girl like that.” You scold, but you give yourself away at the smile that grows on your face.

Even though you’re both serious about this hypothetical scenario, you both understand you’re just teasing each other. That’s one of your favorite things about being with Haechan- your ability to tease each other without hurt feelings (most of the time).

“But, baby, if it’s you, I don’t care if I step on anyone’s toes!” He insists. All you can do is giggle in response and lean back into his side, in which his arm instantly wraps around you. Haechan leans down slightly to press a kiss to the top of your head, you hum in satisfaction.

“You know, we would probably win too.” Haechan continues, as you both resume watching the show.

“Oh yeah?” You entertain him.

“Oh yes.” Haechan affirms, “The public would love us. We would leave in love AND with the prize money.”

“I like the way you think, honey.”

Haechan makes a sound of agreement. Even though you both are definitely not competing on a reality show, there have been plenty of opportunities for Haechan to turn his head. It’s only natural considering his line of work. But, not once did he consider it, not a single thought crossed his mind. That’s why he’s so sure he wouldn’t turn his head from you.

There’s no one but you, and there never will be. Not even Love Island could challenge his love for you.

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a/n: helloooo a quick drabble while i’m working on some longer works!! im sorry if this wasn’t my best, i wrote it late last night and wanted to go ahead and post it anyway! enjoy!! as always, likes and reblogs are always appreciated!

[kamisama1kiss]

I had a ninjago request if you’re up for it ☺️ I was just wondering what kind of hcs you had for the boys crushing on the reader? And how they go about asking them out/planning the first date and things like that?

Awe, this is so cute of a request!!

Ninjago Headcanons { Not a silent admirer for much longer }

~Lloyd Garmadon~

° For the most part, he will give subtle hints like maybe a small "accidental" brushing against your arm when passing by. Seeking you out in any function when possible, his body temperature would rise when stood in near proximity to you.

° It was more under a casual moment, such as sitting in his room and reading in some comics, enjoying each other's precents before he asked in a soft tone. "Would you.. consider going out on a date with me?"

~Kai Smith~

° Winking at you whenever he saw your eyes in his direction in almost any situation, he didn't even try to hide it, but most people thought he was just joking about it. An arm would often be wrapped around your shoulders if he was taller. If not, the waist would be if you'd be taller than him.

° Had asked you to meet him out at deck a bit later in the evening time, with a rose in hand and asking you for a dance with the sun setting in the background. "May I have this dance with you? Maybe even a date could be cool too, " chuckling with a soft blush on his face.

~Cole Brookstone~

° Let's be honest he wouldn't notice in the start that he even liked you, but once he did take his own hints, the cake started baking. Would go out of his way to see you, even if only for a minute, leaving you chocolates or sweets around where you usually could be found.

° He'd come over to see you before leaving for his next mission, unsure when he'll be able to see you again. "I know this might not be the time.. but I'd be honoured if you'd allow me to take you on a date after my mission?" His heart beating like absolute craze.

~Zane Julian~

° Jay and Nya were actually the ones who helped him find it out. He thought something was wrong with his system until they told him that he was simply having a crush. Helping you out with small tasks, making every one person job into a fun activity for the both of you.

° During folding laundry one evening, he spoke up with a small tint of blue resting on his face. "I hope this isn't too far stretched, but I'd like to ask you out on an evening together." "..like a date?" "If you'd like to call it so then, yes."

~Jay Walker~

° Compliments all the time or there will be supportive comments to make you always feel better about yourself. He's a big fan of physical touch, but he doesn't want to push you into anything, so he'd very gently rest his arm against yours and such of that type.

° His face was beet rot red, arms behind his back with his head held high. "Would you perhaps by any chance wanna go to the movies with me, you, us, alone."

~~~

Heyyy... long time no see everyone, haha. Uhm, so like, I'm doing some writing again after finally being inspired enough to finish this one. 😭🙏🏼 Trust that I'm hoping that I'll soon be able to have a more scheduled posting routine. I've finally got back into cosplay again after ages!! It feels good doing things I enjoy again.

[teaboot]

Concerning "strong purifying selection", these are mutations in constrained coding regions that can be pathogenic variants, as far as the fitness portion of these events in a population they never reach fixation, but I am using that terminology in a very narrow interpretation here:

"This observation suggests that CCRs may identify regions under strong purifying selection that, when mutated, cause severe developmental phenotypes or embryonic lethality."

Ohhhhhh, I think I understand!

You mean to say that, under conditions presented by strong purifying selection, CCRs compounded by the dearth of genetic variation express as abnormalities in embryonic development that inhibit or deviate from genetically diverse growth patterns- so in practice, purifying selection results in higher embryonic fatality in-vitro attributable to genetic disease?

Meaning that two members of the same species which are genetically similar beyond a particular threshold, such as sibling pairs, are less likely to produce viable offspring- and should the pairs continue in this fashion generationally, are projected to ultimately result in a descendant which is ultimately effectively infertile?

Okay, yeah, that makes sense to me!

I do think we may have had a miscommunication here, though 😅 I didn’t make this post to describe the effects of limited genetic diversity within a population, but to instead correct the popular misconception of evolution as a whole being this single, directed march of linear progress towards an ultimate concrete goal

I feel like a lot of people I talk to about this stuff, who aren’t super familiar with the concept of evolution, seem to think “survival of the fittest” just means an animal species- like a tree-dwelling ape- will only become stronger and more adept and “advanced” over time, original traits vanishing slowly over each generation until the “ultimate goal”- in this example, Homo Sapiens- is achieved. And that from here, Homo Sapiens will only continue to grow stronger, smarter, faster, etc.

Then these people ask why those tree-dwelling apes still exist, if they were supposed to turn into humans? Which is where the conversation falls apart- because of that one tiny conceptual misunderstanding.

So instead of the “evolution of man” illustration- which folks at large still seem to look to as a linear progression and not a family tree- I posited the (also simplified) image of a plinko game, wherein a species enters “the game” and splits off and branches into other species as the environment around it shifts, ultimately ending in The Present Day, with numerous dead-ends and new species and yes, also perhaps also still that original creature.

So your example, yeah? How two overly-similar genetic individuals might produce a genetically unstable descendant? Because they pass on all their own existing genes, and all the ones that are identical will compound and compound and compound until they can’t anymore- but if they breed with genetically different members of their species, they don’t create offspring with those duplicated issues, so the likelihood of genetic disease is diluted- and whether they do or don’t, other individuals in the population still exist?

Like… you know how we selectively bred or used “strong purifying selection” to breed pugs? And now we have “Purebred” pugs, who have flat faces and tiny sinuses and can’t breathe or eat properly and get sick all the time? That’s a presentation of compounding CCRs in a population, right? And people seem to GET that, kind of

But like…. They’re still DOGS, and AS dogs, they can breed with almost any other dog, and breeding a purebred pug with, say, some kind of terrier? Would dilute those compounded CCRs that have built up by breeding siblings and cousins together and probably produce a longer-nosed mutt puppy with fewer health issues.

But that doesn’t mean PUGS disappear, you get me? And that seems to be where folks seem to get lost

My illustration was pretty slapshot, I’ll admit, but my intention wasn’t really on genetic divergence so much as it was on much broader notions like “evolution does not have a goal in mind” (because evolution is the word we use for a process that happens over time, not the name of a God with a mind of its own) and “there are, in fact, dead ends on the family tree”

To speak metaphorically- I do appreciate the practical mathematic applications of polynomial equations, and I think people should understand how they work, but if someone tells me that 2X+4=10 is bullshit, I might start them off with “sometimes letters represent numbers we don’t know”- even if that’s not everything they need to understand 12(2Y[-4X/16]-[y+2X]), you know?

….if that makes sense. 😅 Sorry, I went on a bit of a ramble, and the plinko-thing may not have been the best imagery to represent what I meant, but it was the best I could think of at the time lol

[kuronarnze]

HIHI I love your works!! I wanted to make a request for Rin Itoshi x reader.

So I loved your secret admirer!Rin fic that u posted like today. And I was wondering if you could write one where the roles are reversed? This time Y/N's the secret admirer and Rin's the oblivious guy. And everything else is the same. And they get together in the end just like in the original 😋

Thanks for reading! And I love your works!! 🌹🌹

a/n: HELLO HELLO!! so so so sorry for the late answer !! AAA THANK YOU SMMM, Please enjoy the oneshot 🫶💗

Itoshi Rin x Reader !

˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

“From Your Secret No.1 Fan”

There’s something about Rin Itoshi that’s... hard to explain.

Maybe it’s how quiet he is when he walks into the classroom each morning, earphones in and eyes half-lidded like sleep still clings to his lashes. Maybe it’s the way he never really tries to stand out, but he does anyway—just by being there.

You don’t know when exactly you started liking him. All you know is that your eyes always drift to the back row, to where he sits with his chin in his palm and eyes trained on the window. You’ve memorized his handwriting during class, the curve of his scowl when he’s called on unexpectedly, and the way he tugs the hood of his jacket up when he wants to disappear.

You like him. Quietly. From afar.

So you write him notes.

It started with a single folded paper slipped into his locker. You didn’t even sign it—just left it with a short message:

“You did really well during practice yesterday. I believe in you, even if you don’t see me. - Your Secret No.1 Fan”

You didn’t expect him to react.

But the next day, he paused at his locker a little longer. Tilted his head. Pocketed the note wordlessly.

That was enough.

So you kept writing.

You learned that Rin practiced shooting for hours after the others had left. That he liked ochazuke. That he loved owls. That he kept an extra pair of headphones in his bag, just in case the ones he wore died mid-song.

You never wrote anything big. Just small things, simple encouragements:

“You’re not as unreadable as you think. I see you. And you’re worth more than you believe.”

“I hope you sleep well tonight. You looked tired this morning.”

“Your passes during the last match were genius. Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”

And he kept reading them. Quietly. Never reacting much. But he never threw them out.

Sometimes, you'd see him glancing around after pulling one out. A faint crease between his brows. You knew he was trying to figure it out. But Rin was not someone who dug too deep into things that weren’t in front of him.

He never looked your way.

Not once.

It stung, a little. But you weren’t writing for recognition. You were writing because you wanted him to know someone saw him—cared for him.

Even if he never saw you.

˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

Then came the rainy day.

You had planned to leave him a note like always—this one wrapped around a small packet of his favorite candy. But as you rushed through the courtyard toward the lockers, you slipped. Water. Steps. Air.

You landed hard.

Your bag fell open.

And so did the tiny envelope you had prepared. The one with his name. The one written in your unmistakable handwriting.

You barely had time to scramble for it before a shadow loomed over you.

Rin.

He had an umbrella in one hand. A stoic frown tugging at his lips. He blinked down at you.

“…You okay?” he asked, voice low.

You flushed. “Y-Yeah, I just—”

His eyes drifted down to the soaked envelope in your hand. Your hand that was trembling.

And suddenly… his brows furrowed.

He reached down.

You flinched as he gently plucked the envelope from your fingers. Turned it over. Read the name.

His name.

You held your breath.

“…So it’s you,” Rin said.

His tone wasn’t angry. Or surprised. Just… quiet. Still.

You looked down at your hands. “I’m sorry. I—I never meant for you to find out this way. I just wanted to… cheer you on. From afar.”

A pause.

“I thought you were a guy,” he muttered.

You looked up, startled.

“What—?”

“I thought one of the team was messing with me. But the handwriting’s neat. Pretty. Thought it was fake at first,” he said bluntly, eyes still on the note. “But the messages felt… real.”

Your heart twisted. “They were real.”

Another pause.

He looked at you.

Long and hard.

Then, for the first time in your life—you saw it. The faintest flicker of pink at the tips of his ears.

“…You always noticed that I looked tired?” he asked.

You nodded, cheeks burning.

“…You said I was worth more than I believed.”

You nodded again.

He looked away, almost… embarrassed. “I didn’t think anyone saw that. I always thought I had to do everything alone.”

You gave a small smile. “You don’t. You never did.”

Silence.

The rain slowed.

Rin shifted, then held the umbrella over you both. He was quiet for a while. Then, slowly:

“…You wanna walk home together?”

Your eyes widened. “W-What?”

“I mean, you already know a lot about me. Might as well get to know you now.”

You blinked.

And smiled.

“…I’d like that.”

He glanced at you. “…You’re still gonna write me notes?”

You giggled. “Only if you promise to keep reading them.”

He looked away, but you caught the small, shy tug of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“Fine.”

˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

That night, you slipped one last note into his locker.

This one was signed.

“From your not-so-secret admirer anymore”

And for the first time, Rin wrote one back.

“You don’t have to stay behind the scenes anymore. You’re the only person I want to see.”

˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

THANK YOU FOR READINGG !! Please have a nice day 🫶💗

[greghatecrimes]

this is going to sound a little out there at first, but i've been having some interesting thoughts about thirteen and repression. at some point i might completely change my mind on this, but for now, here's what i'm thinking:

it seems like thirteen really tries to give off this aura of someone who's calm, cool, collected, and confident; unattached; likes to have fun; very liberal and free-thinking; not quite 'bound' to the rules. a thrill-seeker, at times. and while i do think some of these are accurate (she does like to have fun, in both the 'enjoy yourself' party sense and the 'enjoy yourself, it's later than you think' sense- and also in the silly, goofy sense! see her w foreman in s5), some of them are disproven early on (calm and unattached specifically- in 4x08 she reveals that she's been afraid and hiding it through the entire 'competition' thus far). i think that she is not nearly as 'free' or open as she'd like people to believe. in fact, i think that thirteen is actually really fucking repressed, in every way except for her sexual preferences (because she is certainly not sexually repressed, especially not with everything we see in 5x05).

yes, she sleeps with strangers. she does illegal drugs and parties and fucks 'till the sun comes up . why, though? in lucky thirteen, she tells foreman she wants to have fun with the time she has left... but at no point in this episode does she look like she's 'having fun'. in fact, for most of the episode (except for her bonding with spencer), she looks downright miserable. so: i don't think she's doing any of it for fun (she even alludes to her partying as being a result of anger rather than a desire to have a good time; she tells spencer that after a terminal diagnosis "...you get angry... tell yourself nothing matters anymore. start doing stupid things [clubbing, drugs, sleeping with someone different every night]." we know from season four that thirteen's primary coping mechanism is avoidance (see: you don't want to know and wilson's heart). given that, i think that her bad habits are just another form of avoidance instead of indulgence. she's getting wasted and partying so she doesn't have to think- so she doesn't have to feel the fear of her uncertain future now that she knows she's terminal. and, like house said: "you get off on controlling women because it's as close as you can get to controlling what's gonna happen to you." it's not about the sex. it's not about having fun. it's not about pleasure. it's about pushing back the fear, the dread, the anger, just a little longer. it's about taking those little moments when you're drunk, or high, or lost in someone's arms, where time feels frozen, and stretching them out as long as you can.

this is what i mean when i say thirteen is repressed: thirteen is deeply in touch with the physical aspect of her body (which makes sense, considering she's been hypervigilant for probably years, wondering if every tremor is a huntington's symptom)- it's the emotional and psychological that she shuts out. she forces her emotions aside so she doesn't have to feel them, and they stew under the surface until something pushes her over the edge, and then they start to flood out bit by bit. we see it over and over- fear before her diagnosis, a different kind of fear after her diagnosis, the guilt about her mother she's been carrying in secret for years. we see it each time house pushes her to face what's going on: she starts out trying to stay neutral and set her boundaries, but nearly always ends up snapping at him in some way (whether it's actually a snappish tone, or saying something that hits hard and cuts deep) when he really hits a nerve with her. (<- i could write an entire separate post on house & thirteen's dynamic and how house interacts with her specifically irt: her emotions).

on top of all that, she doesn't let herself want things, not until season eight (at which point she's been to therapy for her terminal diagnosis)- and even then she's still plagued with guilt for just wanting something so simple, yet that she feels is so selfish. she tells House, "I just want to be happy", and despite that, House later correctly predicts that she's waffling on whether or not she'll come back to the team because she feels guilty about leaving her job in medicine. she WANTS to be happy, but she can't let herself! that's why house has to fire her. she can't- doesn't- let herself want. we see this back in season five, too: she doesn't admit that she wants kids until "big baby", when she's already in the clinical trial and feels confident that she's got a shot at extending her life and slowing the disease progression. In the same scene, while talking to Foreman, she references the fact that before then she never thought her having kids in any shape or form was possible for her. Thirteen is someone who would rather go without the things she really, truly, from the bottom of her heart wants, than deal with the pain of wanting something and then having life take it away.

i could go on another few paragraphs, but i'm getting a little lost in the details here, so i'll cut it off for now. but the point i wanted to make was: i think thirteen is way more repressed than anyone realizes. it's just not in the way you'd think.

[temporaryname256]

Part 3 : Sunnydreamxiace testimony

hello there! I'm sunny. I wasn't necessarily attacked by emma or her fans, but I thought my experience would help reveal more of a pattern that I've been seeing on shiftblr, in regards to how she reacts to people, and treats people. I made this post (now deleted because I deactivated).

Expressing my own personal feelings of jealousy within the shiftblr community and my opinion on how we as a community treat others. it was in no way about emma. I only mentioned her when it came to the jealousy about sharing an s/o. she wasn't the focal point of the post and I made that clear within the disclaimer. made sure to make it the very first thing that people saw. because I knew if I mentioned her, it would automatically get misconstrued. and that's exactly what happened regardless of the disclaimer. emma and, who I presume to be a fan, soon made reblogs. the fan in particular was quite rude in response to seeing my post. and emma's reblog was more condescending , "hi. real person here by the way." I had reached out to both emma and the fan, trying to clear my intentions. I reached out to the fan through an ask, and they never responded.

so, I basically got ignored by the fan. soon after, I realized that both emma and the fan had deleted their reblogs. I used to be a really big fan of emma. I liked a lot of her posts and even used some of her advice. so the response I received from her was very disheartening. I was basically scrambling, trying to fix everything. I sent a message to emma, but as I know of, it never got answered or seen.

I tried to explain that I wasn't trying to be mean and that my intentions weren't to offend or harm emma. I started to even question my own intentions. I was confused on how the post got so easily misconstrued, because to me it was very clear what my intentions were. the confusion made me really anxious. I was scared to even open my tumblr account, in fear of possibly being attacked, or emma deciding to post my account, or make a more direct and formal post, that made me more vulnerable to harassment. thankfully that didn't happen. but the stress lasted much longer than it should have, and I ended up deleting my blog out of anxiety.

I'm a sensitive person, so I guess the whole thing hit deeper than it was supposed to. but i'm in no way perfect, I admit that I had talked badly about her, in response to being treated negatively. I said pretty rude things to others about her. but it was all because I felt unseen, unsafe, and unheard in the moment. is that an excuse? obviously not, but it is an emotional truth.

emma claims to be the victim in a lot of situations. which, I'm not denying that people haven been mean to her before, but she, as a bigger blog, publicly responds to people. instead of taking things to dms to get clarification of intentions, avoid making assumptions, or avoid hurting each other she publicly responds to everything, and assumes that the intentions of the person on the opposite side of the screen is attacking her. I'm not the first person she's done this with. there's been other people she has publicly responded to. even though their intentions were not to harm her or be rude to her. I have not seen one instance where she has actually tried to message someone to gain clarity of their intentions. she doesn't have to, but it would avoid an ongoing stream of people attacking each other. emma is a very popular blog. she has more followers than the average person. her fans deliberately attack those who say anything about her that's not remotely positive. she (as I know of) has never asked the intentions of those who she responds to, she assumes they're negative, and attacks them based on that assumption.

she's a bigger blog. her influence on her followers is much more wide scale. it's irresponsible to publicly respond to people as a bigger blog, knowing that your fans will more than likely attack the person you're responding to. and even if you don't know that's what your fans do, why are you posting things publicly anyway? knowing that things could possibly get messier than they should be? or at least try to stop that behavior from happening? If you're a popular blog, with more followers than average, wouldn't you try and stop people from potentially harming another person? specifically those who have lesser followers than you.

when someone with a larger platform publicly engages with someone of a smaller stature, even inadvertently, they will rarely be scrutinized at an equal weight. even if the larger blog did not intend on starting any harassment, it occurs with regularity anyways.

her fans are very sensitive about her. that doesn't just come from nowhere. she often mentions that she has been harassed, stalked, and targeted within the community. but her fans do the exact same thing to others. she accuses others of being harsh and assuming things about her, when she does the exact same thing to others. her struggles are very real and are very valid. but that doesn't make it right to attack others, nor is it an excuse to be harsh. she's right to say that she's more vulnerable because she's a bigger blog. but so are the smaller blogs. especially when she publicly replies to them. smaller blogs are also at risk for their own health, safety, and well-being. if your fans are so sensitive, that they cannot engage with nuance, or have a calm stance when it comes to anyone who disagrees with you, or critiques you, that's a VERY big issue. bordering on dangerous. if people are scared to even mention you in a way that isn't positive, in fear of being attacked...that's scary. and that's very awful. if people can't say something without being attacked, mocked, shunned, or not even remotely taken seriously, there is a PROBLEM.

if your presence is significant enough to spark mass support and defense from fans, then your words, and especially your replies to smaller blogs, carry a lot weight. people who question her, or hold opposite opinions, are not granted the same empathy she is. they are mocked, screenshotted to high heaven, and dismissed. this reinforces an imbalance. allowing only one kind of person to be hurt. and everyone else is either jealous, mean, or obsessed. when people are afraid to speak, even respectfully, because they know the response will be disproportionate, that's not just uncomfortable. that's control. whether it's intentional or not.

emma expresses being misunderstood, attacked, victimized, and persecuted. she says that no one listens to her. yet, she never asks the intentions of anyone else. she is also misunderstanding people (without trying to clear up that misunderstanding), doesn't try to listen to others, and is indirectly victimizing individuals. emma's experiences are valid. and she has every right to feel the way that she does. but her actions do play a role with how they affect others. I am not sharing this to re-open wounds or to rear up old drama, I am sharing this, because I believe these conversations are important. if this can lead to more understanding, and accountability, and can advise how we care for each other in this interactive digital space, that would be amazing. the shiftblr community becomes more toxic and less about shifting when these problems arise.

[morganblues]

no more tears — neil vana x reader.

content warnings ⛈ +18, post voidout!neil, dirty talk, canon divergence, the shortest smut ever im sorry :(.

notes ⛈ dunno if this a short fic? I wrote this in 2 hours cause I wanted to post something on my birthday (yeah happy birthday to me, I love my birthday best day everrrrrr) and also cause I saw this edit and this one and I just went crazy over this guy, It's really short and there's not much context to cover, just lmk if u like it. English isn't my first language!!!

His boots cracked against the damp ground and his shadow stretched over you, taking the reins just like all those broken promises he had made you long before; there wasn’t a word, just that absent, hungry look you were so used to, and you feel your breath stumble as usual and your body shivers.

He doesn't dare to kiss you like you've wanted since you saw him coming towards you. And when he finally arrived, he couldn't even touch you at first; he took his time with those deep-set eyes you craved to admire since he had left, his cold cheekbones, and that vibe like he had jumped into a threshold he no longer belongs to, and you know it. And when he finally does, he grabs your dress with his shaky fingers longing to touch your skin, and he doesn't let you go.

"Please tell me you still remember me" he whispers with a voice full of what you recognize as guilt, the same one he felt for having left you without any warning while you were waiting for his visit that if you are honest you never thought it would come "Say it or just fuck me, but please don't disappear."

He kisses you with that contained brutality you were used to, laying you down on your bed as if you were a map and he was tracing his last route; his fingers scrape the fabric of your dress and in desperation he creates a fight with your skin, just to feel you. The rain picked up since your mind decided you weren't going to sleep, and even though outside all you could see was the mist, the heat inside was almost unbearable. You don't blame him even though he's sweating on top of you because that's the only way you want him, taking you as if he can't afford to breathe oxygen that isn't shared with you.

And just as you wished, his cock pierces you with that violence that you loved with every pore of your skin, as if he were hungry, in a hurry and with that fury that he had recognized for abandoning you. It breaks you and arms you at the same time as if you were its doll, sinking inside you until you no longer know if you are alive or dead.

"I'm right here baby" he squeezes against you as he takes your moans kissing you every second and you feel every ridge of his being inside you. And he grabs your throat with one of his hands, not to choke you but to make sure you hear every groan, every gasp, and every prayer he lets out in the form of an apology for his absence.

And you believe him cause you don't know any other salvation outside of him, just this feeling he gives you. All that dried blood he holds in his almost healed wounds, his sticky skin, and that criminal desire along with the silence shattered by moans of your name whispered.

His fingers stay on your throat, not squeezing hard, just resting on your pulse, feeling how you live every second; as if he made you breathe just enough not to faint, his thick cock inside you, stained with you. And he doesn't retreat, he looks at you as if a thousand lifetimes have been far away and that's exactly how you feel. And then he does it, he thrusts deep into you, and with that rhythm that’s not about pleasure for him, but about marking belonging with each push, he forms unspoken sentences when he should have, and with a gasp, a confession that can’t just be expressed in words.

"No one else can touch you like this" he growls at you with his forehead resting on your neck, licking the sweat that came down from your head "No one can see you as I see you now, all broken, all mine and open" his cock fills you as if it were punishment, as if he knows he has no right to this, but he still takes you.

And he laughs when you let out the moan when he bites your collarbone, then your shoulder and takes pains to leave a mark to make sure you don't forget him; As if you marked was their only way of existing. His hands go down to your belly from above. "Look at you," he murmurs, almost reverently, "All full of me, so easy to break and so strong."

You tell him not to stop, you ask him to leave it inside you, to fill you up and not to abandon you again as he did from one moment to the next. And he did, he empties himself panting, trembling and buried to the bottom while his fingers grab you by the hip as if you were his only way to stay on solid ground. He doesn't retire. It stays inside, hard again, slow and sticky "I'm not done with you"

When he’s done, there’s no comfort, he kisses your cheeks with a softness you’d never think he had and leans down to drink your tears with his tongue, he doesn’t say he’s sorry and doesn’t ask you for the forgiveness you deserve "I just want to die like this with you" And you give in cause you can’t feel anything but him anymore.

[philativy]

A Gift of Beads and Jewels

To: Our Beloved Human Exchange Student (gn!reader)

From: The Seven Rulers of Hell (x the demon brothers)

IMPORTANT NOTICE FROM THE POSTMASTER, PLEASE READ BEFORE BREAKING SEAL: fluff! that’s all!

URGENT: this is a repost of a fic from my old, abandoned Obey Me! blog. it belongs to me — i’m not stealing from myself, haha. i don’t really do posts formatted like this anymore, unfortunately!

By the time you had already spent a year in the Devildom, it felt as though no time had passed at all. Then again, the Devildom did have your internal clock messed up for a good while. A world of continual night has the tendency to do that to you. Time was ever ebbing and flowing, and there was no definite way to measure the passage.

It was only by the good grace of Barbatos' lethargy-inducing tea remedies -- and perhaps the occasional warm cuddle partner -- that you managed to reclaim a steady sleep schedule.

Nevertheless, a year has passed since your inevitable arrival. And everyone, besides yourself, had declared it the grandest of occasions. All of the brothers, as well as the ever-gracious royals and adoring angels, had given you their choice of gifts. Even Solomon had his own contribution to the festivities.

Lucifer had gone out of his way to locate and acquire a record of your favorite album, straight from the Human World. Asmo gifted you an assortment of scented lotions and candles, all of which being aromas you favored. Belphie had a plush blanket specially manufactured for you, with your initials woven into the stop right corner. He'd been extra careful to select a fabric that wouldn't bother you. Texture sensitivity was no joke. Of course, all the others had their own personalized items/mementos as well.

But the one that you find yourself making frequent use of nowadays is Luke's choice of gift. He had procured a necklace making set, complete with a ring of metal wire, clasps, and a broad selection of beads and jewels. At first, most of the brothers had no interest in it. Mammon even declared it to be far too childish. You had to disagree.

Increasingly often, you'd find yourself curled up on the blanket Belphie had procured, stringing the beads along the length of the wires. You'd settle yourself right in the living room, in front of the fireplace.

And you'd simply allow yourself to work. After all, it was easy and relaxing. The motion becomes repetitive and comforting. You can simply zone out and enjoy yourself. And by the end, you'd have your own brand-new creation.

The brothers weren't sure how to react to your new hobby at first, but they each tried to take it in stride.

Lucifer, admittedly, did not take to the concept. He found it to be tedious and time-consuming, especially for an individual with as much work as him. Regardless, that didn't stop him from enjoying the concentration on your face whenever you were hard at work. Your brows would pucker, your lips press together, and your eyes squint in a delightful way that made your eyelashes bow.

He would gladly allow you to indulge in your craft whilst in the quiet of his office. He would work, and you would string beads. No one would interrupt. It was a mutual serenity.

For Lucifer, it was almost a relief. He could look up from his work and see you going at it, and it would keep him motivated for just a bit longer.

Unbeknownst to you, he's the one that constantly purchases refills and new beads for your collection. However, he has absolutely no interest in telling you about his indulgence in your collection. Luckily, Mammon is fully willing to take the praise and thanks for it.

Even though Mammon proclaimed his disinterest in the activity, he was quickly enthralled. When you would sit in the living room and work, he'd curl up at your elbow and peer over your shoulder. He'd take on the guise of a superior critic, occasionally narrating your choices as you worked.

At times, he would get overly involved in your work, and begin pointing out what you should and should not do with your creation. In those moments, you would simply swat his hand away and chide him into having restraint. After all, he could always just make his own! You were open to sharing.

But he would quickly huff and flush, claiming once again that the activity was far too childish for his taste.

Oh, but it was okay when you did it.

Alternatively, when Levi discovered that you had a new interest, he was all for it. After all, he's certainly familiar what it's like to be so invested and thrilled with a new hobby. Have you met him? That's, like, his life!

So, he would often be found sitting on the sofa behind you, device in-hand as he observed your handiwork from afar. Every so often, he'd crane his head to get a good look, then recoil and duck away when you spotted him. His face would burn ferociously as you laughed softly and turned back.

After a week or so, he worked up the courage to ask if you would be willing to share some of your supplies so that he could make a Ruri-Chan themed bracelet. You were thrilled, even helping Levi to select which beads he would use to achieve the colorful aesthetic of his favorite character.

You would both end up cross-legged on the floor, beads strewn about your blanket, meticulously selecting your choice of beads. Occasionally, your fingers would ghost over Levi's. And, to your surprise, he didn't pull back.

Satan tended to keep a distance and observe meanwhile. He'd tuck himself into an armchair and distract himself with whatever book he was currently indulged in. However, he couldn't stop his eyes from occasionally straying from the printed words.

You were just too perfect in that moment. The light of the fire would glint against the brilliant sheen of your hair and paint your face. You were truly glowing.

He also found himself mentally cataloguing what color schemes you would choose, as well as the individual colors of the beads. He has incredible eyesight, after all. He would inwardly decide which beads and jewels he would use if he were in your place.

After a long while, he realized he had identified a bead that was almost the exact same color as your eyes. He liked when you used that color of bead the most.

Asmo was all over the idea of making your own jewelry. Being intimately familiar with the designs of the most exquisite necklaces and bracelets, he would offer pointers in what to pair together. After all, it would be a tragedy if all your work resulted in something too clunky, or perhaps too fragile, to be worn extensively. No, that just wouldn't do!

He found himself looking for old jewelry he no longer used. Once he had found just that, he would carefully dismantle it, and present the resulting beads and clutter to you. This resulted in a near over-flow in your collection. You weren't complaining, though.

Sometimes, you'd come to him, excitedly presenting your latest work to him. He would coo over your work and press small pecks to your face to express his admiration. What an eye for design you had!

Truthfully, Beel wasn't really sure what to think about it. He wasn't really big on accessorizing in general. He found himself overwhelmed at the mere thought of it. After all, his large digits would probably swallow up the small beads. He'd only make a mess.

That didn't stop him from watching you do it, though. He'd sit across from you on the floor, dutifully examining your process. In a few ways, he acted as your personal assistant. That prestigious job included locating and handing you the beads you requested, shooing away Mammon's curious fingers, and pointing out possible oversights on your part. He proved a dutiful worker.

Occasionally, you'd buy him small boxes of powdered pastries and claim it was his payment for being so helpful. He was grateful, for sure. But for the record, he would gladly keep doing it without any compensation or thanks.

Of course, when Mammon was on one of your sides, Belphie was on the other. After all, this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. You were practically asking for him to come and snuggle up to your flank.

Belphie's chin would tuck into the incline of your shoulder, and his arms would curl around your ribs. This elicited a cacophony of disagreement from his brothers, but he paid no attention to them.

You had no issue with his arrangement, but you did have to occasionally pry his arms from around your middle in order to adequately move around. This would rouse him for a moment. Long enough for him to blink over at what you're doing, emit a hum of approval, and go back to sleep. Oh well.

dividers by @/cyberbeat, @/bronzewasp, & @/saradika-graphics

thank you for reading (again, possibly)! <3

masterlist

[utilitycaster]

so i got into c2 after c3 but fjord is one of those characters where i never really understand the hate/flak he gets. i feel like it might be an issue of people taking everything with him at face value bc travis is mostly viewed as just the hype man that likes to be wacky. so often times people only really pay attention to fjord when travis is just trying to be funny, but since he’s not AS wacky as grog or chet all his depth and nuance gets disregarded. like i remember seeing a lot of hate over the ukotoa two-shot because he acted too “detached” from jester and the party, but after watching it it seemed like he was mostly having confidence issues and was very upset over the situation. i remember watching that whole moment of fjord making the pact with zehir and reassuring jester that she didn’t do anything wrong, that he’d do it again bc he loves her and realizing that the fandom just doesn’t care to understand his character.

Hi anon!

So there's a couple different types of weird flak he gets and I want to discuss a couple separately, but before I do I think the overarching point I want to make is that Travis has never, in my opinion, flubbed the execution of a character. He's made characters of varying degrees of complexity and seriousness, and Fjord scores high in both those areas whereas Grog is much simpler and less serious; but he has always, for characters in anything longer than a one-shot, and often even then, had a complete idea and carried it out. And I think a lot of people value high concept and novelty over strong execution, not just in D&D characters but in actual play and honestly creative works in general; and I think those people are wrong. Obviously originality and high concepts are great - ideally, we'd have an endless stream of brilliant, ambitious, complex new ideas, each executed perfectly. But if I had to choose, I would much rather see something simple done exceptionally well than something elaborate collapse under its own weight or simply never get off the ground in the first place, and for what it's worth people value this in theory, but like...Shakespeare was using plots that were old chestnuts at the time. We remember his story of star-crossed lovers because the prose is witty and vibrant, not because he came up with the idea. I don't give high marks for a character's potential or how sad their backstory is; I give them for making a character who is compelling to watch and makes interesting decisions, and under that metric, Travis never misses.

Now, as for reasons he gets hate:

Relationship stuff: gonna be real I've never seen anyone who actually enjoyed Fjord and Jester's relationship during Campaign 2 change their mind about post-campaign content. It's always people who shipped something in conflict and have since mid-C2. And like, that's fine, and I'm not going to rehash C2 shipping discourse here because people can ultimately feel how they feel, but it's never a case of "I genuinely loved this ship this couple and now it feels less enjoyable"; it's just bad faith dumbasses trying to start shit and it's not worth our time to give them more oxygen.

Weird assumptions about Travis: yeah. During C2 this was a bigger problem but a lot of people thought Travis the person was stupid because Grog had an intelligence of 6, even though the cast was like "I am actively rattling the bars to see Travis play a character who is intelligent"; fans who'd seen one shots in which he played smarter characters felt similarly; and it was an ongoing joke about C1 that Travis would drop out of character to add strategy that Grog would not be capable of coming up with (and had admitted to feeling this way). I think this has softened into "chaotic" which is preferable but still not helpful nor an intelligent analysis of how Travis plays, and I've talked about this elsewhere. I also feel like "himbo" and "short king" and a few other words hit peak slang du jour during C2 and the dull stochastic parrot types needed someone to pin these on instead of having an original thought.

Inability to connect with characters who are unlike them. Discussed extensively in a lot of posts about how a largely white, queer, and middle class fandom (and to be clear I'm all these things) tends to dismiss or even erase racialized or working class narratives like Fjord's in favor of projecting something more safe and familiar to them onto him.

Assuming he was secretly evil or secretly from the moon: people are drawn to irl conspiracy theories often out of desperation or unheard desires for validation and solutions. I struggle, personally, to have a lot of patience with this not because I think I'm immune to them but because like 99% of irl conspiracy theories are wildly antisemitic so like, I don't care for that shit at all. But people are drawn to fandom conspiracy theories for the much more innocent reason that they're pretty stupid but want to feel smart. This is also connected to the "valuing high concept over good execution" because most conspiracy theories are really fucking stupid but damn do they have a complicated setup.

Flak specifically now in conversations that have nothing to do with him: I suspect, and this is what I alluded to in my post, that this is a pitifully weak attempt at a thinly veiled ad hominem towards people who are fans of Fjord, but it's coming from people who really don't have a strong enough grasp on fandom context to realize just how thin that veil is. So instead of calling (for example) me stupid, they attack a character I like, not realizing that while if I insult their favorite character they will go into a multi-day tantrum, if they insult my favorite character I simply assume they lack intelligence and taste.

As you can see these are all stupid reasons for stupid people; unfortunately, there are, as the saying goes, many such cases. I do hope people read that first paragraph though because I think that addresses why my preferences and approach often go against what takes off in terms of surface-level popularity: I want the whole thing to be good, even if it's not as immediately appealing, but many people want a shiny surface and don't check that the core isn't hollow. Fjord is a fantastically made and played character, start to finish; ultimately it doesn't matter if some people dislike him, because no one worth talking to does.