Oh It Hurts - Tumblr Posts
Dead FFitz. How would the crew react?
I don't think a single soul would actually believe it was real for a very long time.
Some part of Keefe would reach for his imparter to call Fitz before his wanderling was planted, feeling like he needed to talk to his best friend about his best friend's funeral. Only to realize he can't. Sophie would find herself reaching out to him telepathically, and finding an empty void in response. He was one of the first minds she'd ever entered, and they were cognates, and it would feel like she lost a limb. She'd reach out even knowing that he wouldn't answer, through some vain hope. Biana would get whiffs of the smell of baking from the everglen kitchen and hurry down just to find a gnome baking Mallowmelt. It won't ever taste like Fitz's, and she can't even take a bite without feeling like she's going to throw up. When she gets to the elite levels all she can think about how both of her big brothers are dead and how she's the only one left. Della would pace in front of her sons' bedroom doors, and she would sometimes open them, expecting to see her boys sitting on their beds, doing homework, or chatting with their friends on their imparters. They're always empty. Covered in dust, slowly losing the smell of their colognes'. When the gnomes come to clean, she screams at them through tears. Nobody touches the rooms after that; not even her. Alden doesn't go near their rooms. He won't even approach the hall. He keeps Fitz's imparter in his pocket and answers all of Keefe's half-thought hails in the middle of the night, and sometimes neither of them can breathe. Keefe hangs up first. He can't stand the fact that Fitz's teal eyes are staring into his, but he isn't even there. It all feels like denial. Like he's going to come back somehow, by some miracle. Sophie stares at all the bows she kept from the treats he baked her. She curses her photographic memory, because his movie-star smile never quite leaves her mind's eye, and Keefe uses his own to draw portraits of his dead best friend. Sophie won't look at them. Della holds them close to her chest, and Biana pretends that it doesn't feel like being stabbed to see them. Alden hangs them in his study. Keefe draws one of Alvar too, and Biana keeps it in a drawer in her room.
YOU WATCH ME BURN
pairing: felix × fem!reader
words: 2.1k
about: where felix counts every single red flag he has missed, looking at you through rose tinted glasses and he realizes: love has an expiration date
warnings: toxic relationships, manipulative behaviour, swearing, bruises, implications of cheating, mentions of alcohol abuse, exhaustion and overexertion, reader is a grade A asshole, allusions/mentions of hickies
a/n: a wild fucking ride fr
“ wake up and start a big fire in our one room apartment, but I'm too tired to have a pissing contest.”
Felix Lee — a bad liar with a savior complex. He’s more than that though. He’s in love with love, a staunch believer of fairy tales. He’s an idealist, a sentimental dreamer. He makes love look like an art form, looking at the world through rose tinted glass.
And you? A realist.
Turning corners at the last but one crossing of the junction, Felix decides: love has an expiration date. He falls in love easily and the fall-out is painful.
With each step towards, he is dreading being home. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s what he is yet to say. Maybe it’s all the expectations weighing his back from Chan, Jisung and Minho. But whatever it is, it’s fucking unfair.
Time ticks by painfully fast. His watch feels heavy on his wrist, it’s ticking in sync with his heartbeat, in sync with his steps, in sync with his derailing thoughts. And this synchronization is distressing.
And soon enough, he’s there — that one room apartment he’s been dreading. You on the sofa, cross legged, so unassuming, so fucking indifferent. Your eyes leave the TV to meet his, some rom-com continuing mindlessly, and you smile.
He does too, instinctually.
Your eyes are red-rimmed. Your cheeks tinted red. Have you been crying? His resolution all but crumbles.
Because despite who you are, despite his fragile ego, you are the tears of his crying. You are the starlight in the evening, the smell of the rain. You’re spilt coffee and his teenage spirit — his twin flame. And Felix is a hopeless fucking romantic.
But he’s tired. He’s far too exhausted. And he needs to let go of every emotion he has left unexpressed.
“W-we need to talk.”
Felix curses himself for the stutter. His voice is unfaltering, his stutter being his only show of vulnerability. He’s never heard himself like this. He has never been like this. But it all comes back to you — you bring out the best in him. You bring out the worst in him.
He watches your smile drop, as you shuffle further away to make space for him on the sofa. It’s cold, this proximity no longer giddying for him. He feels your eyes on him, intense and scrutinizing.
He inhales deeply, holding his breath for counted seconds before releasing it in a staggered exhale. It’s unhealthy, he tells himself. Whatever it is between you and him, it’s fucking unhealthy.
“This,” he says, gesturing the little space between both of you. “This is not working. And you know it.”
His eyes sting. It isn’t supposed to be this hard, goddammit. Words are caught in his throat, so easy to swallow, so hard to let go.
“Felix, you—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts. He sees you; sees your eyes well up, hands moving quickly to wipe any possible show of vulnerability. He wants to reach for you, wipe off your tears and hold your face in his hands — index finger behind your ear as always — but he stops himself.
“We’ve been through this. And whatever this is, it’s eating me alive from the inside, goddammit,” his voice breaks, a deep baritone and occasional silence. “And you know it. I love you; I love you; I fucking love you. But this? I can’t do it anymore.”
“Felix.”
You sound timid, broken. Nothing he has ever heard from you, ever. Felix walks a tightrope with you, his name is enough to make him consider swallowing his words to have you back in his arms.
But he won’t. He cares far too much.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want to do this.”
You. It’s always been about you. Since the day he exhausted his collected confidence in sliding his phone to you across the table for you to save your number in his contacts, it’s always been about you. He is an expert in making himself smaller to watch you grow, to see you flourish. It has always been like that.
Felix doesn’t love. He falls in love; dives in headfirst and skids ten feet deeper. And now, he was breathless, drowning. He wanted out.
“I need to do this.”
You stare at him, wordless. Perhaps even speechless. You’re a wreck — smudged mascara, swollen eyes, tearstained cheeks. Hell, he’s a mess — a well represented mirror image of you.
“Do you want me to leave?” He asks. He’s prepared to leave, only awaiting permission.
“Yeah.”
He stands up, quick, no hesitation. He dusts off his sweatpants, fixing the creases before glancing at you: a mess through and through. He moves to leave, the open door so inviting, only to be stopped by your voice.
“Felix?”
“Yeah?”
“I hate you.”
Unexpressed emotions never die, brewing within you to show up in their ugliest forms. Felix, convinces himself.
The walk to the dorms is exhilarating and liberating, somehow all at once. The winter breeze blowing unforgivingly at his face was his stone-cold grounding to reality. Felix is a dreamer, of the sentimental sort; but this flat sobriety, he chooses to indulge in.
How long has it been? Days, weeks, months since he had spent a night in that crammed bedroom, a shared space for him, Hyunjin and Minho. He had priorities, places to be. Every trail of thought returns to the same thing — you.
Chan is the first face he sees — of course, worried, tense, empathetic. Chan hopes for the best and prepares for the worst. And so he did today, at the sight of Felix’s red rimmed eyes.
“I told her.”
Realisation. These three words are simple but explanatory. Chan all but combusts, his grin stretching from ear to ear, dimples at full display. And if Felix spots correctly, a touch of pride.
“You guys are done?”
“We’re done.”
Done. Such an easy way to put it. So complete within itself. A clean end with a well punctuated full stop. Nothing like what he feels.
“Fucking hell, Felix.”
A third voice joins: Minho. Rejoicing. Positively fucking glowing. What did they all spot that Felix managed to miss?
He is enveloped in hugs. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each of the boys holding him for what seems like forever. As if he were a lost child with his found family. Staggered breaths and hearty laughs. They loved him for him. Lee Felix, not Felix from Stray Kids.
12:35. And he's alone again, this time by choice. He lies on his back, wide eyes staring at the glow in the dark stickers peeling off from the ceiling. He missed this. He missed the forced proximity the dorms brought to him and his members. He missed having a life that stretched beyond you.
He can hear Minho's breathing from the bunk below, slow and sustained, somehow giving him a sense of tranquility.
Minho positively hated you. From day one, when you walked into the dorms, your hand carefully held in Felix's. And Felix had smiled, introducing you to the members with the title: my girlfriend. And you had smiled too, staring up all wide-eyed and innocent at Chan, Hyunjin and Minho.
Chan and Hyunjin had indulged for their friend's sake, breaking into wide grins and cheers of "Lix, you got her, man," and "She's sweet, take care of her, Lix."
Minho only stared, eyes narrow and speculative as he took in your appearance. A white Celine t-shirt — Felix's — tucked neatly in a black pencil skirt, fucking pretentious.
And Felix had glared at Minho, for the first time, before he finally obliged and smiled at you, quickly excusing himself and slipping into his dorm room.
Minho knew. So did Hyunjin and Chan. They had counted every red flag he had missed, looking at you through rose tinted glasses.
Felix remembers inviting you to watch their dance rehearsals. You sitting comfortably on the sofa while he worked on the muscle memory of the choreography. Minho corrected him; once, twice, thrice. His shoulders were too stiff, his footwork too messy, his beginning was off beat and his isolations not sharp enough.
He could feel your eyes on him, sometimes glazing over to Minho. His ears only burnt a darker shade of scarlet with every mistake.
He remembers Minho pulling him to the corner by the sleeve of his shirt.
"This is not working out, man. Either spend time with your girl or work on what pays our bills. Not both at once."
Felix saw red. What was his fucking problem with you? Deep breaths to talk himself down from all the choice words that were yet to be thrown at Minho. He clenched and unclenched his fists behind his back.
And smiled, so alluring. So easy.
"Yes, Hyung."
But Felix was a hopeless romantic. His problems subside when he looked back at you. Love fixes everything.
Now he knew ofcourse, the bittersweet aftertaste of your love still so fresh in his mouth. Love can't fix everything. Hell, love can't fix a damn thing.
"I can't believe you guys can dance like that," you lean back, your shoulder pressed to his. "Like how you move? It was so. . ."
Your voice wanes as you look for the best way to describe what you had seen.
Felix had grimaced, memories of Minho's corrections still fresh in his mind, " Wasn't that good. My shoulders were stiff and clumsy footwork."
You grin, relentless.
"But still. And Minho. Fuck, how is he so . . . fluid?"
He shrugs, half-smile still on his lips. He did admire Minho for the sort of unwavering effort he put in.
"He's like that. There's so much to learn from him."
You're talking. And Felix is not listening. His eyes wander to your face, the way your lips move, your hands gesticulating wildly. He likes you. He likes how you look in his hoodie — so cute, tousled and relaxed. He can't help himself.
You're cut off mid sentence, words caught in your throat as he holds your face in his hands, his lips assuredly on yours. He handles you so carefully, as if you're a cut of glass waiting to be shattered further. His vision wavers and his heart swells. He's kissing you.
He pulls back, breath staggered and heartbeat uneven. You're staring at him, blinking.
"Maybe I should watch you and Minho rehearse again sometime."
And fuck, if only he knew.
There were nights spent going out, getting drunk in the corners of shitty clubs with music even shittier. But he'd do it, just for you.
And those nights, where he'd have to carry you home. Despite you hanging off of some stranger's arm not less than an hour ago, the smell of drink that stranger bought you still lingering in the air.
Nights when he had to hold your hair back as you were bent over the sink, whispering his constant assurance of "it'll be okay" despite being the one without a drop of sleep the past week through.
And your voice would break the silence while you both sat with your backs pressed to the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, so timid, so fragile.
"Felix?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
And he all but falls in love again.
He had never smiled brighter. Despite his muscles aching from hours of practice, his smile stretched from ear to ear, so complete with the rose blush on his cheeks.
Love fixes everything. It always did.
Felix was past the point of a breakdown. Seeing you lie so unruffled on the couch in that pink satin clubbing dress he bought you — so unbothered. Alcohol in your breath, your arms littered with bruises from you running into furniture while dazed and most importantly, the big red bruise on your throat that stared back at him so tauntingly.
It was a pretty colour. Almost turning a purple-lilac in its edges, so close to the colour of your dress. But all appreciation of the colour went out the fucking window because he wasn't the one who gave it to you.
He was tired, muscles aching from the three hour long practice session when he had gotten a call from Yeji. And so utterly in love, he had drived half an hour out of town to that god forsaken club to pick you up.
Your words are so soft under your breath, terribly close to going unheard.
"Felix?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you so fucking much."
And that's was when he decided, it was too fucking much. You. Him. Everything.
And now? Months later, Felix is still learning.
He is learning to forgive the past — that the most beautiful of things come to an end; that sometimes time isn't right, sometimes the person isn't right, you weren't right.
He is learning to wake up alone in the middle of his bed, that just because he doesn't love doesn't mean he didn't love. He's learning how to hold his own hand, how to take up space by himself, how to stop filling voids and start healing them.
He is learning how to love himself.
i was loving it until I didn't
WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
"memory problems"
oh my is this uvtale posting after like 2 weeks of not showing anything from the au oh brotyher oh no way anyway :3
that one x reader fic i read years ago that used to get weekly updates and then just STOPPED
