#I hate how much attention I put into detail. but it’s for a good cause (the memery)

[mellorine-dreams]

Why the hell does Mephisto look like he would wear these

Lemme just:

There we go 💖

[spencerscoven]

the alternate … art donaldson

Art has a proclivity for giving attention to his enemy. He hates her— but particularly hates how she has Patrick wrapped around her finger even more.

warnings ; smut .. slutty drunk freshman art x Patrick's gf, infidelity .. unedited for now! oops!

It didn’t take much time for Art to settle into Cornell— it wasn’t just the tennis or the girls, of which he quickly learned were rather women, or even the academics. His hesitation on his attendance was especially foolish, especially in moments like these as he rolled over, crushing the red solo up beneath him. The buzzing in his jean pocket persisted, just like it had for the last five minutes before, causing him to utter another affirmation to ignore it into her mouth.

Maybe the women had one or two things to do with it.

"Maybe just get it?"

"Why?"

"So you... can tell them you're busy."

He hummed into her mouth as the girl above him detached herself, moving to grab the stitch of her top to remove it as he tilted his hips to reach for his phone.

Patrick.

His calloused hands came up to push her thighs over his hips, sitting up to read the rapid series of text Patrick had sent. And Art soon saw— was still sending. All of them ranged from different ways of him asking Art to check up on you, letting your attendance be known. Patrick's texts detailed the simple request of him checking to see if you were taking your alcohol well. Another saying he hoped you wouldn't get roofed. And one that blatantly asked that he didn't let any of "those Ivy League assholes" fuck his girlfriend.

Art rolled his eyes, resentment laced in his actions as he muttered condolences and pledged to "be right back", his large hands taking the knob of the door and peering out into the dark hallway to find you. When a look wasn't enough, he left the room door slightly ajar, stepping completely into the hallway filled with red cups, colored lights, almost sidetracked by his team that pulled him by the neck and fought to put a drink in his hand. With a light smile still gracing his face and beer in a can, his eyes wondered up to your face, watching as your lips wrapped around a bottle of Corona, some leaking out the side of which you swiped away with the back of your hand. He felt the same kind of resentment he usually felt when he saw you when Patrick visited fill him from his chest out. He watched as you leaned against the wall talking to someone. He took in your skimpy skirt and top with less resentment, though.

He especially didn't like it when the next time he looked for your face, you were staring at him, eyes hooded and smile nasty and condescending.

"He told me to look for you."

"I know." You raised your eyebrow dismissively, almost wanting to laugh at Patrick's good intentions. He knew what you'd say about Art. Just like you assumed what Art said about you, yet he asked him anyway.

"And by that, he means look after you." Art leans in, lips close to your ear as the music sounded. You roll your eyes as he lingers there a moment too long and you expect him to say something more, but he never does.

"We both know I look fine."

It takes a beat before he responds. "We both do."

"And we both know you don't want to babysit."

"But I'm a good friend."

"I've known corrupt politicians that are better friends than you, Art."

He sways away from you, facing the rest of the party as he rolls his eyes with the kind of insularity he only reserved for you, tipping his head back to finish the rest of his beer and tossing it towards the trashcan, only to miss.

He turns to you, irritation flaring as he stabilizes himself on the sticky wall behind him by holding your hips. It's something you're willing to let go of, your breath clicking as he whispers: "You smell like pot."

"It's a free country."

"Okay," he challenges, pursing his lips as he leans closer. "What's in your cup?"

"What? Yours and Chelsea's not good enough for you?"

His upper lip raises, in a look of both disgust and toleration as he grasps your wrist, forcing you to bring your own bottle to his mouth. The contents of it are mostly able to be swallowed but the rest flow from the corners of his lips, down his chin, to his throat where his Adams apple bobs as he swallows. You wipe it instinctively, causing you to both freeze for only a moment. He shutters before he opens his mouth again to slur,

"Chelsea?"

You look at him quizzically, your mouth opening once, twice, three times, only to say nothing but erupt in laughter that rocks your head backwards and your body closer to his. Art looks around frantically, his mouth tilting downwards as he looks around, grasping your hips forward and gritting his teeth as he repeats himself.

"Chelsea? What's the fucking joke I'm not getting?"

"The girl that you just— my fucking god, Art. I know you look the way you do, but you couldn't even remember her name?" You tilt your head towards the doorway, insinuating the room you're sure his cologne still lingered in. He groans, his head falling forward in a laugh as his right hand on your hip runs up the side of your torso, his head spinning.

"I'm not a very good date, am I?" You can nearly taste the alcohol on his tongue and you're out of laughs, humor gone as a consequence of being so close to him. And maybe he's too drunk to realize it's happening, but you're too cross to care when his thumbs rub circles on your hipbone, of which he had to invade underneath your waistband to do.

"I almost finished my night like this." It's so quiet that you're unsure if it was for you to hear. But it doesn't matter, as your hand runs up his arm and shoulders, eyes following over the ripples.

"This is not the same."

Your other hand trickles down to his waistband, guiltily skating over his bulge as you feel his pocket for his phone.

"Arthur, Patrick told you to check on me. So, tell him I'm okay."

"I told him that I'd check on you. I also told him you were a bad idea, like I always do," He saws it lowly, as if it's not supposed to slip out and has only found it's way because of his level of intoxication. You scoff, pushing him backwards as you're suddenly slightly more sober. You rock back and forth, eyes rolling back, but the distance is not created before you can hear him finish: "but I never said he didn't have good taste."

You don't like that it's still said in the way only drunk and resentful Art could deliver it. "You're not a very good fucking friend."

"To who, you?" He makes it his personal duty to invade your space, his face in somewhat of a snarl. You know that some would see this as uncharacterized for Art, but it's most familiar to you. It feels somewhat like home. Albeit, a house fire, but home.

Your first encounter with him was glancing behind yourself at move in, and seeing his blonde locks brushed back by calloused hands as he looked at you, then to your racket.

Your second encounter was only minutes later, when he stood next to his raven haired friend who asked for your number as he rolled his eyes with a knot in his jaw, as if he didn't find you worthy. He tugged on the shirt of his friend, telling him there were better things to do. Better, he had said.

And that never made much sense to you. Because in your relationship with Patrick, there had always been the inconsequential three.

"You're not my friend," You begin, mind calculating how many rooms and doors of Cornell's largest final club you'd have to go before finding somewhere, anywhere, that would fit just you. "Never was."

Art's only silent for a moment, nose flaring and eyes squinting. his shoulders are tense, and if you were to look down you'd see his hand balled in a fist.

"What? What now, Art?"

"You never gave me your number."

He watches as your eyes furrow in confusion, the heat in your eyes rising rather than deflating. And he speaks again:

“You gave it to Patrick. But you never gave me your number.”

Without your bottle, your hands search for something to do, blinking frantically. They resort to touching yourself in the same places he just had, your fingers running down your torso quickly, your hip bone. When you touch your shoulder is when the two of your gazes meet once again. Art watches through blue as you nod your head slowly in both horror and understanding.

You're quick on your feet. He's watched countless of your matches, even when he had no business doing so. But he is too. So when a short string of curses land out of your mouth and you march down the hallway, he's on your heels.

And all you can think is that you know his gaze better than any other. It wasn't something you intended but through these sporadic games, your body and soul had bargained to be familiar with Art more than any other. If he leaned against the net or lunch table, it became the kind of resourcefulness of movement that was so particularly him. It was rare you called on him, yet necessary when it was a matter of Patrick. He was always there, steadfast and urgent. It'd be days before you learned of the lecture he missed because of it. And while your boyfriend was off being a pro, Art never was slow to tell you how good his female counterparts around him were, while you were "only barely whopping college ass".

But somehow he was always there. You found his gels and handle tape in your tennis bag. You had more than half your dining points still because you were just "a casualty of being present” when he was buying his own lunch. And it all made you feel as if he was just very...

"You're a fucking con artist," You shoved him against the door of which he only narrowly made it "A fucking wolf in sheep's clothing."

It made you even angrier that he was stronger than you but willing to let his body fall back, lips pierced in a thin obedient line as his back hit the door repeatedly under your assault until he grasped both your forearms, holding them closely together. A wince escaped your mouth, his strength relenting and becoming lighter but still he held you. He leaned down, attempting to meet your face that now focused on the hardwood below.

"I know I'm the bad guy. Still, what's it gonna be?"

You didn't look up at that. But you did at the vibration that sounded in his pocket just seconds later. There were always three.

Art doesn't waste a moment to release your arms, wrapping his own in an enclosure around your head to reach your lips, tugging you impossibly close to him. You can't help but not move-- letting him twist your head and invade your lips. It's only until you release a small moan you latch back.

After Art's kiss, your night was haunted. It was distorted beyond your eyes' power of correction. So when a pair of lips landed on yours again, you came back home. You gave in.

His hands ran down your body, invading each and every corner of you. Your hips, your waist, the small of your back, the back of your thighs which he used to hoist your body upwards and against the doorframe, caging you. As the wet kisses sound on your neck, you look past his head to the room you two now occupied, no bed. Just various pieces of miscellaneous covered in cream sheets. When you look towards the window, releasing another whimper as you feel his middle and index finger prod at your cotton panties, you can see dust aligning with the moonlight.

Like everything else he does, he's good at the way he touches you. No, nearly instinctual. Art's fingers curve and level themselves out inside of you, yet he leaves his palms frigid, rubbing your clit back and forth with the surface of it. It makes you all so weak, Art murmuring your name as the two of you lower to the floor, you're suddenly reminded of the urgency of the matter.

"Art, I need--"

"I know,"

I know,

I know,

I know.

He repeats the sentiment into your skin and it almost makes your eyes brim with tears as you feel his bulge covered by denim slot against your soaked underwear. The feeling is delicious, so you excuse your decorum when you buck your hips against his. You watch as he detaches himself from you, the depth of his blonde hair twinkling in the moonlight. His lips and chin are swollen and wet from your messy kisses that appeared to be more tongue than anything. He lifts your hips to remove your skirt on his own once he catches the way your eyes watch him, still. He looks at you, sick with the same fever, but now you're not quite sure what this illness even is.

His hands move to tug your shirt up, yet you push his hands away, making them double up on his belt as both of you scramble to slide his jeans below his ass. You also help him when he leans to grab your right leg, sliding it up and against his hip as he sways above you. You watch as he thinks, only for a moment, places a feather right kiss on your knee, whispers something you can't hear, and promptly shoves his dick inside of you.

The force of it slams your head against the door, the hinges rattling but the surprise of his size makes it so you hardly notice. You close your eyes immediately until you're struck with the realization that you hope this never happens again. You hope you're never drunk enough, or lucky enough to have your boyfriend's best friend's dick rocking you back and forth ever again. You near your eyes open, willing to at least let yourself savor what little you have now, gazing in the middle of you two where you can see him disappear inside of you repeatedly.

Art huffs above you as your name escape his lips repeatedly as if it hadn't been the first time. You find yourself unable to cope, grabbing the hardwood until you realize there's not much give. So you resort to firmly biting his shoulder between your gasps and yelps. which only surges him on to drive into you faster, his hips snapping and the sounds of both your flesh filling the room.

You feel his clammy hand reach for the hair at the nape of your neck and you allow yourself to submissively follow regardless of your confusion. Art's breath mingles with yours as he asks:

"Is it good?"

You don't answer.

"Does it feel good?"

Your brows furrow together as you nod your head up and down as if you’ve been doped, chest heaving uncontrollably. He meets your lips and it feels as if he's kissing you solely for himself as he drags his hand on your cheeks and forehead, ridding your face of your sweat and hair. His other hand circulates your clit with a firm hold and you feel the familiar sensation approaching. Your skin felt both as cold and hot as it ever had, your teeth penetrating your bottom lip, biting Art in the process.

"I don't think we should do this.." You spit out quietly in intervals, because it feels like the right thing to say right before you come all over his cock and he leans down to look at the mess you've made in bliss. The results that it gives are fruitful, as you feel his fingers' relentlessness on your clit still. But you can tell he's struggling to stay where he is, trying to milk every moment he can inside of you.

You use your feet to push his hips back, arms reaching above your head as you untangle your limbs. Your legs remain sprawled out on his thighs, of which lay on his calves. The silence between you two is like molasses, and he stares at your core as you brush your socked toes against his abdomen, then cock.

You see a frown form on his face, but you're also met with the needy repeated rise of his hips that meet your foot and help you grind against him. You watch in awe as his eyes don't leave yours, confusion filling the air. You bring your feet faster, rubbing against his tip and watch as Art's whimper fills the air and his cum shoots to his lower stomach and your sock, his eyes closing, throat repeatedly bobbing as he rides his high. You watch as the thrusts into you become increasingly slower until they stop completely and the two of you are left still once again. You marvel in the way it seems almost as if he always gets what he wants. And Art isn't quite sure of what to make of you at all anymore, with his ears ringing and chest warm.

On his knees, he cascades towards your body that slumps against the door frame. He moves towards you slowly at first, hesitating if you wanted any of this at all. But you don't decline the warmth of his chest as he pulls you in, wordlessly. You let him bury his nose to your scalp as he takes you in.

And you both agree that if this may be a story of tonight alone, you both might as well melt indistinguishably into it once again.

[shadowmaat]

Not an accident

I've never been a waitress. My sisters were, and some of the stories they told me solidified the belief that I never, ever wanted to work in a restaurant.

I may not know much about how restaurants operate, but I know that large parties can be a hassle to deal with since an area needs to be cleared and tables put together and so forth. Also, y'know, making sure there's enough space at a given time. Frequently there's even a bit on the menu about calling ahead if you have a large party. For exactly those reasons.

And that's just for "normal" people. It's a whole different exploding ball game when you add in, say, political candidates. Not only is space an issue, but so is safety. You have to coordinate between your staff and the various security personnel to ensure everything and everyone will be safe. I seem to recall that when President Clinton was going to visit the bookstore I worked in at the time, we were warned in advance and I think a secret service peep swept through, checking on the other exits and making sure everything was good for the President's arrival. And again, that was just a bookshop in a small town.

Apparently "advanced warnings" are for sissies, because Vance and his entire entourage showed up UNANNOUNCED at a restaurant in Pittsburgh and expected to just be let in and seated without a problem. Vance. His PR team. His Secret Service agents. Local police. A camera crew. Reporters. Adoring fans and random gawkers.

The hostess rightfully panicked and said they couldn't accommodate them. It did work out eventually, but the damage was already done and ultraconservative news agencies, lickspittles, and Fascist attention-seekers were already railing against the restaurant and calling for a boycott.

I've heard some people suggesting that Vance's team hates him and is trying to set him up to fail, but I think that's far too optimistic an interpretation. I think it's far more likely that they deliberately set up the restaurant (and likely other places) to fail in order to keep pushing the "poor wittle us" narrative. Make Vance look like an underdog candidate. Make it seem like businesses are unfairly biased against him/his party. Outrage all the right-wing cultists who just need to be pointed at a target to hate.

What adds to this is that the Harris party apparently also visited a branch of the same restaurant and were allowed in without question. Of course the Harris party also warned the restaurant in advance and coordinated with them to make sure everything went smoothly, but when have details mattered to the Redcaps?

Either Vance's entire staff is so terminally entitled that it never occurred to them that showing up en masse unannounced might cause issues (entirely possible, despite this shit being part of their job description), or they were trying to destroy a restaurant's reputation because it had hosted their "competition."

I hope more people than ever flock to the restaurant. Particularly the one that got targeted. And I hope everyone leaves extravagant tips to make up for this political bullshittery and its fallout.

EDIT: I've been informed that Primanti's is a staple of the area and isn't likely to suffer much, but STILL. Absolute fucking right wingnut bastards.

[epiicaricacy-arts]

oh we’re still so young, desperate for attention

this was super experimental so i will talk about my process (+ clearer version) under the cut

i’ve been looking at a lot of “messier” or more textured painting styles recently and an artist that stuck out to me is clariondeluna ! they posted a self-portrait recently that i really liked and i was super interested in the brushwork seen in their work. i love all the textures and how the shapes feel so loose yet everything is so detailed.

that’s not a method for me at all!!!! i cannot paint like that at all and the stuff i like to paint is very different to theirs. which is okay!!!! i had no intention to copy this artists style so closely like with what i tried to do in my raiden painting, i just wanted to try this style out :^)

it’s been a goal of mine to avoid over-rendering like i tend to do a lot, and i think i’ve been doing good with that recently! the mindset i’ve got going on right now is that if i find myself staring at it too hard for too long, i have to leave it and move on. if there’s still something wrong with it, i can fix it later once ive got a fresh view!

i’ve been trying a lot of things with my art this year. i always try to challenge myself with each piece, and to end the year off i wanted to be as uncomfortable as i possibly could be with this painting. i let myself draw whatever i wanted because i still wanted to enjoy it, but everything i did in this process was new, including parts of the subject matter.

i’ve never drawn a head at an angle like this, and i struggle with drawing mouths open. i don’t do bold lighting like this, and if i do, it’s not fire. i’ve never drawn fire! i also rarely work with warm colours and i hate using green, so i combined those to be my colour palette. i like working cleanly so instead of having a dozen different layers for one section, each section only had 1-2 layers for rendering. instead of clipping masks i would simply paint over things loosely and clean it up later. i never like having limbs cut off in a drawing so i had his other arm go GOD knows where. i don’t like weird patterned backgrounds so i made myself figure out how to like it!

IS THIS MY FAVOURITE PIECE OF ALL TIME. no. absolutely not. but i’m very proud of how this came out with all the challenges i put on myself. i WANTED to get better at these things and be more broad with my art, both in terms of the styles and subjects i portray.

okay let’s talk about wtf this drawing is

for those who don’t know, the design in this painting is my fatui/“Father” lyney fan design (read the design post here). the concept isnt super complicated and i don’t really have much explanation for it, but i wanted to combine the story of how lyney wanted a delusion before getting his vision, fire eating circus acts and how olympic medalists will bite their medal to prove it’s real??? don’t quote me on that i’m like 75% sure that’s a thing that happens. i don’t watch sports though so im just believing someone i heard on the internet ages ago.

anyways. i think fire eating acts are cool. and i think the fact that lyney wanted a delusion is very interesting to me. scratches my brain in the right places. and yk as a magician lyneys character revolves a lot around fooling people and creating illusions so i guess what im saying here is that lyney is trying to prove to himself that this power he’s been bestowed is real. bc his whole life his only constant has been lynette so he is trying to see if he can trust this new power. cause i guess this is an alternate universe where lyney does eventually become “Father” but he never got his vision ??? idk im not making lore for this i just wanted to dress up this funny little guy.

ok i’m done

thanks for reading

here’s my dog

[ddarker-dreams]

Idée Fixe.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Some not SFW elements, yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, emotional manipulation, depictions of general & social anxiety disorder, depictions of a panic attack, mentions of anxiety medication, Chrollo administers medications to Reader without her consent, and mentions of religion. Also Chrollo just really, really sucks. Word count: 12.3k.

You met a strange man at the arboretum today.

Perhaps you aren’t in a position to describe others as ‘strange’, considering your latest proclivity for expressing earnest thanks to any honey bees you happen across for their service. After much contemplation, however, it’s ultimately the word you arrive at. ‘Strange’ not in a disconcerting sense that inspires fear, but just being out of the ordinary enough to exude an undeniable allure. A raised panel on the floor you stumble over yet suffer no serious injury from. 

Well-kept gardens might be the closest imitation to heaven on earth. That’s what brought you to this little oasis hidden in the desert that is urban life. It’s the type of day romanticists wax poetic about: baby blue skies, puffy clouds, and moderate temperatures with a light, forgiving breeze. 

You situated yourself strategically, so you’d be beneath the shade of a magnolia tree whose pink petals kept fluttering down as if in greeting, and near a patch of daffodils that matched the shade of your gingham dress. Blades of grass tickle your legs, but not unpleasantly so, they scratch an itch found only in nature’s loving reprieve. There’s no thought of upcoming assignments, what to eat for dinner, or if buying that purse you thought was a steal at 30% off was a good idea or not. 

It’s just you and your book. 

Until it isn’t. 

Every woman is connected in the experience that is trepidation whenever a man randomly approaches. There’s no telling his intentions, if he has any. You’re left to smile awkwardly and temporarily realign yourself with religion by praying to a higher deity for his hasty departure. You map out potential escape routes and recall the pepper spray situated in your impulse-bought purse. He gently calls out “Miss”, confirming that he hopes to speak with you. 

At least he has the propriety to stop a few paces from where you sit, electing not to intrude on your personal space. This causes your shoulders to relax. In the few seconds you’ve been made aware of his existence, you recognize his appealing features. He has loose, dark hair, along with wide and seemingly unassuming eyes. His outfit of a dark gray turtleneck accompanied by a black jacket and pants somewhat strikes you as odd, considering spring is in full bloom. Two other details steal your attention away from this; those being the beige wrapping around his forehead and his spherical, turquoise-colored earrings. It’s like he was caught undecided between wanting and not wanting to attract attention. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he begins. You try not to think about how pleasant his voice sounds. “I’ve been trying to make sense of the directory, but I’ve never been the best with directions. Do you by any chance know how to get to the Starling House?” 

You nod. It’s a quaint, centuries-old mansion, maintained by the non-profit that oversees the flora here. Getting over the initial apprehension from his approach, you try verbalizing the most efficient path to get there. This proves more difficult than you expected since the arboretum is vast and has few waypoints that can be used for reference. Still, throughout your explanation whose unhelpfulness you grow painfully aware of, he patiently nods and makes no attempts to rush you through. 

This willingness to put up with your scattered description wins over your sympathy, pushing you past your sheepishness. 

“I guess I’m not good at giving directions. I could just show you the way, if you’d like.” 

“I’d hate to disturb your reading, but… if it isn’t a bother, I’d certainly appreciate it.” 

You’re already setting your bookmark into place. “It’s no bother. This is my second time reading it, anyway. So don’t worry. I’m not being left off on a cliffhanger or anything.” 

He smiles at that. When you’re preparing to stand, he extends his hand, a gesture that gives you a momentary pause. Well, you are wearing a dress. You suppose it’s the polite thing for him to do. You accept his unspoken offer and he hoists you up without the least bit of exertion on his part. His hand is warm and bigger than yours, slightly coarse too, surprisingly. His immaculate presentation gave you the impression of a trust fund kid or something in that vein. He’s tasteful in ensuring his touch doesn’t overstay its welcome. 

Your heart pounds in your chest. 

You catch a hint of his cologne. Sandalwood, amber, and leather blend together to form a delightfully woody fragrance. As amazing as he smells, you create a little distance, walking ahead motioning for him to follow. His longer legs have no trouble catching up, yet he never creeps too close. 

The short journey that you expect to only be accompanied by the sounds of cardinals chirping and house finches singing is interrupted by the man speaking up again. Oddly enough, you don’t mind. 

“Do you find your thoughts on Prince Myshkin’s initially endearing simple heartedness changed, knowing how the book ends?” 

You pause, taking a moment to realize he must be familiar with the work. This revelation fills you with a tentative giddiness. It isn’t often you have a chance to delve into your literary thoughts to a willing audience. There’s plenty more you could say on the subject, but you try to exercise restraint nonetheless. 

“I thought I might, but I found myself more critical of the other characters instead.” 

“Oh? And why is that?” 

He appears genuinely interested, otherwise, you would’ve kept it at that. 

“Ah, well, maybe it’s that they serve as proof that innocence is never meant to last. Or if it does, it’ll inevitably be punished. There are moments where I feel frustrated with the Prince’s naivety… but then I stop and wonder why it’s so bad to want to see the best in people. Does that speak to a flaw in his character, or to a flaw in the character of others? Maybe it’s both. I can’t help but feel the Prince’s case is more sympathetic.” 

His eyes never leave yours while you give your answer. Heat rises to your cheeks and you internally groan over the prospect of making a stranger listen to your ramblings. He was probably just looking to make casual conversation, not everyone wants an existential crisis on a Saturday afternoon. 

“You must be someone who wants to see the best in people as well,” he surmises. There’s no hint of mockery in his tone — he’s oddly sincere. He says it with a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. 

Before you can hazard a response, you come across a sign displaying information for an event at the Starling House. The building itself lies in waiting atop a hill less than a quarter of a mile ahead. He stops to read it, as do you, operating under the assumption he came here for the event. It seems that they’re displaying historic artifacts from around the area. You suppose this will be where you part ways. You’re about to wish him well when he sighs, the miffed noise stopping you. 

“I got the time wrong,” he frowns, staring at his wristwatch. 

The sign says the event begins at 6:00 p.m. and a quick tap of your phone reveals it’s 4:00. 

“If you’re looking for a way to burn time, there’s a nice garden behind the House that’s always open to the public,” you explain. This piques his curiosity. “If the sage is in bloom, you might get lucky and see some hummingbirds.” 

“That does sound lovely,” he says. Then, his lips quirk up, promising the start of a smile. “Would you care to join me, Miss…?” 

You give him your name and he nods, as if deciding it fits you. 

“[First]. I understand if my tour guide wants to get back to her reading, though.” 

Bashfulness creeps up your back and threatens to sink its fangs into your neck. Your heart’s rhythm takes an erratic cadence. He’s posing the proposition in such a lighthearted way, offering an easy out if you want to take it. You internally weigh your options on a scale that’s worn from overuse. He’s being friendly, you tell yourself. That’s all it is. 

“Well, I guess I’d be a shabby tour guide if I didn’t show you where the gardens are.” 

On the brief walk to the gardens, the man introduces himself as Chrollo. You both situate yourselves on the same stone bench. You sit on the right, he sits on the left. Once again, he leaves you plenty of space, never testing boundaries. The scent of nascent sage wafts in the air. While you scan your surroundings for hummingbirds, he tells you that his work often necessitates travel, hence his unfamiliarity with the area. 

“Does it ever get lonely?” You ask, not thinking much of it. He gives you a look you can’t quite place, so you elaborate. “Traveling all the time, I mean.” 

He tilts his head, more inquisitive than offended. “What makes you think it’d be lonely?” 

“I just think I’d get homesick after a while, always being in an unfamiliar place. I’d miss my family and friends.” 

When he continues staring at you in silence with those unreadable eyes, you swear you want to slam your head repeatedly against a wall. Not everyone has a good relationship with their family or people to call their friends. The weight of your potential insensitivity comes crashing down on you like a tsunami. 

You move your hands around wildly, rushing to correct your discourtesy. “Uh, I mean, that isn’t to say you need those things!” 

“You don’t think I have any friends?” 

Your face must be radiating more heat than a furnace. Still, the embarrassment doesn’t reach a point where you’re unable to notice his omission of the word family. “I didn’t—” 

Contrary to the reaction you were expecting, Chrollo laughs. Not a little chuckle, but a genuine laugh, hearty in a way that stands in stark contrast to his otherwise reserved demeanor. The smile it imprints on his face somehow feels different than what he’s displayed before. Those were always so well timed, lasting as long as necessary and never a second more. It hits you then just how handsome this man is. Alabaster skin, soft and glossy hair, lips as rosy as the blush on his cheeks from his outburst of laughter. 

It doesn’t last long, he’s quick to school himself. The speed he does so is almost unnatural. “I apologize, I’m only teasing. You’re very expressive, [First].” 

You let out something between a huff and a sigh. “God, I felt so awful…” 

“I can tell,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender when you send him a non-threatening glare. “To answer your question… I’ve never thought about it much. I suppose it is lonely at times.” 

This revelation pours a bucket of ice-cold water over the embers of your indignation. Your face softens and a stinging pain shoots throughout your body. You can’t bring yourself to remain miffed when you’re the one who dredged this topic up. People use humor as a means to cope, that may be what Chrollo does. 

“Enough about me, though. I’m far more interested in you.” 

You shift in your seat. Did it always feel so warm out? 

“Here, let me guess. You’re certainly a student. Hm… of the humanities, perhaps?” 

“You got the student part right,” you agree. “I’m majoring in criminal psychology.”

There’s something like a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh? Is that so? You want to catch criminals, then?” 

“Er… not exactly. It’s more that I want to help them.”

He blinks. “Help them?”

“Not, like, as an accomplice,” you earnestly reassure, to which he smiles, “How do I explain it… take the city around us, right? It’s considered one of the most dangerous in the United States of Saherta.” 

As if on cue, a cacophony of police sirens begins blaring in the distance. 

“In the 80s and 90s, there was a surge of incarceration, yet crime as a whole set higher records each year. The policy at the time was ‘build more prisons, give longer sentences’. Obviously, that didn’t work out very well for anyone… except for private prisons maybe… that’s a whole different beast. Anyway, you reap what you sow. Crime rate is going down, but communities were gutted by these policies. There’s still a lot of work to be done. I want to understand ‘deviant’ behavior so I can see what safety nets would benefit them the most.” 

Chrollo is such an excellent listener that unlike before, you no longer feel the pressure to remain succinct and have little qualms completely delving into your passion. His body language suggests total engagement. 

“Ah, so you view crime as a result of societal shortcomings.” 

“It’s more nuanced than that,” you shake your head. “Hell, even when there were only four people on earth according to the Bible, Cain went ahead and committed murder anyway. That’s like… killing 25% of the population… how messed up. Wait. If there were only four people on earth, who did Cain go on to marry? How does that work…? Asexual reproduction…?” 

“The Quran says Cain and Abel both had twin sisters,” Chrollo offers. 

“Alright, that makes more sense than asexual reproduction. Okay! Enough about theology! Back to crime. There’s no totally eradicating it, but there is circumventing it. That’s what I want to help do.” 

You’ve been so preoccupied with verbalizing your thoughts, you failed to notice he’s scooted slightly closer to you. There’s enough room for decorum yet you can’t help feeling slightly flustered. Why this cute guy is still hanging around despite the fact you casually mentioned asexual reproduction not once, but twice, is a phenomenon that transcends human reason. 

This is so going to be one of those interactions that haunts you periodically at three in the morning for the rest of your life. 

“It’s a noble pursuit,” Chrollo comments. Then, he places a hand to his chin. “Forgive me if this comes off as pessimistic, but… what if you put in all that work, only for nothing significant to change?” 

You shrug. “I’ve considered that plenty, trust me. It’s fine if I don’t kickstart a utopia. So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.” 

“One person, huh?” 

It seems more like a rhetorical musing on his part, so you allow yourself to be momentarily distracted. In your peripherals, there’s a flash of colors, shades of green and red bleeding together. A low buzz accompanies the sporadic sight. The blur moves erratically, high to low, then low to high. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a gasp, then whisper to your companion, “Chrollo! Look! A hummingbird!” 

The thrum of nature is a wonder you’ll never tire of. It inspires awe that reflects in your eyes like a mirror, enchants without needing to cast a spell. You wrongly assume that Chrollo must be partaking in the same miracle that has stolen your attention. He’s fixated, yes, but not on the right subject matter. He’s still staring at you. This disruption of your expectations can only be explained away by the possibility he hasn’t spotted the creature yet. To remedy this, you slowly point in the hummingbird’s direction. Finally, he breaks his gaze from your form, acknowledging what it is you find so fascinating. 

By then, it’s too late. Your newly made acquaintance departs as swiftly as it arrived. 

“Aw, that’s a shame,” you lament. The disappointment you’d feel if you were in his shoes would be immeasurable. “You didn’t get to see it for very long.” 

You have no concrete proof, but you swear every smile he wears is different than the one before it. 

“It’s alright. I saw something far better.” 

Curious, you glance to your right, searching for whatever it is. You must’ve misinterpreted whatever he was looking at before. “Something better than a hummingbird?” 

“You could say that.” 

The remainder of the time you spend together is relatively uneventful. Chrollo asks you a great deal about yourself, ranging from your hobbies to book recommendations. You try to return the favor — as is only polite, in your opinion — yet the conversation never lingers on him long before circling back to you. It isn’t until you say you feel vain talking about yourself so much that he offers some morsels of knowledge. Aside from traveling for his occupation, he’s something of an antiquarian, hence his interest in the Starling House’s event. He also reveals he has colleagues coming into town soon, the aforementioned ‘friends’ you questioned the existence of. The way he teases is so devoid of malice, you can’t bring yourself to be upset. 

The hour flies by. Good looks aside, he’s a remarkable conversationalist. There’s never an awkward silence or social misstep. One could even call him perfection incarnate. His steady cadence, command of language, meticulously formed ideas… they’re reminiscent of cogs in an automaton turning together in complete harmony. Paradoxically, this immaculate image speaks to some underlying defect in his character he mustn’t want anyone to see. There is such a thing as being too perfect. 

For whatever reason, this draws you in closer rather than repelling you. 

Chrollo’s disappointment is palpable when he glances at his watch. It’s then you’re reminded that all good things must come to an end. 

“I—” 

“It—” 

You both start and stop talking at the same time. When it’s made obvious you intend to stay silent until he speaks his piece, he motions to you with his hands, insisting you go first. 

“It was very nice meeting you, Chrollo,” you say, your voice softening. It’s amazing how you can feel your previously discarded sheepishness returning in real-time. Amazing and annoying. “I, uh, hope you enjoy the event.” 

“Please, I should be the one thanking you,” he insists. Then, for such a well-spoken man, he goes uncharacteristically quiet. Deliberating on some issue you’ll never be privy to. “You’ve already helped me a lot, but could I possibly ask for one more thing?” 

You give a nod.

“May I have your phone number?” 

You stare at him.

He stares at you. 

You continue staring at him.

He continues staring at you. 

His request echoes through your head like it was spoken in a vast cavern. Phone number… phone number... you have one of those. He is asking for it. He wants to remain in touch. Indeed, that is what the statement normally means. Ah, it must be in a platonic sense! It’s nice to have someone to talk to, especially since you both share many interests. Not many of your friends are chomping at the bit to discuss if obtaining the philosopher’s stone was a literal practice or meant to be interpreted metaphorically. 

Whoops, you left the poor guy waiting for a response. 

“S-Sure!” 

He hands you his phone without delay. You put in your contact info, then hold it up for him to take. His fingers brush over yours when he picks it back up and you shiver. 

Well, that was certainly nice. You’re forming a blossoming friendship. You love making new friends. The word repeats in your head as if it were a broken record. Friends, friends, friends. Don’t look too into this. Put your magnifying glass down, brain. The stupid three pounds of gray matter delight in tormenting you with outrageous ideas and conclusions. There’s nothing flirtatious happening here. 

“Also, I hope you don’t mind my saying so…” he trails off, weaving a web you willingly allow yourself to get trapped in, “But you are very beautiful, [First].” 

… 

Ohhhh, he’s been flirting with you this entire time, hasn’t he? 

-

Going on a date is a harrowing experience. 

For some unknown reason, your traitorous amygdala regards going to a café at noon with the same severity it would if a lion were actively chasing you down. Your flight or fight response raises the banners of war. The army it amasses digs its trenches, readies the cannons, its matches lit to fire off the artillery on standby. Who is the dreaded opponent, one may ask? No one. Absolutely no one. Incredibly enough, you can actively recognize this fact, and still, your physiological response claims it knows better. 

Social anxiety is so stupid. You thought you and your body were supposed to be on the same team. Whatever inspired this mutiny, whether it be serotonin deficiency or some other science-y term you can’t pronounce, you most certainly don’t appreciate it. 

To be fair, your parent’s reaction didn’t inspire much confidence. Your dad was asking for information on Chrollo you’re 90% sure could be used to conduct a background check, whereas your mom posited the idea he’s a human trafficker. You felt like a lawyer trying to plead your case for why it’s okay that an adult such as yourself may go on a date (sacrilegious, you know, premeditated murder would be more excusable). With some solid arguments and a few instances of stretching the truth (this sounds far nicer than the word lying), the tempest was dissipated. If Chrollo ever were to meet your parents, you’ll have to tell him he’s actually a sensitive, poetic soul that donates to orphanages and saves kittens from burning down buildings. He’s also celibate. More important than any of those things, though, he’s a political centrist. 

Suddenly everything in your closet either felt prudish enough to befit a woman entering the convent, or raunchy enough you’d need to wear a trench coat to leave the house unobstructed. In the end, you find a skirt that’d pass your middle school fingertip test and a cute blouse that shouldn’t land you in purgatory. 

Your hands are shaking when you go to do the winged eyeliner on your left eye. Then you sneeze while applying mascara, granting a raccoon appearance you could’ve done without. You feel wound up so tight there a mere poke could shatter you into millions of pieces. This is great. Millions of years of evolution led up to this. That selfish, inconsiderate fish should’ve never grown legs and stepped on land. Everything’s gone wrong since then. Fuck that fish. 

Ultimately, you succumb and take one of your ‘stage fright’ medications. If it’s doing anything to help, you can’t tell yet. 

You have to beg your dad to stop staring out the window with a pair of binoculars. 

Eventually, a sleek black car pulls in front of your house. 

Following the theme of the day, you almost trip over yourself walking out the front door. Your phone buzzes — no doubt it’s Chrollo telling you he’s here — but you decide to just go to the car rather than text him back. He must’ve spotted you, for he exits and gives you a wave. You’re grateful he did that while a considerable distance away. There was a time a guy waved at you and you thought he wanted a high five. Needless to say, that was a traumatic incident no amount of therapy could help alleviate. 

“You look absolutely lovely,” he compliments. Your Broca’s area temporarily malfunctions at this bold declaration. Fortunately, you gather yourself fast enough to stop yourself from saying “you too”. 

“Thank you,” the phrase comes out as smooth as butter. You silently congratulate yourself for your immaculate delivery of two words. “Wow… you have such a nice car. And here I thought you were a fellow member of the middle class. Am I allowed to touch this?” 

Chrollo chuckles, having gotten used to the peculiar way you word things after all your electronic communication. No matter how you expressed yourself, he still texted you back, so you figured he must be okay with whatever it is you’re doing. He would’ve blocked you by now otherwise. 

His reply comes as he holds the passenger side door open. “Ah, don’t worry. There was a bit of a mixup at the car rental place. I wasn’t expecting something of this quality either.” 

You tuck this piece of knowledge away for later, should any sugar daddy-esque allegations be thrown your way. One can never be too prepared. 

Sinking into the leather seat is a luxurious experience, although it's cold against the exposed area of your thighs. Chrollo slides into the driver’s seat not long after and sets the car into drive. You silently wonder if your neighbors think you’ve gotten into an Uber. 

The short trip to the café soothes your electrically fried nerves. You’re once again reminded of how good he is at making you forget your anxiety, he could put SSRIs out of business. Or maybe the propranolol is finally working. Whichever it may be, by the time you both order your drinks, you feel more giddy than nervous. Is it a good idea to drink a caffeinated beverage when anxiety threatens to drag you into limbo at any second? Probably not. Does that mean you’re going to wisely choose a different beverage? Nope. 

The sunlight is harsher in the afternoon, but you find this is offset by an occasional breeze. No one else is present in the outdoor dining area except for you and Chrollo. You choose the seat facing a row of bushes so you can observe the house finches and house sparrows fluttering about. One little fella is helping itself to a dirt bath in the freshly spread-out mulch. You coo at the adorable display, pointing it out to Chrollo who admits it is a precious sight. You’ve made it your raison d'être to convince him that every bird is equally fascinating, whether it be a rainbow lorikeet or a common pigeon. 

He takes the first sip of the drink you recommended. 

“Well? What do you think?” 

“It’s good,” he decides with a smile. “I can see why you get it so often.” 

“Right? I’ve thought about conducting an Ocean’s Eleven type heist to get the ingredients they use to make it.” 

“Oh? Do you grant a moral exception to thievery?” 

Despite how lightheartedly he phrases this, his eyes have a certain intensity to them. You mull over the question for this reason. 

“Hm… it depends, I guess? Some people need to steal to survive. I probably wouldn’t care if a rich person or mega-corporation got stolen from either,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow at your last statement and you hastily add, “A-As long as no one gets hurt, of course.” 

He doesn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “Your reasoning is very cute.” 

You groan and shrink back into the garden chair. “I know, I know, that probably came off as terribly naive and self-contradictory… the issue is complex. Giving a one-size-fits-all type of consensus feels impossible. How about you? What do you think?” 

“Coveting is mankind’s original sin,” Chrollo begins. He’s using a tone that tells you to prepare for an in-depth explanation. “It’s a theme that’s recurrent throughout history. David and Bathsheba, Hades and Persephone, Heathcliff and Catherine… we always want what we cannot have. This dilemma never leaves us entirely. We either ignore it, despair in it, or succumb to it. The desire to steal is as involuntary as the diaphragm contracting for us to breathe or the electric signals that cause our heart to beat.” 

A house finch begins its soulful serenade in the background. 

“Wouldn’t you say that calling it involuntary implies we can’t control it, though?” You query. 

“The only way to exercise total control over it is to kill it.” 

“Some parts of us are better off dead,” you decide. “Getting what you want doesn’t guarantee satisfaction. The examples you listed… maybe they were happy for a time, but ultimately, their transgressions caught up to them.” 

“Is a moment of bliss not worth a lifetime of anguish?” 

“Maybe, if I was a sensualist.” 

He rests his chin on his fist, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Is that what you’re saying I am, darling?” 

Your eyes widen and you almost choke on your drink at the unexpected pet name. Warmth floods your cheeks and you take a long second to recompose yourself. Your blatant display of embarrassment further fuels his amusement, he actually chuckles. You consider kicking him under the table, but decide that isn’t very ladylike. Then you remember it's the twenty-first century, and to honor your feminist ancestors, you scrunch up a napkin into a ball and fling it at him. Although the aerodynamics of your makeshift projectile are questionable, it almost hits him. Until he catches it with admittedly impressive reflexes. 

“You have a good throwing arm.” 

“And you should consider retiring from your white-collar job to join a baseball team,” you take a sip of your delicious drink. This is definitely the most memorable date you’ve been on. “But no, I don’t think you’re a sensualist. I honestly don’t know how I’d classify you. You’re jaded… almost misanthropic. You acknowledge the world for what it is, but it’s like you once thought it could be better. You don’t care to be proven right or wrong about it anymore, you want something else.” 

“Ah… when put that way, I must seem pathetic,” he muses, his casual air hardly matching the severity of the words spoken. 

“Not at all!” Your passionate outcry appears to momentarily take him aback. “If you’re still looking for something, that means deep down, you have hope you might eventually find it. To me, that’s admirable.” 

He regards you for a few moments, before closing his eyes, his countenance strangely content. “You’re a very interesting woman, [First].” 

“Pfft, not really.” 

“I’m afraid this a point I’ll have to insist on,” or so he says, but you both know he secretly relishes his contrarian ways. “I have to wonder, though. How is it you came to gather any of this about me?” 

“Your opinion on books.” 

He blinks. “Pardon?” 

“We interpret media through a lens that’s formed by our experiences, so… I dunno. You can just infer a lot from what a person gets caught up with in a story.” 

In Chrollo’s case, what he doesn’t pay attention to is equally telling, although it took you a while to notice his unique display of apathy. He’d brush on certain themes while giving a rather surface-level commentary. Playing it safe, almost. He still had such an excellent way of weaving his words, that telling it came from another person's loom was difficult. It wasn’t until you hit on a subject he truly cared for that you could tell the difference. He’d give insights so particular to him that they must contain the true essence of his character. 

Even if it is a mere glimmer. 

He speaks your name.

“Hm?” 

“About what I’m searching for…” he unwraps the napkin you unceremoniously threw his way earlier, smooths out the wrinkles, then returns it. “I think I may have found it.” 

-

Everything has a way of escalating faster than you anticipated. 

You’re about thirty minutes into the movie Perfect Blue. For some time now, you’ve been praising its merits to Chrollo, who recently said you should watch it together. This begged the question of where. In the months since you’ve begun dating, while your parents have taken a liking to him, you didn’t think the subject matter of the movie should be proudly displayed in your living room. 

To remedy this, Chrollo suggested watching it in his hotel room. 

You couldn’t fully explain your initial apprehension if you tried. You felt comfortable around him and have been alone together plenty. Yet for some reason, being alone with a man in a hotel room produced this mental image you weren’t sure you were ready for. He never pushed you or asked why you seemed hesitant to take things further than kissing and some light petting. His lack of questioning had the unintended side effect of birthing different doubts. 

Does he not want anything else? Is he only acting like it doesn’t bother him? Will a day come when he tires of your squeamishness and simply moves on? 

It’s this taunting mantra that haunted you in the lobby, the elevator, then the long, impersonal hallway to his room. 

Your chest feels heavy enough that you wonder if lead has filled your lungs. 

When he sat next to you on the couch, you barely registered his presence, much less his question if the temperature in the room felt agreeable. At some point, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Then his hand began to meander, although his attention never left the screen. He played with your hair. Gently stroked your forearm. His hand wandered down, down, down, to the hem of your skirt. He straightens the lightly bunched fabric out. Your heart pounds. 

Chrollo’s fingers stay there, seemingly placated. 

During the scene where Mima sees her reflection as her idol persona, his hand creeps onto the exposed skin of your thighs. He gives it a gentle, tentative squeeze. A soft gasp leaves you and your attention turns to him. Immediately, your eyes meet his in the dark. The side of his face is lightly illuminated by an array of cool tones. He uses his free hand to cup your chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing your lower lip. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He speaks the question with such rapture, low and quiet. 

Your heart violently hits your ribcage like it’s trying to burst free. 

Silently, you nod. He tilts his head to the side and slots his lips against yours. There’s a pleasant buzz that tries so hard to overpower the frantic adrenaline pumping through your veins. Your body is at war with itself; indulgence or indignance. It’s a conflict that’ll never have a winner. You want to enjoy it — and you are, you think — so why does your biological makeup hold you as a prisoner without ransom? He tastes nice, feels nice. He did everything right. You don’t want to tremble at what’s a normal aspect of a relationship as if it were death itself hanging over your head. 

It’s this mounting frustration at your condition that spurs you into action. 

While maintaining the languid kiss, you situate yourself on his lap, a gesture that causes him to inhale sharply. He may be as surprised at your boldness as you are. You snake your arms around his neck and intensify the kiss. Humming, he reciprocates your ardor. His tongue runs along the seam of your lips and you grant him entry. He tastes of dark chocolate and mint, a combination you wish you could get drunk on, if only to put your tense body at ease. 

One hand squeezes and massages your thigh, the other cups your feverish face. In this position, you’re afforded no modesty. You can feel your skirt hiking up, exposing more of you. His fingers explore the new territory. They venture dangerously close to your panties, though he doesn’t go beyond there, as if respecting an invisible barrier. The cocktail of emotions this invokes is impossible to properly sort through. 

Can he feel the heat emanating from your body? Your pulse which finds new highs every minute? You want to lose yourself, but you can’t, your anxiety always drags you back kicking and screaming. It is an unforgiving warden that thinks you’d be better off in a cell. 

Chrollo admires you when you pull back, in desperate need of air. You’re starting to feel dizzy and you don’t know if it’s the right kind. There’s something hard forming beneath where you sit. His lust for you is apparent, and you want to please, want to be normal. It should be fun. Your friends regale you with stories of taking strangers home and never feeling more than butterflies in their stomach. That’s what you want. Not this contortion of the aforementioned organ that makes you think your insides are slowly liquifying. 

You still haven’t fully caught your breath, each one growing more shallow, more panicked. He finds other ways to entertain himself, namely, by lavishing your clammy skin with kisses. Your jawline, neck, then collarbone. He’s so calm you think you might be envious. Finally, he works his way back up, teasing your earlobe with his teeth, his breath warm as it fans against you. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

“[First],” his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Garbled, distant. “Should we take this to the bedroom?” 

You break into too many shards to fix. 

You get up. Straighten your skirt. You think you mutter something about needing a moment. Your legs don’t feel right. They move anyway. The bathroom’s door knob is like ice. You grab a hand towel. Turn on the faucet. Soak the towel until it drips water down the sink basin. Sit on the floor. The tiles are almost as cold enough to help. You place the towel around your neck. Your ears are ringing and you wish they’d stop. You hug your legs to your chest. What is it you’re supposed to do? Breathe? 

It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass. 

It always does. 

Just hold on a bit longer. 

Feeling comes back in your hands first. It spreads throughout your body, though the antidote is far too late. Exhaustion is the next thing you register. The kind that seeps into your cells, makes your limbs feel like dead weight. Cognition returns as well. You remember where you are, who you’re with, what you’ve done. 

It’s been a while since you’ve experienced one of these. Somehow, it’s worse than you remember. Infinitely worse. 

A shiver runs down your spine. Has it always been so cold? You wonder what temperature your body was running at for you not to have noticed sooner. 

How nice it is that your homeostasis decided to return. Is your sympathetic nervous system giving itself a pat on the back? Celebrating and popping champagne bottles at yet another job well done? We’ve done it successfully again, folks, you imagine it cheering. We’ve stopped her from doing something completely normal and harmless! 

You’d laugh, but this time, you can’t bring yourself to. 

As tempting as it is to stay here and pray for the tile floor to swallow you whole, you sincerely doubt that’ll happen, so you’re left with the far less appealing option of being an adult and facing the predicament you’re in. Getting back up, you’re treated to a glimpse of your reflection. 

The change in your complexion would make any onlooker think you’ve seen a ghost. 

Abruptly, you’re fourteen again, trying to get your mom’s attention so you can beg her to take you home because the social gathering of ten or so people is just too much. Next, you’re fifteen, talked into some weekend youth getaway because saying ‘no’ makes you feel guilty and the car ride has another two hours remaining. You feel sick, terribly sick, but you don’t want to get sick, because then your peers would think you’re strange, so you sit there and endure. Then you’re sixteen, locked in the stall of your high school bathroom, trying not to pass out because you think it’d be an inconvenience to anyone that happened upon you. 

You thought you were over this. You’ve done the therapy, read the self-help books, and taken your medication every day like clockwork. 

What’s left for you to do? 

Why does it always come back? 

Chrollo asks if everything’s alright when you walk back over to the couch. You say yes. He then asks if he can get you anything. A glass of water, please, is your reply.

You can tell he’s examining you when he hands the glass over. Your face warms — not in a fun way. The television screen is dark and yet you’re fixated on it like it’s the most intriguing thing in the world. Going from feeling as if you’re a stranger in your own body to being hyper-aware of everything never fails to give you whiplash. You can hear the low thrum of the air conditioning, footsteps coming from the hallway, the steady drip of the sink he filled your glass from. You think to rub your eyes then stop yourself; that’d smudge your mascara. It’d be nice if he could at least think you’re pretty as you struggle to hold yourself together. 

“Was it something I did?” Chrollo questions. He almost sounds… curious, a concept you furiously scrub from your head. You’re exhausted and your brain is waving the white flag. Attributing false interpretations to his words is not going to help. 

“N-No, not at all, I, um,” you have the words, you just don’t want to say them, so you opt for taking another drink instead. The glass runs out of water, your safe haven disappearing with it. “Just… a panic attack. It happens… sometimes.” 

“Entirely unprompted?” 

You gnaw on your lower lip. “Kind of…? It— nothing about it is exactly logical. I can know I’m fine, believe it too, and still, that doesn’t matter. It’ll happen anyway. I guess I have some reservations about that level of physical intimacy, but what my body decides to do is completely overkill.” 

“You always minimize the role your anxiety plays in your life,” Chrollo points out. You’re grasping the glass tight enough that your knuckles hurt. “You can’t mention it to me without making light of it in some way. Is there a reason for that?” 

Well, he’s got you there. 

You’re about to joke and ask if he’s the one studying the behavioral sciences, when you realize that’d just be proving his point. 

So uncharacteristic acrimony bubbles to the surface instead.

“A reason? I can give you more than one. It’s stupid, it’s annoying. The most simple things become like a fucking life or death experience for me and I can’t stand it,” you feel tears gather at your lower lashline but you’re too far gone to care. It’s a good thing your mascara is waterproof. “And then I… I think sex sounds nice, but when it actually gets to the moment, I feel so guilty and anxious and wrong that I leave my partner frustrated or thinking they’re some sort of monster.” 

Usually, Chrollo's countenance is difficult to read, but there’s this raw emotion that makes itself known. Understanding? Relief? You don’t know for certain. It disappears without a trace, leaving you no way to confirm or deny your intuition. It’s probably too fried to be reliable, anyway. 

“Hm… you must think all this would put me off, then. Make me want to move on to someone else.” 

A knife stabbing you in the gut and twisting its blade until your viscera turned to mush would hurt less. 

“Sweetheart, I was already aware that it was worse than what you let on,” his voice sounds so kind and near, you marvel at it, the gravitational pull drawing you in. You barely realize he’s brought you into an embrace. Your cheek is against his chest, right above his heart. His has a calm, steady rhythm, whereas yours is picking back up once more. “Your avoidance of talking on the phone, how soft your voice gets when interacting with strangers, the way you act like you’re an inconvenience by asking for the slightest assistance.” 

The tears you tried holding in break free, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. 

“I find these qualities of yours very endearing. You can go from passionately speaking about your interests over dinner to going shy the second the waiter walks over. You care so much, feel so much… it’s a wonder to me. You experience this life in the exact opposite manner I do.”

With the hand he isn’t using to keep you secure against him, he rubs your back up and down. 

“Ah, my poor, sweet girl. What a tender heart you have,” he whispers. His grip on you tightens. That’s when you hear it — the undeniable sound of his heart beating a bit faster than it did before. “I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Not after all the effort I put into stealing it for myself. No, I’m almost hurt you entertained the thought. Have I ever treated you with anything less than the utmost care? Hm?” 

Chrollo starts to pull you away from him, yet you refuse, clinging adamantly to his torso in an attempt to hide your face. He ignores the way you shake your head and by exerting the slightest force, achieves his original goal. His fingers find purchase on your chin, which he tilts upward, allowing himself an unobscured view of your puffy eyes and runny makeup. He smiles, wiping away your tears with such gentleness, he must think you’re made of porcelain. 

Sniffling, you remember he asked you a question, and attempt cobbling together a coherent response. Such is the polite thing to do. “I guess not.” 

“And why do you think that is?” 

“... The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to conduct an in-depth case study for your future dissertation on GAD and SAD?” 

His visage lands somewhere between mild bemusement and exacerbation. “I know you’re smarter than that. Try again.” 

“My winning personality, once you wade through all the mental illness?” 

“That certainly plays a role.” 

“I know I’m cute, too. I suppose that helps. Otherwise, I’d be completely and utterly fucked.” 

“Yes, yes — you are terribly cute.” 

Sensing your hesitancy to land on a definitive answer, he decides to spell it out himself. “I’m fond of you, to a degree I previously thought myself incapable of. I have a… callous disposition, for lack of a better word. Yet for whatever reason, this doesn’t seem to bother you. I’ve never cared for subjective terms like ‘good’ or ‘evil’, but… if there is goodness in this world, it’d be found in you.” 

Chrollo’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone as he speaks, seemingly bewitched by the glittering stream your tears left behind. Tangible proof of your emotions that tumult like a tempest, whereas his often remains an unmoving body of water. 

You take his cheeks in your hands and glare at him. This time, when your lower lip trembles, it’s with righteous anger, not sorrow. “Why do you always talk about yourself like you’re the world’s biggest villain?” 

His eyes slightly widen — you’ve never used a tone like this with him before, or anyone else, for that matter  — though his composure doesn’t wane for long. 

“So what if you don’t think everything is sunshine and rainbows? You aren’t heartless; you just know the dangers of putting your heart on display for everyone else to see. I can’t blame you for that, from what you’ve told me.”

He’s never been particularly forthcoming about sharing details from his past. What you do know is that he grew up in extreme poverty, without parents or a guardian, scraping by with some other children in a similar situation. You never pushed to learn more. There was this quiet melancholy that possessed him in the rare moments he shared glimpses of his childhood. The specters that haunted him could almost be felt lingering in the atmosphere, turning the air heavy and thick. 

“You lost a precious friend in such a cruel way. That loss of innocence, it’s unforgivable, it’s completely unfair…!”

This time, your tears aren’t for you, they’re for a little boy you’ll never know and a girl that you couldn’t if you tried. “I don’t get why you’re so harsh on yourself. You act like you’ve done something unforgivable.” 

He parts and closes his lips. Whatever he intended to say, he must’ve decided against it. Instead, he pulls you back against him, almost greedily. He presses kisses atop your head then murmurs a few words you can’t quite catch. Your body is deprived of energy, having flickered through almost every major emotion a human being can experience. If your parents wouldn’t have fussed over the act, you could’ve fallen asleep on him for the night. 

The person who inadvertently caused your blistering anxiety is also the best balm for it. 

It’s unexplainable, teetering on the edge of delusion, this sentiment that he could shield you from all harm. He’s always so sure of himself when you remain plagued by indecisiveness. He can talk you out of any irrational thought, anchor you when a stressful situation is beginning to be too much, and understand you almost eerily well. He’s able to piece together your chaotic thought processes with next to no context. He listens to you, remembers everything you say (and you mean everything), and genuinely values your input, even if he disagrees with your opinions. 

This level of an intimate connection is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. 

“No one’s ever cried for my sake before,” he thinks aloud. He’s stroking your back again, almost mindlessly. You swear there’s something magical about his touch. 

“Do you think I’m weird?” 

“There are a lot of words I’d use to describe you,” he decides. As always, he’s clever at avoiding questions he doesn’t wish to answer. “Currently, the one that stands out to me the most would be…” 

You feel his lips curl into a smile against you. 

“Warm.” 

-

The arboretum is far different in autumn. Green leaves have transitioned into rich auburn and golden shades, hesitant buds nowhere to be seen. The grass beneath your feet is crunchier, the foliage dry and scattered, almost as if it were trying to form a protective sheath for the earth. No longer can you hear the melody of grasshoppers and buzzing from busy bees. The wind whistles when it blows, the underlying frostiness biting at your cheeks and ears. 

“Ah, would you look at that, it’s a junco,” Chrollo points out. You cover your mouth to muffle a gasp. Thanks in part to your guidance, he’s gotten better at identifying different types of birds. While you’d like to think it’s because he appreciates them too, you’re convinced he finds your excited reaction far more interesting. 

The little blob of black and white hops to and fro, using its feet to rummage for anything edible. You silently lament your lack of birdseed. You’ll have to settle for cheering the tiny friend on from afar. 

Hand in hand, you both traverse the area of your original meeting. Sweet nostalgia swirls in your chest. You’ve always found it befuddling how a single chance encounter can permanently change the trajectory of your life. In the moment, you have no idea how your actions will go on to form ripples that influence the future. Whether this is chaos theory or some other fancy metaphysical-sounding concept, you haven’t the slightest clue. 

What you do know is that meeting Chrollo was a catalyst for something greater. 

A wave of chills cascades over you.

“Are you cold?” He inquires, his tone having this ‘I told you so’ quality to it that you don’t appreciate. You’re wearing a light beige, plaid fitted blazer, that while chic, doesn’t have much insulation. You waved off his initial concern by saying you’ll warm up once you both get to walking around. So much for that. 

“Cold is a mindset,” the chattering of your teeth doesn’t do much to help your cause. He raises an eyebrow. “Mind over matter… mind over matter…” 

Chrollo shrugs his coat off and drapes it over you. “I wouldn’t want you to get sick, dear.” 

“You sound like my grandma.” 

“The one who tried taking my head wrappings off, or the one who kicked me?” 

“A combination of the two that coalesces their tendency to fuss over me.” 

“You’re very easy to fuss over,” Chrollo chuckles at the face you make at him. “You’re absolutely precious. It’s a mystery to me how you make the smallest acts endearing.” 

At this, you strike a dumb pose, winking at him all the while. “Aha, it’s no mystery. You have my irresistible charm to thank for that.” 

He sighs wistfully. “Indeed I do.” 

Although the sage gardens behind the Starling House are no longer in bloom, you decide to swing by anyway. The plans for the remainder of your day follow a similarly simple yet pleasant precedent. You’re going to go window shopping in a quaint commercial district, grab something to eat at a pub, then end the night off with a movie. Chrollo’s trying to convince you to watch some indie flick that’s in black and white and uses a 1.19:1 ratio. You want to watch Alien, a classic he’s never seen like the weirdo he is. 

The walk isn’t long or monotonous. It’s so idyllic that you could believe you’re the only two people in the world. 

However, that isn’t the case. Upon entering the garden, you’re quick to note the presence of another.  

A young woman is kneeling down, murmuring under her breath. She’s acting as if she’s lost something and can’t find it. Frowning, you detach yourself from Chrollo, approaching her with the intent to offer your assistance. She doesn’t lift her head upon hearing the obvious sounds of your footfall. She just continues blindly grasping at the ground. 

“Miss?” You ask, to which her entire body freezes. “Did you drop something? I could help you look for it.” 

She mutters another incomprehensible jumble of words. 

“Hm? What was that?” 

You lean over in an attempt to hear her better. 

Then, much to your confusion, she enunciates your full-given name. Even while doing this, she doesn’t spare you a single glance. 

“Have to… have to…” she’s back to being difficult to make sense of, “I have to…”

 A strange sensation possesses you.

Have you met this woman somewhere before? You do a quick mental scan of her disheveled appearance and come up with nothing definitive. Her hair is matted, her complexion sallow and her cheeks sunken in. Her disoriented state stirs concern within you. It’s a good sign that she’s still conscious and exhibiting motor functions, but the longer you examine her, the more you can tell she isn’t in a proper state of mind. You don’t want to leave her out here alone in such a vulnerable state. You try to push aside the uncanny feeling that came from her apparently recognizing you when you’re certain you’ve never met. 

Chrollo speaks your name. Turning around, you face him just in time to catch a surreal expression forming on his countenance. His eyes widen slightly, his lips part, then he’s reaching out for you. 

The passage of time grinds temporarily to a halt. 

And then there is a visceral burst of energy. 

It’s as if a blizzard manifests from the direction the woman is hunched over in. There’s this thick, harrowing tension that causes your legs to buckle at the knees. Swirls of negative emotions wrap around you in shadowy tendrils. Grief. Hysteria. Rage. Bitterness. Most notable, however, is the sickening yearning to inflict harm. How can a human being produce and project such raw feelings? It’s like hatred itself has been given a palpable form, submerging you in a swamp of mire. 

You don’t understand what’s happening to you, but you do have this primal foreboding that the longer you’re exposed to it, the more endangered you’ll be. 

In the millisecond it takes for you to blink, Chrollo is no longer in your line of sight. 

It’s strange, you think. There are no knives, guns, explosives; or anything that could hurt you in the traditional sense. In a way you could understand and reliably assess the threat level of. 

And still, despite this uncertainty, you have this unshakable premonition that death isn’t far away. 

-

You wake up in a bed that is not your own. 

Your body is drenched in sweat, your muscles sore, and your head feels as if it’s being clamped in a vice-like grip. Trying to get up proves to be a poor decision. Nausea and dizziness force you to lie back down. You take shallow, frantic breaths, wincing at yet another wave of throbbing coming from your temples. Your senses aren’t reliable either. The first few times you open your eyes, dark spots dot your vision. Then there’s your hearing, or lack of. There’s this distant ringing that while slowly fading, isn’t replaced by anything better. Your hearing grows so muffled you almost think earplugs have been jammed in your ear canal. 

Groaning, you manage to lift yourself off the mattress with trembling arms. The dark spots fade away enough for you to make out your surroundings. 

You’re in Chrollo’s hotel room, lying on his bed. 

It’s nighttime. The digital clock sitting on the bedside table reads 3:40 a.m.  

The next thing you do is feel around for your phone. It should be in the back pocket of your jeans, but it isn’t there. 

The brisk air takes your breath away when you tug the comforter off. Your body groans with protest at all the movement, yet you ignore its request to lay back down, the situation at hand far too perplexing. Your outfit is the same as the one you put on this morning, aside from your boots, which sit together near the wall. You then assess your body for any physical injuries, finding nothing visible to explain your current malaise. Are you hungover? Frowning, you dismiss the idea. You know your tolerance well and never try pushing it. 

Taking small steps and using the wall as leverage, you make your way over to the adjoined bathroom. You fill a dental cup with water and down it instantly. After satiating your thirst, you call out for Chrollo, your voice gravelly with sleep. 

No response. 

Sighing, you slink over to the closed bedroom door. Your equilibrium steadies itself enough that you only need to grab onto something every few steps. The handle doesn’t budge. You try again, exerting more force — still nothing. The subsequent attempts end in the same manner. There’s no denying it, it’s been locked. That begs the question of why. Safety, maybe? It’s possible Chrollo stepped out for whatever reason and wanted to ensure no one could get to you. Then again, that’s what the deadbolt on the door leading to the hotel hallway is for. 

You don’t want to start rattling the door and making a scene when you’re certain there’s a solid explanation for this. He has to come back eventually, his stuff is still here. Although, you can’t help noticing how sparse his personal belongings are. The book he was reading no longer sits on the bedside table, the framed picture of the two of you gifted by your parents isn’t on the wardrobe either. Next, you check the closet, finding it in a similarly desolate state. You once pillaged a shirt of his when you grew tired of wearing a dress, so you know its usual presentation. The hangers remain on the rack yet everything else is gone.

Chrollo told you his job had placed him in this city indefinitely. Is he planning to move to another hotel? 

Not knowing what else to do, you sit on the edge of the bed. The former pounding in your head has soothed into a far less egregious dull ache. You must’ve been asleep for a decent chunk of time, this initial grogginess is what you experience upon first waking up in the morning. You hope you weren’t unconscious for too long. It's an unsettling thought, being in that vulnerable state, totally shut off from the world. 

A few minutes of absentmindedly admiring the twinkling lights that make up the city skyline’s pass. 

Then you hear the door handle jingle. 

Chrollo silently examines you. It’s almost as if he’s gauging your entire being, anticipating what is to come. His mouth is set in a straight line and he’s standing unnervingly still. There’s this intensity to him that has you breaking off eye contact. Your mouth goes dry and you temporarily forget how to form words. You had so many burning questions in his absence, why is it that they've been wiped clean from your head now that he’s here? 

When you find the courage to look up at him again, there’s not a vestige of his former expression. The grave lines have smoothened out and you no longer believe you’re face to face with a stranger. 

“How are you feeling?” He’s quick to close the distance. The mattress dips, adjusting to his presence by your side.  

“Oh, uh, not the best, but… I don’t think it’s anything serious,” you say. Silvery moonlight shines into the room, illuminating him in an otherworldly veil. Goosebumps line your skin when he takes the side of your face into his hand. He’s cold. “I’m mostly just confused. Is— is everything okay? Why am I here?” 

“How much do you remember?” 

Remember, remember… that’s right, you hadn’t given that much thought. You pick through your hazy memories aloud. “Well, we were at the arboretum, just walking around. I remember heading to the gardens behind the Starling House. Then… um…” 

You squint and furrow your eyebrows together. It’s as if your recollection was a film reel that had been trimmed after that point. You try piecing together a mental image of the garden. Hummingbirds? Sage? No, that isn’t right, you’re thinking of its spring appearance. The colors would be more muted, there’d be less shrubbery. The image grows sharper.

Then there’s a shadow. 

Vaguely human-shaped, situated right in the middle of the mosaic you’re trying to form. Their outline isn’t solid, it’s splotchy, like water paint left to run on a canvas. 

Finally, something clicks. 

“That woman!” You exclaim. The corner of his lips twitch downward. “That’s right! Is she okay? She seemed so out of it.” 

“I’m not sure.” 

“How is that possible? You were—” 

“Let’s focus on you for now,” he cuts you off. There’s a finality in his voice you can’t bring yourself to challenge. “Can you tell me what symptoms you’re experiencing?” 

“Um, some disorientation and a headache.”

“I see. I’ll get you some painkillers, then.” 

You grab his wrist to stop him when he starts getting up. “I’d really prefer you told me what happened first.”

When he doesn’t immediately acquiesce to your request, you quietly add, “Please.” 

His eyes soften at your gentle, uncertain timbre. He intertwines his fingers with yours and gives your hand an encouraging squeeze. 

“Earlier, when we arrived at the garden, you grew lightheaded and fainted.” 

You take a moment to process the information. It seems plausible enough, yet the more you mull over it, the more little details start to catch your attention.

“Okay…” you trail off, pursing your lips. A vengeful throb from your head causes you to wince. He notices — frowns — then places a featherlight kiss against your forehead. The thoughtful gesture doesn’t invoke any pleasant warm fuzzy sensations. “So I fell unconscious for over ten hours and you didn’t… call an ambulance…?” 

“That is correct.” 

You shuffle in your seat, momentarily taken aback at how easygoing he’s acting about the entire ordeal. “Why?” 

“I’ve been monitoring your vitals,” he reassures. Sensing your growing apprehension, he adds, “I can promise that you were never in serious danger. I would’ve acted accordingly if you were.” 

The phrase ‘acted accordingly’ doesn’t tell you much either. What does he mean by that? Is there some threshold you needed to enter for him to have taken you to the hospital? Your various volunteer experiences with the city’s vulnerable communities taught you that if a person is unresponsive for over a minute, an ambulance should be called, just to be on the safe side. Besides, isn’t that just common sense? Chrollo is an intelligent man. You can’t fathom any line of reasoning that’d justify not erring on the side of caution. 

You glance at the clock again. 4:03 a.m. glows in the dim light of the room. It’s late. You wonder what your parents—

Holy shit. 

“Do my mom and dad know?” You glance around as if expecting to find them. There’s no way they wouldn’t have insisted on calling emergency services if you were unconscious for that long. 

“I didn’t inform them, no.” 

“What?” You make no attempts to tone down your incredulity. “Then— they must be out of their minds with worry! My phone, where’s my phone? I need to tell them I’m okay!” 

You shoot up off the bed too fast and your body doesn’t take kindly to the rushed movement. Debilitating lightheadedness causes you to lose your balance. Chrollo steadies your swaying form and helps sit you back down. You scoot away from him as far as you can, your thoughts an absolute mess. Nothing here is making sense. It’s not even a puzzle that’s missing a few pieces, there’s almost nothing to work with at all. 

He’s staring at you in that strange, anticipatory manner again. It makes your stomach churn. 

“My phone, Chrollo,” you hold your hand out. “There’s no way you don’t have it.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t give it to you,” he sounds apologetic too, which makes your subsequent temper flare up even worse. 

“What is wrong with you?” You hiss, exasperation winning out. You were trying to be reasonable, but that is over and done with. “You’re acting like— like there’s nothing weird happening! Can you please take this seriously? You’re really starting to freak me out.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with me. I knew this wouldn’t be easy for you, so I wanted to remain calm for your sake.” 

Your tongue couldn’t properly form words if your life depended on it. Sure, remaining calm in a crisis is helpful, but he isn’t acting like this is a crisis. He’s treating it as if he was burdened with sitting you down to relay bad news that no one else had the heart to share. 

You’re starting to think you don’t know the person you’re talking to. 

“For my sake,” you repeat in a wry deadpan. “If that’s true, then tell me what’s actually going on, Chrollo. Because I know you’re bullshitting me.” 

Not calling the ambulance or informing your parents, withholding your phone… then there’s the matter of how he got you here in the first place. Did he carry you through the lobby? No good samaritans thought it was unusual to see a man carrying an unconscious woman up to his room? Hotel staff these days are trained to have a vigilant eye for these situations too. Not one person thought it might be a good idea to ring up law enforcement over such a blatantly suspicious act? 

Nothing is adding up. 

“I’m being more forthcoming than you think,” Chrollo says, as if he’s doing you a favor. He tries reaching out for your hand again, only this time, you don’t allow him. “Everything I’ve said and intend to say is the truth, even if you don’t particularly like it.” 

That’s a hell of a creative way of putting it!

“Who was that woman earlier? What did she do to me?” 

“I have someone ironing out the details, but from what I’ve gathered, she was sent with the intention of killing you. I don’t believe she was aware of the fact herself until you entered her vicinity, triggering the necessary condition for the true culprit’s ability to activate. Otherwise, I certainly wouldn’t have allowed you to get so close.” 

Someone was sent to kill you? You? A run-of-the-mill college student who has no enemies to speak of? It’s not like you’re a part of the fucking mob. That can’t be right, not to mention the bizarre jargon he’s using. There’d be no plausible motive. If he says she was sent, and you choose to believe he isn’t making this all up, that implies it was premeditated. Not a spur-of-the-moment decision. That’d almost make more sense. 

That is, unless… 

You stare at him, eyebrows knitting together. 

“If you’re telling the truth — and right now, that’s a big fucking if — does this have something to do with you?” 

“That’s my clever girl,” he praises, entirely devoid of condescension. The pure fondness in his voice makes you sick. It’s almost as if he’s delighting in watching you piece this nightmare together. “Yes, you haven’t deliberately done anything to earn the wrath of the wrong people. They simply know getting to me is near impossible, hence their decision to go for the next best thing instead. That’d be you, dear.” 

“Oh my god,” you bury your head in your hands. “Why… why am I not freaking out more? I should be hysterical, or, or— I don’t know…” 

“Beta blockers,” he reveals. You look at him like he’s speaking another language. “In anticipation of how… touchy this conversation was going to be, I thought it might be best for you to be in a good headspace while receiving this information for the first time.” 

“You drugged me?” 

“If that’s how you want to look at it.” 

“Because that’s how it is!” 

A lump forms in your throat and lodges itself there. Are you stuck in a hellacious dream? Or hallucinating, perhaps? Visual hallucinations aren’t supposed to be this cohesive or clear. There has to be another explanation. Something you’re missing that’d make this all go away. The beta blocker admission certainly holds weight. Your heart rate, while slightly elevated, isn’t anywhere near as chaotic as it should be. It’d explain the general malaise, fatigue, and lightheadedness too. That, and you doubt you’d be able to think this clearly if there wasn’t something heavy pumping through your system. 

Your eyes hesitantly settle on Chrollo, who sits there perfectly still and almost relaxed. He’s observing you like a hawk. 

“Listen,” you try using a mellower voice. He raises an eyebrow at your drastically different approach. “You had ample opportunity to hurt me and you didn’t. That must mean you have my best intentions at heart, right? Why don’t we try to work something out, because this isn’t sustainable. My absence isn’t going to go unnoticed.” 

Chrollo sighs, heavy if not unsurprised. “Sweetheart, I’m not suffering a break from reality, although I’m sure you’d prefer to rationalize it that way. I assure you I’m lucid and everything I’ve done is intentional. You’ll come to accept it eventually.” 

It isn’t going to help, yet you feel your remaining grains of patience slip through your fingers. 

“What’s this talk about a ‘condition’ and ‘ability’, then?” You challenge. 

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d mention that,” he doesn’t sound like you landed on a reason that’d prove him wrong. “How to explain it… you once told me you think there are phenomena in this world that can’t be explained by empirical evidence. Consider this an example of that. I’m sure you must’ve felt it before you fainted. An intense, concentrated sensation that awoke your primordial fear. Bloodlust.” 

You want to argue until you run out of breath, but this description does strike a chord. Reality itself feels as if it’s drifting further and further away. In an awfully cruel twist, Chrollo and his collected disposition is the most grounding factor you have to latch onto. 

“I’m sure it’s a lot to take in,” he finally replaces that matter-of-fact tone with something resembling compassion, “But know this: you’re not in any danger. Neither are those you care about, so long as you act sensible.” 

Shivering, you hug your arms around your chest. “How can you say that to me so easily? I thought… I thought you…” 

He’s enveloping you from behind. You didn’t even see him move. Weakly, you struggle against his hold, but you’re not in any condition to put up a fight. In the event you were, it’s doubtful it’d make much of a difference. He’s strong. It goes beyond physical strength, into some esoteric realm you’ve become forcibly acquainted with. He’s exerting this slight pressure that makes your heart skip a beat, despite the medication. It isn’t comparable to what you experienced in the garden — there’s no malice — it feels more like a warning. 

“You’re surprisingly sensitive to Nen,” he murmurs, humming contentedly when you go limp against him. His chin rests atop your head and his arms ensnare your midriff. “How interesting. No matter. Whatever your fascinating brain concocted is still true. You may think me merciless, but if you knew me, you’d find this to be my greatest act of mercy yet.” 

“I thought I did know you,” is your weak reply. You don’t recognize the sound of your voice. 

“The parts of me I wanted to show you, yes,” he moves your hair aside so he can press a kiss to the nape of your neck. “And a few glimpses you gleaned in your own way. Really, you are such a sweet girl. Willing to overlook discrepancies to see the ‘good’ in me.” 

Heat rises and ignites on your cheeks. “I-I could scream, you know.” 

“You could.” 

That’s not the reaction you were expecting. 

“You’re… not going to try and stop me?” 

“No,” he responds. “I’ve always found experience to be the best teacher.” 

“You really,” you heave a humorless laugh, uncertain of what else to do, “You really don’t see anything wrong with this?” 

He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, marveling at how your pulse remains steady, thanks to his intervention. 

“‘So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.’” 

“What?” 

“It’s what you said the first day I met you,” Chrollo explains, nostalgia evident. “I’ve thought about those words often. Your effulgence, your desire to do right by others. It made me wonder if there could ever be anyone more perfect for me than you. You, whose pretty neck I could snap before you’d ever realize what happened, stirred up a sentimentality in me I thought myself incapable of.” 

Sandalwood, amber, and leather. His scent is the same as that day.

Are his intentions? 

Is this a prophecy he himself ordained and always intended to see fulfilled? 

“You stole my heart, and as recompense, I will steal you. Think whatever you want about me, dear. Just don’t think I’m selfless enough to ever change my mind.” 

[kezzanza]

What type of boyfriend do you think jude would be?

A/N: first of all, i literally love this ask bc i think of this every 5 business days so thanks for making me put it in writing :)

Jude seems like the guy that would pick you up in a million dollar car, take you to your favorite high-end restaurant and ask you to be his with delicate chocolate lettering on a dessert.

But that's not really him.

The day he asks you to be exclusive, he calls you over to his place under the guise of helping him learn to cook. You both make a mess in his kitchen as you attempt to make your favorite meal—at his request, of course. You're laughing at the sauce all over his apron when he looks over at you—undeniable fondness in his eyes. It's not words written by a chef or spelled out in balloons when he asks. It's Jude's hands cradling your face, his voice softly saying your name and asking: "will you be mine?"

He kisses you when you say yes and you feel like crying—the tender moment scraping your heart raw. Your relationship starts with tears and somehow, that aspect never leaves.

Mostly, it's happy tears. You tear up whenever you watch Jude lift up a trophy, knowing how much hard work he put in. You tear up when he brings you to award ceremonies, his blinding smile meeting yours from the stage.

Sometimes, it’s simply tears of sadness. You fight over Instagram likes, tabloid headlines and models in his DMs. The argument only ending once you started crying, Jude stopping mid sentence to embrace you in his arms.

He hates seeing you cry, especially when it's because of him.

It takes a few weeks, but not you had both grown past that—Jude keeping his likes and follows clean, you doing your part to ignore the media.

Still, even now when you knew it was all fake, you hated seeing articles with Jude and random pretty faces paired off with him. But the media's presence in Jude's life is just one of those things you had accepted.

There are other things about Jude that you came to terms with. His competitiveness would always mix into your relationship in the form of jealousy. He wouldn't get angry but he hated the way men would drag their eyes all over you. You always assured Jude there's no man you wanted how deeply and intensely you wanted him. On nights he was particularly tense, you would laugh and tell him women were doing the same to him—just more subtly.

That would only make him frustrated, which was what you wanted, because it made Jude fiery. Passionate. He made love like he played football, which is to say with intensity, stamina, and unyielding focus. Every touch deliberate. Every movement full of energy. Leaving you breathless and exhilarated, as if you were in the final moments of a thrilling game.

Jude is charming, talented and good looking, but that was just the surface. In reality, he is one of the most complex people you know.

He wears thousand dollar designer but nothing made him happier than your homemade gifts—the pottery you made for your six month anniversary, the scarf you knitted for his birthday, the scrapbook you put together just cause. His attention to detail when it comes to you is second to none. You told him your favorite flower once months ago, now your shared apartment never lacks the pretty petals.

But the thing about him that never fails to amaze you is how much love he has to give to the world. A young fan would never be denied a signature. A grandma would always get a kiss on the cheek. No matter how busy or tired he was, he always made time for others.

There's nobody that knew this more than you.

When he is traveling between cities or stuck in traffic, he calls just to hear your voice. On rare free weekends, he whisks you away to charming little towns and quiet villas.

You ask him once, "Me or football?", and your voice is more sincere than the humorous tone you intended.

Jude looks at you with eyes dripping honey and says, "You, always you. The game is my passion, but you're my heart and my everything."

[overnowsfcb]

even if they talk; trent alexander-arnold smau

pairing: trent alexander-arnold x nepobaby knowles!model!reader

face claim: taylor russell

summary: people will criticize everything, but there is someone who will never fail you, and that was trent.

warnings: mostly fluff, angst (bit of hate and critics towards reader).

note: this is my first smau i hope it's not too bad! i would love to hear your thoughts or suggestions, also requests are open! — venus 🫂💐🫧

INSTAGRAM!

liked by ynknowles, virgilvandijk and 1,199,023 others

trentarnold66 🤷🏽‍♂️

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user1 the best out there

user2 unreal 🔥🔥🔥

user3 let's go reds!

ynknowles congrats! is there some secret routine helping you before the game to be that amazing? 🤔

↪trentarnold66 Maybe.. But I can't share any details here 🤫

↪user4 ARE WE MISSING SOMETHING????

↪user5 whats so interesting??? share with the class????

user6 yn and trent interacting??? i- wow

↪user7 if i hadnt seen it with my own eyes id say everyones tripping

user8 are they implying something or is just me

↪user9 I THOUGHT EXACTLY THE SAME

user10 YOU BETTER EXPLAIN YOURSELF ynknowles

user11 LET HER COOK

↪user12 girl i think they've already had a feast

user13 wtf is yn doing here

↪user14 she ruins everything good

user15 i hope trent doesnt distract w this... cant even say it

↪user16 yeah we know what she did to her exes so...

↪user17 put some respect on beyoncé's daughter's name and inform yourself before talking, mind you

NEWS!

comments

user trent can do so much better than yn. she just wants to stay relevant

user shes using trent because she has no talents to show

user i've heard rumors about how yn's exes have ended. trent, watch your back, my man.

↪user you talk as if she murdered them??? plus she never did anything to any of her exes you're just talking bc it's free

user i just hope that trent can open his eyes asap

user what a disappointment from trent. i thought he was better than dating a spoiled kid with too much time and money in her hands

user y'all are just jealous that she has what many desire 1. money 2. fame 3. beauty 4. trent's dick

user why is everyone jumping to conclusions though? we should give them the space to tell us whenever they feel ready

user i love how haters act like they know everything about yn's life and they dont know shit

TWITTER!

INSTAGRAM!

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ynknowles paris you are the vibes ⭐️ so damn proud of my little blue and this mind-blowing tour, i love you momma beyonce !

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beyonce Love you endlessly, my angel. You know how much your support means to Blue. 💙

bellahadid Prettiest fairy in the world.

troyesivan mmm alright??? why are you so perfect???

user18 no trent here though 🤷‍♀️

user19 this is the confirmation about how yn just uses trent

user20 ugh. i hate these nepobabies who think the world revolves around them

ynknowles has restricted the comments for this post

TWITTER!

INSTAGRAM!

liked by ynfan34, trentfan78 and 18,905 others

ynknowlesupdates Yn Knowles in Anfield today with friends! This is the first time we've seen her in public in three months.

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user1 i cant stand her 😒 smile or smth if youre gonna see your "boyfriend"

↪ ynfan1 if you cant stand her then poke your eyes with a spoon and dont bother 😁

ynfan2 omg this will be the first match that she attends. i hope she enjoys it!!!! (win please)

ynfan3 I MISSED HER SO MUCH IM GLAD SHES WELL

ynfan4 baby looks tired of people taking pics of her 😕 i wanna hug her

↪user2 but shes there for that??? she loves attention

↪ynfan5 or maybe just MAYBE she wants to support her boyfriend??

ynfan6 TODAY I WAS MISSING HER MORE THAN ANYTHING SHE LOVES ME

trentfan1 WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE DOING THERE?? i though we had gotten rid of her 😩

user4 if we lose today you know who is to blame...

trenfan2 over and over again i will repeat it until trent leaves her, shes with him for fame

↪ynfan7 yeah cause trent is soooo worried about what you think right???

user5 i bet shes there just for the cameras

trentfan3 yn trying to be a wag is so cute and laughable. she doesnt even measure up to the real ones.

↪user6 ikr? shes trying so hard poor girl

trentfan4 the fact that she goes with her friends 💀💀 i bet no wag would want to be seen with her

INSTAGRAM!

trentarnold66 Just clever people can handle how flawless my queen is. Happy first anniversary, my love. I love you madly, always. No need to demonstrate anything on social media when we're tellin' each other how much we love at every hour. ❤️

tagged: ynknowles

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ynknowles i love love love you so fucking much you dont have an idea

↪trentarnold66 i love you more more more than you could imagine

ynknowles thank you for being the most perfect man ive ever known t ❤️❤️❤️❤️

↪trentarnold66 i just try my best to be on your level, lovely

beyonce You are such a gentleman, Trent! Grateful for the way you take care of my angel.

liked by trentarnold66, ynknowles and 21,234 others

ynfan8 A YEAR??? BUT IF WE FOUND OUT FOUR MONTHS AGO

↪trentfan5 i feel so stupid how did they hide it so well 😦😦

trentfan6 shut them up trent

trentfan7 THATS A GOOD MAN!!!! men just take notes rn

bellahadid Thank you for taking care of the purest woman in this world, Trent 💖

ynfan9 not bee and bella thanking him 🥺🥺

↪trentfan8 im gonna cry he must be so cute

↪ynfan10 no bc she surely spent some tough months with the hate towards her and he sure was the supportive boyfriend as he should 😭😭

trentfan9 WHY NO ONES TALKING ABOUT THE BATMAN KEYCHAINS???

↪ynfan11 nonononooooo i love them best couple in the world

ynfan12 the pics he takes of her, the caption, everything 😪😪😪 god send me a man like that

trentfan10 the people who said they were going too fast must be regretting it 🤭

ynfan13 im afraid we'll find out they have kids when they're in uni, lmao. happy anniversary you two!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[blushsani]

solicitude | c.s

⋆ choi san x gn reader ⋆ wc : 3k ⋆ genre : angst . fluff . hurt & comfort . ⋆ warnings : mention of injuries . mentions of financial issues . ⋆ details : happy ending . boxing au . making up (?) . ⋆ synopsis : in which san needs & learns to put himself first more. ⋆ notes : second post we cheer!! hi guys!! i rlly hope u enjoy this <3 / i do just want to quickly mention that i often feel like i word things strangely when i’m writing sometimes so i’m hoping no one can pick up on that through this 😭 if u can, i do apologise! bare with me guys just bare with me

the type of anger that leaves your heart somehow simultaneously light and heavy because of the rage is a type of anger you have never been good at handling.

the type of anger that leaves waves of shakes throughout your body from head to toe is a type of anger you have never been good at handling.

and no matter how hard you try, you just cannot force yourself to stop thinking about how san should know better. san does know better. to say san should’ve brought all this to an end by now is an understatement.

yet here he is, battered and bruised once again. you can’t help but wonder how much longer this is going to go on for. how much further san will let this go.

this is the type of anger you hate feeling and-

“y/n…y/n, hey…”

san’s lowly spoken voice catches your attention immediately, snatching you from your thoughts. and you pay him none of your attention. you don’t even spare him a single glance. the first time you had looked him straight in the eyes was exactly when you first stepped into his personal room backstage, and since then, you haven’t given him the satisfaction of even one look.

“baby pl—”

“don’t call me that.”

“no please don’t pu-”

“san stop. stop talking.” the sound of your words is like an icy blade, swiftly cutting through the air, and it’s more so the tone of your voice that makes san’s heart drop than it is your words. 

san doesn’t think this would be much of a relationship if he  hadn’t seen you on an unfortunate day when you’re packed full of irritation and pissed off, but between your almost two year relationship, he’s never been the target or cause of any anger this intense.

it goes without needing to be said that arguments and getting on each other’s nerves as a couple is warranted and happens but the anger san can feel from you is suffocating and the knowledge that you’re upset to this degree because of him is a strenuous weight he’s struggling to carry because he adores you and he can’t handle hurting you, let alone the thought of it.

there’s a delay in san noticing you grabbing your things and preparing to leave, too caught up with his thoughts and the nagging ache surrounding his jaw and the sharp pain in his ribcage that’s the current cause of his laboured breathing. 

and when it finally does click to him that you’re clearly planning to leave, he internally begins to panic. that panic rises from zero to hundred within a matter of seconds, growing increasingly external as he notes that there’s no longer any belongings left of yours for you to grab. no more denying the inevitable.

“i’ll make sure wooyoung calls me if anything…if anything happens. please just. rest.” you find yourself putting a weak yet clear emphasis on the word “rest”.

if there’s one thing san doesn’t do often enough, it’s resting. 

he eventually listens to his body and the signals it gives him, but not without a fight. not without overstepping that line just once.

and it pisses you off.

however, you have a good sense that san is too aware of the damage he’s caused tonight to dare cross that line again, and you can’t help but think to yourself that it’s about time.

as you turn to leave, ready to make a beeline for the door before that voice in the back of your head tells you to stay, san already proves himself faster.

“please stay. please. i want you here.”

it’s like you felt a punch to the gut as soon as the words left his mouth.

the tone of his voice leaves your knees ready to buckle, simultaneously leaving you fighting the feeling.

you put your weight mostly on your left leg as you turn around, looking at him with the right side of your body still facing the door.

your stance was throwing him a message of expectancy. if he truly wanted you to stay, now was his chance to make you want to stay too and his understanding of that was immediate.

so he carefully knocks his head in the direction of the empty space beside him, gesturing for you to sit, and you are almost fully convinced that you’d hear his heart shatter into thousands of pieces if you denied him right now.

you decide to accept him and take up that empty space instead with a deep breath.

as you take a seat on the black, somewhat stiff yet relatively comfortable couch, shifting to your comfortability, you remember how much you were reminded of a doctor’s office when you were first brought into san’s backstage room. 

but the room is sadly much more familiar to you now, way more than an office belonging to a doctor. and that truly gets under your skin because you–you and san were never supposed to get used to this room or this routine.

this routine where san gets in that ring weekly with the promise of much needed cash if he wins the match.

san feels your clothed shoulder brush against his bare one and immediately seeks your hand, gingerly grabbing it. truthfully, you don’t think there’s a life out there of you and san where you wouldn’t accept his piece of affection and place a hand of your own over his.

there’s a moment of silence that you know will soon be filled with san’s voice, so you patiently wait for him. you suppose he needs a moment to gather his thoughts, and you understand that.

“i don’t want to keep putting you through this y/n.” san starts off.

“so stop.”

“baby, we both know it’s not that easy.”

“stop for the both of us.”

“y/n–”

“let’s stop talking about me for a moment. let’s actually talk about you.” your tone is firm.

you turn your body around so that your front is facing him entirely, leg propped up.

“these past few moments, i’ve only–i only see you bruised and weak. there’s not a single inch of your body i haven’t seen bruised. i only see you hurt. how much of this are you physically able to take before you–what if your body just fails on you one day san?” 

“i can’t keep watching you like this. i can’t keep watching you hurting like this. and you don’t have to san, you don’t have to keep doing this, there’s other ways. it’s not like we’re out on the streets.”

the soft skin of your palm lightly touches against san’s cheek. you’re lifting his face up with a finger momentarily hooked under his chin so that he can look you in the eyes. 

the second his eyes connect with yours, turning his body so that he can face you the same way you’re facing him, you can tell so many emotions and thoughts are going around in that pretty little heart and head of his.

he grabs your wrist ever so gently, holding onto you as he digs his cheek further into your palm, all while his gaze never faltering.

for the umpteenth time, you feel your belly swirl and flutter.

you stroke his cheek before continuing, “you know i wouldn’t be able to handle it if something happened to you. and that’s why you need to decide what you’re gonna do.”

you pull away from him. his gaze is dead set on you, eyes widened slightly. it’s the mix of your words and the abrupt lack of contact that he really…really doesn’t like.

he really doesn’t like where this seems to be going.

“if you can’t put yourself first right now, then we need to start thinking about what this means for us.”

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

san’s mind drifts back to how the past week has been.

it’s consisted of so many thoughts, questions, fears and a considerable amount of time to let the deep ache rooted in his muscles ease.

and it’s all brought him to your front door on a sunday afternoon, a sense of uncertainty surrounding him that he can’t seem to ignore. 

it was a late afternoon when he received your awaited phone call yesterday. he was too close to missing it, busy washing dishes in his kitchen and having to swiftly dry his hands and then run to his living room where he had left his phone.

he was the quickest you’ve ever seen him to spew apologies to you, and quite frankly, you were just as quick to reassure him through an auditory smile.

but as he stands, waiting for you to open the door, he returns to the feeling of doubt swirling around in his mind. 

he’s afraid. he’s afraid because he knows that he will always want you, but he isn’t entirely sure that you still want him. he isn’t entirely certain he’d choose himself either if he were you.

he’s been so stupid.

he finds it so stupid that he’s even in this situation, getting so wrapped into his own head. he finds it so stupid because he’s aware of how avoidable this was.

he loves you and the answer will always be you.

his answer will always be you.

so the next thing he knows, your apartment door is opening, presenting you. san sucks in a deep breath as he finds himself instantly locking eyes with you.

you’re pretty. 

he mentally notes how pretty you look. glowing, almost.

“hi.” you’re the first to speak, quick to take notice of how nervous san looks.

a very brief second goes by before he replies, “hi. hi–how have you been?”

“i’ve been okay,” you nod to yourself before continuing, “but how have you been? how do you feel? you been resting up okay?”

san’s heart slightly tugs at the genuine care you show him unconditionally.

“yeah–yeah, i’m okay. i’m, uh, i’m glad you’ve been okay too y/n.”

you give san a small smile. it’s knowing, and so is the smile he gives you in return.

one of the first things you came to love about san is how much his eyes can speak for him, and that’s why you can’t ignore how much he’s expressing to you just by looking into his eyes.

silence thickens over the pair of you. it’s somehow a synchronic mix of awkward and comfortable. unfamiliar but familiar.

it’s one of those moments where words don’t have to be exchanged for two people to know what the other is thinking. it’s such a knowing moment; he sees that just as much as you do.

“i remembered to–uh…grab some coffee on friday. it’s that brand you like. come in, i’ll make us some.”

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

you place san’s mug down on the coffee table first, followed up by your own white mug.

it’s just as you’re about to take a seat on the opposite armchair that you suddenly feel the familiarity of san grabbing your hand. your train of thought stops, and you raise your head to look at him, surprised at the sudden contact but most definitely accepting of it.

san pats the empty seat next to him on the loveseat, and maybe it’s silly how quick you were to comply. you can’t say you care very much though.

as you both adjust to face each other on the sofa, you slowly take more and more notice of how you and san haven’t stopped firmly holding hands. 

it makes you smile.

it makes a tiny but affirmative feeling of hope twitch through you.

you hear san take a deep breath and return your gaze back to him, ready to have this conversation.

things needs to be talked through and san’s just as aware as you of that.

you take notice of the way his gaze is somewhere distant behind you and rub his hand with your thumb. it seems to bring him back to you. his gaze hooks back onto you, giving you a slight sad smile before looking down and looking back up within a matter of a few seconds.

he seems like he doesn’t quite know where to start, but he does seem to eventually find his way.

“you’ve been more than patient with me. and i…i truly owe you an apology for being so patient to begin with.” you cock your head to the side ever so slightly, intently listening.

“i’ve probably thought more than i have throughout my whole life this week,” he laughs for a moment and there’s a small chuckle of your own, “and i kept thinking about how i’d feel if the roles were reversed. if it was you in those rings instead of me. if i had to watch  you keep getting hurt. how i’d feel if i came backstage with you and saw you covered with bruises. hurt. and…i know i wouldn’t be able to handle it y/n.”

your lips drew a thin line as you nodded. so much was going through your mind and you wanted to take deep care in putting all the scrambled pieces together. but for now, you’re just focusing on the man before you.

“i took time to think about me too. just…me. not only my well-being physically, but my well-being mentally as well. i took time to actually care for me. properly.”

it’s like you feel a spark of light shoot through you at his words. 

you’ve said it once and you’ll say it again, san truly just thinking about himself for once is something you don’t see enough of, and you’ve expressed to him before how important it is that he takes the time to do that. 

you remember his exact words when you had a conversation with him about it.

“i’m not used to it. i’m just…not. it doesn’t come easy to me.”

and you remember your exact words in response too.

“well i love you. and if you’ll let me, then i wanna help you get used to it.”

so hearing him say that’s something he finally put some attention on and tended to…

god it makes you happy. relief goes through you from head to toe and you exhale with a fond smile, needing somewhere to let the feeling out before it just explodes within you.

“oh san.” you find yourself deciding words wouldn’t feel like enough and swiftly lean forwards instead, capturing him in a tight hug.

 

it melts your heart how quick san is to return the hug just as tightly, finding his own little space in your neck.

you rub san’s nape, murmuring a loving “i’m proud of you san” and receiving a gentle squeeze in response.

he kisses your neck before pulling away.

“i’m choosing you. it will never ever be worth putting us both through this anymore. i’m so sorry it took this long. i’m so so so sorry. i will always be sorry for not showing you sooner than i choose and always will choose you.”

there’s so much sincerity dripping from his voice. it leaves your heart throbbing, partly with love and partly with ache. you don’t want this to be something san keeps beating himself up over. 

san is a man who never says anything he doesn’t truly mean, so you know this will be a moment he’ll think about even when the grey hairs start making an appearance (and hopefully you’ll still be there to remind him he was always forgiven).

you quickly find yourself overwhelmed by all your thoughts and feelings and before you can even think properly, you’re once again smothering yourself in san’s hold. 

your chin digs into san’s shoulder as you speak, “i forgive you san. thank you for being open with me.”

you continue as you pull away, hands gently gripped on san’s shoulders, “and thank you for putting yourself first. i’m proud of you. i know money is an issue right now. i’m here with you. we’re gonna get through it, yeah? that just isn’t the way we’re gonna do it. you were just–in pain all the time. ‘s not fair. you can’t keep putting yourself through that and i told you last week that i can’t keep watching you put yourself through that. i won’t.”

“i know, i know. i’m hearing you.” san gently nods, sincerity swimming in his eyes and full to the brim in his voice. he removes your hands from his shoulders, taking them into his own instead and pressing a wet kiss onto your knuckle.

“and,” you lightly cough, “...i’m sorry for how harsh i was last week. i was just–i was feeling a lot and i was scared and i felt so angry and…i am really sorry san.” your tone is just as regretful as you feel. although you know you were and are justified in your feelings, you don’t agree with how you spoke to san. that’s not a way you’ve ever spoken to him before and you don’t plan to ever make a habit of it.

“thank you. to be truthful with you love, if the roles were reversed, i would’ve been the exact same way you were. you had every right to feel what you were feeling.”

you warmly smile at the response, once again sinking into the realisation of how big the love you feel for him is. 

within seconds, you find yourself simultaneously sinking into his arms. and for the umpteenth time, he accepts you. he welcomes you in with arms wide open like he always does.

you don’t think you’ve ever felt so comfortable with someone.

but it’s later on when you’re laid beside him, tracing your fingertips along the bruises that required a little more time to fade than the others, the pair of you warming one another up with the soft holds you’ve had on each other the entire rest of the day that you realise just how comfortable you feel with him.

it’s almost laughable to you how just the previous week, you no longer knew what you and san would look like. and now, he’s in your arms, scattering kisses all over your face, erupting never ending giggles from you.

it’s the first night you’ve been able to drift to sleep with a content chest and mind.

knowing you get to wake up to his presence. knowing there will be a you and san tomorrow.

- yours sincerely, qei ౨ৎ

[yamsgarden]

Damn... Learning about my past through a crazy ex childhood friend's ex was not on my 2024 bingo card...

nw they don't use tumblr, they don't even know what tumblr is so, i'm just gonna vent here for 2 secs because holy shit...

It's just so weird to have to continue life as if everything's normal OTL

I swear to god my life feels like a movie sometimes-- does that happen to everyone?!

Gonna spare the really fucked up details, but basically, an old gang of 6 friends and I (minus the crazy one), have finally reunited yesterday. It had been a year since we didn't see each other, but yesterday, ouhhh so many dark confessions happened OTL

There's a lot to unpack here, but for short, that crazy ex childhood friend had insanely awful jealousy problems and it consumed her. At first she looked fine, but with time it was clear that she was also obsess with men's attention and unfaithful and flirted with her ex's best friend or any guys...

She wanted us to guess how she felt and what she wanted us to do for her, without telling us. She was the one causing huge drama all the time, but she was still somehow the victim...

Basically, that person who once brought all of us together, managed to ruin all of her relationship with all 6 of us. Now we all came back together and our disdain for her, has only brought us closer...

All this situation shocks me, because that ex friend used to tell me how much she was so scared to end up alone... Then she spent months and months making me feel horrible and rejected and hated. She also told me many times how ''her traumas and problems were worst than mine''...

At some point, I finally cut ties with her for good, but I was worry she put up everyone else against me, so I left and didn't want to cause trouble for the rest of the gang.

She was really keeping us altogether out of fear of ending up alone, rather than keeping us altogether out of love...

But now, I guess... Look at who's ended up all alone afterall.

I'm so happy we finally told each other and now, we can all start healing together... It means so much to realized that all this time, they actually never wanted me to leave because of the other crazy fucked up one, but they were too scared of her reaction... They even told me yesterday how they want me back and they want me to stay... Ugh, my heart OTL

We were all too nice to say anything, and in the process we let her hurt us.

But yeah, I guess... Really do be careful who you let in your life OTL Some ppl really do are fake friends and they hate you with a passion but they will still keep you around because they got nobody else.

[cupids-chamber]

Thought, MAD SCIENTIST IDIA, who decides to offer you a job when in need, as a tester for certain.. 'experiments' he has.. offering you a place to stay.. and etc.. How will things end here?..

CONTENT TAGS: Readers gender is not specified, Obsessive behavior, Implied(?) Yandere themes(?), Mention of medication/human experiments, Implied stalking, Kidnapping/abduction, 1.5k words.

"Are you nervous?” He asked, his voice ripping you out of your subconscious state, as you felt his hand on your shoulder, gently putting your hair aside, an action that caused you to let out a shaky breath.. “There’s no reason to be, this process is merely an extra precaution.. It won’t hurt in the slightest.” he sounded so sure of himself, the aura of sheer confidence pierced through the air, yet it did nothing to calm your worries as the memories of Idia’s previous experiments replayed in your head. 

Sensing your worries once more, he let out a annoyed sigh.. “Come on… When have I ever lied to you?” he asked, his tone growing more stern, a change from his soft exterior moments before, and to be quite honest, you can recall a few previous memories that you’d much rather not bring up. Idia was a rather emotional client.. 

Though you use the term client sparingly, he and you used to be close.. Well before this employer and employee thing had begun’, sometimes you’d regret this decision, to work for a friend.. A friend who was most definitely not mentally stable, however at the time you really didn’t have much of a choice.. you were in crippling debt.. And he was willing to pay the price needed for the perfect test toy… 

“The medications will activate in a bit’, would you like anesthetic?” he asked, his last ounce of consideration for you, until of course the procedure was over, you didn’t question why Idia was so stern on keeping the procedures intentions a secret from you, usually he’d explain to you the details of such intense experiments, just to ease your concern a bit.. However, you simply assumed that he had the best of intentions in mind, sure he wasn’t the safest person to be entangled with.. However, he would never hurt you.. After the few years you’ve been working with him, you were more than aware of how he’d hate it when you're hurt, making sure any cuts you received in or out of work, were treated with much care, he hated the sight of blood, no.. correction.. He hated the sight of your blood.. He’d personally treat your wounds, and take care of you when you fell ill from one of the more.. Let’s just say concerning experiments. 

Idia repeated his question a bit louder this time, catching your attention “Ah— yes.. I’d rather not feel or remember what happens to me.. I don’t like that Idea.” you reply, second guessing yourself a tad bit, it wasn’t first time jitters, as you’ve been on this same bed, with these same weirdly shaped instruments, sharp objects, instruments, and devices surrounding you many times before, you can’t quite remember your first time here as well due to the sheer amount of times you’ve been here, though a part of you can bet it was due to some medicine or drug that Idia may or may have not given you during the entire experience. 

The gap in your memories proved to be quite annoying, oftentimes you couldn’t recall the simplest things, Idia would do it for you.. Though you aren’t quite sure, if his recollection of a certain memory was any good, he had led you into many complications and sure, he may have helped solve many of them, but it wasn’t a good sign either way.. To be quite honest, you’d have left his estate long ago, if you could… But for some reason, something always stopped you.. an unexplainable force… or maybe you were overthinking due to stress.. yeah… that seemed reasonable.

Idia returned with some form of medication, “You don’t like the sight of needles.. Especially after last time.. So I think these will be much more favorable for you? Though they are not as strong as a needle” he handed you the pills, and you gave him a small smile, taking the glass of water you had left moments prior when taking some other form of medication, in your hands. You quickly swallowed the pill and chugged the water down. 

“How long will it take before the pills activate?” you asked, the bitter taste of the pill lingered at the bottom of your throat, and you wished you could have brought more water though you were well aware that you shouldn’t have too much water in your system, you didn’t quite know why, but it was.just something Idia emplaced in his small but important list of lab rules. 

“About an hour and a half, but I need you to stay here.” you nodded as Idia walked off… ‘Well that’s odd, he never leaves me alone’, and it was true.. For as long as you can remember Idia has never left you unattended, especially after you took any form of medication, it was his way of ensuring your safety, or so you thought. You should probably get cozy, for when the medication hit, but you had about an hour so why not fiddle around? Idia never minded your little tactics so as long as it eased your worries, you were allowed to fiddle around with the equipment that was not in the tray. 

Somewhere along the lines you lost your sight of things, and you found yourself wandering, it wasn’t the first time.. However, this lab was new, Idia has recently swapped rooms, it was an odd change, however it was one of many you choose to ignore, after all what he did in his personal life was none of your business. Though personal and work clashed and became a blur long ago, you’ve maintained a fair line when it came to personal and work, something that proved to annoy Idia. 

You exited through the door and were currently walking through an unknown hall, which had no exits in sight, sort of like those backrooms that you saw from videos in the past.. It was weird and unsettling, an eerie feeling washed over you, you should have headed back.. but right then and there, you found a door.. It blends in with the walls well, an odd choice of aesthetic, even for Idia. Curiosity washed over you, and you just couldn’t resist the sheer urge to open the closed door, which was hidden for some cause.. you could only imagine what could be hiding behind the closed door… you still had some time.. more than enough time... right? 

You quickly checked surroundings for any security cameras, thankfully there were none.. another thing that piqued your curiosity all the bit more. You took a deep breath, when’s the next time you’ll get such a chance? You already knew the estate in and out… Slowly, you opened the door, ceasing into your curiosity. 

The room was dimly lit, tall large windows decorated the walls, being the only source of light.. They were closed with light translucent currents, which cascaded down the window.. They reminded you of something.. You couldn’t name it.. The room was spacious. You pushed the curtains to the side, fully brightening the room.. When looking outside of the window, they viewed a familiar, yet foreign scenery, it made you feel worried.. It was scary how this room seemed so familiar, yet foreign to you.. You choose to look around the surroundings, finding a covered board of some sorts, you decide to uncover it.. revealing.. Quite the sight, it was visual photographs with someone's internal parts, on full display.. As if they’ve been cut out.. Dates written on them.. Maybe you should’ve checked the dates, but you already felt the strong urge to vomit.. Slowly you covered the board back up, it was a terrifying sight, yet something about them kept you curious.. And you choose to continue your little venture. 

You found photos of a child? The child seemed familiar, and you continued to find more and more pictures, dates, filings, and more.. All with the name of Y/n L/n, you even found a journal, you flipped through its contents.. 

“They're coming to my school.. Hopefully I’ll be able to speak with them” 

“.....As planned, they’re now more than willing to help out with my projects, the medication worked!” 

As you read more and more, it hit you.. You weren’t a typical test rat, but this ‘Y/n L/n’ themselves, a university graduate Idia had kidnapped, after stalking you from childhood.. He had abducted you from who knows where, and manipulated your identity, into his own twisted fantasy.. even your memories, catching you in this sugar coated web of lies.. You weren’t here for three years, but six.. These experiments he conducted were used to keep you from escaping, ruining you slowly, so only he could ‘fix’ the wounds he’d create.

‘Were those organs yours’ 

“— where are you?, it’s almost been an hour and a half” his voice pierced through your ears, as you began to quiver in fear.. You had to escape.. somehow—.. but at this crucial time, your legs had given up on you, all you could do was quickly hide everything and try your best to put on an act, as you huddled in a corner, waiting for him to find you. 

You heard an audible “oh”, as the sound of his footsteps slowly followed, “Is this where my little lab rats been hiding?” he let out a small chuckle, as he opened the door, and then everything faded to black.. The last scene you could remember before the pills had taken its toll was Idia walking up to you, reaching out for you.

© cupids-chamber, do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work without prior permission and or confirmation from me.

[poppysunderthestars]

➷ heartless ➷

"tryna find the one that can fix me"

⟡ fuckboy!ani and fem!reader

⟡ warning: slight sexual concepts, kissing, +18 content, degradation, sexual tension. (if i'm missing any, please let me know!) minors do not interact!

⟡ summary; fuckboy jedi ani loves going all in with the female padawans. yet the only one who does not fall into his claws is the girl with a secret life and that drives him insane. will he have his ways with you?

⟡ word count; 1,8k

author's notice: happy late birthday dear hayden! you will have to forgive me, i'm very rusty, it's been a while since i wrote like this. what do you all think for a part 2 with way more smutty content? let me know your opinions! (english is not my first language, if you find any details, lmk)

‧₊˚ ⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

'the hot jedi from tatooine' 

that's what everyone called him, including you. 

yes, while anakin was a very special padawan, you were an even better one. he had slept with almost all the female padawans available in the temple yet you seemed to be the only one not falling for his troubling reputation, and charming smirk when someone says a quick remark about his abilities or his silky and soft brunette mane. 

since his hormones began revolting and his hands couldn´t keep to himself, all he thought about from dusk 'till dawn, was fucking.

he spent most of his hours, daydreaming about which next little innocent padawan to corrupt. what position he would put them in, how slow or fast he would pump them. he could cum and stain his black pants from just thinking how slutty they were all for him. all putting their asses up just for him to go feral on their small cunts.

he enchanted everyone, but you. you could not seem to understand how incredible everyone thought he was. he was nothing but a heartless stupid fuckboy jerk . 'he is not even that smart' you thought. 

however you could not exclude the biggest and most important fact of all, he was h o t. and not 'one-night stand' hot. but  ‘i want him to make me some babies' hot.

no matter how hard you tried to resist him, your private time in your chambers always ended up with you breathlessly murmuring his name and enveloping your digits with your fluids wishing it was him caressing your insides.

it was normal to feel this way, you hated him but at the same time you desired him. he always ignored you and the only time he even looked at you was when he wanted some nighty company. you could never lower yourself to him, cause he would never treat you right.

right?

well, it depends on what you mean with right. cause lately you've been craving a nice and pleasing time with someone and you did find yourself wetting your panties to his thought. 

you were one exemplary padawan to the rest, always paying attention to your master, leaving to your room early, never hostile or worse, a whore.

that´s what people reasoned about you, the perfect padawan. you used to be that, always getting up early to prepare for training, spending time in the library, being curious but not much to seem nosy, caring, empathetic, and overall nice.

once you finally started to rebel against your origins, you became more confident, experienced, and fun. some nights you secretly left your room and escaped to low coruscant in search of what could be interpreted as a sluty night. you know, a few drinks in an unknown bar, a bit of harmless flirting, and ending the night in a stranger´s apartment getting your brains shaken, once and twice and...

too many times to count.

no one seemed to look past the "teacher´s pet quiet girl" façade, except mr. fuck-it-all also known as fellow anakin skywalker. master obi wan kenobi´s padawan.

he just knew you were too good to be true. you had to have a secret that you guard with your life or something. he couldn't wrap his head on why he viewed you as interesting, you were pretty, yes. and you were smart, decisive, and down-to-earth. still, he just deducted it was because you´re mysterious, know how to put a person in their place, and keep your inner thoughts to yourself, something he somehow found fascinating.

before, he had tried to use the force to read your thoughts ( he was very powerful he could manipulate most people to do so), the only thing is that he could not. you were not that easily undermined. 

you were very strong-minded and even more powerful than skywalker himself, he just did not realize that. however, you did know he tried to subdue you several times with no success. you were the last trophy on his "fuck" collection and he desired you like you desired him, or even worse. 

he was determined to have you either way, he was going to have you. he was so cocky thinking he could effortlessly make you fall into his trap. 

it was a very nice day, to say the least, your master had congratulated you for the improvement in your fighting skills. you also received a letter from one of your night men asking to see you again, which grew your ego.

nothing was stopping you today

until there was...

again, mr. anakin skywalker. it was not the first time you had sensed his impetuous sexual need, you felt it whenever you were close to him. it was a very present sensation. your mind just knew he was desperate and tensed for release. still, you did not understand why he wanted you, when he could have had any other woman.

'why?' you questioned.

it was sincerely driving you insane. it was like he purposely tried to make you desire him in hopes of you letting get fucked by him. it was a very complicated situation for you. you wanted him but you did not want to seem influenced by the sexual need of him inside of you.

that night you schemed your plan you were going to dominate him like he had never been before. you were going to have him under your spell. he was not going to be able to resist one more day after you let him taste you and devour you as he should.

you spent most of the night visualizing the penetration that was going to take place. the flavor of his skin against your mouth and the roughness of his hand stroking your thighs with such excitement. in between those thoughts, you fucked yourself several times with him on your mind.

it all came down to the decisive moment the next day, you arrived to his persona chilling in the garden and you sat beside him.

“now, i knew you would come,” he said confidently, grinning against his hand to hide the fact he was ecstatic about your presence. it was finally coming through

“such a cheeky man, are you not?” you responded when you noticed he could not stop smiling. “you never rose interest in me, you always looked mediocre to me ”

he didn’t feel compelled into your game, it was like a tug of war, and the last one to give in was going to look weak. he was putting up with your sassy introduction and you were putting with his jerkily overbold personality. the feeling you could not outrun was finally here. 

while you wished for his death right then, you also desired his tongue on your wet pussy ready to take all of him. 

“i would say, on the contrary, you look like one touch from me would send you to heaven”

 did he just say that? what an arrogant dude. 

“what makes you so sure about that?” 

“the word is out that you are such a slut” he dropped it, it was such an irreverent comment. he was not sure if it was true, however, he did not give a fuck about his reputation, and whatever it took he was going to figure out what the hell was your little secret.

you pierced his eyes with your own, perceiving his lips licking themselves and looking up and down at you. like analyzing the effect he had on you.

“well, i heard something else” you took your finger to your lip in a naive look, and you spoke softly and slowly giving you the rest of the power and making him doubt his previous wording. “you are not better than i am, that’s what’s up”.

he did not care at all, he knew he was no better than anyone else. yet he was losing his mind over that little interaction between the two of you.

“i never said i was, you just assumed i was. whoever told you otherwise is looking for trouble” it was a play of words, so much tension in that little bench. your bodies became closer with each phrase dropped in the air. it was so dirty how your breaths were almost mixed up, how he was resisting throwing himself at you. you could not stop looking at his fleshy and almost lubricated lips. you were close enough to explode right there.

“then i am one for deep trouble” you responded still not taking your sight from his breathless mouth, too close to be sane and too far from a full kiss. some parts of your lips were touching his by now, yet it was nowhere close to what you both were wanting.

“oh, yeah you are, whore” 

you found yourself in a trance by just a few millimeters and a deprecating ruse. it was intoxicating his presence by his short and gasping breathing.  

“you would never care to think miss perfect here likes being treated like the sluttiest thing around here, right?” while he spoke, you rose your eyes to his, nonetheless you found him admiring your facial elements in the warm afternoon illumination. 

“could you look more ruined than this?” you lowly spoke with a peal of mocking soft laughter, splashing all over your face. 

“tryna find the one that can fix me" understanding that no miracle was happening there, he gradually tried to separate from you. the slow-motion effect made an evident effect on you, or well your panties. you were a full ocean down there, you felt the humid ambient growing with each progressing moment. you’d had enough

“think that could be you?” 

without the right amount of time to think fully through, you went right to it and connected your lips to his. tugging his hair to enclose the remaining space between you. 

he was so proud he did not fall first, and that showed when the kiss was complemented by a shameless smirk that decorated his chiseled visage.

the little obstinate man was not letting his emotions show and you sensed that. he cut the kiss observing closely your iris filling with a black tint. felt like a rush you’d never felt before, not even back in low coruscant. never felt like that before.

he confidently stepped up and bent over to your ear, humming delicately causing a tickling sensation like just a few minutes before.

“you could never fix me, even if you tried” he spoke. breaking your burning daze.

just like if he had not felt a single thing, he left the room hiding his frenzy. he wanted to go deeper on you, go harder and faster. you did not deserve it. you were such a tease.

leaving you all alone while you were all ready to take his hard throbbing dick, what a heartless man…

[lucywritesagain]

I wouldn't say no

꒰ა ˚₊ ✧・┈﹕Loki masterlist ꒰ ᐢ｡- ༝ -｡ᐢ ꒱ Navigation ﹕┈・𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱

Please note that this story is a repost from my old blog @lucywrites02.

Summary: Loki pays you a visit, saying that Bubbles- his cat- may be allergic to Thor. Is Loki serious or is it another excuse to hang out with you?

Word count: 0.7k

“You again?”

That was the way you greeted Loki as you walked into your office- a few folders under your arm and a box of medical gloves in the other. Your white coat flew behind you with every step like a cape, making you feel like in a movie. In all those years working as a vet it had never gotten bored.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” The trickster replied with a playful smile.

“What seems to be the problem, buddy?” You leaned over the table and gently patted your little friend’s head who purred in approval. “Why did your dad bring you here this time?”

“I think he’s allergic to Thor.” Loki said.

“Ha, that’s a good one!” You giggled, but stopped when you noticed their dead serious expression. “That’s a joke, right? Tell me you’re joking.”

“Why would I?” The god put his hands in the pockets of his dark blue jeans- something they didn’t wear often. “I noticed that Bubbles acts differently every time my brother visits.”

You weren't sure if it was a prank or if Loki really thought his cat could be allergic to his brother. The first time you met the god they barged into your office right before closing because the cat he just adopted was sleeping too much and refused to leave until you explained to him how the cat's body worked in great detail. You found it sweet how much Loki cared about that little creature and how eager they were to learn more. And what better way to learn than to take your information from the professionals? The second time they visited was to give Bubbles his vaccines and make a file for him. One time Loki ran into your office while you were in the middle of examining Clair- a beautiful ball python who has been your patient since the day she hatched- just to tell you that Bubbles made a chirping noise while watching birds and if it was normal for a cat to do this.

“Different? How?” You straighten your back, giving all your attention to the trickster.

“He’s really affectionate with Thor and he always hated people”

“Let me get this clear-” you had to hold your laugh for Loki’s sake. You were a professional after all and Loki- although a friend- was still your client. “You think Bubbles is sick because he likes Thor?”

“Obviously.”

“Alright.” You sighed and put on a new pair of gloves. You pretended to examine your little friend, feeling Loki’s eyes on you. Thankfully Bubbles was a very brave patient and you never had much problems with him. He even let you touch his belly. That’s why instead of looking for the cause of the cat’s ‘unusual behaviour’ you just tickled him here and there- which he really liked.

“If you wanted to ask me out you could have just said so. Or you could always just call me.” You have my number.” You broke the silence while still giving all of your attention to Bubbles, who happily flipped on his back, demanding belly scratches.

“I’m not- that’s not-” The god of mischief stuttered, suddenly taking an interest in that one picture of your dog on the wall. You have figured out his little plan and that was just embarrassing to him.

“I wouldn’t say no.” You smiled, looking directly at Loki who was still refusing to meet your eyes.

“Pardon?” The god asked, surprised.

“If you asked me out I wouldn’t say no.” You left Loki speechless. Their heart was beating like crazy and his mind was completely empty. “You know how much I love it when you and Bubbles pay me a visit every 2 hours, but I have other patients waiting for me so….”

“Oh yes, that’s-” The god took his cat into his arms and awkwardly stood in the middle of the room, thinking about their next move. “So if I asked whether you had time for dinner tonight you wouldn’t say no?” The god of mischief asked, still unsure of your answer.

“Only if you pay.”

“I guess it’s a date then.” Loki opened the door to finally exit your office. Their heart was still beating fast and almost stopped when you said-

“I guess it is.”

[azulsluver]

If josuke was always getting beat up and insulted by reader, especially if they insult his hair that is VERY important to him and he just lets it slide...

Wouldn't koichi or okuyasu know/be suspicious about this? And they would atleast try to fight reader back or atleast defend josuke right?

When did they realize josuke let it slide for a reason?, Plus, how much can reader push josuke until he actually snap? (Other than moving out of town like the fic?)

I just want to see the side characters opinions about josuke and reader's dynamic lol (including rohan ig?)

Got it. Let’s make some things clear however.

We all know Josuke didn’t develop the sense of style he calls a hair until later on. Now was there an official saying when he decided to have a pompadour? No. So my guess was him moving into middle school, secretly using his grandpas hair gel… now you didn’t exactly call him out about his hair. It looks silly, but you’re usually not the one playing fire with your mouth. So technically he didn’t let you “slide”, although I’m sure Josuke would if you didn’t go around spouting how much you hate him. Nonsense!

Josuke in the anime is shown to bite his tongue when bullied by his seniors, besides the insulting hair part. So where does Okuyasu and Koichi play a part in this? First off, they don’t know you personally. You stray away from Josuke and his friends now high school peaked. Being known as the student who once fought Josuke. Josuke however practically moans and groan about you on the daily, it makes Okuyasu a little jealous since Josuke didn’t tell him the reason and how you were his bully. He likes to leave those details out.

Avoiding Josuke is your job. Giving up on the bullying. He’s scary and he’s popular. You kind of downgraded and stayed with close friends. You are in no position to try and scream in his face, his admires will bite you back for it.

Implied, Josuke is smitten with you, when you are alone he’s more affectionate. Which you have been a couple of times. He’s daring and never gives up, you could be married and he’ll set your partner up to make you see how horrible of a person they are. Josuke’s relentless pursuit has caused some of your older friends to part, which would explain why you had a few in high school. To push him is almost impossible—all you had to do was yell it in his face. Children don’t exactly say they hate something without a good reason, you just so happen to bubble up those feelings. What really gets him is showing PDA with a partner that’s not him. Babe that’s cheating! God forbid he ever went to those type of house parties and playing spin the bottle, everyone going out.

For the ‘side characters’ opinions on the relationship it’s all show. Josuke tells what he thinks, sweet, adorable you, the attitude could be fixed—you just miss him because he hasn’t been paying attention, he’s sooo sorry.

Okuyasu believes Josuke wholeheartedly, whatever you say must be butterflies, he gets those too when he’s talking to a cute girl. Don’t be an ass, Josuke gets a little mean and will use Okuyasu’s ability as an example if you continue to run your mouth. Your cheeks are just as kissable.

Koichi at first was a little skeptical given rumors. He’s seen you before, all avoidant and uneasy whenever Josuke waves loudly for your attention. But Josuke is a good man, a good friend, once he puts two to two together he comes to a conclusion that you weren’t the nicest. How could Josuke ever be so sappy with you when you clearly got the look of wanting to call him a bitch. You kind of remind him of Yukako with that expression you make.

Call Rohan an expert, he’s not new to these sort of things. But you’re on your own. Why should he snoop in Josuke’s personal relationships, how would it benefit him?…..although he could get back at Josuke for ripping him off his bet. He practically knows how it all went down and the dynamic you two had. Laughing a couple of times as he flips to the next page on your arm, Rohan would be a little indifferent. Every man to themselves I guess.

[storiesofsvu]

CM 17.3

Alright!! 17e3 here we go!!

(I meant to rewatch the first 2 eps before this but didn’t get around to it, so a more in-depth review/more film student analysis is still to come.)

Enjoy this chaos with no context for now! (a lot of it likely isn’t gonna be fully fleshed out cause I have a full thought/reply and try my hardest to type it all out super fast before the show moves on but I have to stop to pay attention OR something else comes up and im just SCRAMBLING)

Absolutely hate there’s no subtitles right away for this but I mean.. I could wait a couple of days til its on Disney I just have no patience.

GOD why is it so fucking dark.

Thank you Emily for not letting luke spill the beans, like, kinda like Rebecca as a person, but can’t trust her as long as her job goes

Okay, em is in the right here, both in the sense of keeping it quiet originally but also making luke keep hush. Cause im sorry but she’s right. It would’ve 1000% drove the team to the brink and split them apart AND made them spiral so deep about what was on the site/other people seeing them/trying to cleanse the web of them (which obvi is impossible). Esp jj of all people? Like I’m not really sure *what* is on there, but jj is the one with KIDS, a full family, she’s still in contact with her parents (at least the mom?) she’s probably likely known in the circle of the boys friends parents? Like that’s SO much damage control to stress over??

Im so fucking excited for prentiss’ wacko neighbour to come back loool

LOOOOLL em’s “oh.. oh no…” reaction. I love this.

Did pen just say “tik tack” instead of tik tok? or was I not listening properly lol

“what are you gonna do?” “put out fires” that is LITERALLY a boss’ job. This being said as a boss.

“I don’t want to say no to your face…” SAME girl… same

GOD Emily is so fucking beautiful

This back and fourth with Garcia and her opinions on tyler is SO annoying. At first she hates him and doesn’t want to even look at him, then they’re flirting, then they’re fucking. Then she’s all twitterpated and wrapped around his finger. Then she AGAIN wants nothing to do with him?? Even though in the last ep she was all high school girlie about working with an “ex”?? I GET that the writers/showrunners are piling the comic relief onto her/the situation but come ON.

“I didn’t call you” “your landlord did” BRUH. COME ON. I don’t care how crazy things are, you ALWAYS double check that! I once saw a dude backing into my driveway with a ladder and immediately went outside to be all “uh..hello?” he immediately pulled out his phone, named my landlord, pointed out what he was there for (damage to the siding of the house, I hadn’t noticed cause I hadn’t left the house and live in the basement) AND offered to call my landlord. ALWAYS BE SUSPICIOUS.

WHY THE FUCK ARE JJ AND LUKE PAIRED UP!!!!????? Jj’s a profiler, she’s obvi gonna be able to get it outta luke, or press him for details, or whatever. If he’s supposed to keep shit quiet why tf are they off together. (or were they specifically asked to be together by voit? Cause that’s just him playing into his bullshit again)

“Emily practising deception isn’t a lie. It’s good leadership” THANK YOU.

Also...to feed all the jemily shippers out there… if this was a fic written by me.. it would be bundled into the AI shit, but there would be pics of Emily and jj hooking up that were very easily proven to be legit and the entire situation would out them and that’s what the actual issue was/is with the site…

I understand jj is outside with Sydney and luke’s job is to keep the girls distracted inside but of COURSE its himbo’s first reaction to pull out the soccer ball INSIDE.

Okay is that just some weird direction/camera angles or are we eluding to the older sister being a cutter?

Emily’s reactions to brian were perfection.

JFC NO! who’s out there stalking them? Uggghh (though I will say that the moment something clinked in the parking garage I said to myself “pls don’t let her get kidnapped in ep 3…”

I KNEW IT WAS CARBON MONOXIDE!! So smrt

Why does it feel like tyler knows more about gold star than the bau does?

Oooo but he cloned the phone! Good boy!!

Penelope: in charge of tracking down tyler

Tyler: texts Penelope “I need to see you”

Penelope: “NO!” doesn’t reply….

Ah yes.. I was right about the cutting… oof. Uugggh talk about heartbreaking..

LOOOOL tara teasing rossi! “I think I pulled… everything…” HHAH

Im not gonna lie, I absolutely HATE that they went down this AI *porn* route, as if these fucking poor characters haven’t been through enough, and like, again as I said, JJ… she’s got the most damage control to do no matter what, and poor girl hasn’t dealt with more than half her trauma so far…

“but I didn’t exactly get it legally, so you know what rebecca’s gonna say” THANK YOU. But also, like fuck that. cause this show has ALWAYS been above the law in that sense. I can’t remember if I said it in last week’s summary or if it was another random post, but CM vs like, SVU is WILD because we NEVER see things past the cuffs being put on/the unsub getting killed/killing themselves. We never go to court, we never see the legal side of it BECAUSE 99% of them would be not guilty due to mental…defect? LOL I know that’s not the right word/phrase but you know what I mean. CM is about the mind of the criminal and chasing them down and finding out the trigger and stressor and figuring out the pattern, not seeing things through to court and prison.

and while I love the addition of her character (Rebecca), it’s making other characters act in ways they never have before/never would simply because now the show is implicating the legal side of things. again, love having Rebecca and that boundary in line for the team but it is messing with the normal dynamics we are used to. Like..as IF Penelope would have any issue using an illegally cloned phone in the past. She was all “don’t ask questions” “well yes I *could* get access to that record, but it is technically sealed” and hotch would be all “I didn’t hear anything…”

LOL Emily with a full bottle of wine at her desk. Love her. god she’s SO annoyed with brian and I love it.

SEE this is why luke never should have said anything. Cause it doesn’t matter how hard you try not to look, you’re never going to be able to resist being able to look it up, no matter how bad it is, how fake and evil and ugly it is, you’re still gonna want to know and jj didn’t need to see that/know about it. How is she supposed to go home and act ok now??

“okay they’re here… somehow” DUDE YOU KNOW BETTER EM! Doesn’t matter that youre in an fbi parking garage, no cop gets there that fast!!

Also..that red coat is TRENCH COAT. YEESSS

Oh FUCK YOU BRIAN

“FUCKING BRIAN!” thankkkkk you em

THAT’S HOW IT ENDS SEERIOUSLY? Ffs.

Also…in all seriousness. Em was in HER office at the BAU, somewhere you (I assume) need clearance to get on property, much less in the building or into the parking, so WHY/HOW the FUCK were both brian, the guys who beat him up and whoever took the pictures get clearance?? SHOULDN’T QUANTICO HAVE SOME PRETTY FUCKING HIGH SECURITY LEVELS???

[atrial-ofhorror-if]

Hi guys, bet you thought you wouldn't see me again! 

Lol its been a terrible couple of months and I have already written this post at least 3 times but I've never been able to fully get across what is truly going on and how to articulate it.

I'm gonna try to keep it short and to the point however, cause I know some of you all don't really care about theatrics.

 ATOH is still in production. Yes, you heard right, I am still working on it. I am just going through a slump. And it's not necessarily that I am in writer's block. I wish it was writer's block honestly, that would be so much easier to deal with…

Under the cut is more details. A little personal, I suppose 👉🏿👈🏿

 I'm extremely depressed currently, and for a while, I hadn't even known I was depressed! This has truly threw me for a loop yall 🥴🥴. I honestly have no idea when I will be able to fully get myself out of this but I've been trying for a very very long time and it just doesn't seem like it's coming to an end. 

During this time, I've managed to gain some energy to work on edits given to me by beta readers but I cannot say for certain that this project is something I can turn my full attention towards anymor. I'm not putting a ATOH on hiatus because I hate that. And I'd hate to put my game on hiatus for fear that ill completely forget about it. Instead, I'll sayil that production, ie., editing, writing, etc., is going to be extremely slow. The good thing is and I keep saying this over and over is that this new chapter or i should say the new portion of the game is ready for drop. I just need to go ahead and finish adding suggestions but again I just need to gain the energy to do so.

Thank you, everyone who has stood by a trial of horro and it's slow slow production and who has continued to stand Bambi I really appreciate it and you guys are honestly like my light right now if you have any questions please don't hesitate to ask send a while for me to respond but I am seeing most of your messages and I do appreciate your guys caring and you're reaching out. 

Well, that's it for me guys byeee!

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @mysticstarlightduck!

OC Aesthetic Deep Dive Tag: Captain Faalgun Falani

Rules: Make a moodboard with your character's aesthetic, a playlist that fits their vibe, "badly summarize them" (like, talk about their personality, but funnily), etc. It absolutely does not need to be super detailed!!!!!

I figured it'd be fun to do a character I haven't talked about much yet, so here's my little dragon man :)

Moodboard:

Music:

Dead Man Walking by Brent Faiyaz

Casual Fatality by Night Hawk

Elstree by The Buggles

Drink by Destroy Boys

Heaven by I Monster

(I think the common theme between all these is a deep, underlying sadness, but they still manage to be comically different lol)

Basic Summary:

Faalgun was born on the Flying City and given up to an orphanage at a young age. It was a nice space, and though he was always a little distant from the other kids due to his runty size and serious demeanor, he had a happy childhood for the most part. He joined the Flying City Ten'ka (merchant guards) right out of school, and had the makings of a fine career as a pilot, except for one thing.

Faalgun has a bit of an addictive personality. He might be uptight, but all sense of caution goes out the window when he gets an adrenaline rush. He flies crazier, takes risks, and makes rash decisions to keep that rush going. I'm sure you can guess that when he was introduced to gambling, it didn't go well.

He racked up debt quickly. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't put down the cards - the rush of adrenaline was just too powerful. In time, the debts got so bad that he lost his career, then his life when he was beaten in an alleyway. Now, as a ghost, he's been summoned back to pilot a ship past the edge of the sun's light. He hopes to succeed in death where he failed in life.

As for appearances, he's a little dragon guy! He stands at about three and a half feet tall, has blue scales, crystalline horns, and scaly whiskers. He wears the stained uniform he died in and his neck can swivel further than it should since he died when it was broken.

He's an honorable sort who runs a tight ship, despite his craving for adrenaline. He often accounts for his own weaknesses when he makes plans, in order to minimize the harm he might cause to his allies. Care for his crew also extends to their emotional states - Faalgun is attentive and eager to lend a listening ear, though he fervently avoids letting any of his crew know about his past life. There's a deep sense of shame at his core, no matter how good of a captain he is.

I'll tag @thecomfywriter @tragedycoded @greenfinchwriter @somethingclevermahogony and anyone else who wants to play :)