#and sometimes she still resents it all!!!!!

[perfectsunlight]

[31] DO IT

warnings: emotional distress, family conflict, intense feelings of isolation and public scrutiny.

ivory had always been afraid of being forgotten. not by her fans or the world—but by the one person who mattered most. even as a child, she would wake up in the middle of the night, wandering to her mother’s room, needing reassurance that jennie was still there. sometimes, she’d stand quietly in the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of her mother’s breathing, too scared to wake her but too terrified to return to bed without knowing she wasn’t alone.

it was a fear she never spoke of, one that existed in the spaces between phone calls, in the empty chairs at school performances and birthday dinners. as she grew older, ivory learned to bury that fear beneath layers of independence and a carefully constructed persona. she became untouchable, unbreakable. but deep down, the fear never really went away. it just evolved—into a gnawing ache, a quiet desperation that simmered beneath the surface.

no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, no matter how fiercely she told herself that she didn’t need anyone, especially not jennie—there was always that part of her, that small, terrified child, that craved her mother’s presence. it didn’t matter that the world saw jennie as an untouchable icon, a woman too busy for mundane things like school recitals and family dinners. to ivory, jennie wasn’t a superstar. she was her mother. the one person whose absence felt like a constant void in her life, no matter how full her schedule or how loud the applause was at the end of the day.

as a child, it was easier to forgive. ivory could accept the excuses—the concerts, the tours, the interviews. her friends’ parents worked, too. it was normal, she told herself. but as she grew older, the empty seats at her events became harder to overlook. the brief phone calls shorter. the excuses thinner. and yet, despite all of that, ivory couldn’t bring herself to truly resent jennie. 

she couldn’t. she wouldn’t.

but she was scared. scared that one day her mother's calls would stop altogether. scared that the distance between them would grow so wide, neither of them would be able to bridge it. and now, standing at the center of this storm, that fear felt closer than ever.

the headlines hadn’t stopped since paris.

who is jennie’s mystery daughter? did k-pop’s queen secretly have a child? blackpink’s jennie: a liar and a mother?

the press had latched onto the grainy photos and videos of their argument like vultures circling a fresh kill. ivory had seen the way they twisted the story, the wild speculation that spread like wildfire across social media. the world now knew jennie had a daughter. 

and they knew it was her. 

jane had spent years keeping her identity hidden, living under the radar while the world worshiped her mother. she had liked it that way. the anonymity, the freedom to exist without the suffocating weight of expectations that came with being jennie kim’s daughter. but now? that fragile shield had been shattered, and the world was closing in.

the calls had started soon after the story broke. jennie, frantic, trying to reach her—voicemail after voicemail, the panic in her voice barely contained. ivory had listened to each one with growing dread, her finger hovering over the play button as her heart raced in her chest.

“valentine, please. i need to know you’re safe.” “jane, please. please just let me know you’re alright.”

there had been so much desperation in her mother’s voice, the kind ivory wasn’t used to hearing from her mother. jennie was always composed, always in control. but now, she sounded as if she was unraveling at the seams. and ivory couldn’t take it. she couldn’t bear to hear her mother like that, not when she had caused this entire mess.

so she ignored the calls. all of them. 

when the familiar buzzing showed on her screen every few hours, it felt like an unwanted reminder of the chaos she had unleashed, a storm that tore through both of their lives. each vibration sent a sickening twist through her stomach, a reminder of the gravity of her actions.

after the confrontation in paris, ivory had fled the hybe building, overwhelmed and reeling. she didn’t want to face anyone—not the paparazzi waiting outside, not her mother, and certainly not herself. so she slipped away, taking a cab to a small, rundown hotel in the heart of seoul, far from the flashing lights and the stares that burned into her skin.

her managers knew where she was, and they had told her to lay low until they figured out what they were going to do. 

the hotel was shabby, with faded wallpaper and a flickering neon sign that buzzed incessantly, but it offered a strange kind of solace. she checked in under a fake name, wanting to escape the reality of who she was and what she had done. here, she could hide from the world, drown in her thoughts, and figure out how to untangle the mess she had created.

days passed in a blur of solitude. the room was small and dimly lit, with a single window that overlooked the busy street below. she could hear the sounds of the city—the chatter of voices, the honking of horns, the distant thrum of music. but within those four walls, it felt as if she were in a different universe, one where time stood still and the chaos outside faded into a dull hum.

ivory found herself staring at the walls, the phone silent for days. she had turned it off, the weight of it resting on the nightstand like a stone. the outside world felt like a distant echo, muted and blurry. she had done this to think, to find clarity amid the storm of emotions that threatened to engulf her. but instead of solace, she was confronted with a suffocating silence that pressed down on her, amplifying her thoughts until they roared in her mind.

every night, she would curl up in the thin hotel sheets, staring at the ceiling as tears soaked into the fabric. the headlines blared in her mind, the way the world painted her as a reckless daughter, a girl who had turned her back on her mother. each image she had seen of jennie—stoic yet clearly shattered—felt like a knife twisting deeper into her heart.

maybe she had gotten it wrong all along? maybe it wasn’t jennie who was a bad mother, but perhaps ivory was just a bad daughter?

the thought gnawed at her, burrowing into the cracks she’d tried so hard to seal with layers of resentment and self-protection. for so long, she had told herself that her mother’s absences were her choice, that they were symptoms of a life she’d constantly chosen over jane. but maybe she’d been too harsh, too quick to judge. maybe, instead of seeing her mother’s absence as abandonment, she should have seen it as a sacrifice—the kind of sacrifice jennie had made over and over again for a career that demanded so much of her.

she remembered the times her mother had tried, the small efforts that jane had always brushed aside. 

the hasty texts on long flights, the brief hugs at drop-offs. the late nights when the idol would tiptoe into her room just to check if she was sleeping, her gaze lingering as if she could somehow make up for all the time she’d missed. ivory had shrugged those moments off as mere gestures, believing them to be obligations jennie fulfilled out of duty, not love. but now, lying alone in the dim room, the reality of it hit her in waves. what if those gestures had been her mother’s way of holding on? what if, in those tiny efforts, her mom had been showing her all the love she knew how to give?

the guilt was like a weight pressing down on her chest, making it harder to breathe. ivory had been so focused on what jennie hadn’t done. she had zeroed in on the moments she’d missed, that she’d blinded herself to the ways her mother had tried. she felt stupid now, like a fool who’d misread the intentions of someone she’d thought she knew.

and here she was now, hiding away in a hotel room, and pushing away her mother like she had always done. perhaps it was the only thing ivory was good at?

the irony stung. for so long, she’d told herself she didn’t need anyone, that she could stand on her own. but now the feeling of jennie’s absence left her hollow. what she wouldn’t give to hear her mother’s voice, to feel her arms around her, reassuring her that no matter what, she was loved.

she just needed to know that even though the world hated her, jennie didn’t. but how could she face the woman who had done so much for her now? how could she call and ask for comfort from her own mistakes?

it was unbearable.

the silence was thick, suffocating, punctuated only by the soft, shuddering breaths she tried to keep at bay. her hair clung damply to the sides of her face, sticking where her tears had traced lines over her skin, and she made no effort to brush it away. she was too tired, too drained to fight it. the shame was a living, breathing thing, curling around her ribs and squeezing until she felt she might break. she wanted to call, needed to hear her mother’s voice if only to remind herself that she hadn’t lost her for good. 

but fear held her still, paralyzed by the thought of what jennie might say—what if this time, she’d gone too far?

her mother had built her image, brick by brick, a fortress against the world. for as long as she could remember, jennie had been untouchable—a figure of grace and strength who carried her fame with an elegance that shielded them both. she was not only a mother but a force, someone who had learned how to guard herself against scrutiny, judgment, and the eyes of millions. 

and in one single night, ivory had torn it down entirely.

the thought made her throat tighten. it wasn’t just her mother’s disappointment she feared; it was the possibility that she might have broken something between them beyond repair. she could almost feel the weight of her mother’s silent gaze, the look jennie gave when words failed her, a look jane had always dreaded. how many times had jennie shielded her from the world, made sacrifices so she could have a semblance of a normal life, always trying to balance her career with the quiet reality of motherhood? 

the young idol slowly shifted to grab her phone, finally powering it on for the first time in days.

with a trembling hand, ivory unlocked her phone, its glow casting an eerie light across the dim hotel room. notifications flooded the screen—missed calls from jennie, countless unread messages, and a storm of news alerts she didn’t have the strength to open. she ignored them all, her thumb hovering over the search bar instead. she hesitated, feeling the familiar ache in her chest that had kept her silent for days, and then she typed in her mother’s name.

the videos started playing softly, her mother’s familiar voice filling the empty room like a gentle balm. some were clips from concerts, where jennie laughed and shouted with the crowd, her voice confident and warm. others were softer interviews, where she answered questions thoughtfully, her tone composed and steady. ivory’s heart twisted as she listened, letting her mother’s voice settle over her like a blanket, the sounds wrapping around her loneliness and fear.

as the videos played, she closed her eyes, imagining that jennie was right there beside her, as if these recordings could somehow bridge the distance between them. she could almost hear her mother speaking directly to her, calming her fears, reassuring her like she used to when jane was little, waking from a nightmare.

she remembered the times jieun would have to do the same thing she was doing now. jane always had trouble sleeping whenever jennie was gone. whenever her mother was away—on tour, at a shoot, anywhere the demands of fame took her—ivory would find herself wide awake, the shadows in her room feeling bigger and darker without jennie’s reassuring presence. the quiet would fill her with a familiar fear, that gnawing ache that maybe one day jennie might not come back at all.

on those nights, ivory would wander down the hallway, blanket in hand, and find jieun still awake, often reading by a small, warm light. jieun always seemed to know what was coming. she’d reach out, patting the spot beside her without a word. “couldn’t sleep, huh?” she’d ask gently, her voice soft but steady. ivory would nod, curling up beside her grandmother as she reached for her phone.

they’d spend those late hours scrolling through videos of jennie, watching old interviews and clips from concerts. her grandmother would play each one as if it were a lullaby, knowing that jennie's familiar laugh and voice were the only things that could ease ivory’s fears. ivory would lean her head against her grandmother’s shoulder, letting her mother’s voice wash over her until her eyes grew heavy, lulled by the warmth of her grandmother and the comfort of hearing her favorite person’s voice, even if only through a screen.

now, alone in a cheap hotel room, ivory found herself reaching for that same comfort.

the hum of jennie’s voice blurred the line between reality and memory. as she drifted further into sleep, ivory could almost believe that her mother’s hand was stroking her hair, whispering that everything would be alright, that no matter what happened, they’d get through it together.

when morning came, ivory slowly pulled herself from the mattress and forced herself to get up and shower.

the water came down in torrents, cold and sharp against her skin, but ivory barely felt it. she stood there, shoulders slumped, the steam from the shower swirling around her in thick clouds. her hands gripped the edge of the glass shower door as her mind spiraled, the weight of the decision she knew she had to make crashing down on her like the cold water that refused to wash away her guilt.

she had to do it. she had to put out a statement—one that would sever the last thread of connection between her and jennie. the world had already begun to twist the narrative, speculating and spinning stories. it was only a matter of time before the pressure would reach its boiling point, and she knew if she didn’t act quickly, everything would unravel even further.

but even as she told herself this, a pit formed deep in her stomach. the words she’d have to say—the lies, the betrayal—they burned in her chest. she couldn’t stop imagining jennie’s face, her voice on the other end of the phone, pleading for ivory to come back, for her to let her in again.

she could almost hear jennie’s voice now, asking, "why? why are you doing this, jane?"

the weight of her mother’s potential reaction was almost too much to bear. but there was no other choice. she had to distance herself. it was the only way to protect jennie from the media storm, from the chaos that ivory had set in motion. 

if she was ever linked to her, it would only drag jennie further into the mess. and she couldn’t do that to her, not after her mother spent so many years in the crosshairs of the public.

but at the same time, she couldn’t ignore the wrenching pain twisting in her chest, the unrelenting ache of tearing herself away from the only person who had ever loved her unconditionally. it wasn’t just the public denial—it was the emptiness of choosing silence over connection, the silence that would stretch between them, forever.

her breath caught, and before she knew it, the tears started to fall.

she didn’t bother to wipe them away. the water mixed with her tears as they streamed down her face. each sob felt like a jagged stone pressing into her chest, each breath a sharp reminder of what she was about to do.

she stood there for what felt like hours, the water running cold against her skin, as the weight of the decision consumed her. she wasn’t ready. she wasn’t ready to break her own heart. but what else could she do?

it was the only way to protect her mother. it was the final act of love she could show—to shield her from the chaos, just like jennie had done for her for many years.

the young idol’s body wracked with silent sobs, her shoulders shaking with the force of them, as the cold water continued to cascade over her, doing nothing to numb the pain. the girl slid down the wall of the shower, curling into herself, her body trembling with exhaustion and sorrow. the sobs finally quieted, replaced by a dull, hollow ache. she stared blankly at the drain as the water swirled down it, as if it could wash away the decision she was just about to make. but it wouldn’t.

there was no undoing this.

but as she looked at herself in the foggy glass, the reflection staring back at her seemed like a stranger. her eyes were red and swollen, her hair clinging to her face, but it wasn’t the image that haunted her. it was the feeling—the deep, gnawing emptiness that settled in her chest.

she wasn’t ready to be this person. the one who had betrayed the woman who had given her everything. 

it felt like an eternity before ivory got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, her body still trembling from the emotional storm that had passed through her. she stood for a moment, just staring at the floor, as if hoping for some sign, some sense of clarity, but nothing came. the room around her was still, and the weight of the world seemed to press down on her shoulders.

the idol opened her notes app, typing and deleting words over and over again. what could she say? or what should she say?

the sound of her fingers tapping against the screen felt deafening in the stillness of the room. each word she typed seemed hollow, inadequate—nothing could capture the depth of the turmoil swirling inside her. ivory’s thoughts were a mess, jumbled fragments of regret, guilt, and fear crashing against each other, leaving no space for the clarity she desperately needed.

finally, the girl decided on a few short, simple sentences. this would give them enough information for now. it would do its job, it would be a swift, clean cut.

with trembling hands, the idol opened instagram. all le sserafim members had access to the group’s social media. it seems that still rang true even in the midst of her controversy. do it. you coward, just post it. 

ivory screamed internally, the weight of the decision suffocating her as she paced frantically around the tiny hotel room. her feet moved almost instinctively, a frantic attempt to outrun the rising panic that clutched at her chest. she felt like she was suffocating, the air thick with the pressure of what she had to do, the knowledge of the damage she was about to cause, and the raw, burning shame that threatened to undo her.

she gripped the edges of the dresser, her knuckles white, and tried to steady herself. her breath came in short, uneven bursts, each inhale too shallow, too jagged. the sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears, deafening and unrelenting.

the phone sat on the bed, waiting, but it felt like it belonged to someone else—someone stronger, someone more composed. not her. not the girl who had ruined everything, who had just irrevocably hurt the one person who had loved her unconditionally.

jane ran a shaky hand through her damp hair, the strands sticking to her face, her palms clammy with sweat. her mind screamed at her to just do it, to just press post and be done with it. but her body refused to listen, frozen in a state of panic, unable to make the final step.

she thought about grabbing a drink from the minibar, or a cigarette from the convenience store across the street. just something, anything, to numb the ache, to quiet the voice screaming inside her head. anything to give her the courage to end this.

instead, she found herself pacing again, faster this time, her feet slapping against the carpet floor as she raked her fingers through her wet hair. tears blurred her vision as she thought about the hell she was about to unleash.

she would never be able to fix this, to look in her mother’s face after what she’s going to do. how could she live with herself knowing she was the one to destroy whatever was left of their fragile relationship? that it was her delivering the final blow?

every step felt like a mile, every thought twisted into another dark, suffocating reality. jane grabbed the phone again, holding it in her trembling hands, but she couldn’t bring herself to unlock it. she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stop crying, but the tears wouldn’t listen. they streamed down her cheeks in hot, unrelenting trails, as if her body was rejecting the very decision she was trying to make.

the voice in her head, her inner critic, was louder now. you have to. and all she could do was cry harder, fall to her knees on the floor. she knelt hunched over the small device in her hands. ivory wiped her hot tears away, but they kept coming, the grief and shame bubbling to the surface, threatening to drown her.

“fucking do it,” she whispered hoarsely to herself, as though forcing herself to speak the words would somehow make it easier. but it didn’t. the room felt smaller, and the decision felt heavier. it felt like the entire world was pressing down on her, suffocating her, forcing her to face something she wasn’t ready for.

she was stuck. terrified. mortified.

the phone was still in her hand, and the post still wasn’t out. it felt like the silence of the room was mocking her. the minutes dragged on, stretching into eternity, until she collapsed onto the edge of the bed, holding her phone like a lifeline, but too scared to actually use it.

“i’m sorry, mom,” she whispered into the empty space, the words barely audible, as if apologizing to the void might make it somehow less real. “i’m so sorry.” the young girl swallowed thickly, her throat tight and raw, the weight of her words nearly suffocating her. she could feel the tightness in her chest as if it might collapse in on itself, her body trembling with the force of her guilt and regret. the silence of the room was deafening now, every breath she took louder than the last, like an unbearable countdown to a moment she knew she couldn’t escape.

but she had to. she had to do this.

the tears kept coming, streaming down her face with relentless force. she squeezed her eyes shut, her whole body shuddering with sobs that felt too deep, too jagged to put into words. it was as though her very soul was unraveling with each breath.

ivory tried to steady herself, but the weight of what she was about to do, what she already had to do, was suffocating. she couldn’t breathe. she couldn’t think. she couldn’t speak.

her hand shook as she clutched her phone, the cold screen and hotel walls staring back at her like a silent witness to her unraveling. she could hear her pulse hammering in her ears, each beat like a loud echo in the stillness of the room. the weight of the moment pressed down on her chest, so heavy it felt like she might drown beneath it. she swallowed again, her throat a dry, cracked thing, a raw, burning sensation creeping from her chest to her neck. the very air seemed thick with suffocating tension.

for a heartbeat, time stilled.

the phone felt like a foreign object in her hand, as if she no longer recognized the tool she was holding, the tool that would carve the irreversible. ivory’s fingers hovered over the screen, trembling with a fear that left her weak, her vision blurred by the constant stream of tears falling from her eyes. the words she had written earlier, so cold and detached, flashed in front of her like a cruel reminder of her betrayal. 

i’m sorry, mom. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.

“i’m sorry,” she audibly whispered again, a choked sob catching in her throat. the words tasted bitter, like they weren’t enough, like they could never be enough. her voice broke on the apology, and the sound of it made her stomach twist. the silence that followed it was even worse.

the room felt impossibly small now, as if the walls were closing in on her, boxing her in with her shame. she was suffocating, trapped between what she had done and the consequences of it that she could already feel closing in. the tears came faster, her chest tightening with each sob, each breath more frantic than the last.

with trembling hands, she scrolled down and found the post she had written. there it was—her confession, her betrayal, sitting on the screen, waiting to be sent out into the world.

it felt like an eternity before she could bring herself to press the button. each second stretched into infinity, like a thousand hands were holding her back, pulling her in different directions. she wanted to scream, to throw the phone away, to forget everything and run. but she knew she couldn’t. this was the only way.

with bated breath, ivory closed her eyes, feeling her heart race and her body tremble, and, with one final breath, she pressed post.

the screen flashed. her post was up. 

for a moment, there was nothing. the room was still, her heart beating in her chest like a drum, the silence deafening in its weight.

then, the floodgates opened. the weight of what she had done crashed down on her, each wave of grief so overwhelming it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. she curled in on herself, sobbing uncontrollably, the phone slipping from her fingers, the screen glowing faintly in the corner of the room. 

from her position, she could see the influx of comments, each a nail in the coffin of the grave she had made. she had lied. she had denied her own mother in front of the entire world. but it was the only way. the only way to shield jennie from the relentless scrutiny, the only way to keep the world from devouring them both.

jane knew the headlines would only grow worse from here. the media would turn their attention to her, dissecting every part of her life, trying to uncover the truth. but she didn’t care. as long as they left her mother alone, as long as she didn’t have to endure the harsh spotlight again, ivory would take the heat. 

and she would do it alone. there was no going back.

all she could do was sit there, curled up on the floor of the hotel room, her heart breaking with every sob that tore through her.

she had posted it. she had betrayed her mother.

and now, nothing would ever be the same.

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CLOSED.

[liquidorcard]

HEY Y'ALL IT'S MIKAILER WITH AN "ER" WHY IS THAT SO HARD TO GRASP!?

---

Did I get your attention, Mikaila? I hope so, let's see.

Mikaila, I don't like you. You've done shit that's soured my opinion of you. I'm acknowledging that now to get that out of the way. I'm not here to be two-faced about this or blow smoke up your ass.

But as one idiot who stayed in a toxic relationship to another-- I'm not making fun of you because I think I'm better. I know. Being in a relationship like that brings out some ugly shit. You resent and fear people will never forgive you. You don't know if you will forgive yourself. I'm not making fun of you because I think I'm better than you.

And it feels kinda good, being treated badly? In a weird way? When you're used to it? When you feel you kind of deserve it? It did for me too. My abuser did some fucked up shit to me. I don't know how to describe to you the strange feelings I'm left with now. Sometimes I think I finally hate her, sometimes, as pathetic as it makes me feel, I still miss her. It's a rot in you that never really goes away, but you learn to live with it. I understand that agony. I understand that anger of how fucking unfair it is.

You know my opinion of Lily. You're not going to trust me that I'm not saying all this just to get you two to break up to hurt her. Fair. Very fair, not going to pretend like it's not. But if Lily loves you, nothing I'm about to say should be an issue. She should want what's best for you, right?

Here's the rub Mikaila, it's been a few years now. I know you want out of your situation at home, but it doesn't seem like Lily's going to be able to help you with that at this point. I'm sure Lily's given you plenty of reasons as to why, and it's time to listen to her.

If you're heart's set on coming to Canada, your best bet is getting a job here. Or even, going to school. Art degrees (Here in Canada) aren't as expensive, provided you go to the right school. Even taking out a student loan for just one year to figure your shit out. I know you're in quite a bit of debt right now and don't want to get into more, but. You gotta do what you gotta do.

Here's the college I went to. Yes, your work is sufficient to potentially get admitted. Believe it or not, art school's get that illustration is a learned skill. Artists start from all different levels:

Look through the admissions requirements to see if you have the academic records to be admitted. If not, you could also consider upgrading through online classes aswell.

Again though, your best bet is to try to find employment. The cost of living isn't great here right now, but it isn't great anywhere. I doubt you'll be able to find cheaper rent in America.

Once you're here or wherever you end up, away from the chaos of your home, you might find it a lot easier to get your head around, establishing some better independence and becoming a citizen by yourself. It's a shitty process, but not as bad as the one you guys have in the States. We stan an immigrant here.

You need to look out for you, Mikaila. It's not selfish. It's not a matter of whether you "really deserve it or not." Nobody's going to save you. You're emotionally spent because of your parents, You're emotionally spent because of Lily. And it feels kind of nice how much Lily needs you. But you can't help her until you help yourself - and again, if we're all wrong and Lily really loves you, she shouldn't have a problem with you finding your way.

My own mother once told me I was "born sad." I've never not hated myself. I ate up any little bit of love and validation no matter how many bitter, razor pills that came with it too. That's just how it is for some of us.

But you know what Mikaila? Fuck em. Fuck all of them. Fuck everything. Fuck me, Mikaila. You've got one life. One body. One you. Whatever you think of her, someone's gotta fight for that poor bitch. Why not you fight for you?

Everyone's a stinky meat bag stripped down, Mikaila. Everyone's made a fool in the wake of the shit people like you and I have been through. Not everyone's going to be able to forgive everything, but everyone's not wholly past forgiveness.

I'm no better than you Mikaila. Nobody is. Some of us just get to know the worst sides of ourselves better than others.

I don't like some of the things you've done, girl. But I see you. I get it. Tell us all to eat shit. Fix your life. Don't rely on Lily to make you feel whole or to save you. To make you feel worthy. No person can do that. She could be the reincarnation of Mary Mother of God herself, and you couldn't expect that from her. Be your own advocate. If your relationship isn't toxic, it can survive you becoming a more whole you.

This asshole is rooting for you. Give me an excuse to undoomer "Mikailer." My girl needs a win.

[k1ngpin42]

𝐹𝒶𝓇𝓂𝑒𝓇 𝒜𝒷𝒷𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑅𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒽 o𝓌𝓃𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇

Part 1: If you guys like it I can write part 2 (with smut)

@osteologistimpostor

@mitski-lovesems

A/N: Despite my VERY frequent Abby x female reader stories, I actually write original pieces too. This one isn’t an original piece- the character is still Abby, but I’m pushing outside of my comfort zone and I’m doing Abby x OC. It's also modern(ish) day Abby

So without further adieu:

Light drifted across the room, pouring onto the table where a rather unimpressed and not-very awake girl was seated. She chased the letters of the paper in her hand, paying more attention to the lack of colour more than how interesting- or rather, uninteresting- the words were. 

The view from the balcony was gorgeous, it’s serenity drifting through the house and offering enough “fresh air” to cure a lifetime of hangovers.  And still, it was lonely. Not the cleansing kind people often searched for when investing in large areas of land just to have 5 unneeded bathrooms with pretty tiles to be admired; but the desolate and painfully boring kind that was becoming all the more prominent to a woman new to adulthood with her whole life worth of dreams and ambitions with no aim or prospects to go about pursuing them. 

Of course any talk of leaving the nest was disregarded as swiftly as it was brought up by her rather reserved, single father, who was more protective of her than anything. This was unsurprising of course. She had great beauty and wit who would be sure to have people swooning over her had she been raised in the city, and this prospect was what scared him the most. 

“Good morning Clara.” Spoke a tall, scrawny brunette who grabbed the paper off of the table and sat beside her. “Anything interesting?” He questions, more to the paper than to her. The girl shrugs, using just as much energy to remain neutral as she did to bury the rather obvious deep seated resentment she held towards him. With most guilt, of course.

“Nope.” She replies quietly, getting back up from the table and walking over to the kitchen. 

“Coffee, dad?” The man is unresponsive, eyes drifting happily over the page. Clara rolls her eyes.

“Coffee-“

“Huh? Oh yes, yes thank you sweetie.” Clara nods, walking over to the machine and pressing a button, the espresso machine pouring out the rich smelling liquid with a loud and familiar noise.

“Oh, I hired a new ranch hand…by the way.” Explains her father in an awkward mutter. Clara turns her head with a force which very nearly gave her whiplash. 

“A ranch hand?” She exclaims, already forcing herself to believe it was just her mishearing over the sound of the coffee. Her father sighs. 

“Why don’t you bring that over here?” With a pounding heart, she obeys, bringing the coffee to him and sitting in the chair in front, fiddling with her hands and noting how the two textures feel as she rubs her hand on one another. The man takes a deep breath.

“I figured we could use the help just in case you…end up going to college. Sometime soon, maybe. And I saw this girls ad so I thought…” Clara doesn’t say anything, partly due to her state of disbelief but mostly because she believes saying something will break this reality in two, and that her dad would instead, change her mind and ask her to stay forever.

“Anyway, it’s just a trial run-“ Clara leaps over and hugs him. 

“Thank you dad. When does she start?” The man lets out a short laugh. 

“Tomorrow.”

***

Clara had spent the morning cleaning the dishes she had put off doing last night, watching TV in her bed and chilling on her balcony naked. She had been painting something out there and had lost motivation for it recently. As for the lack of clothes, she had a tendency of spilling paint on her clothes to a point she had decided just not to wear them since she was home alone. Or at least she thought that until she heard a loud thud in the barn. 

Flinching so high she almost saw the heavens, she knocks the painting, causing the stranger to reveal themself at the noise.

There she was. A beautiful, unfamiliar woman with long blonde hair braided ever so nicely down her back, black tank top revealing arms bigger than on any man she had seen, and a face so stunning Clara was blushing even before returning to the realisation that she was butt naked. 

The woman immediately covers her eyes with her hand and turns away from her.

“I…I…am sorry-“

“Who the fuck are you?!” Demands Clara, picking the painting back up and hiding as best she could behind the frame. 

“Uh…I’m Abby. I think your dad hired me. I take it you’re…Clara?”

“Fuck.” She says, taking a stabilising breath. “No, the new hire is coming tomorrow.”

“I decided to drive in early, I was going to start organising the barn to make it easier for myself when I start tomorrow. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to look.”

“No…No it’s my fault, I’m sorry Abby.”

“I can come back if you want to…keep painting.” She clears her throat awkwardly. “Naked.” she adds. Clara laughs softly.

“No I uh, think I’m done with that. Let me put some clothes on and I’ll come down.” Abby blushes, head still glued to the floor like the most interesting object she could fathom was there. “There’s no need for that miss-“ Abby blurted out, but Clara had already returned to her room. 

The second those doors are closed, Clara is hitting her hand over her head in dismay. Of course this would happen to her. Her first god damn impression with some tank, godess-of-a-woman stranger was that she’s some sort of farmer hippie who paints in the nude. It was only somewhat true, but regardless it made her want to move out and start a life as an actual hippie some place where no one will find her. In a scramble, she grabs a dress from one of her clothes piles on the ground. She couldn’t be sure it was clean, but it certainly looked better than her other shit. Thankfully she spotted a coat on the rack behind her door. Mind you, mildly clashy, but better than nothing. 

“Abby?” She asks warily. Abby steps out of the barn, face bright red. 

“Still here Ma’am.” 

“Oh. Yes…good.” Clara says, mentally kicking herself at each word. Abby nods, words failing her too. 

“My…dad said he saw your ad. That…you stayed with two seperate families from a young age.” Abbys expression bears much interest, allowing Clara to take her time with what she's saying.

“They kept you on for years so you must be pretty good at what you do. Why’d you decide to take this job instead?” 

“Change of pace. Mr and Mrs Harkin are lovely people but, both well into retirement. It was their families farm and they had a lovely house up their when they were newly weds. Had their own jobs on the farm. I guess now that they’re older, they’re less able to enjoy the space. Plus Mrs Harkins has a lot of medicine she needs to refill and…well there ain't many hospitals nearby and if I do it every day the sheep don’t get fed and…well they’re movin in to their sons house.”

“Must have been a shame…” Clara offers, eyes drifting up and down the taller woman. Abby nods.

“Yeah. You know, I’m surprised you live out here. Most of em’ farmers are old folk or entrepreneurs.”

“My dad’s an entrepreneur. Sort of. He sells like IT to big companies. He leaves often for work trips.”

“Leaves you here? I can’t imagine many babysitters being willing to drive all the way out here when you were younger. Did you go with him?” Claras eyes soften and she shakes her head.

“My mum stayed with me. When she was alive.”

“Oh…Miss I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, don’t be. And yeah it is pretty lonely but, on the plus side, I can’t imagine painting in the nude being appropriate in whatever city you come from.” Abby laughs. 

“Utah.” Claras eyes widen. 

“Utah?” She nods with a smile that makes Claras whole body tingle.

“Salt lake city.” She explains. Clara nods.

Each breath that left the muscular woman seemed to ripple in the space between them, and Claras own breathing mirrored it, as if they’d fallen into a rhythm only the two of them understood.

“I hope the painting can still be salvaged.” Abby spoke after some time. Claras eyes widen. 

“What?” 

“Well, you kinda knocked it when you…”

“Yeah.” Clara interrupts, not needing the memory of her naked body being exposed to be rehashed. “Though I wouldn’t care if it was ruined. I’ve never been much into art. Too impatient. I paint when something drives me to. A feeling or something inspiring but, I’ve felt that less and less of late.”

“Hm.” Abby responds, examining Clara as if to squint in between the lines she had placed.

“If not art, then what? Surely a sweet thing like you has some big ambition. Art school maybe?”

Sweet thing like you. Repeated the voice in Claras head. Each word lingered in the air, thickening the atmosphere between them, drawing her in closer as if to shield her from the world. It was a delicate label, yet it bore an unexpected weight, making her feel seen in a way that both thrilled and unsettled her, like stepping into the sun after a long winter.

“Have I said something…?” Abby asks, her own nervousness becoming obvious as she talks. In truth she hadn’t expected such beauty. An old man and an already married daughter was what she had expected when Claras father had accepted the ad, not a scrawny, decently young man and his perfect fucking daughter. One who, from what Abby had seen on the balcony, had a physique that mirrored that of an angel itself. 

Fuck. Thought Clara at the realisation that she had no recollection of what Abby possibly could have asked her. 

“No…sorry I, what did you ask?” Abby smiles reassuringly. 

“I was just asking about your plans for the future, but…well I should probably get back to work. I’ve already wasted enough time as is just gettin’ you out here and…well I shouldn’t waste your time any longer.” Clara nodded shortly. 

“I’ll be in the house…my rooms just there if you need me.” She offers, stepping away from Abby this time.

***

It had been days without contact from her. Or at least, face-to-face contact. Clara had found herself on that balcony more often than ever. Waking up at dawn to the sound of tools being russled in the barn and the sheep making happy “baas” in response to Abby feeding them. She would look out and see her tending to the crops, sweat on her skin illuminated by the morning sun and bringing a colour that painted her like one of the finest artworks in creation. She had Claras mind coursing in ways that she would warrant was unhealthy. Daydreaming. Fantasising. There was a yearning that words couldn’t describe. 

She wouldn’t face her though. Their first conversation had an unspoken definitiveness to it. Like they would speak only as formalities when situations required them to. Plus it’s not like Clara had that kind of confidence. No, that kind of confidence was only discovered at the bottom of a bottle of alcohol most of the time, and thankfully her dad was away for yet another weekend trip, leaving his stash of expensive bourbon unattended to.

There was some point into her night where she had stumbled her way into the barn. It was her hiding spot when she was younger. Nothing much to do on a farm as a kid other than force your parents to play games, and now Clara found it offered her some comfort. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for when she opened up those barn doors. A quiet place to chill out that wasn’t the same four walls of her room? Or was it Abby? She couldn’t be sure. 

Clara climbed up the ladder to the top level of the barn, heading over near the small window where a desk and a beanbag was. She clambered onto the beanbag, forming a small ball and closing her eyes. That was till the a haybale dropped, pulling an audible noise of shock from Clara. Abby gasped.

“Shit, fuck Clara?? Are you in here?” Clara simply laughs at the reaction.

“Calling me by my first name? Not very professional-profess?” She asks, continuing to stumble around. “I profess myself in banqueting to all the rout…”

“I…Miss I don’t-“

“It’s Shakespeare ‘Miss’ Anderson. You know, Cassius? Othello?”

“Oh.”

Clara’s voice, playful and teasing, had an ease about it that left Abby feeling unmoored and unsteady. She could barely keep up with what Clara was saying, but the mystery of it, the way her name sounded from Clara’s mouth, filled Abby with a raw, delicate ache.

“What are you doing in here?” Abby asks gently, walking over to the ladder. Clara shrugs.

“I live here. What are you doing in here? You know my dads away right? What if you were like a burglar who…burgled.”

“Are you drunk?” She asks, though the tone lacks any sort of accusation. Clara sighs. 

“Come, look at the stars with me.” She hums. Abby sratches the back of her neck. 

“Uh….well I really shouldn’t be…”

“Oh come on. You gonna leave a ’sweet thing like me’ up here by herself?” Abby laughs at her words, giving in and climbing effortlessly up the ladder.

“You can do that one handed? That’s hot.” Clara remarks. Abby just tilts her head with confusion. 

“What did you just say?”

“I said that out loud?” Clara asks with a tone of genuine confusion. “Oops.” Abby blushes as she sits on the floor beside her.

“You usually get drunk like this? Just you?” Abby inquires. Clara shrugs, her smile fading a little.

“That over there, that’s Saturn.” Clara explains, shifting a lot in the beanbag. Abby looks at her, surprised. 

“Saturn? You sure it’s not a star?”

“Nope. Saturn is m’most….mmm” Abby laughs, using her middle finger to push some hair out of your face.

“You’re so drunk.”

“Do you like me?” Clara asks, a rather sudden and drastic shift in both emotions and conversation. 

“Well, sure Miss you seem uh, real nice.” Abby says simply. 

“No I mean…you saw me. Naked. Did you like what you saw?”

“Wh- I…I wasn’t looking. Honest.” She states, parting the wisps of her blonde hair framing her face away from her eyes.

“Oh.” Clara replies, feeling the drunken urge to start bawling appear. 

“Why do you care what I think anyway?” Abby asks, noting her expression and relaxing her tone as she spoke. Clara shrugged.

“I’ve been alone a lot. Thought I liked it, but…I watch all’em mmm….romances and the sit coms…never once been desired like that. Or desired…” Her words trail off, as if Clara is on the verge of sleep. She quickly snaps back into it. 

“Anyway…I don’t know why I’m sayinallthis t’you. You’re…big…muscly…pretty. Sure you’ve had your fair sure of desir-ara-bles?” Abby laughs harshly at this.

“I think we should get you some water…”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Abby’s gaze softens, confusion clear.

“My apologies, Miss. What did you ask?”

“Don’t give me that. You saw me, even if you said you didn’t “look.” what’s wrong? Y’don’t like girls? Or do you just not like me??”

“Clara, it’s simply something I don’t want to talk about while you’re not sober enough to know what you’re saying. I think you’re very beautiful, but I don’t feel comfortable talking about how I…looked at your body without your consent.”

“Fine.” Clara says, unbuttoning her comfy red flannel. Abby gasps, immediately covering her eyes with her hands.

“Jesus, Miss-“

“I consent now, just look.”

“I’m not gonna-“ Abby starts to say, the corner of her eye betraying her as she sees the outline of a lace, purple bra.

“Wanna see something else?”

“NO- no just…wait here, I’m gonna get you a blanket mkay?” Abby stammers, getting up in a rush. A solid grip quickly stops her. 

“I’m sorry.” Clara says. Abby smiles softly, turning to look at her face, (as well as she could) with reassurance. 

“Don’t be. Being drunk alone is…well, I’ve done that once or twice should we say.” Abby says, kind blue eyes staring into Claras green. “Tomorrow morning we can talk as long as you like.”

“You’r staying here?” Clara asks, bewildered. Abby shrugs. 

“If you’ll have me.”

“Yes.” Clara responds at an embarassing speed.“Though we are in a barn, don’t you want to go to my room?”

“Miss, I’ve worked here less than two weeks. What would your father think if he finds me on your bed with you?” Clara rolls her eyes.

“Fine, but you better grab me that blanket.”

“Be right back, your highness.” Abby teased. 

Claras eyes drift closed in Abbys absence, hearing faintly the sound of her heading down the ladder. Even while in a state of almost sleep, she can still sense Abbys presence return beside her—the steady rise and fall of a chest, the delicate sigh of a  muscular and yet still soft form settling in. A stray strand of hair slips across her cheek, stirring as she breathes, and she reaches up with barely a thought, brushing it aside before realising she’s also touched the woman beside her. Their hands meet, fingers resting in a quiet, unplanned tangle.

That’s how they wake up, too. Clara, who is usually as opposite to a morning person as one could fathom, wakes up before Abby, feeling dehydrated and disorientated. She moves to get up before feeling a body. A muscular body that builds her with the fear of the reality that she hadn’t simply dreamt of coming onto Abby while in the comfort of her bed, but rather that she had done that, and that it was rather thick, barn air she was smelling.

“Fuck.” Clara cursed under her breath, waking the other girl who calmly rubbed her eyes. 

“Morning.” Abby says. 

Fuck.

[galactic-rhea]

the handmaidens + padmé group can't be be this super wholesome group of besties that share make up and gossips and giggle as they make out ocassionally, they can't be always this cool and badass girlpower considering the fucked up way they are on this situation. Considering each of them is actually A Person that's different from Padmé, as much as they trained themselves to mentally replicate all her moves, considering that they're ready to die for her (but she won't for them, she can't, she's too important, as much as it pains her) I can't not think of this as a awfully unbalanced group of people that got forced to become friends and develop weird and intense feelings for each other but also a deep resentment and extreme passive-agressiveness because at the end of the day, they're Padmé's subordinates and there's no way Padmé doesn't, inherently and unconsciously (and sometimes consciously) steps into a Boss role, there's no way Padmé, sometimes, doesn't realize the disagreements or drama that might be going on, and if she does there's...well, lots of awkwardness they're forced to overcome.

And still, they're a very close group of Friends (perhaps more for some of them), but more intimate than normal friends, and definitely not as healthy and honest as any normal friends. And do you think that keeps them awake? They're look-alikes, trained to copy Padmé's mannerisms and behaviour, and clothes, everything, and they all together created Queen Amidala as a facade, and yet there's still that feeling of lack of actual íntimacy, a feeling of a lack of actual friendship, like the itch isn't really satisfied in between them because as much as they care for each other, there's a feeling of fakeness into it all, a feeling of 'what brough us together is just a job, and what keeps us together is that we don't know something different'. But some of the handmaidens do leave and adventure away from this, and there IS happy moments and real kinship at times... is just that, the uglyness isn't not very far from the surface.

[zeb-z]

I just think Tallulah gets to be upset about this. “It’s not Wilbur’s fault” “He’s not a bad dad” “He loves his daughter so much” yes! These are all true! And it’s not his fault! But he’s still not there. And Tallulah has gone through so much and still hasn’t seen him, the one time he was around was the one time she wasn’t, and all she has are letters and “I’m thinking of you always” and things that used to be theirs together, but he’s still not there. She’s waited and she’s been patient and she’s loved him all the same, and he’s still not there. Like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, from the happy milestones to the traumatic events, he’s still not there.

She knows that it’s not his fault, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s absent. That in and of itself just adds to the sorrow, because she knows why he’s gone, and she’s been told time and time again it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care, she knows this - it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, that it doesn’t hurt, that she doesn’t yearn for her father to be there more than anything in the world, and he’s just not there.

So yes, she gets to be upset, and be caustic, and stomp her feet and write bitter messages, and be angry and vitriolic, because she’s a little girl missing her father, who feels things with her whole heart and soul - and that means she gets to feel the ugly parts of it, too.

[astralleywright]

Marisha's comment about how Relvin is one of those parents who ended up with a child they didn't know what to do with really gets to the heart of it, i think, and is such a good way to tie the fantasy element of Imogen's powers into things more tangible. because there are really a lot of parents like Relvin in real life, who have a child with the person they're happily married to and never expect to be left alone with the kid. or who expect a ""normal"" (read: cisgender and heterosexual, able-bodied, relatively neurotypical and obedient, etc.) child and end up with one who's ""difficult"", who demands more or different of them than what they believe they signed up for. and that's not entirely entitlement on a parent's part- many cultures' common frameworks of parenthood and child-rearing do not include space for these children. it makes sense that Relvin was unprepared. raising any child is difficult, and raising a child whose needs you were never taught how to accommodate, who the world is so cruel to, is even more challenging.

and yet. and yet, the person who bears the brunt of the harm in these situations will always be the child. they're the ones who have to live every moment of how the world treats them, without the support that their parent is supposed to provide them. and when asked to care for his child even when she turned out to be ""difficult"", Relvin couldn't. for entirely sympathetic reasons, of course. he tried, in his own way. i don't think he's a bad guy. but he's let his own broken heart bleed onto his daughter. he hasn't been able to give her much else.

[lynxfrost13]

Maybe I’ll finally Wanze post soon

[anthromimicry]

jandy nelson, i'll give you the sun | jean anouilh tr, by lewis galantière | @soulinkpoetry | trista mateer, the dogs i have kissed | the bible

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

Man if Marcy keeps ending up with like child protection services in all these fics over her parents being slightly distant then my parents should be in JAIL

[brutalmasks]

margaret atwood, the year of the flood // han kang, human acts // may sarton, a durable fire: poems // tracie macvean, claustrophobia // george r.r. martin, a game of thrones // anne sexton, a self portrait in letters // ada limón, the echo sounder: lucky wreck // mary oliver, summer morning // robert mora, untitled // laurie halse anderson, speak

[fujii-draws]

hey fujii do you wanna hear about a silly little thing i thought of earlier. so you know how in red/blue rescue team, eevee used to be in the "naive" category, whereas in explorers of sky, it's in the "jolly" category? it made me think about ribbons, specifically because of how the rescue team personality test describes the naive trait.

in rescue team, the naive type is described to be someone whos highly curious, and someone who likes rare things. their cheerful and carefree make everything fun for the people around them, but they also have the flaw of being childish, never sitting still, and always being on the move. (it also says that they might be selfish but i dont see that applying to ribbons tbh..)

it seems so oddly fitting for ribbons because her personality does show those traits in particular. she's a silly little thing and her bright cheery personality, and she is childish to some extent. and of course, can't forget her curiosity. especially with how curious she got when it came to dusknoir. and of course, we can't forget about the *actual* definition of naive. naivety in the sense of choosing to believe that dusknoir, despite how his aura flared with malice, bared no ill intent. to think that someone who is so great, so wise, so kind and caring could ever be capable of shattering her world apart.. that was naive. because she believed he was what she thought he was, and because it was her naivety that nearly got her and aimilios killed. you'd think she'd have learned from the drowzee incident where two kids displaying trust in a spur-of-the-moment stranger who coincidentally showed them kindness in their misfortune was a mistake, but i suppose that's what being a naive little child does to you.

(anyways im sorry if this sounds incoherent and out of the blue. have a good day)

DONT YOU DARE APOLOGIZE FOR THIS. THE JOLLY AND NAIVE NATURES FIT MY GIRL SO WELL. (Unhinged rant in tags)

[gierosajie]

Thinking about how there's a lot more ghosts wandering Mondstadt in the Archon Dvalin AU than usual because Venti is usually the one sending off spirits into the afterlife and well. he's kinda stuck on that side post-Cataclysm

At first there weren't any because they just followed Venti, but afterwards there were some that still lingered and the number just kept piling up over the centuries. Many did eventually go on their own, but there's just more that didn't want to or simply couldn't

Dvalin doesn't know how to send them off, no one really showed him how and he doubts that even if he knew, he probably couldn't. Still, whenever a spirit decides to show themself, he stays with them for a bit, just to alleviate their burdens even a little and maybe help them find enough peace

It's probably another thing that eats at him alive because he couldn't even help those that he failed to protect, no matter how much most of them say it isn't his fault

And then, after the whole reconciliation with Celio thing, one of the lingering spirits asks him for a song. Before, he might've gently turned down the request, but after everything, he decided he might as well

Dvalin starts singing an old song he loved. Singing it had been painful, once, considering it was made as a duet and having to listen to the silent answer just brought him nothing but grief. Now, there's a sort of peace to how the breeze and the sound of nature fill in the gaps and pauses.

Over the course of the song, more and more ghosts come to listen. By the end of it, Dvalin opens his eyes to see most of them disappear, not in terms of hiding away like usual but rather beginning to dissolve into light as they finally move on

The last one to leave was the one who requested a song. She turns to smile at him. "I suppose I can finally tell that bard how much you've grown," she says before finally dissipating into the wind

[secret-plantcest-sideblog]

Anyway I feel like it kinda gets glossed over that Knives was a child when he caused the big fall and idk I think that's kind of important because he's lived with that for over 100 years and just like Vash has lived with knowing the people he loves and fights for don't see him or his kind as anything more than a tool at best or a monster at worst, Knives has most definitely lived with knowing he's the leading reason why this system has remained in place

[dutybcrne]

From a very young age, Kaeya held such a fondness for handholding. Whether it was his father clinging tightly to him to make sure he didn’t get lost, Adelinde’s gentle, grounding hand closed over his to comfort him whenever his nerves got the better of him, Crepus’s rough-palmed, firm yet comforting grip as he brought him back home, or, as it was most often of all, Diluc’s warm, yet at times uncomfortably tight hold as he dragged him anywhere, everywhere, determined to always keep Kaeya close and eagerly show him all there was to see, Kaeya treasured the gesture greatly.

Of course, being as shy as he was, initiating it himself was always the harder part. So much so, he would tend to hold pinkies, rather than outright take a person’s hand in his own. Eventually, it would become his most common way to go about the gesture of affection.

[ardentpoop]

sick 2 my stomach for a plethora of reasons friday

[cabeswaterdrowned]

agents of shield s7 really was a shockingly good conclusion to something I like… like on it’s own it’s a good season but I don’t really realize how highly I think of it overall (it’s not agents of shield s4 who’s praises I’ll sing any day of the week) until I think about how many concluding seasons or books of shows or series I love could have been better if they were more like it in a variety of ways…