#but i really love making these and at the end of the day they cost time and money to do either way ;;

[lu-is-not-ok]

two in one theory... i am listening very intently if you ever feel up to share it!!

Alright, so this is gonna be... as close to an Abridged explanation of the theory as I can make, because if I went off on everything about it I would end up writing a whole dissertation or five hour video essay script on this shit.

There are gonna be three main sections to this post - Hong Lu's Daiyuisms, Hong Lu's Themes of Identity and how that connects to the concept of Two in One, and the Daiyu-Baoyu theory itself.

Strap in folks.

Hong Lu's Daiyuisms

If you know anything about my theories in the earlier days of Limbus, you might know that I'm one of the very few people who was convinced Hong Lu is actually Daiyu, due to some evidence I found personally compelling. This has not changed, as we've only gotten just as much extra evidence to this as we have to him being Baoyu. So let me just speedrun through some of these points.

The Fucking Jade Eye

Ok hear me out. This is maybe the least important piece of evidence but I can never stop thinking about it. Hong Lu's jade eye? Not actually fully blue! If you look closely on most of his sprites, you can see that he actually has sectoral heterochromia, meaning his jade eye is both blue and black.

Daiyu's name, quite literally, translates to blue-black jade.

Now, you could claim that this is merely meant to be an easter egg reference to her, but... is that really Project Moon's style? After all, when people speculated on Don Quixote being Sancho or a Bloodfiend partially based on her appearance all the way back since near launch, they turned out to be right.

Hong Lu's Father

As of now, there is only one instance of Hong Lu referencing his Father in Limbus, and it's a voiceline from his Base Identity:

Now, if you know anything about DOTRC, this should already be raising some flags, because if Hong Lu was just Baoyu, he would not fucking talk like that about his Father.

In the book, Baoyu is consistently shown to be afraid of his Father, for a good reason mind you, as he's his main abuser. Baoyu would not be looking forward to introducing his friends to that man.

Even if Hong Lu was trying to downplay the abuse he's recieved, this would still not fit his pattern of behavior. When topics that genuinely bother Hong Lu come up, such as what could make him distort or how rich people would enjoy gifts made of humans, he immediately pivots and tries to avoid the topic at all cost. He would not bring up his main abuser in such a lighthearted manner, he would avoid bringing him up at all cost.

However, there is a character in DOTRC which does in fact have a more positive relationship to her Father, and would likely be the one with an opinion such as that - Daiyu. Daiyu loves her Father, and when he dies she completely disappears from the story for a bit to attend his funeral. If there was anyone who would be excited to introduce their friends to their Father, it'd be Daiyu.

Lasso Hong Lu's Corrosion

I made a whole seperate post about this, but I might as well mention it here as well for the sake of completion. The design choices made for Hong Lu which are missing for Faust are very, very Daiyu-coded.

For one, not only does Hong Lu completely turn into a flower, unlike Faust, his horse also gains a flower in its mouth. For those whose knowledge of DOTRC is zero to none, Daiyu is a reincarnation of a Flower given sentience due to being watered by the Jade. I don't think I have to be the one to connect the dots between those two pieces of info for you.

The second is how the halters become a noose for Hong Lu. This, too, is a very Daiyu thing - Rose Hunter as an Abnormality represents the inability to escape one's fate, and Daiyu's fate is to die - the Jia Family arranging a marriage between Baoyu and Baochai leads to Daiyu falling deathly ill, which in itself could be considered a part of her repaying her Debt of Tears - the debt she swore to repay to the Jade/Baoyu when she was still a Flower.

The hilarity of the fact that this E.G.O came out in the same update as Hong Lu being called Baoyu in-story is not lost on me.

Rose Sign Abnormality Log

The third Log for Rose Sign ends in a very peculiar way.

There's multiple ways one can tie Hong Lu's odd reluctance to talk about flowers and the petals. One is the obvious "he's being reminded of Daiyu because she was a Flower" connection, but there's another one.

One of the most commonly potrayed images of Daiyu relates to a scene in DOTRC where she buries fallen flower petals, weeping for and lamenting the mortality of the flowers and herself. Hong Lu's reaction here to his fellow Sinners being reduced to nothing but petals upon Rose Sign's death feels like a notable parallel to Daiyu's flower burial scene.

Like literally everything about Kurokumo Hong Lu

The title for this is a bit of an exaggeration, but at the same time. I'm serious. Kurokumo Hong Lu is perhaps the most Daiyu Identity out of all the Hong Lu Identities we have, and the way he is designed to stand out among them further makes me go insane.

Kurokumo Hong Lu's most defining trait is his attitude - he often complains about his position and how authority treats him, though he doesn't really act out against them in any major way outside of making snarky or sarcastic remarks.

This is, frankly, an extremely Daiyu thing to do. Daiyu is one of the few characters who audibly complains about her treatment in the household. For example she complains about not being given as many opportunities to show off her poetry skills as her male peers are, and she recognises how, when all the girls in the family are given flowers, she's the last one to recieve them and thus is stripped of the ability to pick, being only given the leftovers.

Then there's the whole. Everything about Kurokumo Hong Lu's visual design. Because once you realize just how Daiyu-like the Identity is, you realize just how weird he is compared to other Hong Lu Identities. I mean just look how he compares to his other Identities.

He's the only Hong Lu Identity with a blue tint to his hair in the combat sprite rather than the usual purple.

He's the only Hong Lu Identity whose hairtie is a ribbon rather than a jade ring (Liu Hong Lu technically has the ribbon in his post-uptie art, but he doesn't have it in his combat sprite so I'm not counting him).

He's the only Hong Lu Identity to not be smiling in his combat sprites.

And he's the only Hong Lu Identity (and one of only four Identities in the game) whose Idle sprite has its body facing away from the opponent rather than facing towards them.

All of those combine to make him stand out like a sore thumb in a Hong Lu Identity lineup in a way that makes it feel intentional, especially since he's also the only Hong Lu Identity with that kind of notable attitude towards authority. Other Hong Lu Identities are either obedient, don't express any opinion, or just straight up are the authority.

The Baoyu reveal is framed in a very weird way

This is, admittedly, less of a Daiyuism and more of a not-Baoyuism, but I thought it'd be important to mention nonetheless.

There are a lot of things about Canto 7's reveal of Hong Lu's name being Baoyu that are very strange, especially compared to how the Canto frames Don Quixote's own reveal of actually being Sancho.

For one, the timing itself - why is such an important piece of info being revealed so early? Again, compare to Donqui - she was revealed to be a Bloodfiend in the Intervallo right before Canto 7, and the Sancho reveal only came in the second half of the Canto.

For two, the framing - Donqui's reveals are treated as what they are, Major Reveals. The Baoyu reveal on the other hand happens in a single off-handed line, with nobody reacting to it in any way. Neither Hong Lu nor the other Sinners seem to hear it after all.

And mind you, it's not like Limbus is opposed to giving us important information in off-handed lines - far from it in fact. Project Moon loves shoving little bits of foreshadowing and reveals you don't realize are reveals until way later in these kinds of off-handed lines. But the way those lines are treated is still very different to how the Baoyu reveal is treated.

Usually, when there's foreshadowing in off-handed lines, it's usually either vague enough to be something a character could say regardless of context (see Yi Sang getting hung up on the Sedatives bit in Canto 2 or Ishmael's comment about Syndicates pretending to be Families foreshadowing her own history with the Middle via Queequeg) or something that is in the middle of a scene that distracts from what is actually being said (like Hong Lu's distortion foreshadowing being in the middle of an important infodump or most of everything in Canto 2 being surrounded by a comedic tone).

None of this is present for the Baoyu reveal. There's nothing to distract you from this information, as the scene is already focused on discussing Hong Lu, meaning you're already likely to be paying attention to what is being said about him. There's also no vagueness about it, there's no way you can brush it off since not only are Wei and Xichun newly introduced characters, but it's a whole ass clearcut namedrop.

The only way I can justify that reveal being there in the form it takes is that it in itself is the distraction. Think about it. Didn't I point it out earlier that this reveal came in the same update as the E.G.O with an extremely Daiyu-coded corrosion design? Wouldn't it make sense for that reveal to be there to lower your guard, make you think you resolved that mystery, only to later on reveal it wasn't the whole story after all?

Hong Lu's Themes of Identity

So this section is a bit more vague than the Daiyuism section, because Hong Lu is the type of guy to just Say Shit all the time. It's basically just. Anything that I find relevant to the idea of Hong Lu's Identity being more complex than him just being a random guy using a pseudonym, with some (but maybe not all) of them directly tying to the idea of Two in One.

"Which one is the real you?"

There are currently two seperate scenes where Hong Lu muses on the idea of someone's identity being in some way vague or obscured.

Is Dante the person or the clock? Is the dreamer the one in the dream or the one who wakes from it? Which you is the real you? Does it even matter if that you will flutter away in the end?

This idea of there being one true self. That even if there are two, there is only one of them that is actually you. Curious, right?

Face-changing dance

During the Canto 2 scene where everyone gives their reasons for whether or not they'd be a good pick for being the one to dance, Hong Lu says this.

Bian lian is a kind of dance literally translated as "face-changing". It involves rapid changes between various masks and make-up to represent different emotions or characters.

Now, it's no secret that Hong Lu is a great actor, as we see in Canto 4, and Canto 7 shows how the comparison to theatre and actors can be used to symbolize one's performance of identity, as it does for Sancho and her Don Quixote persona.

Mind you, this reveal comes in the same scene as Sinclair's dance invoking the image of a bonfire burning all through the night according to the Mariachis, a clear foreshadowing to Canto 3 and the Literal burning down of Sinclair's home.

Hong Lu knowing bian lian could be further foreshadowing to his own skills in deception, and how he too is a sort of actor, not unlike Don Quixote. On the other hand however, it could also be a more literal foreshadowing, that he (Baoyu) Quite Literally changed his face. We won't know until Canto 8, but it is an option you know.

The HamHamPangPang dish(es)

For those who don't know, here is a list of the Sinner-themed dishes that were available at HamHamPangPang.

Now, chances are, not all of them have deep meanings. I don't think there's much of a deep meaning to Heathcliff and Ishmael's dishes, I think PJM just legit don't know much about British/American cuisine so they just picked something recogniseable.

However, not all of them are meaningless picks either. Ryoshu, likely a mother, has a meal literally called "parent-and-child donburi". Don Quixote, a Bloodfiend, has a garlic-based dish. These were clearly done on purpose.

So, what does it say that Hong Lu's dish is actually two different dishes? That he's the only one whose dish is two different dishes? And it's not like the two are in some way inherently connected, since they're of completely different cuisines. Japchae is a Korean dish, not Chinese like the Mandarin rolls.

And just in case you weren't convinced that Hong Lu's choice of dishes is purposeful - another name for Mandarin rolls is flower buns, and one of the special occasions japchae is commonly served for is weddings. If you had read through the Daiyuisms section and somehow have no idea what the significance of that is, I don't know what to tell you.

The Daiyu-Baoyu Theory (finally)

So. I gave some evidence for why I think Hong Lu could still be Daiyu despite being revealed as Baoyu. I gave some evidence for why I think Hong Lu could be a Two in One deal, or that at the very least there's something more complex going on with his identity. But let's discuss the theory itself, how it would recontextualize certain things, and why I think it's an extremely fitting an thematically resonant direction for Hong Lu's Canto to go in.

The Theory

Here's what I speculate is going on.

Daiyu, just like in DOTRC, is someone who was taken in into the Jia Household rather than born in it, and who strongly connected with Baoyu upon meeting him. The two would end up forming a bond strong enough that they would be willing to die for one another (or, if they're in particularly argumentative moods, to kill themselves just to force the other to have to live a long life grieving over them - this is an actual argument they have in DOTRC and I pray to god this is adapted into Limbus because it's too fucking funny).

At some point, Baoyu either dies or is brought to near death, likely through the same circumstances as in DOTRC - being beaten by his Father. To save him, his memories and consciousness would be transferred to his eye, a process not dissimilar to the one Xichun brings up in Canto 7, and implanted into Daiyu's body, causing them to become a vessel for Baoyu. This would be how Hong Lu as he is now is created.

All of the above is the main basis for this theory. Everything else that I might speculate about, such as the exact nature of the two's relationship, Daiyu's more exact background and personality, how their pre-reincarnation lives could be adapted - all of those are things that are purely speculative and ones that I don't really expect to be actually fulfilled. The only bits that I am sure are likely to be true is what I laid out above.

So... what does it all mean for the future? I'm glad you asked!

The Recontextualization

Here's a collection of just a couple of things that Hong Lu has said or is depicted as that would be heavily recontextualized if this theory ends up being true.

Hong Lu surviving despite claiming he didn't fight back when his siblings first tried to kill him: With the context that he used to be two seperate people, the answer to how he survived is made very simple. Baoyu is the one who wasn't fighting back. Daiyu, however, could have still protected him in turn.

The red ribbon on Hong Lu's weapon: There is only one other Sinner who has a similar decoration on their weapon - Ryoshu, who also has a red ribbon on her sword, which could be easily connected to Yuzuki and her death. With the context of Hong Lu being Baoyu occupying Daiyu's body and thus effectively rendering their self non-existent, the red ribbon could be a parallel symbol - a symbol of Daiyu and their 'death'.

How Hong Lu treats his weapon in his base E.G.O: The way Hong Lu holds his weapon in the illustration is more like he's cradling another person. This could be a representation of how he feels about Daiyu's situation. Likewise, in the attack animation, he's not really attacking with the weapon itself, is he? He's simply using it to direct a ribbon (which in itself is missing in the illustration), the part that is actually the attack. If the weapon in the base E.G.O represents Daiyu, this could be a parallel to how Baoyu feels like he's merely directing Daiyu's body to attack, rather than being the one actually attacking.

The duality of Hong Lu IDs: There is a notable pattern among Hong Lu IDs, and that is the focus on his attitude to violence. When he's in a situation where he's obedient towards his Family, he's either uninterested in violence, bored of it, or otherwise given no other choice but to use it as a reprieve from boredom. However, when he's in a situation where he's disconnected from his Family or otherwise questioning the status quo, he's shown to not only be much more aggressive and violent, but to outright enjoy it. With the context of Hong Lu being composed of two people, this duality could represent each of his components - the obedient and violence-averse being more Baoyu-like, while the questioning and violence-favoring being more Daiyu-like.

So, there's a bunch of stuff that would be given new meaning under the premise of this theory being true. But now, what about the future? What would this theory mean for the themes and ending of Canto 8?

The Resolution

I believe this is how the Daiyu-Baoyu theory will affect Canto 8.

At some point, whether before or during the Canto, it will be revealed that Hong Lu is both Daiyu and Baoyu. There will be an attempt to seperate the two, perhaps to implant Baoyu into a more fitting, more Jia Family-approved Vessel. Perhaps because the 'arranged marriage' from DOTRC could be adapted into something more... let's say Fear and Hunger kind of marriage rather than traditional marriage.

This will leave Hong Lu to be returned to their state as Daiyu, who will be revealed to be a very different person to what the Sinners knew Hong Lu as. There is a non-zero chance that Daiyu will be unable to hear Dante or be revived by them due to the one who signed the contract being Baoyu, and so they could end up acting as an uncontrollable ally unit not unlike Xichun in Canto 7.

The climax would then be Daiyu and Baoyu reuniting and being unwilling to part with each other again, even for the sake of returning to being the fake persona that is Hong Lu, leading to a potential duo boss fight/distortion boss fight/duo distortion boss fight.

The ending would be the two of them deciding to embrace their new identity as Hong Lu and truly becoming one, discarding their pasts and the selves that had been forced on them by the Jia Family. This ending would have a twofold meaning regarding how it connects to the DOTRC adaptation.

One - it would be a direct parallel to the ending of DOTRC where Baoyu leaves to become a monk. By becoming Hong Lu and discaring his previous identities, he'd be leaving behind the earthly attachments inherent to being Baoyu and Daiyu and become spiritually whole.

Two - it would be a reflection of the major theme of DOTRC, that being "Truth becomes fiction when the fiction's true. Real becomes not-real when the unreal's real." Hong Lu, as a person, is a 'fake' persona used by the 'real' Baoyu and Daiyu. However, by discarding those two identities and deciding to just be Hong Lu, the fiction of his existence becomes the truth, while his former real selves become not real.

Conclusion?

I could honestly just keep going with this post, but I think I'm going to stop myself here before I'm forced to find out what tumblr's character limit on posts is. Believe me, I was trying to be brief, and still this post is. This fucking long.

I hope this explains why this theory has been the subject of my brainrot for the past however long, and why I feel like it's surprisingly plausible despite being as deranged as it is.

Godspeed and godbless, I have classes tomorrow and I'm spending my time on this.

[alligatorjesie]

I love how OP is complaining 'capitalism isn't an answer to these questions' when if we just sit down with a shit scoop and dust away the clean surface litter of 'why people vote against their own interests' the stinky cat turd that is capitalism is right there under the surface.

Capitalism explains a lot of why people are stupid and vote stupid, and if definitely explains why a lot of us who are not so stupid and don't vote against our own interests still have to deal with corrupt corporate legislation that force shit options upon us.

In America we've turned schooling into a numbers and testing game that punishes schools who don't test well. That sounds correct on the surface but then when you dig around in the bullshit a little you realize they're literally only teaching these kids how to test and not how to do fucking anything else.

human restoration project did a long fuckin' video on how teaching the test is dicking over American public school systems

skip intro did one about a fictional school but it reflects a lot about what is wrong with real schools.

It's money.

It's always money.

Now we have schools filled with students who can't read good and teachers who ain't really allowed to teach anything but 'the test' and ain't even being paid well enough to babysit and a lot of this isn't this way because voters are stupid. It got this way because corporations own school book publishings. They decide what we learn and how we learn it from lobbying the fuck out of Congress to make it this way. Schools don't get a choice how they teach, and if they don't do it the way Congress wants then they don't get funding.

It's not even a conspiracy.

It's very look-up-able.

We literally just had a ballot measure in my state that was 'hey should we give the already poultry amount of we designate for public schools to private schools instead of public schools?' and thank fuck it lost but that shit got over 30% yes votes. Most of the houses that had 'vote yes on 2' signs in their yards didn't even have children living there.

I also noticed how a lot of those yards also had trump signs in them but that's a conversation for another day.

We don't have healthcare because we're told there's no better system out there besides the one with the absolutely fucking useless middle man who can deny you help because they deemed that cancer you developed from DuPont pouring Teflon into the waterways was pre-existing condition just to ensure shareholders get more of the pie at the end of the quarter. This wasn't even a measure we got to vote on this was just forced on us because of greed. Cooperations have corporate interests and lawyers and lobbyist that are paid very well to make that company as much money as possible.

This is one of the reasons you can't walk into a hospital in America and ask 'hey how much would it cost to do x?'. They won't tell you a price because it's fucking made up.

No joke. You can't find out how much it will cost to have a baby in a hospital in America and the hospital won't give you a price ahead of time because that price is heavy influenced by things like; if you have insurance or not, what income bracket you belong in, if your paying some shit in cash, just to name a few bullshit reasons.

We keep getting food recalls because huge food corporations have have financial interests to demand to monitor their own food safety rules instead of allowing the government to do it. We have a whole government agency that could be better staffed to handle this but there isn't a financial incentive to do that so we don't.

9 times out of 10 the reason shit sucks is because someone wanted to make money over being a decent human being.

It's not even fascism it's just regular ol' corporate greed.

which has roots in fascism no doubt.

Honestly, we could fix most of the problems in America if we just got rid of lobbying.

surely we could educate the people in matters of economics and social theory to make them less stupid in their voting.

Perhaps, but that's a multi-generational project of improving education, which doesn't solve the short-term problem of winning political campaigns. Indeed, the former is rather predicated on the latter.

[revelboo]

I just wanted to say, thank you for showing me where to get the little models, I've been having so much fun putting these guys together the past two days

Sorry for the quality of the photo

Shockwaves! I found the Blokees models purely by accident, but I love how tiny and posable they are. I ended up moving my Flame Toys Megs to my plant shelf just to make more room for these guys

Gravity Pt 6

IDW Optimus x Reader

• “Why Earth?” Turning away from his work at the soft question, he finds you sitting cross legged nearby watching him with a little frown. Yours been quiet so long, he’s assumed you were resting. At his questioning look, you roll your hand in a vague little gesture. “Why did you all come here? Why Earth?”

• Servos flexing slightly, he leans his forearms against the desk. Almost looming over you, but you don’t lean away. Just arching your eyebrows at him, because it’s been bothering you for a while now. Surely there were other worlds closer to his world, to Cybertron. So why here? “In the archives, there were ancient records of worlds the Primes had visited during the expansion before the war with the Quintessons. Of worlds that had been seeded with energon or interacted with,” he says. The words bringing up more questions than answers. Quintessons? Other Primes? Only energon rings a bell, because that’s the stuff he lives on, but seeded?

• Your expression twists and he knows he should explain it all. That he owes it to you after trapping you with him, but the past has only ever wounded him. Dredging it up always brings up the choices and mistakes he’d made. The things he can’t undo, but wishes he could because something small might have led them all down a different path, a brighter one if he’d only been better, stronger.

• “You came here for the energon,” you hazard. He’s volunteered so little of his past, only letting things slip occasionally. Like that his Autobots are at war, that they’d had to flee their world and that their enemies had followed. The details, though? Like why they’d left Cybertron or even what the war was over? Those things he doesn’t seem ready to talk about so you haven’t pushed.

• “We had no way of knowing about your species. You didn’t exist when this world was seeded as a potential colony.” Reaching out, he crooks a servo not really expecting for you to lay a hand on him and let him gently pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t have led the Decepticons here if I’d known.” And that’s his guilt to carry from now on. Another failure that might cost so much, another sin weighing on his spark, because this world might not survive their war. You might not.

• “You guys were starving, right?” You ask, hand lingering on his servo as he inclines his head. “You were trying to save who you could, I get that.” It’s not fair or right, but you do understand. From what you can gather from the things he doesn’t want to say, things were pretty desperate. He was desperate. And to be responsible for the survival of your people, what would you have done in his place? You’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be nearly as honorable as he is, that you’d do anything regardless of the cost, because you’re not good like he is.

• Spark warming at your soft words, it’s that you understand that makes him curl his servo about you. How can you not blame him for bringing his war to your home? Not hate him or at least resent him? Your little palm slides against his servo like you’re trying to comfort him, worrying over him. It’s a weight from him that you don’t despise him even though he knows that this and what will follow will be his fault. For now he just wants to feel your hand on him and pretend that this one time, his decisions won’t cost him what little he has right now in this moment. Won’t cost you, because you give him something to look forward to every day. Something beyond duty or responsibility, just enjoying your company, the sound of your voice. The soft touch of a hand reaching out to him to break his loneliness.

Previous

[ateezscupid]

omg pls do more angst with wooyoung maybe 🫣 ur yunho one was so good and i usually never read angst ….

everybody buckle up! this is so angsty -- you might get mad at me with how angsty this is. 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭.

warnings ✩ ANGST. LITERALLY JUST ANGST. you will cry and sob and wail and scream. toxic relationship, toxic!wooyoung, toxic!reader, the both of you are the toxic ones in the relationship, on & off relationship, intense argument (about literally nothing. it started because of miscommunication, but it's a stupid argument), cheating (BOTH PARTIES CHEATED.), wooyoung brings up a sensitive topic in the argument, addiction, getting replaced, reader falls out of love with wooyoung in the end and he has a really bad panic attack

tags ✩ @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @skzkias

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST

Wooyoung sat at the corner table of the bustling cafe, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the distant chatter of the afternoon crowd. His fingers danced over the keyboard of his laptop, crafting emails with a practiced ease that belied the turmoil in his chest. He had hoped that the comforting routine of work would distract him from the persistent ache of missing your, but it was a futile endeavor. With a sigh, he saved his document and pushed the laptop aside, reaching for the comfort of his phone instead.

The screen lit up, a stark contrast to the shadows playing across his face. His thumb hovered over your name, the digital embodiment of temptation. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. He had to see you. Your Instagram profile filled his screen, a curated collection of moments that no longer included him. He scrolled through your stories, each tap a silent confession of his lingering obsession. The images passed by in a blur until he saw it: your smile, brighter than the neon lights of the city, directed at someone else.

The guy was leaning against the wall, one arm casually draped around your shoulders. It was him. The same guy Wooyoung had caught you with, the one you had claimed was just a friend. The one he had lost you to. The betrayal stung as freshly as the day he found out. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to shatter the screen. He knew he couldn't be mad. He had cheated first, in a moment of weakness that had cost him everything. But why were you with him? He had hoped that time would erase the memory of that painful chapter.

Wooyoung's eyes narrowed as he studied the background of the photo. Recognition dawned. It was the alleyway behind the art gallery where you had shared your first kiss. His heart skipped a beat, and a strange mix of anger and nostalgia flooded his veins. He knew that place like the back of his hand. And now, it was the backdrop for your new life. Without another thought, he shoved his laptop into his bag and stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. He had to go there, to confront the ghosts of his past and the woman who still haunted his every waking moment.

The cobblestone streets of the city were a blur as he walked, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The anger boiled in his chest with every step, a cauldron of emotion that threatened to spill over. The cool autumn air did nothing to ease the heat coursing through his veins. The alleyway grew closer, a dark spot in the vibrant tapestry of the city. His footsteps grew heavier as he approached as if the weight of his own regret was pulling him down.

When he finally reached the narrow strip between the buildings, he paused, his heart pounding in his ears. The walls were adorned with graffiti, the vibrant colors a stark contrast to the shadows that had claimed the space. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The alley was empty, save for a couple of stray cats darting between the dumpsters. The silence was deafening, a stark reminder of the emptiness he felt without you.

He stepped into the alley, the sound of his shoes echoing off the walls. The smell of damp earth and discarded food filled his nose, a stark contrast to the sweet scent of your perfume that lingered in his memory. He walked slowly, his eyes searching for any sign that you had been there. His hands trembled with a mix of anger and longing. He knew it was irrational, but he needed to see it for himself, to understand why you had chosen this place to flaunt your new relationship.

The alley twisted and turned, leading him deeper into the past. The walls closed in, the pressure of his own emotions suffocating. He could almost feel your presence, the echo of your laughter, the warmth of your touch. He rounded a corner and there it was - the spot where you had shared that first kiss. A piece of gum stuck to the wall, the only evidence of your history together. The sight of it brought a fresh wave of pain crashing over him.

Wooyoung leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, and let the memories wash over him. He felt the phantom warmth of your body, the softness of your lips. The anger slowly dissipated, replaced by a profound sadness. He knew he couldn't change the past, couldn't take back his own mistakes. But he had to find a way to move forward, to let go of the love that still held him captive. He took one last look at the spot, the ghosts of your past whispering your goodbyes, and turned to leave. As he walked away, that face. That beautiful face was in front of him again.

"Wooyoung?" you questioned. "Why the hell are you here?" Your voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. He spun around, his eyes meeting hers. You were standing there, alone, with no guy in sight. Your eyes searched his, a storm of confusion swirling within them.

Wooyoung's mouth went dry, his mind racing. He hadn't anticipated this. "I have free will. I can be wherever the hell I want." he spat. The words felt hollow, even to his own ears. He knew his true intentions were anything but innocent.

Your eyes searched his, looking for a glimmer of the man you used to know. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice softer now.

Wooyoung's gaze fell on the phone in your hand. "You posted a story here." It was a statement, not a question. "With him."

A look of understanding flashed across your face, quickly replaced by something else. Something that made his stomach twist. "And what? You want to fight for me now?" you scoffed, your voice laced with a bitterness he hadn't heard before.

"No, I-" He stumbled over his words. He didn't know what he wanted. He hadn't come here with a plan, just a need to see, to feel, to somehow make sense of it all. "You think I miss your whore ass?" he said, the words slipping out like venom. It was a poor attempt to mask his pain with anger.

Your eyes narrowed, and you took a step back, the phone slipping from your grasp. It clattered to the ground, the screen shattering. The sound echoed through the alleyway, a stark metaphor for your relationship. "You're the one who couldn't keep it in your pants," you snapped, your voice a mix of anger and hurt. "Don't you dare come here acting like you're the victim."

The words hit him like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind out of him. You were right. He had been the one to cheat first. He had broken your trust, shattered your bond. And yet, here he was, feeling betrayed. The irony was not lost on him. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out to grab hers. You immediately stepped back, which made him angry.

"Well maybe if you had stopped being a bitch and actually treated me like your boyfriend, I wouldn't cheated." Wooyoung's voice was low, a dangerous rumble that seemed to resonate through the very bricks of the alley.

"And maybe if you had actually talked to me about what was going on instead of sticking it in every hole that walked by, I could've done that!" you shot back, your voice echoing off the walls, each word a dagger thrown with precision.

"Oh right, it's my fault! You acted like you didn't even fucking like me! You hated being in fucking public with me!" Wooyoung's voice was laced with a rage that had been simmering for months, now unleashed in a torrent of accusations.

"You're the one who couldn't keep your dick in your pants, Wooyoung!" you screamed, your voice bouncing off the alley's walls. "You never appreciated what we had!"

"Appreciate? You're the one who couldn't keep your legs closed for five fucking minutes!" he roared back, the echoes of your curses bouncing off the graffiti-covered walls.

"Right. Sure. I'm not doing this with you." you turn around, beginning to walk off. But Wooyoung wasn't letting it go, following you and yelling at you.

"You're just going to walk away again?"

"What do you want from me?!" you spun around, your eyes flashing with anger. "You destroyed us, and now you're mad because I've moved on?"

Wooyoung clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "I'm mad because you're with him! The guy you used to hide from me!"

"You had no right to hide shit from me either, Wooyoung!" you screamed, your voice bouncing off the alley walls. "You didn't even try to fix us, you just went out and fucked around like a dog with a new toy!"

"Fine, maybe I did," he roared, "but you didn't exactly make it easy! You were cold, you were distant, you never talked to me about anything!"

Your words hung in the air, the echo of your anger bouncing between the graffitied walls. The tension was palpable, a living thing that grew and morphed with every accusation. The cats had long since fled, leaving them alone in your war of words.

"You never listened!" you shot back, your voice cracking with emotion. "You didn't care about my feelings, about what I was going through!"

"How could I, when you never talked to me?!" he yelled, taking a step closer, his chest heaving with the effort to contain his rage.

"You know why I never talked to you about it! I can't open up to people about shit like that! You never understood!" you yelled back, your eyes welling with unshed tears.

"Well, maybe if you had tried, I could've been there for you! But no, you had to go behind my back and fuck him!" Wooyoung spat, the anger in his voice raw and unbridled.

The argument grew more heated, a dance of accusation and pain. Each word thrown was a dagger that found its mark, drawing blood that stained the alley with your shared history. You were locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to concede defeat.

"You're the one who didn't understand!" you screamed, your voice shaking. "You were never there when I needed you! You were too busy screwing around to care about me!"

"You pushed me away!" he shouted, his voice hoarse from the force of his emotion. "Every time I reached out, you pushed me away! What was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, maybe tried?! You never gave a shit about me!" you yelled, your voice trembling with rage and sadness. That was it. That was the breaking point. Your words were a slap in the face, a stark reminder of his failures as a partner. The anger swelled in his chest, a volcano about to erupt. He stayed silent, and it only egged you on to say something worse.

"You know what, Wooyoung?" you spat, your eyes ablaze. "I'm happy with him! He doesn't treat me like a fucking object!"

Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. He saw red. He took a step forward, his hand shooting out to grab your arm. "You're happy with him? After all the shit I went through for you?" His grip was tight, his nails digging into your skin.

"Wooyoung, let go!" you yelped, trying to pull away.

He leaned in, his breath hot and heavy on your face. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You're just trying to hurt me, because you're fucking pathetic." he spat, the words leaving a bitter taste in the air. "I wish I never fucking picked you up off that sidewalk. I wish I had left you to fucking rot on that goddamn concrete. Maybe then you'd know how much you need me."

Your eyes widened in shock, your body trembling with the sudden surge of fear and anger. "You son of a bitch," you hissed, trying to jerk away. But his grip only tightened, almost pinning you to the wall.

"You're just a fucking tease, leading me on and then giving it up to the first guy who actually shows you attention," he sneered, his voice a mix of disgust and desperation. "You're not worth the fucking ground you walk on."

He didn't know why he was saying these things, didn't recognize the monster his pain had turned him into. But the words kept coming, each one a bullet aimed at your heart. "You're nothing but a whore," he said, his voice cold and hard. "And he's just using you like I did. You're just a thing to be used."

Your eyes filled with tears, but you didn't dare let them fall. You stared at him with a mix of anger and hurt, your voice steady despite the tremble in your chin. "Let go of me," you said, your voice low and dangerous.

For a moment, he just held you there, his eyes searching hers for some sign of regret, some indication that you knew you had hurt him as much as he had hurt you. But all he saw was anger and defiance. He knew then that you had moved on, that you weren't his to save or to claim.

With a snarl, he released you, watching as you stumbled backward, rubbing your arm. He took a step back, the gravity of his words settling in his stomach like a rock. "Fuck," he murmured, the fight draining from him.

You stood there, in the alley that had once held the promise of love and now bore witness to your destruction. The air was thick with tension, the silence between them a stark contrast to the cacophony of your fight.

"I never asked you to save me," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I never wanted to be your fucking project."

Wooyoung felt his chest tighten, the truth of your words a knife twisting in his gut. He had thought he was doing the right thing, thought that by saving you from your ex he could somehow fill the void in his own life. But all he had done was push you further away.

"You don't get to talk to me like that," you continued, your voice growing stronger. "Not after everything we've been through. I deserve better than you."

He stared at you, his anger turning into regret. Why would he say that? He didn't mean it. He still loved you. "Look, I'm sorry," Wooyoung began, his voice softer, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

"Don't," you said, your voice shaky. "Don't you dare apologize. You don't get to do this to me. You don't get to hurt me and then pretend it's all okay."

Wooyoung took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the alley as if searching for a way to fix this mess he had created. "I know I messed up," he said finally. "I know I hurt you. But I can't just let you go. I need you to know that."

"Why?" you asked, your voice a mix of anger and sadness. "Why do you need me to know that when you couldn't even be honest with me when we were together?"

He took a step toward you, reaching out his hand again. "Because I'm an idiot," he said, his voice cracking. "Because I know I don't deserve you, but I can't imagine my life without you."

But you didn't take his hand. Instead, you took another step back. "You had your chance," you said, your voice firm. "You threw it away when you decided to cheat. I'm not going to let you do that to me again."

The finality in your tone was like a door slamming shut in his face. He felt the weight of his own mistakes pressing down on him, crushing any hope of redemption. "But I've changed," he whispered, his voice desperate.

"Maybe," you said, "but it's not enough. You need to figure out what you really want before you can have anything."

With that, you turned and walked away, your heels clicking on the cobblestone as you disappeared around the corner. Wooyoung watched you go, his hand still outstretched, his heart feeling like it was being torn from his chest. He knew he had pushed you too far this time. He had to accept it. He had to move on. But the thought of living without you was unbearable.

He slammed his fist into the wall, the pain a welcome distraction from the agony in his heart. The plaster crumbled under his hand, leaving a dent and a smear of blood. He stared at it, his breathing heavy. He just stood there, staring at his fist. He started to shake, his chest hurting, head hurting, what was happening? He couldn't breathe. He stumbled, trying to find something to hold onto. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air that wouldn't come. The world around him swam, and his vision blurred. He had never felt so lost, so utterly destroyed.

The alley was spinning around him, the colors of the graffiti becoming a jumbled mess of anger and sadness. His heart raced, pounding in his chest like a drum, a rhythm that matched the sob that was trying to claw its way out of his throat. He leaned against the wall, his body heaving with the effort to take in air. It was like someone had your hands around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter with every second that passed. His lungs burned, begging for oxygen that was being denied.

He felt like he was going to be sick. His stomach lurched, and bile rose in his throat. He doubled over, retching, but nothing came out except for the pain and the regret. He could hear his own ragged breathing, the harsh, wet sounds of his sobs echoing off the walls. The cold concrete ground was the only thing keeping him grounded as the panic consumed him. His phone slipped from his pocket, clattering against the ground, forgotten in the chaos of his breakdown.

The tears fell in a torrent, stinging his cheeks and mixing with the snot that dripped from his nose. He didn't care anymore. He didn't care about his pride, about the fight you'd just had, about the people who might see him like this. All he cared about was you, and how much he had lost you. The sobs grew louder, his body shaking violently. It was as if his very soul was being torn apart, piece by piece.

The alley was cold and unforgiving, the concrete beneath him a stark reminder of the hard reality he faced. His knees were scraped from the fall, his hands raw from punching the wall. But the pain was a comfort, a reminder that he was still alive, still feeling. He leaned his head back against the gritty bricks, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a keening wail that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him.

He had never felt so empty, so utterly devoid of motivation. The words you had thrown at him echoed in his head, a chorus of accusations and anger. But it was the pain in your voice that had done the most damage. The pain that he had caused. The pain that he couldn't take back. He had thought that seeing you with someone else would bring him closure and would make him realize that he didn't need you. But all it had done was show him that he needed you more than he ever had.

And it only got worse. His stomach began to rumble as if he were about to throw up.

[deoidesign]

just to inquire, what’s your favorite thing you sell in your shop?

i love your comic!

Oh thank you!

And my favorite thing... That's hard to answer haha

I like selling prints because I get to use my nice printer (which I love to do) and I especially love selling custom panel prints, because then I get to see people's favorite panels from my comic, which is double nice...

The most fun items to pack are the merch bundles which are themed with my books, I LOVE coming up with packaging design like this so much...

But my favorite design has gotta be one of these... Probably the patch, there.

It's really hard for me to pick!

I actually genuinely just am really passionate about product design and merch themeing, it's not only extremely fun for me but it also just really engages my brain. I love coming up with items that fit a theme, and there's no theme I love more than my own comics haha

So there's not much I could enjoy more! That's why I chose to do a merch club on patreon, it lets me get out my merch-y feelings but without overloading my storefront... Plus it's just really fun for me! I get to experiment, make little packages, and enjoy making new things.

Thank you for asking!

[alevicke]

💖 Cult of the lamb notebooks 💖

They are completely handmade with my own illustration. Blank pages, no lines and a protective layer at the front and back for protection 💖

I love making these but I live in a small mobile home and I have no space no space to keep them ;; 💔

More pictures in continue reading!

[northwest-cryptid]

I literally feel like I'm dying and I need to see a doctor, but I can't worry about that right now because

My bank account is literally in the negatives because I'm too disabled to work and can't make money but I can't worry about that right now because

I'm months overdue on getting my car new tags, but it won't even start if I could drive it so I need to jump the battery and get gas which I don't have money for, but I can't worry about that right now because

People are still expecting me to be social across numerous friend groups and it's pulling me in so many directions that I'm stretched so thin I'm running on no social battery for the last month, but I can't worry about that right now because

I still need to actually clean the house, do the dishes, clean the cat litter boxes, vacuum, and do my laundry... but I can't worry about that right now because

I still need to actually set up my new desk so I can stream since I haven't been able to do that for weeks and streaming is unfortunately my only source of income for how little I make every month, but I can't worry about that right now because

My partner is going through a really hard time right now and I need to be there for her and do what I can to make sure she's okay.

[hauntingblue]

AAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH WE GOT ARCANEEEEEEEEEE

[isa-ah]

on the one hand i want to try for a second wind to stay up and get really into something but on the other hand im sleepy and im pretty sure my husband went to bed without me so i honestly might as well

[houseofwolvess]

apparently my insurance got cancelled without any warning and im only finding out in the planned parenthood lobby ✌️

[little-bumblebeeee]

Just got turned down by a straight girl who I thought was gay lemme go write about it

[yoohyeon]

I’m suppose to paint but my moral is so low right now…

[talesfromthebandgeekmafia]

Goodnight everyone!! I love you!! 💕

[inkskinned]

i think a lot about exactly 1 thing from the roman empire: the concept of bread and circus. the idea was that if your population was fed and entertained, they wouldn't revolt. you are asking us to give up our one small life, is the thing - for under 15 dollars an hour.

what would that buy, even. i am trading weekends and late nights and my back health. i am trading slow mornings and long walks and cortisol levels. i am trading sleep and silence and peace. for ... this. for what barely-covers-rent.

life really is more expensive right now. you aren't making that up. i make almost 3 times what i did 5 years ago, and despite an incredibly equal series of bills - i am still struggling. the most expensive line item i added was to own a dog. the money is just evaporating.

we were okay with it because it's a cost-benefit analysis. i could handle the customer harassment and standing all day and the manager's constantly changing temperament - i was coming home to hope, and my life planned in a blue envelope. three hours would buy me my dog's food for a month. i can give up three hours for him, for his shiny coat and wide, happy mouth. three days could be a new mattress, if i was thrifty. if i really scrimped and saved, we could maybe afford a trip into the city.

recently i cried in the car about the price of groceries.

business majors will be mad at me, but my most inflammatory opinion is that people should never be valued at the same place as products. your staff should not be a series of numbers in an excel sheet that you can just "replace" whenever you need something at that moment. your staff should be people, end of sentence.

it feels like someone somewhere is playing a very bad video game. like my life is a toy. like someone opened an app on their phone and hired me in diner dash ultra. they don't need to pay me well or treat me alright - they can always just show me the door. there is always someone more desperate, always someone more willing.

but i go to work and know i could save for years and not afford housing. i am never going to own my own home, most likely. i have no idea how to afford her ring, much less the wedding. my dog doesn't have his own yard. everything i love is on subscription. if i lose my job, i have no "nest egg" to catch my falling.

this thin life - they want me to give up summer for it. to open my mouth and throat and swallow the horrible hours and counted keystrokes. they want me to give up mountains and any non-federal holiday. to give up snow days. to give up talking to my mom whenever i want. to give up visiting the ocean and hearing the waves.

bread and circus worked for a while, actually. it was the kind of plan that would probably now be denounced by republicans as socialist commie liberal pronoun bullshit.

but sometimes i wonder if we should point them to the part of the history book that says: it worked until it didn't.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Fitness Trainer

A/N: I blended some french terms of endearment with English don't come for me. But is Antoine really French, or is he feigning this way to get closer to you? (Had a fem idea for this too)

Synopsis: Another day at the gym, your personalized trainer is helping you out a lot more intimately than he would with most clients.

TW: Creep gym trainer, yandere themes, mentions of future stalking/imagined groping, sensual content

And up... and down, just like that."

The squeeze on your hips kept you stable, even with your fingers shaking, mouth agape as hot breath was sucked in, and out. 

"One more, you can do one more for me."

"I can't..." you huffed, thighs quaking as the barbell on your shoulders made you ache. 

"Yes you can. C'mon sweetheart, we'll do it together."

He gripped the barbell beside where your sweating hands were, chest flush against your back as his feet entrapped the outside of your own. 

“Do it with me now,” He pulled the weight lower, forcing you to squat despite the agony in your ankles and tailbone. “Push through it, baby.”

The sweet name just slipped out, breathy against your ear as his hot exhales slowed compared to your huffs. It almost made you slip.

You could feel the muscles in your wrists shaking, vision going blurry as sweat drips into your eyes. One of his hands leaves the barbell to grip your hip, forcing you back into a standing position as your knees nearly give out. 

You rise slowly back up with the barbell in your hands, nearly groaning in pain at the strain. You finally lift your arms to your chest, finishing the rep with a strained frown as your personal trainer forces the weight off of your arms. His taller stature makes it easy to put the barbell back on the rack in front of you. 

You feel as if you could collapse, an hour and a half of intense training brought upon by your own determination leaving you exhausted and a little discouraged. You thought you could do more, push yourself harder-- but at the end of the day, the amount of reps your body would let you do, was it. You’d crack if you tried to go even further, end up tearing something or worse. 

Your trainer could tell; the way you sweat, your eyebrows furrowed as you kept that hard, strained look with each motion he made you do. 

“I hate to say it, but you’re done for today.” 

You look up at him from your place on the ground, water bottle hanging from your grip as you try to catch your breath. 

Antoine had only worked with you for a couple weeks now, what started as once a week now thrice, if you had the time after work of course. But somehow, he always enticed you to come back. 

His body, which should’ve been motivation, was more or less disheartening-- rippling muscles and bulging quads peeking beneath his tight ‘TRAINER’ black tee and athletic shorts as the perfect ensemble. 

He was so sweet, so encouraging and upsettingly positive. Always filling up your water bottle, saying how he’s always admiring the growth of muscle definition in your back, giving you light touches to show which area of your body that a machine might work out. He even offered post-exercise massages to make sure you didn’t get sore after each session, free of cost as a perk of joining the gym’s ‘premium membership’, an idea he sold you on. That, along with the complementary protein shakes made that were hi “specialty.”

You knew it was his job to hook you in, but who could say no to that sweet meathead’s face? Which is why you were here, on a late saturday afternoon, in this nearly empty gym with him that he convinced you to love. 

You couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, even if he was the one persuading you, offering to use his time off to come in and help train you.

“Feelin’ sore?” Antoine bends down next to you, offering a small towel from his pocket. The twinge of accent in his speech makes him sound funny, dry lips parted as he looks you over. “You went harder than usual today.” 

“Yeah,” You let out after a gulp of water. “Definitely gonna feel this later tonight; ha, maybe I’ll actually take you up on one of those massages.” 

You point with your water bottle, grinning tiredly as Antoine’s eyes seem to shine. He licks his lips to hide a giddy grin. 

“Of course-- definitely, I’d be more than happy to. These hands can work magic you wouldn’t believe.”

Antoine shuffles behind you, pulling at your shoulders to make you sit up straight. 

“Wha- you mean right now? I’m all, sticky.” 

“Now’s the best time, your muscles are just coming down from the effort they’ve exerted. Best to prevent any aches and pains as soon as possible rather than waiting.” 

He begins gentle rubs against the base of your neck; vast, warm fingers grace your collar with a softness you hadn’t expected. Usually when people try to massage your shoulders they’re too harsh, too grippy; but Antoine was rhythmic, pushing into your back with his palms as he made his way down to your shoulder blades. 

“But considering you’ve pushed so hard, I don’t want to see you back here for a couple of days.” Antoine insisted.

“Awe, you want me outa here that badly?” You joked, laying your head forward as Antoine’s fingers made their way to the back of your neck, running pressed thumbs down from your hairline. “I see how it is, prefer your other clients over me.” 

It felt sort of weird, having him massage you so deeply on the gym floor out in the open. But the only person here in the middle of the afternoon was an older woman, paying more attention to her cellphone on the treadmill than anything you two were doing. 

Antoine shook your shoulders. 

“Don’t say that, now!” He leaned his head over next to yours from behind, getting so close your nose almost brushed against his cheek. “It’s not funny; I hope you don’t see me that way.”

“It’s just a joke,” You titter, running your handtowel down the front of your shirt.

“I never understand your jokes.” He sighs, hands moving down to your tailbone. He lifts the bottom of your shirt sticking to your skin, digging his hands against the soft flesh. 

“Woah, hey,” You turn to look at him, but his head is down, looking at his fingers. 

“I have to get to your hips, you can’t do so many squats without release. And at the rate you were going to day… well, you see what I mean.”

The bottom of your tanktop covers his knuckles as he pulls and kneads the skin of your lower back. 

“O-okay.. I guess..” 

He’s not usually so insistent, but he seems so genuine about it-- and, he’s the trainer, shouldn’t they know best? 

He begins with little strokes to your skin, almost caressing. You grow anxious until his thumbs push deep lines into your flesh. 

“Does that feel a little better, Mon cœur? Less pain?” He asks up close, staring at your heated and perspiring cheeks. 

You’re awed by how good it actually feels, the tension melting away with each push of his knuckles into your skin, and grip of his hands around your waist as each of his thumbs digs into your sides. 

“Yeah… feels a lot better..” 

“You can rest your head on my shoulder, don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart.”

You do as he says, arching your back with your head against his shoulder. He had easier access into your back, working his hands up beneath your shirt to reach your mid abdomen.

The deeper Antoine kneaded, the farther he grew up your back, the more… audible, his groans became. Each dip was another breathy moan into your ear. It was fine at first, just the sounds of his work; and then, it became almost, uncomfortably sensual. 

“Just like that...” He mumbled, giving a deep hum.

With your neck so close, his nose dips against your jaw to sneak a sharp inhale of your scent. It was heightened from your hour of strenuous work, a smell he couldn’t get enough of. 

But you jumped forward before he could nuzzle as deep against you as he wished. 

“Uh! Thanks, I feel a lot better now. Really… got all the kinks out.” 

You clutch your towel, facing your trainer to prevent him from working his “magic fingers” again. 

“Of course. And that’s just a taste, a fully body massage would leave the workout you just completed to drain away, as if it was just a dream.” He wiggles his hands with a sheepish grin, one so simple and sincere your guard fell again.

Sure, guys at the gym could be creeps, but he was your trainer, eyes kind and a little foreignly clueless, who only wanted to see you thrive; he’d never try something with you, his client. 

“Yeah, maybe next time. But now, I need to shower and get this stink off of me.” You bring yourself to your feet, all wobbly and achy-galore. Even with Antoine’s work on your shoulders, you can feel your back beginning to seize up. It’s gonna be hard to bend down for a while. 

Offering a hand to Antoine still on the rubbery gym floor, he takes it with a slight ease. He doesn’t use the weight in his hand to get up, knowing he’d just drag you back down to the floor if he did. 

“Thanks again-- I mean, I know it’s your job but--” 

“Don’t thank me; it’s always a treat to have you here, my cherie. I’d train you for free, you know!” 

You laugh, flattered at the idea. If you were a bit more forward, you’d ask him for that little perk. Hey, paying for his service certainly wasn’t cheap!

Making your way to the bathroom, you thank your lucky stars the hard part’s over. Too bad you can’t look at Antoine’s pretty face anymore, though. 

Antoine on the other hand, follows your stumbling body with his eyes, watching as you disappear behind the water fountain and bathroom door. 

His eyes jut back and forth between the machines and front door for witnesses, seeing none before snatching up your forgotten towel. How’d you never notice they didn’t just give these things out? 

He’d brought the cute handkerchief from home, wanting to appear the most of a gentleman. And, in the hopes that you’d use it every and anywhere. 

Oh, he thrived off that scent, pushing the white damp cloth heavy against his nose. It smelled even more potent of you, moreso than the few inches away of sniffs he usually got. 

His tongue just barely brushed against it, writhing in ecstasy from how it still held the stickiness of your sweat. You didn’t know how intoxicating it was to him, watching each bead of sweat leave your neck, the dip of your back when he got the chance to help hold that barbell with you… it was almost maddening, how strictly he had to restrain himself from lapping at your hot skin and running his hands beneath your gymwear. 

 No, he had to save this for later. What would his manager think if he saw him acting so ferally? 

Besides, there were more important matters to attend to. Such as, taking out the bathroom trash, a simple excuse to slide his manager for the opportunity to watch you shower. 

Who knew working here would have such great advantages in getting close to you. 

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could.