#but my love will always be with anything psychological

[dior-luxury]

Can I request yandere Jade, Floyd, Malleus and Vil separately their reaction if they are in love with Y/n but Y/n is not in love with them and they are strong enough not to be forced into a relationship or kidnapped

"Unrequited Obsession: Yandere TWST Boys vs. a Strong-Willed Y/n"

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . drama - no prns .

- [𝐜𝐡.] jade . floyd . vil . malleus

- [𝐩:𝐬] Obsessive Behavior . Psychological Manipulation . Possessiveness . Dark Themes . Emotional Manipulation . Unhealthy Relationships . Stalking . Delusional Behavior . Power Imbalance . Non-Consensual Affection (Implied, never physical) .

Note: It's been a while since I did my last yandere request, and hopefully not my last! ( ´ ω ` )

Jade Leech

Jade’s obsession doesn’t look like obsession at first. He’s calm. Smiling. Observant. The kind of love that grows in the shadow of silence and blooms in darkness. With you, he became intrigued. You didn’t fall for his charm like the others. Your will wasn’t something he could bend with words, and your strength—mental and physical—made him hungry. You weren’t prey. You were a puzzle, a challenge, and he adored it.

But here's the thing about Jade: he plays the long game.

He never tries to force you. He knows it would backfire. You’d hate him. Leave. Fight. And that would never do.

Instead, he’s patient. Suffocatingly so.

He infiltrates your life like moss creeping up stone—slow, subtle, and impossible to uproot. At first, it's small. He shows up when you’re walking home. Not in a scary way—he’ll claim he just happened to be foraging nearby.

He brings you rare mushrooms, ones that bloom only under moonlight, with names you can’t pronounce but meanings like eternal devotion or silent love. He tells you their effects. Some are poisonous. Some make you sleep. Some make you see things.

He never offers you food you don’t ask for—but always makes sure you know what he could do.

“You’re very strong, aren’t you? I admire that. It must be exhausting, though… always defending yourself. Wouldn’t it be easier if someone just… took care of everything for you?”

Jade isn’t reckless. He won’t kidnap you, but he will study you. Your schedule. Your habits. Your triggers. He’ll poke at the edges of your resolve just to see what makes you flinch.

He’ll never lay a hand on you without permission, but he’ll linger in your space. His fingers brushing against yours. A whisper by your ear. The knowledge that if you ever let him in—just once—he’d never let you go again.

“I don’t need to force you. I can wait. Years, if I must. Love like mine doesn’t spoil—it ferments.”

He doesn’t want a relationship built on force. He wants your surrender. And he’ll wear down every wall, one patient smile at a time.

Floyd Leech

Floyd’s obsession is loud. Wild. Scorching.

He’s not like Jade. He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t plan. He wants. And when Floyd wants something, the whole world better make way—or get crushed.

You? Oh, you’re different. You say no. You push back. You fight.

You make him laugh.

“Shrimpy, you’re so fun. Everyone else is boring. But you? You’re like a slippery little fish. Makes me wanna squeeze ya~!”

But the thing is—you’re too strong to squeeze. You bite back. And Floyd loves it.

He tries to intimidate you. Not because he wants to scare you off, but because he wants a reaction. A scream, a glare, a punch—anything. And you? You give it. You fight him without fear, without hesitation. It drives him wild.

He doesn’t try to kidnap you—not because he wouldn’t—but because he knows it wouldn’t work. You’d escape. You’d hate him. You’d never talk to him again.

And that? That’s the only thing that actually frightens him.

So he adjusts. As much as Floyd can. He tries to charm you in his own messy way. Pulls you into games you don’t want to play. Shows up at your door at midnight with bruised knuckles and no explanation.

“I got in a fight. Thought about you the whole time. Bet you woulda kicked my ass too, huh?”

He can be clingy one day and disappear for a week the next. He’ll ignore everyone—Jade, Azul, even classes—but he’ll always come back to you.

He gives you gifts you don’t want. A necklace made from a shark tooth. A jacket he “borrowed” from a student who looked at you wrong. A polaroid of your face when you weren’t looking.

“You’re mine, y’know. You just don’t get it yet.”

But if you ever truly reject him—cold, emotionless, like you don’t care—it breaks something in him. He gets quiet. Real quiet. Not the playful sulking kind. The kind where the ocean stills before the hurricane hits.

He never hurts you. Not even close. But he might hurt others. People you talk to. People you like. And he’ll never admit it was him. Just sit next to you with a shark-like grin.

“Weird how people around you keep gettin’ hurt, huh? Guess the world just doesn’t know how to treat something so special.”

Floyd doesn’t want to chain you.

He wants to be chosen—even if he has to twist the whole world to make that happen.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil falls in love carefully. Like painting a portrait with impossible precision. You weren’t someone he expected to desire. You weren’t infatuated with beauty, fame, or charm. You didn’t care about appearances, status, or sweet words.

That fascinated him. Then it frustrated him. Then… it consumed him.

Vil doesn't do obsession like Floyd or Jade. His is subtle, curated, controlled. He doesn’t spiral—he refines his desire, polishes it, molds it into something socially acceptable. And yet, beneath the gilded exterior, something rotten festers.

He starts by offering you improvement.

“You’re beautiful, but you don’t even try. I could help you… elevate.”

You decline. Not cruelly—just firmly.

And that's when the internal shift begins. If you won’t love him, clearly it's because something is in the way—your self-perception, your stubbornness, your lack of vision. Not his flaw. Yours.

“I could make you perfect. Don’t you see? You just refuse to let me.”

He starts controlling in quiet ways. Subtle pressure. Rearranging your environment. You find your favorite brand replaced with something “healthier.” A student who insulted you? Quietly expelled. Vil never says it’s him—but you know.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t beg. He corrects. Constantly.

You’re not allowed to slip past his radar. Every conversation is studied. Every glance, analyzed. You start noticing how people treat you differently. Doors open that never did before. Whispers follow you.

And Vil just smiles, lips sharp like a blade.

“You’re already becoming the person I knew you could be. One day, you’ll thank me for this.”

But here’s the key: he never forces you.

You’re too strong for that. He respects it, in a twisted way.

But that doesn’t mean he lets go. No—he simply shifts tactics. Inundates you with perfection, making himself indispensable, sculpting the ideal life around you until you’re the only imperfect piece left.

You’re not his prisoner in a tower.

You’re the final brushstroke on his masterpiece—and he’ll spend a lifetime trying to make you fit.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus doesn’t fall in love easily.

He’s lived too long, seen too much. Emotions are fleeting things to mortals, and he’s watched too many burn out like candles in the wind. But you… you were different.

You weren’t afraid of him. You weren’t impressed, either.

You spoke to him plainly. Defiantly, even. You weren’t swayed by ancient power, draconian beauty, or fae mystique.

You were the first constant in his long, lonely life. So when he fell, he fell like a star crashing into the earth.

But when you didn’t return his love?

It wasn’t anger.

It was confusion. Sorrow. And then, determined delusion.

“Do not worry, child of man. I understand. You are afraid of eternity. But I am patient. I will wait.”

He sees your resistance not as rejection, but as something time will fix. You are simply too young to understand the weight of forever. You will come around, once you’ve tired of fleeting lovers and crumbling years.

And he will still be there.

Malleus begins to appear more often. In dreams. In storms. In the flickering shadows at your window. Not haunting you… simply watching. Waiting. Offering protection.

“No harm will ever come to you. So long as I live, the world shall not touch a hair on your head.”

The line between love and possession blurs—because to Malleus, they are the same.

He doesn’t kidnap you. You’d escape. You’d hate him. And he cannot bear the thought of your hatred.

But he does isolate you in another way.

People who grow close to you begin to experience… misfortune. Not obvious at first. Just enough to make them pull away. They don’t even know why.

Nature itself favors you. Roses bloom where you walk. Thunder rumbles when you cry. A protective barrier of magic builds around your life like a fairytale tower—except you’re the one who refuses to be the damsel.

Malleus doesn’t understand your resistance.

“Why do you continue to resist? I offer you forever. Power. Safety. Even love. And yet… you still look at me as if I am a stranger.”

Your refusal doesn’t enrage him. It saddens him. But sadness from a being like Malleus is terrifying. It's the stillness of the air before the world splits apart.

He won’t drag you into his arms.

But he will wait centuries if he has to.

He will burn kingdoms before he lets anyone else touch you.

And he will still look at you, eyes glowing like a storm in the night, and whisper:

“You are already mine. You simply haven’t accepted it yet.”

[misaerabl]

hey! loved what you wrote about ellie sketching you in her journal🙈 could you write something where Joel finds it one day and ends up finding out that’s how ellie and reader are dating? maybe reader is tommys daughter or something 🤍

𝝑𝑒 Joel finds Ellie’s journal.

part 1 here !

TYSM ANON! CW: joel doesn't see the provocative stuff obviously, reader is tommy's kid, secret relationship i guess, just cute interaction between ellie and joel! not proofread! (also note, no weird shit here, reader and ellie weren't really close until they were around 17 so NO THEY WEREN'T RAISED LIKE SIBLINGS)

He wasn’t snooping.

Really, he wasn’t.

Ellie had told him to grab the wrench from her desk drawer while she was out helping Tommy. Said it was “next to the notebook.” Joel figured that meant some old field notes or one of her damn crossword books.

He didn’t expect the sketchbook. Or for it to be cracked just enough to catch his eye.

Just enough for him to see you.

Not provocatively drawn or anything like that. It was just your face—peaceful, soft. Caught in that way Ellie always looked at you when she thought no one was watching. He recognized it now. That stupid soft expression she never wore around anyone else.

And then he saw what she’d written beside the sketch:

“she smiled right after this. i think it broke my brain."

“if i wake up to this again, I'd believe in god"

Joel blinked.

His hand hovered over the edge of the next page—curious, cautious. But something in his gut told him not to. If this was what she wrote next to a fully-clothed sketch of your face, he could only imagine what else was in there.

He shut the book. Fast.

His ears felt hot. He muttered a sharp “goddammit” to the empty room and ran a hand down his face like it might wipe the mental image away.

You were Tommy’s kid.

Ellie was—hell, she was like a second daughter.

He didn’t know if he was supposed to be furious or impressed or about to throw up.

When the door creaked open behind him, he didn’t even turn.

“Uh…” Ellie’s voice came from the doorway. “Whatcha doing?”

He held the book up without looking. “This was left out.”

Ellie froze. “Did you…?”

“Saw the first page.” He gave her a pointed look. “Read enough to know I didn’t wanna see the rest.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I was gonna tell you. I just didn’t know… how.”

Joel sighed. Set the sketchbook back down gently. “I figured something was going on. Just didn’t expect to read poetry about my niece written in the margins of your horny little art project.”

Ellie groaned into her hands. “Please stop talking forever.”

“I plan to,” Joel muttered. He rubbed his temples, then glanced at her. “You treat her right?”

Ellie looked up. Swallowed. Nodded once, seriously. “Yeah. I do.”

Joel let out a breath. “Good.”

And that was that.

He left the room with a muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and decided to pretend like none of it ever happened. Because frankly, he didn't need that kind of psychological damage at his age.

[hanniescookie]

object permanence - yjh

—⁠☆ to love you, i must know that you will always be there OR object permanence being a concept that means that objects continue to exist even when they are out of sight.

pairing - jeonghan x f!reader

genre/warnings - non idol au, college au, psychological au, maybe set in the 1980s or smth, romance, fluff, slight angst, references of a psychological concept, mentions of a little bit of insecurities, skinship, use of petnames, lots of love and yearning, kissing, attachment, simp and insecure jeonghan

wc - 1.5k

A/N - finally!!! the idea that i got while studying for my mids is here, and i'm not very proud of it. it looked more good in my head but like okay ಠ⁠︵⁠ಠ have a good read!

| @maestro-net

Jeonghan knows the die is cast for him again.

The moment he sees you, perched against the wide, arched window sill of the old library, a halo of soft afternoon light catching the flyaways in your hair, he tells himself that he's ruined beyond repair.

You are a silhouette against the dusty gold, your head bent over a thick, worn book, and your brows furrowed in concentration. One leg is tucked beneath you, the other dangling slightly, your foot gently tapping a silent rhythm against the wall.

It isn't even the first time that he's seeing you. Worse, it's probably the hundredth time within a week. He sees you all the time, and each time he feels his heart fill with a familiar ache—a longing that stays unspoken and unchanging.

All that he desires right now is to be close to you—to breathe the same air as you.

The need claws at him and he feels a rising panic at the intensity of it. It's illogical and absurd — this maddening urge to keep you within his sight makes him feel a little insane. He fights the urge to simply cross the room and touch you, to break the peaceful concentration etched on your face.

The volume of ancient pyschology that he had been reaching for is long forgotten, and he lets the pain in his chest control his movements.

He walks closer to you, taking deliberate steps as to lessen the disruption his movements are causing. His gaze snags on the curve of your neck, the delicate slope of your shoulder visible beneath the loose knit of your sweater.

A soft breeze rustles the leaves of a nearby tree, sending a dappled pattern of light dancing across your face. You shifts slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and for a fleeting moment, your eyes flicker up, catching his.

His breath hitches as you wave your hand at him with a smile blooming on your face. Jeonghan can count his favourite things on his fingertips, and your smile usually tops the list. He can't help but smile back at you because he likes how your lips curve up just a little more at his gesture.

He's just about to reach you when your neck cranes to your left. A drop of your smile for a second, and then a pout forms on your perfect set of lips. Somebody else has successfully taken your attention.

Jeonghan doesn't even have to look elsewhere to know that much. You're already up and out of his vision, and a bubble of poison rises up his throat.

He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. The library around him spins, and his hold on the thick psychology book loosens. He wants to run and scream for you. He wants to find you because now you're gone and you'll not return.

Except you do.

“Hannie?”

He blinks, not having realized that his vision is blurred by his tears. You're standing right in front of, your face contorted with concern and your voice a low whisper in the silence. “Why are you crying?”

He touches his cheek absentmindedly, feeling the dampness. Then he chuckles, his nerves calming a little at your sight.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, holding the book out to you. “I was just reading this.”

You sigh, taking the book from him and instead holding his hand. Then you're dragging him out of the library. He doesn't question it, being a little too tired to say anything.

Once you both are out in the golden sun, you stop, making him sit on the bench of your college garden. The book rests in your lap as you stare at him quietly for a while and he lets you.

He knows what you're thinking. He knows he's absurd. He is sure you're going to confront him, and cut ties with him. He's already visioning himself wailing in his cold bed because he's lost the one real connection he had found in this world.

“I love you.”

Jeonghan’s world comes to a standstill.

He stares at you, his mouth slightly agape, the weight of unshed tears still clinging to his lashes. He blinks once, twice, as if trying to clear a smudge on his vision, but you remain, your gaze soft and unwavering on his face. Had he heard you correctly?

He searches your expression for any hint of mockery, any sign that this was some elaborate, albeit incredibly painful, joke. But all he finds is a gentle sincerity that sends a tremor through his already frayed nerves.

It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be.

This isn't a scene from one of the melodramatic novels he occasionally indulges in. This is reality, and reality, in his experience, rarely offers such unadulterated grace.

Jeonghan finally manages a shaky breath. "You... you what?" The words are barely a whisper, laced with such disbelief that they sound foreign even to his own ears. He reaches a hesitant hand towards yours, stopping just short of making contact, as if afraid you might vanish if he dares to touch you.

You smile softly, a knowing glint in your eyes. "I said, I love you, Hannie." You gently take his hand in yours, your thumb tracing small circles on his knuckles. "I know it might sound sudden, maybe even unbelievable. But it's true."

You glance down at the thick book resting on your lap. "You know, we spend so much time reading about the human mind, trying to understand its complexities, its fears, its attachments. So I can tell."

You look back up at him, your gaze softer than he ever remembers it being. "I've seen you, Jeonghan. More than you probably realize. I've seen the way your eyes follow me across the room. And yes," you add, a touch of gentle amusement in your voice, "I've also noticed the way you sometimes seem a little… unsettled, just for a moment, when I'm not right there."

He flinches slightly, a blush creeping up his neck. He hadn't thought his feelings were that obvious. He suddenly feels the weight settling on his chest again. What if you truly think he's weird?

You squeeze his hand reassuringly. "It's okay, Hannie. I think… when you care deeply about something, the thought of it not being present can be a little unsettling, can't it? We learn, studying what we do," you nod towards the book, "about how the mind grapples with what's there and what isn't. But you are here, Jeonghan. You are real, and you matter to me."

He takes a little while to process your words, his eyes refusing to look away from yours. You aren't mocking him; you are understanding him, seeing past the surface of his sometimes-intense emotions.

"And," you continue, your voice soft but firm, "I am also not something that can just disappear.” You lean a little closer, your eyes filled with warmth. "So, yes. I love you. And I am not going anywhere.”

The warmth in your eyes melts away the last bit of Jeonghan's doubt. He breathes out slowly, and he can finally really look at you – the soft curve of your smile, the gentle worry on your face, the sincerity in your eyes. The fast beating of his heart starts to slow down, and he feels a hopeful flutter instead.

He lifts his hand, not hesitating this time, and softly touches your cheek. Your skin feels tender under his fingers and his own hand trembles.

"You..." he begins again, his voice still a bit rough, "You’ve no idea..." He stops, not able to say how much he feels, the constant longing that had been with him for so long.

Your hand comes up and covers his on your cheek, your touch making him feel warm all over. You lean into his hand, closing your eyes for a second. When you open them again, they look soft and inviting.

You both understand without words. Jeonghan leans in slowly, looking only at your lips. He can feel your breath near his, a sweetness building between you.

Your lips touch, softly at first, a light brush that makes Jeonghan shiver. Then with a shared sigh, the kiss deepens.

His hand moves from your cheek to hold the back of your neck, his fingers touching your soft hair. Your arms come up without thinking, your hands resting on his shoulders, pulling him closer. The heavy book falls from your lap to the ground, unnoticed.

When you both pull away, a little out of breath and with red faces, Jeonghan's forehead touches yours. He can feel your warm breath on his skin, and his heart is threatening to crawl up his throat.

"I..." he starts, his voice full of yearning. He moves back a little, looking into your eyes, his own showing a newfound vulnerability and a love that feels both overwhelming and right. "I think... no. I know I love you too."

Saying the words feels like a relief, like a weight has been taken off him after a long time. He can love you freely now, no longer tormented by your potential disappearance from his little world. Now you love him too. You'll be by his side. Your love has grounded him to a stable reality.

He can't help but mirror your smile.

[xiagf]

caleb character introspection

cw: mentions of death

no bird imagines falling when it takes flight.

caleb, man, boy, god. all rough and hard around the edges.

he’s not naive. caleb never not noticed the hushed whispers when he walked around. how the other students hung their head low and recited his accomplishments, his feats. how gideon casually jokes that caleb never needs to try, he simply succeeds—and how timothy’s face contorts in a subtle frown.

when he catches timothy in the break room, fresh out of the centrifuge, he thought of what to say to him. he also thought about whether he should say anything at all. timothy wasn’t his beloved childhood friend—caleb didn’t know timothy well enough to figure out how to comfort him, or if his own presence was welcomed at all.

“caleb,” timothy, mouth agape, breathes out. “... what are you doing here?”

quick, caleb. think of an excuse. you certainly did not see him leave the dorm so suddenly.

“i had to come in for my mental health interview.” caleb reasons out. “i haven’t eaten yet though. do you want some?”

timothy shakes his head no. he goes on with saying caleb probably doesn't need to worry about anything at all. that they would declare him god, should it be possible. caleb takes note of timothy's words. it took a lot to make caleb hurt, and so he questions why the words sort of stung.

—

caleb takes flight. he disappears for a week.

timothy, patrick, and gideon didn’t know if he would come back. and if he did—would he be alive? did the cosmos rearrange caleb, tore him apart rib by rib, strangled out of him the air of confidence he carried?

in the cockpit, caleb doesn't really think of anything anymore. he doesn't count how long his aircraft has been floating around in a sea of nothingness. he remembers his failed psychological assessment. how he was told about death, how for people like him, flights might always be a one way trip.

then, for the first time in several days, caleb thinks of the small girl he left behind. like instinct, he reaches for his chest, and his skin is greeted with cold metal. then, he realizes: he's still alive. after a beat, he asks: why?

he looks over at the control panel in front of him. half the LEDs are lit red. something malfunctioning. something turned off. something broken. he looks over a screen where his location should be shown. he wonders if his mind is playing tricks on him, he sees the ghost of coordinates and lines, but when he reaches out it fades to nothing.

the oxygen levels are depleting. his fuel might get him to another four kilometers at best. and then what? will they even find him?

the lightheadedness doesn’t leave him. for today, and more days to come, it would be his sole companion.

caleb cuts off the signal. he doesn’t turn his aircraft around; he goes further and farther away. no bird imagines falling when it takes flight. but caleb—man, boy, god—he doesn’t really, either. he thinks of his situation and decides that this is a great way for him to go. in space, in a place light barely touches. here, he is a nameless vessel. here, he is bare and naked.

here, he is only a boy who had dreams of soaring.

and he is realizing that dream now.

this came to me in a dream (i was sleep deprived and bored). i love him so much pls lmk ur thoughts !

[mrsvante]

A Gentle Kind of Forever

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: ceo au, strangers to lovers, soft yandere

summary: there was always something different about the way he loved you. gentle, patient, like he was studying a language only he could understand. even when you’d parted, he carried you quietly in the soft folds of memory, never once questioning whether you’d return. and when you finally do… he knows. this time, he won’t let you go.

he touches you like you’re made of glass, speaks to you like every word has been rehearsed for years. there’s comfort in his arms, safety in his silence. but behind the calm is a devotion that doesn’t waver, doesn’t yield. It waits, it watches, it binds. you think you’ve come back to something familiar. but you’re stepping into a love that never left. one that’s willing to reshape the world just to keep you close.

warnings: yandere yoongi, obsessive love, possessive behavior, gentle dom, emotional manipulation, surprise pregnancy, breeding kink, voyeurism (hidden cams), soft horror, unsettling intimacy, dubious consent, power imbalance, bittersweet ending, psychological tension, it’s romantic until it isn’t, mind games disguised as devotion, love that holds you too tight..woo 😮‍💨 that was a lot. i like to think i’m getting better at my warnings

word count: 4,336

Like It Was Always Meant to Be

The first time you see him, he’s alone.

Sitting in a faded green armchair by the window in the hotel lobby, legs crossed, cup of espresso cradled in his hands like it’s something holy. His gaze is cast toward the rain slick street outside, but his mind is clearly elsewhere—lost, maybe, or just tired. You notice the scuff marks on his boots before you notice anything else.

He doesn’t look up when you sit a few seats away. Doesn’t move when you unzip your coat or sigh from the ache in your legs after walking all morning through Florence. He’s still, like a painting. One that hums quietly with emotion but asks for nothing in return.

You steal glances, not because he’s beautiful, though he is, but because there’s a softness in him that feels out of place in a city made of marble and gold.

Then, as if sensing your attention, he turns.

His voice is low, rough from disuse. “Rain like this makes the city quieter, doesn’t it?”

You nod, caught off guard. “It’s like everything slows down.”

He smiles—just a twitch of the lips, but it changes his whole face. “Sometimes slow is good.”

******

You exchange names at a corner café two hours later.

Yoongi.

He stirs his coffee three times clockwise, once counter. You try not to assign meaning to it, but your brain’s already making poetry from his hands, the way he brushes his thumb over the cup’s rim like he’s coaxing a memory to the surface.

He tells you he’s here for the quiet. You tell him you’re here to feel something again.

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask.

There’s comfort in that.

******

You run into him again two days later—accidentally, you think, until he confesses he’s been visiting the same bookstore every morning, hoping to spot you.

You laugh behind your scarf, flushed from the cold and the attention. He looks sheepish, but not sorry.

“You’re easy to be around,” he says with a shrug, “and I’m not easy around many people.”

You believe him.

You let him walk with you that day. He holds your umbrella when the rain returns. When you slip on the wet cobblestones, he catches your elbow, his grip firm and careful.

You start calling him your ghost. He calls you trouble.

You like how it sounds in his voice.

******

That night, in your hotel room, you kiss.

It happens slow. He looks at you like he’s giving you time to back out. You don’t.

His lips are warm and unhurried, coaxing yours to part. When his tongue slides against yours, something in your chest caves in. The kiss deepens. You tug him closer by his coat.

He doesn’t rush to undress you. He lays you down on the bed and maps your skin with his mouth—your collarbone, the curve of your hip, the inside of your knee. He peels off your clothes like he’s opening a gift he’s waited too long to touch.

“Okay?” he murmurs against your ribs.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Yoongi.”

His name tastes good when you say it like that.

When he sinks inside you, you gasp—not just from the stretch, but from the way he looks at you, as if you’re both terrifying and necessary. His movements are slow, controlled, like he’s memorizing the shape of your body around him.

You come with your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping his name into the shell of his ear. He follows with a quiet groan, forehead pressed to yours, breath catching in his throat.

After, he holds you in the quiet.

No music. No TV. Just breath and skin and the sound of rain against the window.

******

Days melt together.

He sketches you while you sleep. You catch him once, and he pretends he wasn’t. But later, you find the paper tucked into your coat pocket, your face rendered in graphite with stunning accuracy. You stare at it longer than you mean to.

He watches you like he’s unsure what’s happening to him.

“I was alone for a long time before this,” he tells you, one night while your legs are tangled together under the duvet. “By choice, mostly. Then you showed up with your terrible Italian and your rain boots and I… forgot how quiet I used to be.”

You kiss him then, not because you know what to say, but because you don’t.

He moans into your mouth. Pulls you beneath him again.

******

The last night, you argue.

You’ve been dancing around it for days—the inevitable parting. Your return ticket. His extended stay.

“You’re leaving,” he says, like it’s a betrayal.

You sit on the edge of the bed, half dressed, hair still damp from the shower. “You knew I had a flight.”

“But it doesn’t have to end here.”

You hate the crack in his voice. Hate the way it mirrors the one in your chest.

“I don’t live here, Yoongi.”

“Then let me come with you.”

You laugh—a wet, sharp sound. “What are we, a story? We fucked and shared a few pastries and now you want to uproot your life?”

He doesn’t flinch. “You think this was just that?”

You bite your lip. His silence wounds more than his words.

“I think,” you whisper, “I was trying to find something here. And I did. But that doesn’t mean I get to keep it.”

His shoulders fall. His jaw tightens. He crosses the room, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you like a man clinging to the edge of a dream.

You kiss back like you’re already mourning him.

******

You don’t say goodbye at the airport.

You just turn one last time, hoping he followed you, hoping the ghost stayed true.

He doesn’t.

And maybe that hurts more than anything.

******

You return to the noise of your life.

Emails. Fluorescent lighting. A bed that’s too cold and dreams that echo with his hands. You find yourself cooking things you only learned how to make because of him. You walk into record stores, hoping to hear the soft rasp of his voice beside you.

You never do.

Until—

Six months later, you open your mailbox and find a small, thick envelope. Inside: a sketch. You, laughing in the hotel lobby. Wearing his jacket.

No return address. Just a note in familiar handwriting.

Still not easy around most people.

Still hoping.

– Y

~*~

Yoongi came to Florence to be alone.

Not in a bitter way—not at first—but in the quiet, intentional kind of solitude that only people who���ve lived too long with noise can crave. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He booked the ticket after his third bottle of red wine and didn’t bother learning Italian beyond the essentials. He packed light. Brought only one notebook.

He didn’t expect to stay long.

He certainly didn’t expect you.

******

He noticed you before you noticed him.

That first day, when the rain made the city shine like something out of a postcard, he was already settled in the hotel’s lobby, watching water drip from the wrought iron railing outside the window. You walked in, cheeks flushed, nose red from the cold. You dropped your umbrella by the door, shook out your coat, and sighed in that tired, human way that made something in his chest ache unexpectedly.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t stop looking at you.

It was stupid, he thought, to feel anything at all. You were just someone passing through. Like he was. Like everyone here.

But then you sat two chairs down, close enough for him to smell the hint of vanilla on your scarf, and all his quiet suddenly felt full of tension.

He told himself not to speak.

Then you looked over at him—just once—and he broke.

“Rain like this makes the city quieter, doesn’t it?”

You smiled at him like it was the first thing anyone had said to you all day. And when you answered—“It’s like everything slows down”—he felt it, too.

The slowing. The shift.

Like something starting.

******

He tried not to get attached.

The coffee shop wasn’t a coincidence, not really. He’d seen you head that way after leaving the lobby and waited twenty minutes before trailing behind, pretending to stumble upon you like fate.

He told you his name. You told him yours.

He felt it land heavy in his chest.

He watched the way your fingers curled around your mug. The way your lips moved when you laughed. The way you avoided talking about where you came from, or where you were going. You were drifting, just like him, and that made him feel less alone.

When you left, you smiled again. That same soft, surprised thing.

He went back to his room and wrote your name at the top of a blank page.

******

He didn’t expect you to show up again.

But when he saw you in the bookstore—hair damp from the drizzle, eyes scanning the poetry section—he knew it was over for him.

He’d spent years building walls no one could see. People thought he was shy, but that wasn’t it. He was tired. Of pretending. Of performing. Of being something for everyone else.

And then there you were, talking to the old man at the counter in broken Italian, your accent a disaster, your smile bright with apology.

He watched you butcher a thank you and laughed out loud before he could stop himself.

You turned. Caught him watching. Raised a brow.

He offered to walk with you.

You said yes.

He didn’t go a day without seeing you after that.

******

He fell in love slowly.

With the way you tilted your face up to the sky when the rain hit. The way you danced around puddles like a kid. The way you made space for him, even when he didn’t ask for it.

You never pressured him to share more than he wanted.

He told you anyway.

He let you in inch by inch—quiet confessions at night, soft touches under blankets, shared silences that meant more than words. You never looked at him like he was too much or not enough. You looked at him like he was there.

Present.

Real.

You made him laugh again.

Made him want to stay.

******

The first time he kissed you, you tasted like lemon and sugar.

He remembered the shape of your lips under his. The way you sighed when he deepened it. The way your hands gripped his shoulders like you’d been waiting.

When he touched you, it was slow. Like prayer. He wanted to give you something that didn’t feel temporary. He wanted to memorize the weight of your body, the heat of your skin, the sound of your voice when you begged him not to stop.

He made you cum with his fingers first. Then his mouth. Then, finally, with his body inside you, moving deep and steady until you cried out his name like it was something fragile.

He whispered yours against your throat. Held you through the shivers.

Stayed until morning.

Then stayed again.

******

He was supposed to leave Florence after a week.

He extended his stay after the bookstore.

He extended it again after the first time you slept together.

And again.

And again.

He sketched you while you were sleeping. Drew the curve of your mouth, the line of your back, the way your fingers curled loosely toward him even when unconscious.

He didn’t show you the drawings. He wasn’t ready to admit what they meant.

But you caught him once. Smiled, even. He wanted to say, I’m keeping you in every way I can, but he only kissed you instead.

******

He knew you were leaving. You’d said so, gently. Mentioned your return flight like it wasn’t going to shatter him.

He tried to play it cool. Tried to pretend it was okay.

But then you started packing.

And he lost it.

“You’re leaving.”

You looked at him like he was being unreasonable. Like the ache in his chest wasn’t valid. “You knew I had a flight.”

He knew.

It didn’t make it easier.

“Then let me come with you.”

You laughed like he was ridiculous.

Like this wasn’t the most real thing either of you had felt in months, maybe years.

“We fucked and shared a few pastries and now you want to uproot your life?”

He didn’t even blink. “You think this was just that?”

He watched the fight drain out of you.

Watched the hurt settle in.

“I think… I was trying to find something here. And I did. But that doesn’t mean I get to keep it.”

He crossed the room.

Kissed you like it was the last time.

Because it was.

******

He didn’t go to the airport.

He couldn’t watch you leave.

Not when he still had your scent on his clothes and the shape of your mouth etched into his memory.

He stayed in Florence another week. Tried to sketch. Failed. Walked aimlessly through alleys that smelled like you.

He finally flew home. Buried himself in projects. Got used to the silence again.

But it didn’t feel like peace anymore.

It felt like a bruise he couldn’t stop touching.

******

He sent the sketch because he had to.

You, laughing in the hotel lobby. Wearing his trench coat.

He didn’t sign his full name. Didn’t include a return address. Just a few lines of honesty scrawled under the drawing:

Still not easy around most people.

Still hoping.

– Y

He didn’t expect a reply.

But part of him still waits for one.

******

He hadn’t been back to the temple in months.

Not since before Florence.

Not since you.

The stone stairs still creaked in the same places. The pines still whispered above the slope, tall and watchful like they remembered every soul that passed. He came for the stillness. For the absence of everything else.

Instead, he found you.

At first, you were just a shape.

A coat too light for the weather. Hair he thought he might’ve dreamed. But then you turned—just enough—and it was you. Blinking up at the shrine, camera forgotten in your hand, lips slightly parted like you were about to say something to the sky.

It hit him all at once. The weeks of silence. The bruising ache of missing you. The months he’d spent trying to forget the exact sound your laughter made.

He nearly stopped breathing.

But he didn’t call out.

Didn’t move.

Just… watched you.

Because some part of him had always known this would happen.

******

You didn’t see him until he was only a few steps away.

Your breath caught—loud in the quiet, like it startled you to realize he was real.

“Yoongi,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, searching for proof you hadn’t been stitched together by grief and fantasy.

“I didn’t know if I’d find you,” you said.

His voice was low when it finally broke free. “You came looking.”

You hesitated. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And just like that, he knew.

You’d run away. Like you always did, he’d learned. But not far enough.

And this time, you came back to him.

******

He brought you to his apartment—a quiet, high rise unit on the edge of the Han River. It wasn’t large, but it was spotless, uncluttered. Like nothing had been touched since the day he left for Florence. Since the day you walked out of his life without turning around.

You stood in the middle of his living room like you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

“Are you okay?” you asked after a while.

Yoongi tilted his head. “You came all this way to ask me that?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Why now?”

You swallowed, eyes flicking toward the window.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you admitted.

And he believed you.

But that didn’t mean he trusted you not to leave again.

******

That night, he didn’t touch you.

Not at first.

He made you tea instead. Sat across from you on the floor with the lights low and your knees nearly brushing his.

You talked. Or rather, you did.

About what happened after Florence. About your job, the apartment you hated, the city that didn’t feel like home anymore.

You kept your voice soft, like a confession. Like you were afraid he might turn away if you said too much.

He didn’t.

He listened to every word, heart pounding like a war drum beneath his skin.

Because even if you didn’t know it yet, he did.

You belonged to him.

******

It happened in pieces.

Your fingertips brushing his wrist when you passed him the tea.

Your gaze lingering too long when he stepped out of the shower in only a towel.

The way your shoulders dropped in relief the first time he pulled you into bed beside him—even though neither of you slept.

By the third night, you were curled against his chest, your breath steady against his collarbone, and he knew.

You weren’t just visiting.

You were settling.

******

When he finally touched you again, it was with all the hunger he’d buried.

He kissed you like an addict who’d been promised one final hit. Like he had to memorize you with his mouth before you vanished again.

You melted.

Of course you did.

He knew your body better than he knew his own name.

Every kiss turned into something deeper. Every sigh pulled a little more of your self control away.

When he sank into you, there were no words.

Only you, clinging to him like you’d finally stopped running.

Only him, gripping your hips and staying deep—deep—until you moaned and wrapped your legs around his waist like you wanted to keep him there forever.

He didn’t stop to ask about protection.

Didn’t even pause.

He fucked you slow. Steady. Possessive.

And when he came, he buried himself inside you with a groan—low and shuddering, forehead pressed to yours.

You gasped.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t say no.

You just held him tighter.

******

Later, when your lashes fluttered and sleep dragged you under, Yoongi stayed awake and ran his palm over your stomach.

You had no idea.

None at all.

You didn’t know the things he’d done since you left.

Didn’t know he’d searched your name on every platform that existed. Hired someone to check your last known address. That he’d nearly flown to your city three separate times, just to watch you through a window.

You didn’t know he’d waited for you at this temple three times a month since returning to Seoul.

And yet here you were.

You came back to him.

Willing.

Warm.

Already full of him.

He kissed your shoulder.

“You’re never leaving again,” he whispered.

You didn’t stir.

And that was fine.

He didn’t need your permission.

******

In the mornings, he cooked for you.

Made your favorite drinks. Bought you books you mentioned in passing.

He took time off work. Canceled meetings. Declined invitations. He needed to be home. Needed to watch you.

There was always the possibility that you’d change your mind.

That some other version of you would wake up, remember the life you’d left behind, and walk out again.

But Yoongi was prepared this time.

Your passport was in a drawer only he could open. Your phone mysteriously stopped connecting to international numbers. He told you it was your service provider.

You believed him.

You trusted him.

And every day, he loved you harder.

Made you laugh until you forgot to feel uneasy.

Fucked you until you forgot you ever belonged to anyone else.

******

Weeks passed.

And when the nausea started—soft and slow at first, then unmistakable—Yoongi simply held you in the bathroom while you vomited into the sink.

“I think it’s food poisoning,” you whispered, shivering.

He kissed the crown of your head.

“Maybe.”

But he already knew.

He’d known since the first time.

It had to happen. The universe wouldn’t have brought you back to him if it wasn’t meant to be.

He tucked you into bed, brought you crackers, brushed your hair behind your ear with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

You curled into him.

Safe.

Unaware.

Exactly where you were supposed to be.

******

The test sat on the edge of the sink like a verdict.

Positive.

Two pink lines, faint but unshakable.

You stared at it in silence. For minutes. Maybe hours. The world around you had stopped making noise, and your own reflection in the mirror felt like someone else’s. Pale. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

Behind you, Yoongi leaned against the doorframe. Watching.

He’d known.

Before you did.

Before your body caught up to the truth.

Now that it was real—now that you knew—it was time.

He stepped forward quietly, like you were a skittish thing that might bolt, and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. You flinched at first, but didn’t pull away. Just leaned back into him like gravity had finally found you again.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered.

Yoongi kissed your temple. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his in the mirror. “You’re not… upset?”

His gaze darkened, but not with anger.

“I’ve never been happier in my life.”

******

He became impossibly gentler after that.

Touching your lower back when you stood too long. Waking up early to make you breakfast, even when your appetite was unpredictable. Googling symptoms, ordering prenatal vitamins, whispering to your belly when he thought you were asleep.

You caught him once—half laughing, half serious—telling your stomach, “Grow strong. I want her to feel you.”

You didn’t understand the weight of it then.

But he did.

He felt it every time he looked at you.

Your changing shape became his obsession. The curve of your belly. The softness of your steps. The way your body bloomed with a life that he had planted.

You were proof.

Of desire.

Of fate.

Of the fact that you belonged to him and no one else.

And now the world would know.

******

There were days you panicked. You’d sit on the edge of the bed and cry, asking if this was a mistake, if your life was over, if you were even ready.

Yoongi never faltered.

He’d kneel in front of you and lay his head gently against your stomach, as if it soothed him to feel how warm and alive you were.

“It’s not a mistake,” he said once, voice thick. “This was always going to happen.”

“Even if I hadn’t come back?”

“You would’ve. You were always going to come back.”

His conviction should have scared you.

But it didn’t.

Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was how safe he made everything feel. But somehow, his certainty steadied you.

Like he’d already seen the future, and all you had to do was follow him into it.

******

As you grew, he withdrew from the world completely.

Stopped returning calls. Let meetings pile up unread. His company functioned without him, but it didn’t matter. You were his purpose now.

He didn’t need anything else.

You were glowing—he told you that often—and when you rolled your eyes, embarrassed by the weight gain, the swelling, the unpredictability of your moods, he’d just kneel at your feet and kiss your thighs like they were scripture.

“I wish I could keep you like this forever,” he murmured once, tongue brushing slow against the underside of your belly.

You laughed, breathless. “Pregnant?”

He looked up at you with something fierce in his eyes.

“Yes.”

You thought it was a joke.

He knew it wasn’t.

******

The birth came early.

A summer storm had rolled over Seoul in the hours before your contractions started—heat lightning splitting the sky, thunder rolling low like some ancient call awakening the earth.

Yoongi never left your side.

Not for the screaming.

Not for the blood.

Not when your nails dug into his hand or when your tears soaked his shoulder.

He was there.

Even when the doctors pulled the baby from you and you collapsed into sleep, too exhausted to process what had just happened—he was there.

Holding her.

Your daughter.

His.

******

You woke hours later to the sound of lullabies in a soft loop.

Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. But when you blinked and adjusted to the dim light of the hospital suite, you saw him—

Yoongi—cradling your daughter against his chest, rocking her slowly in the chair by the window.

She was so tiny.

Wrapped in pale pink and sleeping against his heartbeat like it was the only one she’d ever need.

You said his name.

He looked up.

And he smiled.

Not the small smirk you remembered from Florence. Not the quiet, tight-lipped curve he used when he was trying not to feel too much.

This smile was full.

Free.

Undeniable.

He crossed to you in seconds and gently laid her in your arms.

“You did so well,” he whispered, brushing a curl from your forehead. “You’re incredible.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked down at her face and felt everything shift inside you.

“Her name?” you asked softly.

He kissed your forehead. “Anything you want. As long as it’s ours.”

******

He didn’t tell you about the cameras installed in your apartment back when you’d first moved in with him.

Didn’t mention the second nursery he had built in his private countryside estate—just in case.

Didn’t say he’d already filed the paperwork for sole guardianship under the table, with a judge who owed him favors.

None of it mattered anymore.

You wouldn’t leave.

Not now.

Not when your child looked like him.

Not when she cried and only settled when he held her.

Not when you were still sore and tired and soft, and he was there to carry you through it all.

You were his.

Entirely.

And if you ever forgot that—if some wild, traitorous thought of leaving flickered across your mind again—he’d just point to her.

To the proof.

To the gentle kind of forever he planted inside you.

And you’d stay.

Because where else could you go?

[sweethoneyrose83]

“What’s wrong with me?”

🧠 Psychological & Surreal

"Every mirror shows a slightly different version of me, and only one of them blinks when I do. What’s wrong with me?"

"I can hear people’s thoughts, but only the negative ones directed at me. I never used to hear anything."

"I don't remember hurting anyone. But I keep waking up with blood under my fingernails."

"People keep calling me by a different name—and acting like I've always had it. Even my parents."

"Every time I fall asleep, I wake up in someone else’s body. I’m still me, but their reflection smiles when I don’t."

🩸 Horror & Supernatural

"I haven’t aged in ten years. Everyone around me has. And no one else seems to notice."

"Something follows me in reflections. I’ve caught it smiling when I wasn’t."

"There’s a second heartbeat in my chest—and it doesn’t beat in sync with mine."

"I dreamed about the murder before it happened. I even knew where the body would be."

"I keep writing letters to myself… and getting replies in handwriting that isn’t mine."

🖤 Emotional & Quietly Unnerving

"No one ever remembers meeting me, no matter how many times we’ve spoken."

"I cried at a funeral, but it felt fake. I’m starting to wonder if I’m pretending to be human."

"I’m always cold, no matter how much I layer. They say that’s how my sister was before she died."

"My happiest memories feel like someone else’s. I don’t remember living them."

"Sometimes I look at the people I love and feel… nothing. What’s wrong with me?"

[lifenconcepts]

HEY, Angel !!

Would you care as to describe your experience? I think not enough hear on just how varied and interesting we are, and it would be great to scroll through reblogs of a single post and be able to find those with similar experiences/feelings.

feel free to write whatever but if you would like some prompts:

Have you noticed the world seem more beautiful/peaceful since you’ve found yourself?

How do you feel about gender? Or having a name? Or attraction as a whole? Is it tied to more mortal instincts, or do you still have some essence of it?

How do you feel like you physically look? Do you have any preferences in form? Would you change the way you are perceived if you could - and into what?

How does your day get affected due to your mystical self?

Do you incorporate this sense of self in your hobbies / behaviours?

What does being an Angel or being of divine/holy nature mean to you? Do you consider yourself born here, a newly created angel, or one which has been around for a long time? Do you have any thoughts as to why you were assigned human at birth?

How much sense of “human”ness do you feel, and do you see yourself as equal to humans, something more, or like a watcher of life around you?

Do you feel like you have some higher purpose and reasoning of being here? A meaning of life, if you will call it that.

Do you have any religious connotations tied to your identity?

How did you come to realise who you were, and what signs did you exhibit prior to knowing this?

Do you have any other ‘uncommon’ bits of self apart from being a being of light, in a way? (Therian, otherkin, interests in specific things, neurodivergencies?) YOU DONT HAVE TO ANSWER THIS IF YOU DONT WANT TO!!

What’s your favourite thing about the bodily experience of being on earth? Is there any sensation you really like? (Taste, smell, touch, feeling, etc)

Would you prefer to be in another dimension? Do your senses feel dulled?

What’s your stance on mortality and topics tied to that? Do you believe in reincarnation/past lives/fate/destiny/divine intervention/guardian angels/ghosts/heaven & hell/god/meaning of life?

Would you enjoy if others treated you as some highly being and brought you offerings/treated you like a god/submit to you/worked for you?

What’s your stance on the community?

How do you interpret existence - how does it all seem to feel and what do you take away from it, like.. what do you live for? Do you have a sense of some ideal where the more you experience the higher you will achieve? Do you crave something out of life?

Do you have a ‘gut instinct/feeling’ and has it ever been scarily accurate to the point there could be no other possible explanation other than something holy?

Do you believe you are blessed and/or protected by some invisible force?

Where do you believe angels also show themselves? Are they in those stray rays of light of headlights, do they exist in the bite marks of a wounded animal’s form, is it within the ripples of the water, in the breath of the tree that takes in the wine, in the chill upon a high mountain - or is divinity everywhere?

Do you fear people don’t understand you well enough? Don’t understand us? Have you ever felt like doing something about it?

do you feel bored from these questions already - did you enjoy it- would you like more? Did I give you satisfaction? I find joy through writing, it makes me personally feel incredibly divine, and there’s a calling to know more about other individuals in this mystical and extensive world.. we need to stick together - as a whole. Love eachother. Treat yourselves well, too. Do more of what makes you feel fulfilled and happy. There’s so much complexities to life, but we just gotta handle it all with our own minds - but treat your heart and soul with so much kindness and care.. please- take care of yourself. Find whatever works for you and live forever, my friend. My eternal, immortal friend..

[adhderall]

and like my parents or etc. are always like "omg why you do/wear X thats for men" why does it matter.... i just want to.

"omg you know its not socially accepted for a woman youll be seen as a freak" YEAH CLEARLY I FUCKING KNOW THIS ALREADY.

they treat me like im a stupid ass kid who is completely socially unaware like i dont understand the implications of my own actions and the way i present myself. i KNOW im a weird freak, man. I am a grown ass adult, i think i can make decisions for myself about how to dress and present myself.

[lesbianfakir]

Ok what are y’all’s fav horror movies? Or horror media in general

[gorygirllovesart]

is it wrong of me to want to give my favorite characters children just so they can experience the horrors of parenthood???😿

[icewindandboringhorror]

It's always interesting to hear about people's weird/unexpected "alternate life paths". Like, something that you could have done with your life, a job you almost took, a school you almost went to, etc - that was still actually realistic enough that it could have happened, but NOW it seems to not suit your current personality.

Like for example, I currently hate advertising (how manipulative it is, brands trying to be 'relatable', social media amplifying it to an obnoxious extreme, etc.) so much that even seeing a little ad before a youtube video is grating to even witness, but there was a point in time where I was genuinely seriously considering going into marketing/making commercials as a career lol. Or like, I have a relative who was very inclined to be a pastor when they were younger, even though today they're a super strong atheist, etc. etc.

[secretexperiment]

*

[heich0e]

was studying at the lib w school friends today and one of them was complaining about her period and I thought of you livvie 😔 hope the teeny tobio thoughts haven’t been tormenting you too bad

stopppp i'm crying u THOUGHT OF ME IN UR DAY what the hell!!!!! i'm fine now tho thank u for keeping me in ur prayers <3 i love u

[moe-broey]

VIVID fucking idea I had last night....

Background info, I think Moe has some really distinct tendencies that Alfonse ends up being able to immediately identify it by (and finds a lot of comfort in doing so). One of which, is it doing a quiet, hesitant, but steady knock. Persistent, but with long pauses in between.

ENTER..... the Vision........ just. This entire sequence. "You'll never hear from me again". Into, the quiet knock only a few hours later. Into bursting in with the MOST enthusiastic, "HOLY FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Moe really is Some Type of Guy LMFAOO

Fave panels.......

[anthromimicry]

okay, but i think it is about time to talk about one of misao's fears is, because i believe that they can tell you a lot about a character and their psyche — and i came to tell y'all that the one i'm going to be talking about today is that misao fears becoming a mother / motherhood. the first reason in which why i believe this is because misao just genuinely thinks that she is not the nurturing type and that she would likely be a terrible parent to her child ( which i know is a very depressing thing to think about. but it is something that she has feared for a long time, unfortunately. ) this likely stems from a mix of misao's inability to deal with her own emotions, though, as she feels like it's better to just bottle them up and deal with them all on her own rather than the alternative. and this would be to try to confide in someone and/or get help from them should she need it. so, misao feels as if her child were to come to her needing emotional support from her, she would absolutely fail at it and the last thing she wants is to emotionally neglect someone the way she had been as a child ( p.s. of course, this was mostly just borne out of unfortunate circumstances, as i've stated before because of kaiyah's illness. though this hasn't stopped misao from feeling the brunt of the impact that it had on her. )

plus... i feel as if misao also doesn't have a lot of confidence in herself whenever it comes to the concept of always being able to put a child first, as she has a pretty negative self-image of herself deep down if i'm being honest. she sees herself as an extremely selfish person who can't even become friends with one person because she is so afraid that someone will hurt her, and in her opinion, that makes her pathetic or weak. so she doesn't feel like she'd be able to take care of a child with the amount of responsibility that is required to in order to raise them properly and protect them at the same time.

though this isn't necessarily true as misao has put up those barriers that would normally let people into her heart mostly due to trauma, and having experienced trauma doesn't make anyone weak. i just feel as if she desperately needs to remedy her self-image because it is very damaging to think of yourself like that and it would be really good for her emotional health if she were to try to ways to better cope with everything that she's experienced throughout her life. there are other reasons as well behind why misao fears motherhood while i'm talking about it, however, and these are arguably one of the more bigger ones: the act of giving birth itself and suddenly being thrust into having to not just take care of yourself, but the baby inside of you as well. which sort of makes sense whenever you connect the dots as to how many horror stories misao has heard about delivering a baby and also how much a person's experience while being pregnant can vary from others. i mean, it has been shown that some people may have more morning sickness than others and that they just don't have a very good experience with being pregnant in general, for example. but other's may be 'glowing' as they say and may find it easier to deal with.

so, you never really know what kind of pregnancy you're going to have until you actually become 'with child' as misao would call it. and the unknown aspect surrounding it scares misao more than anything. plus, as it stands now, she isn't sure whether she'd want to go through the process of giving birth as there can be a lot of complications regarding it. but there can also be so many good things about inviting a new member of the family into your home and misao feels as if it is kind of expected of her to have children so she can continue the kanade line.

but misao is just so afraid of it for these reasons that she can not see herself as a mother, even in her head. however... there is the matter of adoption that she has yet to take into account, but with how focused the jorōgumo are about having biological children, i feel as if misao hasn't even considered it to be an option for those who are afraid of giving birth and also to give a baby / child a loving home as everyone deserves one of those. but yeah. i hope that this gave y'all a little more insight into her character, as misao is scared of re-enacting her past in a way, though i feel as if you become a mother yourself... you have to separate what will be your own experience of parenthood from your parents. so, in order to overcome this fear she has, misao would have to treat it as an entirely different thing from kaiyah's experience as a mother and her own child self's experience of her as a mother.

and this is definitely possible. it would just take some work, as overcoming any kind of fear would. plus, i feel as if misao were to accept other people's help it would also benefit her, since discussing motherhood / plunging into the topic of the sometimes seemingly scary thing that is parenthood is definitely not something that you have to try to go through alone.

[7-oh-ta1]

Been trying to working on my trust issues thru writing and here's the problem: I think everything I say makes sense how does everyone else not think this way