#expensive cheese stalker???

[cheeseandbretboy]

i love weird and poorly written stupid books and films and music i think basically anything that has been created is so amazing and cool and awesome and provides SOMETHING to us even if its incredibly stupid and weird because we can extrapolate meaning from basically anything stop makingfun of everything gosh chillax everyone

[kyurume]

"a mere knock-off can never beat the real thing" they say..

pairing: yandere!dollmaker!antiqueshopowner!scara x gn!reader

warning(s): obsessive behavior, stalker, reader gets injured i'm so sorry, weird ass copies of you he does imaginary tea parties with.. gory situation :( happy halloween, everyone.

summary: ever since you've stepped in that little antique shop in your town, you've felt like someone's watching you. you tell yourself that "oh it's fine i'm just paranoid!" but, really, you couldn't sleep without having this odd feeling that someone's spectating your daily life. you couldn't just shrug this feeling off.

"I can't sleep."

you mumbled to yourself in your bed. Your bedroom was dark, and you can only hear your A/C blasting cold air into the area. it was one of the hottest periods of the year, and the heat was killing you. you cursed global warming for existing, and that coincidentally made your days even more hot and humid. you realize that you can't get a wink of sleep, and your eyes aren't feeling heavy yet, even though you've been watching tons of asmr videos for 2 hours. your clock shows that it's now 12:45am, and you have a dentist appointment at 7am. you're definitely gonna wake up grumpy. you stand up, feet on the ground, hoping that walking around your apartment and grabbing a glass of milk would somehow help you in this time of crisis. you open your door, the loud squeaking sound of the door irritates you, and you wonder if that woke the neighbors. you walk to your kitchen, bumping into some furniture in the process. you walk over to the fridge, hoping that milk isn't the only thing that you'll be consuming tonight. you opened the doors of your refridgerator, and inspected the inside. you only have.. juice packets, milk, cheese, wheat bread, water, an opened can of baked beans, raisins, and a box of chocolates..? it's one of the more expensive brands, neatly wrapped with a purple ribbon. you never remembered buying it, not even a fragment of a memory. but you were absentminded, and decided on the chocolate. it's better than the milk, anyways. you closed your fridge door, and sat on your kitchen counter stool. you placed the fancily packaged chocolate box onto the kitchen counter, and opened it, the chocolates were heart-shaped. how off-season. you didn't mind though, since they were cute. so, you popped one of those heart chocolates in your mouth, they tasted good, as expected of an expensive chocolate brand. but the aftertaste.. was odd.. sort of like.. a chemical taste. and before you could even begin to pick up anotber piece of chocolate, your eyes droop, and you steadily started to fall unconscious, you couldn't even move. but before you passed out completely, you felt someone catch you, and you managed to pick up their voice.

"gotcha."

... you wake up, in a old, and dimly lit room. weird, you don't remember there being an extra room in your cramped apartment. then, before you could look around to process the situation you're in, someone got up, and ran toward your direction. your fight or flight senses awoke within you, as you tried to move out of the way, but you realize you're tied to a chair, so you only fall down, helpless, and vulnerable. You couldn't speak, because.. well. duct tape was placed on your mouth. and you can't feel your lips.

"welcome to your new room!"

you look up at the owner of the voice. a man with dark indigo hair, with a single light purple highlight in his bangs, with berry-colored irises, red eyeliner, porcelain skin as pale as the moon and a round face, but he looks to be around his 20s. he grabs the sides of the chair, and places the chair (with you taped on it) upright. your many questions were muffled by the tape on your mouth, he smiles and roughly rips the sticky plastic off your numb lips.

"what the- who- let me go!"

you only managed to yell these words at him. he smiles sinisterly, cupping your face in his hands shamelessly, as he whispered these words.

"i'm your boyfriend, silly."

boyfriend? seriously? you've been pre-determined to be single ever since you came out of your mother's womb. he strokes your chin with the back of his palm, and offered,

"you hungry? you looked so cute when you were walking around, looking for food, like a starved puppy."

yikes. that's a really weird comparison. this guy is bad news, so you shake your head no. he looked a little sad, but he smiled at you again. what a creep.

"shame. i could've shown you how good of a cook I am."

he kneels down at your eye level and holds your hands carefully, like you're a porcelain doll he wouldn't want to break. you try to look around, and assess where the hell you ended up in, but he grabs your cheeks with his one hand, and makes you face towards him, his grip on your face tightening.

"if curiousity truely killed the cat, you'd be brutally murdered, right here, right now. but, if you REALLY want to see the imperfect works of art i've made of you, then i'll let you see."

he roughly lets go of your face, and walks out of the room, putting on a leather glove. you look around to find seemingly lifeless naked corpses, but as you squint your eyes to adjust to the sight, you quickly realize that they are handmade copies, of you. dolls, that look exactly like you. not only do they look like you in aspects of the face, but the moles on the dolls are eerily accurate. it's detailed, down to the bruises you accidentaly get when you wake up, and to the shape of your fingers, and length of your fingernails. but what you see out of that door surprises you. it's the antique shop you visited.

it's been about 4 months since you were taken from your apartment. you discover many new things about this guy, like how he runs the antique shop you dropped by, and how his mother came up with a crazy name like scaramouche. he changed your restraints from duct tape to shackles, and he feeds you, but he monitors your diet tediously, and he is very careful not to feed you anything that'll give your brain energy to think about escaping. he's starving you, but he says it's for your own good, because he's a good "boyfriend". he fed you his leftovers as a "reward", or so he says. he slobbered his saliva all over the remaining meat left on the bone of the meat, and made sure all of the things he left on the plate had some part of him you can eat unnoticed. it's quite ironic, since he beat you black and blue if you ever attempted to escape, he even watches you sleep. scaramouche was out for groceries, and the store was closed. you took this as the ultimate chance to escape. you were kneeling on the cold, damp floor of the little prison that scaramouche calls his back room, frantically trying to free themselves from your metal shackles. your right foot was aching. the metal shackles bound your foot tightly, and you were desperate to break free, despite being so tired. the room was humid, and you were sweating profusely. your own sweat acted as a sort of lubricant, as you try to squeeze your foot out. but your foot didn't fit through. then, you remembered that scaramouche left a metal pipe laying around after threatening you and to nail your feet to the floor if you kept trying to escape. you look around for it, and you reached out toward the tower of boxes it was on. the pipe fell onto the floor with a loud 'clang!' sound. and you had the craziest idea you've ever thought of.

you thought of doing it anyways, since having a crushed foot is better than staying with that psycho. you tore a piece of cloth off your shirt, and you put it in your mouth, acting as a sort of a muffler for the screams you're about to rip out of your throat. you grab the metal pipe, and with a deep breath, and a background sound check for any signs of your captor. you were on the verge of having a mental breakdown, the waves of heat radiating from the sun outside, seeping into the basement, your head spins, and it feels like the world's warping, the smell of your own body odor adds to your headache, it would be the worst thing you've ever smelled in your life. you shook your head, thinking that being in this pathetic state would be a waste of time, so you stretch your body to its' limits, without breaking any bones, so your body can still handle crawling on the floor after you shatter your foot. you sucessfully grabbed the metal pole, looking up to the wooden ceiling, praying to whoever would listen to minimize the pain of this. you inhale, exhale and bit into the dirty cloth in your mouth, prepared to hit the metal with all your might, and hit the spot in the shackles that had a gap.

it broke, and the sharp, agonizing pain that shot into your foot was incomparable to any injury you had before. you couldn't even bare to look at your injury, but you had no choice to, since you had to make sure your foot could squeeze through the newly made gap. the rusty metal had an opening now, and you could fit your foot through. you free yourself from the shackles, quickly making use of your freedom to stack boxes to the basement window. you whack the metal pipe against the lock on the window, the lock now broken, you sucessfully escape the dreadful basement, your pitiful, dirty hands gripping onto the grass and ground to lift yourself outside, you use the metal pipe to assist your weak muscles, and now you're on the ground, the smell of grass and the fresh air brought tears to your eyes, after months of only smelling the paint from the paint scaramouche stored in his basement, and your own body odor. you weakly crawled to the nearest open store you could see. a pharmacy. it seemed like the universe really was on your side the whole time. you tapped the glass door with the pipe you had in hand, then a green haired young man with glasses opened the door, looking down, to find you, a severely injured and malnourished individual, covered in bruises, and dried blood. he did not hesitate to help you, and asked for assistance from someone in his store, a little girl with purple hair. they handled you with care, the young man calling up some more help from the other shopkeepers, they carried you upstairs, to a bedroom, and they carefully laid you onto the bed. you knew that this was salvation, you didn't care if you looked like a mess, you passed out, on the soft mattress. you missed this, so, so much. you were too occupied relishing in this bliss of being saved, you never noticed that one of the people who saved you, was your captor, smiling behind a face mask, as he wrapped your injured foot with a bandage, tenderly holding your hand, whispering under his breath, as the others are busy helping eachother patch you up.

"i'm impressed."

notes: happy halloween, everyone! a gory treat from yours truly.

[wheels-of-despair]

Worth It | Ralph Penbury x You | Masterlist

{<-Previous} [A Great Deal of Bravery] {Next->}

Summary: A simple act breaks Ralph's brain. A simple phrase breaks yours. Words: 1.9k

It started out as innocent as any other day.

You'd met at your favorite bench, shared an embrace and a series of soft kisses, and sat down to talk. Today's subject was family vacations. Ralph told you all about his family's sweeping country estate, where he and Victoria used to spend their summers. Your family usually congregated at your grandparents' home by the shore for a week or two, which suddenly sounded remarkably humble.

The afternoon wore on, and eventually, you helped Ralph unpack the small basket his cook always sent with him. It wasn't elaborate fare, usually just finger sandwiches and cakes or fruit and cheese, but there was something intimate about eating together every day that made you feel closer to him. You wouldn't trade this time together for the world.

You noticed it as Ralph was describing his favorite climbing tree from his youth, which he'd gotten in trouble for ripping many a pair of pants in. There was a smidge of jam on his left cheek. You watched it move on his expressive face for far too long, wondering how he couldn't feel it. But eventually, you couldn't resist any longer, and reached for one of the cloth napkins the kitchen staff had provided. Taking his chin in one hand to hold him still, as he was rather an animated storyteller, you wiped away the jam with the napkin in your other hand. Ralph froze.

"Just a bit of jam, carry on," you drop the cloth and laugh at his vacant expression, returning to you previous position on the bench. His face began to turn a shocking shade of crimson. "Ralph, are you alright? Did I break you?" He doesn't respond. Had you crossed a line? Had you made him uncomfortable?

Ralph had been taken completely by surprise when your hands touched his face. He wondered briefly if you were going to use them to cover his mouth and finally stop him from rambling about the childhood he couldn't seem to shut up about. He couldn't help it. You never told him to stop, so the words just kept coming. There was something inside him that just wanted to share everything with you.

Then you held his chin and wiped away a bit of food. He'd never been so embarrassed in his life. You must think he was an absolute pig. Victoria often teased him about it during their younger years. "Daddy, shall we have a trough installed for Ralph?" And even his mother. "Good heavens, Ralph, perhaps if you closed your mouth once in a while, you'd be more likely to keep food inside it."

But you hadn't said a word. You'd simply wiped it away with a smile, like it was nothing, and told him to carry on with his incessant prattling. Ralph wondered, as he often did, if you were truly real. Not only were you not disgusted by him, but you'd never once told him to shut up. Even now, after all this time and all the stupid stories he'd told you, you were still here with him. And you were happy about it. No one had ever treated him this way before.

"I love you!" he blurts out before he can stop himself, regretting it immediately. He scrunches his eyes shut, unwilling to have his heart broken by the terrified look surely adorning your face. He'd just sit here until you had time to run away, then go home and drown his sorrows in an expensive bottle of wine. Business as usual for the romantic failure that is Ralph Penbury, he thought bitterly.

He cracked an eye open to see if you were still there… and you were. You were still right there, on the bench next to him, staring at him. You hadn't run away, screaming, looking back over your shoulder to make sure the crazy stalker boy wasn't following you home? Right. This was your place. He's the one who should go.

"I'm sorry. I'll go." He stands up and dares to take one last look at you, the one that could have been, as he prepares to walk out of your life forever. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he takes a step toward the path that will lead him away from his most recent failure.

What the blazes is he doing? Did Ralph Penbury seriously just confess his love for you and then try to leave? Is he even crazier than you are?

Pushing aside your initial sense of overwhelming panic - is that what it was? - you stand up and move yourself into his path. He looks at you in surprise.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Away?" Ralph asks with an air of defeat. "They always tell me to go away."

"Ralph, if you leave me right now, I will scream."

"You… you want me to stay?" he asks, clearly confused. You nod. Ralph looks utterly lost.

"Did you mean it?" You're a little afraid of the answer, but you have to know.

Ralph takes a shallow breath, reaches for your hand, and looks into your eyes. He answers with a solemn, "Of course I do."

You have no idea how to respond. Your brain is suddenly empty of all thought. Like a useless balloon attached to a useless body buzzing with an unknown sensation, feeling both heavy and weightless at the same time. You suddenly have to put all your effort into remembering how to breathe. Ralph must have sensed your distress, because he guides you back to the bench and sits you down. He kneels in front of you, and you soon realize you've been holding onto his hands for dear life.

"Sorry," you murmur, releasing him. He doesn't move.

"Are you alright?"

You nod, closing your eyes for a moment to collect yourself. You take a few deep breaths, trying to make them look effortless. Judging by the concern on Ralph's face, you've failed.

"I'm sorry for overreacting." He shakes his head, but before he can speak, you continue. "No one's ever said that to me before," you tell him, voice barely a whisper.

"No one's ever stayed after I said that to them before," he admits. "They always run, or laugh me out of the room."

You reach out and cup his cheek. How could anyone run from this beautiful face?

"I think… I think it takes a great deal of bravery to tell someone how you really feel about them," you say softly, caressing his cheek with your thumb.

He closes his eyes and leans into your touch.

"I expect that one day… perhaps even one day soon, I'll…" you struggle with your words, unable to find the correct way to express what you're feeling. "I hope that one day, I'll be as brave as you."

He lets that sink in for a moment, and then smiles up at you wordlessly.

You tried your best to return your date to normal after Ralph's confession, but something strange hung heavy in the air. You knew he felt it too. It wasn't long before you were due back home anyway, so it wasn't too unbearable. For once, you were looking forward to the weekend. It was Friday, and you had two whole days to unpack your feelings and let the air around your favorite bench clear before reuniting there on Monday.

You tried to act calm as you helped Ralph pack up his basket, and gave him his standard goodbye kisses before leaving the privacy of your secret spot for the trail outside. You walked silently and prepared to part at the end of the path.

"See you Monday?" you asked with a smile.

"See you Monday," Ralph answered with a grin of his own, which didn't seem to light up his eyes like it usually did. With a final squeeze to your hand, he turned away and began walking home.

As soon as you begin the trek toward your own home, a feeling of dread starts to spread through your body. With each step, it feels more and more like you are walking toward your doom.

You love him. Of course you love him. You absolute coward, you don't need two days to think about this. You adore him, you'd never been so happy with anyone in your entire life, you'd spend every waking moment with him if you could. Why were you not able to say it back? You admire his bravery? What the bloody hell does that mean? Does Ralph think you don't care for him? Is he done being patient with you? Did he think you were dismissing him like the others did? What if this was your last chance? What if he's given up?

You whirl around and hurry in his direction as quickly as your feet will carry you. It may be your imagination, but you think you can still smell traces of him on the path. You hope he hasn't gone too far. Or met someone else. Oh God, what if he's already met someone else, someone who'd snatch this perfect man up in a heartbeat? What if you've ruined everything forever?

Bursting out of the quiet wooded area, you find yourself in the main part of the park. Sprawling grounds, green grass, mothers pushing babies in strollers and young lovers making eyes at each other. You finally spot the lover you're looking for, just ahead, nearing the bridge. The very bridge where you met the day after the dance.

"Ralph!" you shout as you pick up speed. "Ralph!"

Just Kidding

Well, it hadn't been a complete rejection. Ralph understood that you were different, and preferred to take things slow. He couldn't believe he'd almost ruined everything with his impromptu confession. This was going to be the longest weekend of his life. What if you decided not to come back on Monday? That you'd had enough of him, and his messy ways, and his nonstop talking? He wouldn't fault you for it. He'd be sick of him too.

He wished you would come running after him and tell him that you really were coming back on Monday. He didn't even need an "I love you too." He'd be happy with just an "I want to see you again." He wished it so hard, he thought he heard you calling his name.

"Ralph!"

Very funny, brain, he thought as he stepped onto the bridge and watched the stones pass beneath his shoes.

"Ralph!" It was getting closer. Could it really be? He turned cautiously, and was suddenly knocked back a step by the force of another body colliding with his.

"Ralph, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm such a coward," you said quickly, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in his shoulder. He returned your hug as his brain tried to catch up. "I love you too."

Ralph's heart leapt into his throat. Did you really just say that? Surely not. He's imagining things. It was quiet, he must have misheard. He detached himself from your grasp and held you at an arm's length. He had to make sure.

"What did you say?"

"I love you too, Ralphie."

You had a nervous smile on your lips and tears threatening to spill from your eyes, and Ralph had never seen anything so beautiful in his young life. He pulled you back to him and kissed you hard and deep, prying eyes and passersby be damned.

This was the best day of his life.

[steele-soulmate]

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 586, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) hit and run pedestrian accident, precipitous labor, neonatal death, abandoned baby, child intoxication, death of a minor character

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORESS:

I’m going to be taken an undisclosed break from writing Tattooed Wings. If you want to reach me, come find me on Tumblr at @steele-soulmate.

WORDS: 1156

 “Hello, hello, hello again, mama and mama’s family!” Ken Anderson greeted the family as we all trooped into the Paper News Theater, eager (as per usual) for the day of rehearsals for the new Ken Anderson musical. “How is everyone doing today?”

“Exhausted!” I told him with a smile as Peter quickly set up a collapsible play pen to dump the babies into in order to keep them all corralled and in one place. “The triplets are teething, as I’m quite sure you may have guessed already.”

The famed Broadway director only came over to affectionately pat the heads of all the tiny little babies before going straight over to chit chat with the pianist accompanist, who had just arrived moments after the Ratajczyk clan trooped in. I meanwhile, took the opportunity to fold myself onto the floor and begin to stretch, welcoming in Elizabeth and Katie as the two girls followed after their mommy.

After Ken Anderson had handed out new sheet music that he wanted us to run through that day, the cast began to bump our way through Disney’s The Nightmare Before Christmas- A Broadway Tale. And so, we all began to go over our lines and assigned songs with laughter and chatter in between.

When lunchtime rolled around, everyone found out that Ken Anderson had placed an order for at least two hundred boxes of pizzas with either pepperoni, all the meats, extreme cheese, or all the veggies toppings, at least eighty boxes of garlic bread, at least sixty boxes of chicken wings with blue cheese dressings, at least fifty boxes of parmesan zucchini sticks, wrapped meatball subs and individual sized cartons of pasta salad. For those with dietary restrictions, he had thoughtfully purchased dairy free, meat free or vegan boxes. I couldn’t help but notice that Elizabeth had requested a box of vegan prepared foods while Katie piled on all of the meats onto her plate.

“Elizabeth, you don’t like meat anymore?” I asked her in a soft voice as she came over to sit next to me.

“I’m trying to go vegan, mommy,” she explained, pulling apart her cheese pizza. “I really don’t enjoy the idea of me eating an animal that was bread to be slaughtered for human consumption.”

“Ah, okay.” This was the first time that I was hearing about this as Peter was feeding the babies each a skinny strip of cheese pizza.

“Though I’m not asking you to go out and buy vegan food for me- that stuff is expensive,” she continued to speak around bites of food. “But when I start to get an allowance, maybe I can chip into buying food and get a few vegan substitutes for me?”

“That sounds agreeable to me,” I agreed after a moment of thinking. “I do believe that there is a vegan supermarket nearby the house- we can run by there and have a look-see at what all they offer, how does that sound?”

“Hey sweetheart, I couldn’t help but overhear you,” Peter interjected, looking up from his plate, piled high with a generous amount of food. “But what do you think of the kids having their own bank accounts and cards where we can just deposit money into instead of just giving them cold, hard earned cash?”

“And teach them how to adult in their lives?” I hummed in an agreeing tone of voice. “Why hadn’t I thought of that?”

“Because even super mommies have fart days,” Elizabeth deadpanned.

Ken Anderson, who was passing by with his arms full of stand in props, dropped everything and had to sit down from laughing so hard.

“Oh Elizabeth? I hope you’re happy now,” I poked at the dragon. “You broke Ken Anderson.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said, getting another strong wheeze out from the African American man.

I shot my daughter a dirty look, telling her to calm down, which she did do with a sheepish squeak.

Katie finished eating her third plate of food, standing to go grab more.“That’s enough food now, mo stór,” I clucked at her. “You are not allowed to get urpy, you hear me?”

“Yes mommy,” she agreed, collecting plates from all around her as she trotted off to the trash can to go and dump everything.

All the tiny, little babies- Baby Tommy, Baby Noah, Baby Eve, Baby Mattie, Baby Teddy and Baby Jojo- were toddling all over inside the baby play pen, looking absolutely adorable as they bopped along to the piano music and babbled softly to themselves and their little baby dollies.

“Hey, I’m sorry, but can I please leave my son with you?”

I smiled sweetly at the ensemble member, who had been wrestling with a fussy little man for much of the rehearsal day, watching as she settled the cranky little man in with the Ratajczyk babies before rejoining the run through of ‘This is Halloween’ as the opening number.

“Boys and girls of every age Wouldn't you like to see something strange? Come with us and you will see This, our town of Halloween”

“Hall-a-weenie!” yelled out Baby Tommy, cackling gleefully as someone plucked him from the play pen and everyone began to worship him as though he was the Pumpkin King of Halloweentown.

Oh Baby Tommy, I thought as I saw Peter taping the adorable event with his cell phone. You are such an icon.

Mo stór, my dear, Irish Gaelic 

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@ch3rry-c01a

[returning-spring]

that post about fantasies of stalkers leaving you cheese is hilariously funny, but at the same time I am looking at my $10 tiny block of sheep's milk cheese and thinking "I love her but why is she so expensive" so. yeah

[bearpillowmonster]

I went to a sit-down restaurant for the first time in- well- years, I guess with my grandma and sister and it became sort of plain to me what I was walking into and how it had changed. It seemed like only the upper echelon could eat there, (and it wasn't like some fancy restaurant, it's a local chain halfway sports bar) but everyone dressed in their golfing attire probably straight off the course, retired without a complaint.

I'm a bit of a stalker when it comes to public settings but it's kind of just me being paranoidly observant. (paranoidly? look at me making new words) but there was one table in particular that I paid attention to because they walked in like they owned the place, I don't think they waited to be seated, just picked a table. They got a waitress and called them back "Miss! Miss! MISS!" then when that wasn't enough had other waiters at their table (I observe, not read lips) and they just had their tentacles everywhere. They knew someone at the bar and started talking them up. They knew a group of women that came in and maybe planned? Because I could've sworn I saw one of the guys switch seats with the guy that came in with the women. (these are grey hair old men, retired age, women 40s-50s).

Obviously the food was expensive even if I wasn't paying but my sandwich was just turkey cheese tomato and coleslaw and it was 10$ so I imagine the other sandwiches that my group had were around the same so about 30$ for the meal. I figure 5$ for drinks since me and my sister got water but oh wait, my sister got a virgin pina colada because it had a toy in it so probably another 10$, she also got dessert which was 7$ and they got a plate of fries which were 9$ so we're already over 60$ without whatever the tip ended up being. I'm not trying to say 'the good ol' days' or anything but I remember eating at Red Robin one time with me, my mom, dad and sister (just one extra person than now) and my dad thought 60$ was excruciating and said he'd never go back. And what screws me up is that if only the upper echelon can go to restaurants now, it was still doing numbers, it wasn't dead at all. I imagine if prices were cheaper, it would be jammed. I just don't get this economy.

[thenexusofsouls]

“You can’t keep doing this.” (From Natasha to Ben; Mxrvelouscreations)

@mxrvelouscreations

Ben side-eyed the very attractive woman as she took his bottle of tequila. It was an expensive brand, too. But hey, it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it. It was more the act of her getting in between him and his means of slipping into a comfortable numbness that ticked him off. He’d been sitting in a bar, by himself, just him and a bottle of top-shelf tequila and an entire basket of mozzarella sticks, drinking away his grief over losing his best friend and his girl. Can’t a man do a hurt on himself in peace?

“What do you care?” he asked. “We don’t even know each other.” He glanced at her again, though. She looked familiar. He wasn’t a heartbreaker, so he knew she wasn’t some vindictive woman out to get him. But why did she look so familiar to him? He didn’t remember seeing her. At least... not in person.

Despite his inebriated state, the realization suddenly came to him. “Holy shit, you’re Black Widow!” he said, pointing at her. And... you’re a jerk. “Sorry. I... I saw you on T.V. once.” He felt awkward and stalker-ish. “I’m sorry, that was really rude. I’d offer to buy you a drink as an apology but you already took my bottle, so... feel free to partake,” he said, waving his hand at the bottle. Taking a cheese stick for himself, he then nudged the basket toward her. “Want some?”

But then, like a sloth that finally made its way up a tree after three hours, her words clicked in his brain. “Wait, what do you mean I can’t keep doing this? Have you been watching me or something?”

[rhysismydaddy]

An Artful Revenge Pt. 2

Feyre’s part of The Damnation Series. Part 1 is here.

I am proud of myself for finishing this shit, because it’s long as fuck. Whoops.

~Feyre~

Honestly, I should’ve known.

I should’ve known that somehow, with whatever endless resources he has, he would find me. 

That’s all I can think as I find my way into the Impressionists exhibit and find Rhysand Azara, real estate agent to the stars, leaning against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee and looking at Dancers in Blue with narrowed eyes. 

It’s been five days since our date, and like the cliché I am, I’ve spent the entire time thinking about him. I’ve checked my phone countless times, and I even decided to stalk him and Googled his name. 

When--just like he’d said--nothing came up, I googled Dancers in Pink. He said he had it, but it had been sold a few years ago in an auction to “Amren Valenta.”

Unless Rhysand had a stage name, that was definitely not him. 

I dug some more, but after three hours all I discovered was that he owned Azara Industries, which owned a lot of buildings downtown. Oh, and he never let himself be photographed. 

Which was upsetting, because it means I had nothing to stare at whilst stalking him. 

Pathetic. I am so pathetic.

But anyway, I should’ve known he’d come here. He’d said he’d call, but he didn’t have my number. Plus, I’d told him I come here pretty much every day, so really, what did I expect?

I still laugh as I spot him though, somehow surprised, and ask, “Here to flirt with more art students?”

“Just one,” he answers, running his eyes over me as I draw closer. 

Gods, this man is seductive. He’s just looking at me, but I feel his gaze like a touch, dragging over my entire body with slow, intentional grazes. 

My breath hitches, and his eyes twinkle, like he’s well aware to the dirty place my mind has wondered. I can tell he’s holding in some likely-male comment, but he refrains from embarrassing me and he holds out another cup of coffee. 

I take it, grateful for the caffeine boost, and find it somehow made exactly the way I like it. Maybe I’m not the only one stalking. 

Although his methods have to be better than mine if he already knows about the definitely unhealthy amount of sugar I put in my coffee. 

“How many times have you been here this week?” I ask, curious to see his level of devotion. 

“Three. Not a very convenient way of communicating with someone, I admit. I was about to send a smoke signal.” He watches me sip the coffee, watches my tongue dart over my lip. “Plans tonight?”

I fight a sigh and decide to be a student worthy of my scholarship for once. “I told myself I’d work on my senior project.”

His lips twitch at my dejected tone. “What is it?”

A ginormous pain in my ass. “Bad,” I say simply. 

He shakes his head, sipping his coffee and eyeing me over the rim of the cup. “Details.”

For someone who offers no information, he loves demanding it from me. Instead of fight it, I groan and give in to the patriarchy. “It’s just bad! It’s supposed to be a mix of different styles and mediums, but it’s going so poorly I might just start over. Or drop out and become a starving artist a year ahead of schedule.”

Rhysand smiles at my phrasing. “I would never let you starve. And what do you mean, mixing styles and mediums?”

“For someone who frequents museums and has millions of dollars in art, you don’t know much about it, do you?”

“I have people for that.”

“Amren Valenta?” I ask without thinking, exposing myself as a stalker. 

He pauses, cup halfway to his smirking mouth, and raises a brow. “Clever, creepy little woman,” he teases. “But yes. Amren is my curator, and we use her name because I don’t want media attention. As I’m sure you know.”

Busted and blushing to high hell, I roll my eyes and become a junior detective. “Isn’t it illegal to buy something with someone else’s name? What if the IRS comes after you?”

Rhysand looks at a loss for words at that. If I weren’t serious, it would make me laugh how shocked he looks. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

I roll my eyes again, because we both know he doesn’t give a shit. It’s not like the IRS actually enforces rules for the one percent, anyway.

“Now tell me about your project.”

Rolling my eyes at how bossy he is, I tell him, “I wanted to combine photography and painting. And I wanted it to be kind of abstract, but also realistic enough.”

“Ambitious.”

I sigh, not able to repress it this time. “Stupid, is what it is. I don’t even know where to start. I have no motivation, let alone inspiration, to work on it.”

A contemplative look crosses his face. “I know where you could find inspiration.”

I raise an eyebrow and gesture around us, because in case he’s missed it, we’re in a museum. Inspiration abounds. But he scoffs and whispers, “This is child’s play compared to a certain someone’s private collection.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, playing along and pretending I don’t know the someone he’s talking about.

He nods, looking around as if making sure there are no spies in the completely empty room listening we’re standing in. “He has Degas, Monet, Dali, you name it. And he’s generous enough to let you come over tonight.”

Pursing my lips, I scan his face, trying to see if he’s serious. I mean... I am dying to see his collection. But, “Is this just a ploy to get me naked?”

He puts a hand on his chest, offense written across his face. “You think I’d try to seduce you while you study?”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably right.” He chuckles, then says, “If you need to get naked to look at art, I certainly won’t complain. But no, Feyre darling, this isn’t a ploy.”

I pause, half stuck on the whole darling thing and half contemplating what to do. 

Ploy or not, I know that if I go to his apartment or house or mansion or castle, I’ll probably sleep with him. He’s too attractive, and my resolve just isn’t that great where’s he’s concerned. 

Plus, I know it’s insane, but art just... Never mind.

I tell myself nothing’s going to happen and that I’m going because of the art--both lies--as I say, “Okay.”

He extends a hand, and I slide mine into it, almost sighing at how perfect we fit together. Would that be the case everywhere? 

Feyre.

I avoid looking at him as he leads me from the room and outside, where a very beefy guy holds open the door to a black sedan. “Seriously?” I ask Rhysand as he ushers me in the back, then climbs in beside me.

“I usually drive myself,” he says in defense, smiling when I roll my eyes.

The city blurs around us as Beefcakes drives, and I’m about to ask where the hell he lives when the car pulls to a stop and the door opens. Climbing out, I look up at the black, shiny penthouse tower, and say, “Of course you live here.”

It’s expensive and in the city and has a million floors, and I bet he lives at the very tippy top.

He gives me a strange look but pulls me in the lobby, then into an elevator. We shoot up flight after flight till we reach the penthouse, confirming my suspicions. 

For what feels like the millionth time, I ask myself why the hell Rhysand’s taken an interest in me. I mean, a year of therapy got me to admit I’m decent looking and all, but I’m... I’m a college student. He’s older and richer and has his life together. Why does he want me?

I don’t have long to contemplate life’s great mysteries because the elevator doors slide open, revealing his apartment, and I become too busy trying to mask my surprise.

I thought the place would be... I don’t know, like him. Sleek. Modern. Luxurious. 

And it is, at least that last part. Everything is obviously expensive. But there’s also a homey quality created by a fireplace, plush couches, decorative rugs, tapestries.

It’s burgundy and black and cream, and so unexpected I smile.

I step in and walk automatically toward the huge windows, taking in the view and realizing we’re at the dead center of the city. In all directions, Chicago’s spread out, lights and traffic and Lake Michigan surrounding us.

Even though the place is beyond wonderful, there’s one thing missing. 

I turn to Rhysand and raise a brow. “No art?”

“One floor down.”

I have to press my lips together to keep the questions in. One floor down, as in it takes up the whole floor. As in he has a private museum. As in I’m so fucking excited I can hardly walk. 

But he seems to be baiting me, seeing how long I’ll last before demanding to be taken down there, so I casually walk around his apartment, taking in all the little details. “It’s more... lived in than I would’ve thought.”

He nods, knowing what I mean even though it was a poor way of explaining it. “I have a few places around the city, but this is the one I prefer.” Nodding to the kitchen, he asks, “Hungry?”

“You cook?” The thought of him covered in flour seems absurd, but we all have our hobbies.

He smiles like I’ve said something funny. “No, but I have takeout menus in there.”

“Hopeless,” I tease, going to the kitchen and opening the fridge like I’m the one who lives here. “I’ll find something.”

I end up finding beer, wine, cheese, and various fruits and vegetables.

Not a lot, but enough to make a charcuterie board, which just so happens to be my specialty. I search for a few minutes before finding a wooden cutting board, then start to assemble whatever snacks I can find.

Cherries and grapes, two types of cheeses, carrots, and crackers fill most of the board, and I fill in gaps with blackberries and chocolate chips I’m surprised he has. 

Once it’s completed and visually appealing enough, I slide it over to where he’s seated on a barstool and bow dramatically. “I’m a master cheese plate maker.”

“I see that. Wine?”

Nodding, I reach in the fridge and grab the first bottle I see. Setting it in front of him, I move to the cabinet and get two glasses and an opener.

Rhysand takes the opener and eyes the bottle, lips twitching as he smoothly uncorks it.

“What?” I ask, unable to figure out what’s funny. Was it weird to make a board or something? Surely even rich guys like cheese and crackers, right?

He pours two glasses, shaking his head and silently refusing to let me in on the joke.

Eyes narrowed, I sit next to him and suspiciously take a small sip from my glass. He watches me, probably expecting me to say something about it, so I offer, “It’s good.”

He bites his lip but can’t keep the laugh in at that, so I finally demand, “What?”

“It’s an $800 bottle of wine, Feyre.”

I almost spit it all over him, which would indeed be a shame, because there’s probably $50 in my mouth. Managing to swallow it down, I sputter, “You... you should’ve said something!”

He’s still laughing, but he stops to take a huge swallow and shrug. “I say we drink the whole bottle.”

I put my head in my hands, blushing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I couldn’t care less.” He pries my hands away. “Seriously. I just wanted to tease you.”

Now that, I believe. But I still ask, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” He smiles, taking another sip. “I keep the really expensive stuff at the townhouse, anyway.”

I roll my eyes and drink some more, somehow trying to taste it better or something now that I know it’s liquid gold. Shifting to put my foot on the stool, I lean across him to grab the platter.

His gaze glides over me slowly, and there’s surprise in his eyes, like he can’t believe I’m sitting in front of him so casually. 

It’s probably weird to be so... open around a stranger, but he’s not exactly normal, so I don’t feel any pressure to be, either.

Regardless, it’s a little hard to breathe with him looking at me like that, so to break the tension, I grab a cherry, pull the stem off, and hold it an inch in front of his face. 

“Ready?”

His eyes cross and he pushes my hand away so he can actually see what I’m holding. “Ready,” he confirms.”

I stick the stem in my mouth, using a trick I spent three hours teaching myself on a rainy afternoon to tie it in a knot, then pull it out with a victorious grin.

“Very impressive,” he notes, but before I can gloat about my supreme cherry-knotting abilities, he steals the stem and sticks it in his own mouth.

My eyes are wide, but I don’t have time to ask what the hell he’s doing before he pulls it out. 

Unknotted.

“Impressive,” I repeat, actually meaning it. “How’d you do that?”

“I’m good with my tongue,” he says immediately, obviously having been lying in wait for the question, and I huff a laugh.

If I called my sisters and told them what I’m going right now, they’d probably try to have me committed. I’m sitting in a billionaire’s penthouse apartment, drinking expensive wine and watching him untie cherry stems with his tongue. 

“How was your week?” I ask to get us back in semi-normal territory, grabbing a cracker off the plate.

He answers vaguely and asks me about mine, and just like that, we fall into easy conversation.

It’s honestly strange to me that after one date, we can talk like this. With my ex, it took weeks before I was really comfortable around him, and yet I feel completely at home with Rhysand.

He tells he’s from the south side of Chicago and asks about my hometown, and I it feels natural. It’s just... easy.

“By the way, you can just call me Rhys,” he tells me as we finish off the platter. “Using my full name reminds me of when I got in trouble in grade school.”

I drain my wine glass, a slight buzz in my veins, and ask, “So I only call you Rhysand when I’m about to spank you?”

He howls with laughter, then surprises me by asking, “What’s your middle name?”

“Adalene. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out what I’ll call you when we get around to spanking.” I blush as he continues, “Feyre Adalene should do.”

He puts the empty wine bottle in the trash and runs a finger over my red cheek. I bat it away, embarrassed, but he just laughs and asks, “Ready to go downstairs?”

For some reason, I get a little nervous, but I put on my big girl pants and nod, taking his hand when he offers it.

Then we’re back in the elevator, coasting down a floor, and just before the doors open, he says, “Close your eyes.”

Anticipation makes it difficult to follow the request but I manage, and he guides me out of the elevator and turns me slightly. “Open.”

I open my eyes and come face to face with something I never thought I’d see. 

“You... you have a...” I whisper, not quite able to get the word out.  

“Meule.”

One of eight left in private collectors hands, Monet’s Meules--or Grainstacks--are some of the most recognizable, renown works of art in the world. The last was sold four years ago for over $80 million.

Amren Valenta is a very, very rich woman, according to her art collection. 

I’m standing inches from it now, mildly unsure of how that happened, looking at the sunset colors bleed into the shadows of the grain, taking in the easy lines and brushwork.

Turning to look at him, I see he’s leaned against the wall next to the painting, head tilted as if I’m the most interesting thing in the room.

“I can’t believe I’m here right now,” I say honestly, my voice airy and light.

He just smiles and motions to my right. “The collection goes in a loop.”

I nod, and after a few more minutes staring at the Monet, I start to walk.

Or more like mosey. 

If he’s irritated with how long I’m taking, he doesn’t mention it. He follows me as I stare after pieces of art I never dreamed of being close to. Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Klimt, Pollock, Munch.

And then, at the edge of my peripheral, I see it.

Dancers in Pink hangs besides a smaller Degas, but it’s all I can look at. The dancer’s skirts are so bright in person, the tulle layers seeming to come off the canvas. The gold in the background is vibrant and metallic, in sharp contrast with the dark wall it hangs on.

Gods, it’s beautiful.

I know there are more famous paintings in here, but I’ve spent three years going to look at Dancers in Blue, never imagining I’d see one a similar work. 

Tears slide down my face and a laugh bubbles out of me, the two reactions complete opposites but both somehow feeling right.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, and I feel Rhysand’s chin settle on my shoulder as he hugs me from behind. “You know,” he whispers, seeming to not want to disrupt my moment with loud noises, “I never understood how important this is to people.”

“Oh, Rhysand. It’s... wonderful.”

It’s an inadequate way to say what I want to say, but it’s all I can come up with at the moment. I lean into him, and we stand like that, me staring at the painting, him at me, for a long while. 

When I start to get tired, I turn in his embrace, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and kiss him softly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I somehow finish the loop, and by the time we’re in the elevator again, I’m so emotionally spent I can’t hardly breathe.

“Inspired?” he questions, linking our hands and pulling me closer to his side.

I nod, but inspired doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m grateful and overwhelmed and so happy I could burst.

A professor once told me that art is a gift that lasts forever and never stops giving, and I never really understood what she meant until now. Over a hundred years after Dancers in Pink was completed, it still brings people to tears.

It’s a powerful and beautiful and eternal way to send a message, and it makes me feel like a small piece of the puzzle, but at the same time, so important and alive.

We glide smoothly back up to his apartment, but neither of us move once the doors ding open. 

Because technically, there’s no longer a reason for me to be here. 

I’ve seen the art, drank his expensive wine. I should get my bag and go. 

I should... but I don’t want to. 

Rhysand’s perfectly quiet and still beside me, patiently waiting for me to make up my mind. 

The angel on my shoulder tells me how sweet and considerate he’s being. The devil tells me to reward this behavior with a few sinful ideas. 

Running a hand through my hair, I debate my options. Be smart and leave, or stay and try and fight the urge to throw myself at him. 

“Oh, fuck it,” I mutter, dramatically taking a step forward like I’m going into war.

He laughs as he follows me off the elevator, strolling back to the kitchen. “More wine?”

I nod, because at this point, I’m already a lost cause. He opens a new bottle and pours me some. “How much was this one?”

“Ten dollars,” he lies, fighting a smile. “On sale at Walmart.”

“I’m surprised you even know what Walmart is,” I laugh, taking my seat back at the bar. 

“You forget I’m from the south side. All this,” he motions around us, as he takes the seat next to me. “Used to be nothing more than a dream.”

“How’d you do it?” I ask, genuinely curious. Most people with his kind of wealth were born into it and given every advantage possible. “What’d you do?”

He looks down at the floor, but there’s a sudden set of his jaw, a tightness in his shoulders. “Whatever I had to.”

I don’t point out he’s given me yet another non-answer. Instead I say simply, “I find working for something makes you value it more, anyway.”

His eyes find me again, and there’s something I can’t read in his gaze. “Yes, it does. And it makes you do whatever it takes to keep it.”

I swallow and nod slowly, trying to figure out what exactly he means.

He takes a deep breath, then drinks the wine in his glass in a single swallow. There’s a story there, and it’s easy to see it burdens him, but it’s his to tell in his own time. 

Just to get that strain out of his gaze, I switch topics completely. “Honestly, I’m still trying to figure out how you untied that damn cherry stem.”

Rhysand smiles, a full one that showcases all his pretty little teeth, and leans in, the intent clear in his eyes. 

“Come here and I’ll show you,” he whispers.

I press my lips to his and open them immediately--for the lesson, of course--and his tongue meets mine in a slow glide. 

Where our first kiss was all heat and drifting hands, this one’s slow and sensual and like ice cream melting on a summer day. 

His mouth fits mine perfectly, and his hands seem to be made to hold me, sliding up my thighs to settle on my hips. The hair at his nape is soft against my fingers, and I lean on the stool to get closer and wrap my arms around his neck.

I suck on his tongue, and he makes a low sound, then his hands are tightening and lifting, and I’m being settled on his lap.

Both of us on one stool isn’t ideal, but I wrap my legs around his waist and hope we don’t go crashing over. 

Gravity comes into play and I start sliding, so he turns the stool and traps between him and the counter. The granite digs into my spin, but I can’t be bothered to care, because the new position gives his hands freedom to roam again, and he slides them over my thighs, across my ass, up my sides. 

His thumbs brush the sides of my breasts, and they become heavy and aching against his chest.

His mouth slowly drags down to my neck, and I sigh as he finds that one spot that drives me crazy. His nips the skin, tongue smoothing the small hurt, and his name slips out of me in a quiet moan. 

Everything seems to change at once.

Cursing creatively, he sweeps me into his arms and stands, then walks us into his living room and plops onto a plush couch. 

My ADHD kicks in and I’m momentarily distracted by how soft the leather is, but then his tongue runs across the seam of my lip and I snap back into focus.

My hips are churning against him, desperate for some friction, and I kiss him without restraint, abandoning our slow, peaceful rhythm from earlier. I hadn’t realized I’d been working on the buttons of his shirt, but then a band of tan skin is exposed, and I dip my head to press my lips against it. 

He tugs my hair to bring my mouth back to his, and I practically attack him, biting his lip and pulling his hair and generally acting like a depraved cavewoman.

He doesn’t complain, though. His hands drag my hips closer, then slip under the hem of my sweater. 

The scrape of his callouses on my sides snaps me back to the shocking reality where I’m--yet again--making out with a man I hardly know, and I gasp, then curse, then practically jump backwards off his lap. 

Standing in front of him, I put a hand over my mouth like that’ll stop me from using it and look him over. 

He’s all sprawling legs and swollen lips and beautiful eyes, and I force my eyes to the ceiling. “You look like a hot, virginal dork I just deflowered in the back of my minivan,” I tell him. 

“I feel a bit like that,” he laughs, running a thumb over his bruised lips almost in shock. “Although it’s always nice to be desired.”

I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so distracted by him looking so thoroughly messy. 

But I know that despite what just happened, I can’t do this with him yet. 

I mean, I definitely could, and it definitely would be enjoyed by all parties involved, but I would regret it. 

Rhysand isn’t someone I can just sleep with and forget. I’ve known him a week, and I already feel a strange sort of bond with him. 

If we slept together, then never spoke again, it would hurt me more than I’d care to admit. 

“I think I should leave.”

He nods like he was expecting this, but asks, “Why?”

Putting my hands on my hips, I repeat what I said earlier. “Working for something makes you value it more, remember?”

He smiles and stands, taking a minute to straighten the clothes I’d pawed out of place.

“It also makes you do whatever it takes to keep it,” he reminds me, a shiver sweeping over me at the words. “Come on; I’ll walk you out.”

We go to the elevator and stay on opposite ends the entire ride down. I’m a little proud, because I most certainly thought about crossing over to his half. 

Stepping outside, Rhysand motions for Beefcakes to open the door. “He’ll drive you home.”

“Thank you,” I say, starting towards the car. 

I take two whole steps before he’s somehow in front of me, blocking the path. “Two more things.”

He kisses me, gently but firmly, then pulls back and slips a piece of paper in my hand. “It’s your turn to send smoke signals.”

I look down at the paper and see a number written in a slashing scrawl, intelligently putting together that it’s his phone number. I look back up to respond, but he’s already back at the entrance to the building. 

Rhysand looks over his shoulder, winks, and disappears inside. 

I get in the SUV and tell Beefcakes my address, and off we go. I study the piece of paper the entire way there, mind reeling with everything that happened today. 

The easy conversation, the art, the kiss. 

Is this how it feels to be swept off your feet?

And how long, exactly, do I have to wait before calling him?

________________________________________________

This took me so long to edit holy FUCK. Part 3

@perseusannabeth​ @cursebreaker29​ @a-bit-of-a-cactus​ @elriel4life​ @girl-who-reads-the-books​ @shinya-hiiragi​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @ireallyshouldsleeprn​ @highqueenofelfhame​ @nahthanks​ @ghostlyrose2​ @tillyrubes10​ @claralady​ @tswaney17​ @rowanisahunk​ @superspiritfestival​ @thegoddessofyou​ @awesomelena555​ @booksofthemoon​ @greerlunna​ @jlinez​ @studyliketate​ @over300books​ @justgiu12​ @maastrash​ @aesthetics-11​ @bamchickawowow​ @b00kworm​ @sleeping-and-books​ @musicmaam​ @hizqueen4life​ @maybekindasortaace​ @elorcan-trash​ @emikadreams​ @alpha-omegas​ @joyceortiz13​ @sapphic-beauty​ @meowsekai​ @ahappyhistorianreader​

[zanesgirlfriend]

History Repeats | Jeff Wittek

2k follower special 💜

A/N: I just wanted to say thank you for all the love and support, I've been working on this for a while and decided to make it a special thing for hitting 2k ahh but thank yall for bearing with me through all my little breaks and late uploads and stuff even tho I'm literally a nobody so thank yall okok I'm done pls enjoy

Word Count: 6.2k

Triggers: Cheating, swearing, stuff like that ya know

Special shout out to @vlouge-squad for helping me edit this!!

_____

The heat of dancing bodies wrapped around Jeff like a blanket. A bead of sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose as he forced himself through the crowd. He nodded to the bartender as he sat on a creaky barstool, wondering if he was suddenly too old to go out to clubs like this.

Y/n was thinking the same thing, no idea that her ex boyfriend was a few seats down from her. She hadn't seen Jeff since the day he left New York. Promising to call her when he landed, only to block her number and never speak to her again. She wasn't mad anymore. They'd had their fair share of fights, breakups and makeups, and they knew long distance wasn't going to work.

She wouldn't've even noticed him if it wasn't for her roommate Katy. They'd played the same game every time they went out, giving people a job and a backstory and a silly name, and it was Katy's turn.

"Oh fuck he's hot." She attempted to subtly point Jeff out to y/n. "Um, Brad, twenty-five, Male model, from Oklahoma. Got his start modeling for billboards."

"Wrong." Her words sounded playful but really they had a lot of meaning. She scanned Jeff's body, his face, his hair, as she corrected Katy. "He's a Jeff, twenty-nine, probably the dead body in the background of Law and Order, cuts hair on the side of his shitty acting career, from New York."

"O-M-G you're right." Katy laughed as she continued to eye the man.

"Did you just say O-M-G out loud? Maybe you should chill on the White Russian's." She took Katy's glass and slid it away from them before guiding her slightly drunk friend away from the bar. Katy was highly buzzed at best, but y/n didn't want Jeff to have the chance to notice her.

She was distracted the rest of the night, busy thinking of the very first time she saw Jeff. It was like history was repeating itself.

It was a cold night in New York. The first snowfall of the year. Y/n wasn't prepared and had nothing but a long-sleeved shirt on. She blamed this on her friends dog, who'd incidentally stolen her phone and chewed through it like candy. She couldn't check the weather, and nobody'd told her it was going to snow.

She shivered, her arms folded over one another, tight to her chest in attempt to keep her torso warm. She was walking home, not willing to spend her rent money on a cab to her apartment six blocks away.

"Do you need a ride?" He pulled up next to her, his head hanging out the window. She wasn't going to take a ride from a stranger, especially at night. She watched his breath form clouds as it hit the cool air.

"No, thank you." She nodded and continued walking. He drove alongside her slowly.

"Look, I'm not gonna kidnap you, I just don't want you to freeze to death."

She took a moment to really look at the guy. She was cold, and didn't really enjoy walking alone. His eyes looked kind and his hair flopped in such a way that made her trust him. But not enough to get in the car. "Even if you were gonna kidnap me, I don't think you'd tell me. Really, I'm fine."

He sighed and she wondered what he was doing as he popped his head back in the window. He took his sweatshirt off and held it out the window.

"Take it."

"No, I can't." She wanted to take it, but she felt bad. "It's yours."

"And now it's yours. Just take it." So she did. It smelled like expensive cologne and it was fairly warm from his body heat.

"Thank you." She smiled. He returned a grin as he drove off.

The memories made her smile. Katy noticed how bubbly she became as they took an Uber home. "What got into you?" She nudged y/n with a teasing tone.

"I just remembered some things that made me happy, that's all."

Later that night, y/n woke up in a cold sweat. She was hugging her pillow and all of her blankets were on the floor. Whispered words tickled her throat as she spoke.

"Jeff."

♤♡◇♧

They say that everybody in L.A. goes to therapy. Whether it be that they actually have a problem needing fixed, or just need someone trustworthy to talk to. In y/n's case, it was the latter. Katy was a blabbermouth, and to be fair, she wasn't very good at solving problems. She had too many problems of her own.

"Something about seeing him was so surreal. It's like I can't unseen him."

"And how did seeing him again make you feel?" Dr. R. asked her, posing her pen near the top of her notepad.

"Angry, and then happy, and then sad." She paused, rethinking her words. "More like I was upset over breaking up, well, the way we broke up, and then I missed him."

"Do you still miss him now?" She asked without looking up from her notepad.

"I could lie and say that I don't, but I dreamt about him last night, so I think I do." Y/n brought her knees up to her chest, sitting in a comfortable ball in the oversized chair. Dr. R. noticed her change in position. She wrote a few more things down, circling something.

"What happened in your dream?" She finally looked up at y/n.

She smiled before answering. "I usually never remember my dreams, but this one was different. It's not that I can't remember it all, it's that everything was a blur. We were just laying together. Cuddling in bed. Then everything was going in slow motion. He kissed me, and it was so comforting. And then it all went blurry again until he got up and left." She sighed. "And that's when I woke up."

Dr. R. flipped a page or two back in her notes, putting a dot next to something y/n mentioned before. "When you two broke up, it wasn't mutual, correct?"

"No, it wasn't." She hugged her knee's a little tighter.

"I think your dream was bringing those feelings back. Cuddling with him was how you felt before he left, and then when he left, you probably woke up upset, didn't you?"

Y/n nodded. "I'm more upset now that I didn't talk to him at the bar." She picked at the loose string on the cuff of her sleeve. "I wonder if he would even recognize me."

"He will."

On the drive home y/n thought about Dr. R., how she was more like a wise old lady sitting on a porch at the end of your street. Of course, she had her therapist moments, but at the end of the day she was just a nice person to talk to.

She then started to think more about Jeff. He's in L.A. Did he finally make it as an actor? She hadn't seen him in anything. Before she got out of her car she whipped out her phone.

Jeff Wittek

Millions of results in seconds. His Instagram, Twitter, YouTube. Millions of followers. A past girlfriend, clips of him on various TV shows. The name David Dobrik seems attached to the most recent things.

She sat in her car for thirty minutes, obsessing over him. Over everything he's involved in.

She finds the Dobrik kid and laughs. His videos are hilarious, and he seems to be one of Jeff's current friends.

If only she could find a way to get in touch.

She didn't want to be creepy, obsessive, or a virtual stalker, but she couldn't help but see what Jeff's been up to.

By the end of her internet search, she couldn't help but feel she was doing something wrong. She felt dirty.

She deleted her search history, and went inside to take a shower.

♤♡◇♧

It'd been weeks. Months even. She'd stopped thinking about him shortly after her session with Dr. R., but he still appeared in her dreams every once in a while. She figured if she ever did see him again, it would be in passing at a party or another bar like it was before. She never expected to see him at the top of a mountain.

Katy was on a new health kick, and that meant dragging y/n along with her. They'd been to a cycling class five times this week, and y/n wanted to do something else.

"Let's go on a hike." She told Katy, reminiscing the days back home where she would hike in Latourette Park.

They found a hiking spot right outside of Los Angeles. "Do you want to go the easy path or the hard one?" Y/n asked, feeling like she could do both.

"I ate cheese fries last night, so let's do the hard one." Katy took a left onto the hard path and y/n rolled her eyes as she followed.

They saw a group of men and a dog up ahead, but didn't pay much attention as they were gossiping about people they knew from work and Katy's recent ex-boyfriend. The path was harder than y/n expected, and she was dripping with sweat by the time they'd gotten halfway up.

"We're never doing this again." Katy panted as she wiped her forehead. Y/n laughed.

"No, we need to do it more often."

"Why? This is torture enough!" Katy pulled on her ponytail, making it a bit tighter.

"The more we do it, the easier it'll get, come on." She pressed forward, dragging Katy up the mountain.

They noticed the guys once again. They were stood at the top of the trail, looking over L.A. and undoubtedly taking a break. It wasn't until the girls drew nearer to them that y/n noticed Jeff.

"Can we go back now? I'm tired." Y/n asked Katy, not wanting to see Jeff ever again.

"What? No! We're so close to the top, and there's cute guys up there." Katy grabbed y/n's wrist forcefully, dragging her towards the top.

"Ow, Katy!" She screamed. "Fine, we'll go." Y/n trudged up to the top of the trail, rubbing her wrist the whole time. She'd never thought of Katy as someone to use force, but she couldn't expect less based on the sexual stories they'd shared in the past.

The closer they got, the more attention they got. Jeff was the last one to turn around.

"It's you." He whispered, smiling. He'd forgotten all of the negative feelings of their past relationship. The familiarity of y/n's face brought an intense emotion to Jeff's chest.

Y/n, on the other hand, didn't feel the same, but something about the way he said "It's you." reminded her of how they found eachother the first time.

She was doing a typical walk of shame. It was six in the morning. Her heels hanging loosely from her fingers as she tugged on her cocktail dress. She should've planned a bit better, or at least stored emergency cash in her bra for a cab. The party she went to wasn't far from her apartment, but walking two miles with a hangover isn't ideal. She was halfway there. Ignoring the stares and mutterings from strangers was harder the more she woke up, and she just wanted to be home.

"Hey! It's you!" The familiar man rolled down his window once again. This time he was laughing.

"Hey." She smiled a bit and her head hung loosely from her neck. "Did you want your sweatshirt back?"

"No, you keep it. Did you want a ride this time?" The way he smiled made her trust him. If he was going to kidnap her, he would've done it the first time.

"Yeah, sure." She hopped in the passengers seat and told him where she lived.

"Have a long night?" He asked her as he pressed his foot lightly on the gas. He would usually speed down this road, but he wanted as much time with her as possible.

"You could say that." She looked down at her lap, not sure of his intentions, before she realized she didn't even know his name. "I'm y/n." She introduced herself, studying his brown hair and clean shaven beard.

"Jeff." He nodded slightly as he turned into the apartment complex.

"Y/n." His voice snapped her back into reality.

"Jeff." She said, as if she hadn't been thinking about him for the past month.

"You know him?" Katy asked, remembering his face from the bar that night.

"Yeah, she knows me." Jeff walked a bit closer to them, a small dog waddling after him. "This is Nerf." He introduced his dog to Katy, already seeing that he'd need to distract her to be able to talk to y/n. It worked, Katy bent down and baby talked the little guy as Jeff pulled y/n into a hug.

"Jeff." She repeated. She didn't know if she wanted to hug him, or wanted to be as far away from him as possible.

"What're you doin' out here?" His accent was still as strong as ever. Y/n's seemed to fade for the most part as soon as she was out of Staten Island, but Katy still made fun of her for the way she pronounced 'coffee.'

"I have a job out here, production assistant." Her smile seemed hard and uninviting, but she was starting to warm up to him again.

"Hey, give me your number, maybe we can catch up sometime?" He noticed his friends were itching to leave so he rushed things along.

"It's the same as it's been for years. You probably still have it memorized." She waved him off with towards his friends, wondering if he actually still remembered it.

"Who was that?" Todd asked Jeff as he fell back into the group.

"Just an ex-girlfriend." He said, attempting to remember her number.

"Can I get your number? So if you need a ride again you can just call." Jeff was smooth as she held a hand on the door to his car.

"My phone's broken." She said. Jeff thought it was a lie at first, but something in her eyes told him that it was true.

"That's okay, we'll be seeing eachother again." He laughed a bit as her brows knitted together.

"How do you know that?" Her hand landed on her hip, heels still dangling from her fingers. She watched as Jeff turned off his car and got out.

"This is my apartment building too."

And so they saw eachother again. And again. And again. And one day she got a new phone.

"I don't have a pen, can you memorize it?" She asked Jeff on their third date. He'd left his phone at a friends house, but didn't want to forget to grab her number.

"I can try." He flashed his famous smile as she repeated the numbers. He made up a little song to remember it.

"What are you humming?" Todd asked Jeff as they continued down the trail back to their car.

"Just an old song I know."

♤♡◇♧

Dr. R. didn't think seeing Jeff again was a good idea, but she didn't explicitly state that y/n shouldn't go. So they met for coffee.

Jeff was a few minutes early, already sipping on an Americano when y/n walked into the small café. The smell of fresh coffee tickled her nose as she walked over to Jeff.

"I got you your favorite." He pushed a cup towards her as he studied her face. She looked a lot different than when they used to date. She was more mature, and you could see it in her eyes. There'd been a big change in her life, maybe it was Jeff leaving her, but he wanted to find out.

Her lips spread into a small smile as she tasted her favorite drink. It had the right amount of sugar and flavor and cream, and she made a mental note of that.

Her chair was a bit uncomfortable, the metal back cold on her shoulder blades, so she sat up straight, probably looking like she was trying too hard to present herself as perfect.

"I'm sorry." He admitted, it was the right thing to say.

"I'd hope so." Her voice was quiet, she felt small compared to him.

Awkward silence ensued, but neither of them had much to say. She looked down at her lap, but he bore his eyes into her. He missed her, and he wanted her to be his once again.

Just like that they were back. It was as if something clicked into place and they picked up right where they left off.

♤♡◇♧

He was so familiar. Everything about him was exactly the same, but also extraordinarily different. They fell in love all over again, spending nights just studying eachother, and taking pop quizzes on how much they remembered from the first time around.

It was 2am, they stayed up a little late, smoking some weed and playing cards.

"Why do you have all the puppy toes?" Jeff slammed his cards on the bed, frustrated that he was losing by a mile.

"Oh my God, I haven't heard that in years." She glanced over her straight. Every card was in the suit of clubs, and she smiled as she looked back up at Jeff.

"Probably because I'm the only person that calls clubs 'puppy toes'."

I remember when you first said it, I couldn't stop laughing.

"My grandma taught me how to play cards, but I could never remember the suits." Jeff started as y/n dealt. They power went out and they had nothing better to do, so why not play cards?

"What'd she make up a song or something?" She laughed, placing the deck to her left and flipping a card over before picking up her hand.

"Well the diamonds and hearts were easy, but she called the spades 'spearheads' and the clubs 'puppy toes,' you know, 'cause they look like little paw prints."

Y/n burst out into a fit of laughter, the words 'puppy toes' exiting her mouth between wheezes.

"Why is that so funny?" Jeff couldn't help but laugh, her happiness was contagious.

"Because she could've called them 'paws' or 'paw prints' but instead she called them 'puppy toes!'"

She was wheezing all over again at the memory. "I still dont understand why it's so funny." Jeff felt comfortable, like they were reliving old times, sitting forever in a happy memory.

Her laughter died down and they were stuck for a moment, staring at eachother.

"I love you, all over again, more than the first time." Jeff's stare bore into her eyes. His words usually sounded flat, perfect to go along with his dry, deadpan sense of humor, but he sounded real this time. He sounded more human.

"I don't think I ever stopped loving you." Y/n replied, dropping the cards, a pile of puppy toes laying between them as she kissed him. Soon she moved, climbing into his lap, sloppy yet fulfilling kisses occupied their faces. Jeff's hands did most of the work, tickling her lightly as they slid up her thighs, around the curves of her ass. His long fingers hooked onto her shirt as his hands continued upward. They disconnected for a moment as her shirt passed over her head.

Jeff leaned back, bringing her with him. Her shorts rode up as she grinded on him, feeling him grow beneath her.

She missed the feeling of his skin on hers, so much that she was glued to him. Bare. Skin on Skin. No protection as her chest stuck to his. He felt her breasts bouncing as he moved her hips up and down on his own.

They both felt cloudy, a nice fog through their brains, the weed channeling all focus to the sensations shared between them.

They were loud. Screaming, moaning, happy, euphoric.

She'd later tell her therapist that it was the best sex she'd ever had, hell the best sex they'd ever had. Her therapist would congratulate her, not really knowing what else to say.

They finished together. Ending up as a heaping pile of skin and juices. They breathed for a moment.

Holding onto eachother like they'd never been held before.

Ten minutes later they were holding hands, naked, and staring at the ceiling. They felt so vulnerable, yet so comfortable with eachother.

"I'm sober now." Jeff confessed. "I know we just smoked weed, but I haven't drank alcohol in months." He was already looking at her when she turned to him.

"Really?"

"Really."

It wasn't the pillow talk she expected, but it was something she needed to hear. She immediately trusted him, and felt like her choice in getting back together with him was justified.

But she couldn't help but think of the first time they broke up.

He blamed it on being drunk. A picture from some anonymous number depicted Jeff face fucking some random chick. Y/n was furious. She felt her heart shatter for the first time when she saw the picture. She knew it was real, and it was recent. He'd just gotten that new tattoo, it was still scabbed over in the picture. She'd put ointment on it for him just a few minutes prior to recieving the horrid image.

She was speechless. Having nothing yet everything to say to him.

Still, he blamed it on being drunk.

They were apart for three weeks. She hoped he had enough time to get it out of his system before he begged for her forgiveness. She missed him, and reluctantly took him back.

That was the first time.

"Thank you for telling me that." She squeezed his hand lightly before getting up to pee.

Laying on his chest, she realized why she'd missed him all this time. It was the tiny little things that made her happy. She made some stupid joke, referencing an old inside joke that only they knew about. The way she could feel his laughter through his chest. She wouldn't even mind being deaf as long as she could still feel his laughter, feel him. Everything was how it was supposed to be.

♤♡◇♧

Things were perfect for a while.

Katy had her own minor crush on Jeff, but y/n trusted her, and knew she just thought he was hot, nothing more. Y/n loved Jeff's friends. They were hilarious and they made her feel like she'd been friends with them for years.

They welcomed her to the group with open arms, as did Jeff's fans. His fans didn't know what to think of her at first, and she'd seen her name tossed around on a few gossip sites, but overall everything was good.

Things were perfect until they weren't.

♤♡◇♧

She always had a deep-seated feeling of unease when she wasn't with Jeff. She trusted him, and his soberness, but there was still that fear. Fear, sitting inside of her chest, like a child hiding from its mom in the coat racks of a department store.

She knew the kid was there, and that it would come out eventually.

The fear always dissipated when she was with Jeff, when they were just hanging out alone. She had nothing to worry about.

They'd been back together for three months. Three wonderful months of laughter and learning and loving and sex.

Jeff surprised her, a bouquet of flowers and a loving note telling her to be ready by seven.

She got dressed up, smiling to herself in the mirror before answering the door. Jeff kissed her and took her out to dinner.

It was lovely, a cute little date at a fancy restaurant, and time alone with her boyfriend. Jeff was expecting sex after their date. Y/n was too, but their plans got thrown off after dinner. The new guy at the restaurant hadn't cleaned her protein properly, leaving her and a handful of other patrons to take off work for the next week. Food poisoning was a bitch.

"I don't feel good." She told Jeff. He took her home, promising to stay with her and make sure she was okay.

She puked her guts out, drank the juice he gave her, and passed out in her bed. He could feel her sickness in the air, and did not want to sleep next to her, but he promised he would stay, so he grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed out onto the couch in the living room.

"Hey." He sat next to Katy who was watching some girly movie on the TV.

"Did you get in a fight?" She pointed at the pillow and chuckled.

"No, she just doesn't feel good." He smiled. He'd never spent much time with Katy, but he did know she was a simple creature. She lived and breathed Starbucks and glitter, and he couldn't handle too much of her at once. She was gorgeous, though, he couldn't deny that.

It was late, and something about the hours between morning and night when the world is quiet just changes people. They get sloppy, don't think straight. They feel free, almost a little too free, like anything the do could be done without consequences.

It was almost like being drunk on freedom.

Y/n woke up to her stomach grumbling once again. Not in the 'Hey! I'm hungry!' kind of way, but as if her stomach was mad at her. She sat up and pulled her sweat-soaked shirt from her body. She felt horrible.

She wandered out into the living room and towards the kitchen of their small apartment, wondering if there was any Pepto Bismol laying around. She opened the fridge, the light inside causing her to squint.

The three-sided bottle was lodged in the door and she grabbed it, quickly chugging the small amount of pink liquid left. As she closed the fridge she heard something. Giggling.

Her head whipped around towards the couch, noticing Jeff's absence. She wondered for a moment if he left, but his phone was on the table.

She'd forgotten all about her food poisoning as she creeped up to the door of Katy's room.

Her breathing stopped as she attempted to be as quiet as possible.

"Jeff!" She heard Katy giggle, a little moan following it.

"Shh, you're gonna wake her up!"

Y/n stood there for a long time. Hearing every skin slap and giggle and moan. Random word seemed to stick in her head as she listened.

Condom. Jeff. She never has to know. I'm gonna cum.

She didn't know how long she'd been there, or when she started crying, but eventually she was back in her bed, pretending to sleep as Jeff peeked in to check on her.

Her heart was broken. It had already been hastily taped back together the other three times Jeff broke her heart, but now it was gone. There was no more tape.

She felt like she died. Like her soul was gone. She was wretching for air like a fish out of water. Suffocating in her own tears. The only thing she could do was cry.

"You knew this would happen." She told herself as she sat up. She couldn't sleep, between puking and heartbreak, she was the most exhausted yet awake she'd ever been. Her sadness had turned into anger and a fuck-it attitude.

"Once a cheater always a cheater. Fucking fuck!" Her whispers to herself were harsh as she opened her laptop, finding the first flight home. She needed to be home, where it all started. Where she was before she even met him. She'd forgotten about him once, and she could do it again.

She booked the flight. She had two suitcases and a duffle bag, each filled to the brim with things she wanted and needed. All the stupid movie tickets from her and Jeff's dates were left on her dresser. Pictures of her and Katy long abandoned were thrown into a drawer. She left what she could live without, and left what would remind her of them.

She had her things and her uber was arriving soon. She quickly wrote a check, this months rent, tossing it on the messy bed. She had an idea right as she was leaving and grabbed a post-it note. She couldn't decide which cliche was better, but eventually she settled on one.

They always said that history repeats itself, and I never believed them.

Now I do. ♡

She moved her bags to the front door and placed the sticky note on Jeff's phone. He was passed out on the couch, the rising sunlight just starting to hit his face.

She stared at him for a few moments. He was beautiful. She loved so many things about him. She wondered if she was making a mistake, but then she remembered what he did. She'd given him a second chance, hell, a hundred second chances, and he still fucked it up.

She'd blamed it on the alcohol before, but she knew full well he was completely sober last night.

♤♡◇♧

The driver put her bags in the trunk and started towards the airport. She figured her mom wouldn't mind a surprise and the opportunity to have her around for a few weeks until she got her shit together. And sometimes you just need your mom. You need her to hold you like you're still little, like you scraped your knee up real bad and she was the only thing that would make you feel better.

The sun was fully up now. Jeff would be awake soon, and she couldn't tell if he would call or not. Would he call to try and stop her? Or would he simply not care?

She checked her phone, simply for the time, or maybe a text, and noticed her wallpaper. A picture of her and Jeff. She was kissing his cheek. She hated the way her faced looked in that picture, but the way Jeff looked was more important than that at the time. He was smiling. Dimples poking through his beard. His eyes looked kind and filled with love. She couldn't even stand to look at him anymore, but she didn't have the heart to change the picutre.

She decided that she was the one who didn't care and turned her phone off. The only two people she talked to had betrayed her and she didn't want to hear from them.

The farther she got from Jeff, the more the sadness set in. She stared out the window dramatically, thinking about him and how this whole situation seemed like a cheesy music video.

A thought crossed her mind as they drove past a car dealership. All the cars seemed so shiny, so perfect as they sat there, but once you buy it, once it's yours, things change. It's no longer a perfect new car. It's nice for a while, sure, but eventually theres a spider nest under the back seat, a few stray fries in the cupholder, some bird shit on the roof that nobody would notice for months.

Everything seemed perfect until it was yours. You ruin it. You don't take care of it the way you should. Even if the inside is impeccable, there's always the bird shit on the roof.

♤♡◇♧

She was forced to turn on her phone and see his face when the flight landed. She was in the back of a cab as she cancelled her therapy sessions for the next month. Of course, it seemed logical that now would be the time for therapy, and Dr. R. offered to host video sessions, but y/n wasn't thinking logically. She was thinking about getting home, crying into her mom's arms, and crawling into a cave of blankets and pillows for a few weeks.

Tears were already flowing as she walked up to the door. "Y/n!" She opened the door, excited at first to see her, but her tone changing as soon as she saw the state her daughter was in. "Baby." She opened her arms and y/n jumped right into the hug, wailing as she cried.

"I thought he was different." Her words were muffled by her mother's sweater.

"Let's run you a bath."

♤♡◇♧

It'd been a few days back home, and the news had spread that y/n was back and sad, and the kitchen was filled with casserole dishes full of lasagna and baked ziti from her mother's friends. The food was delicious, but she couldn't help but be reminded of Jeff every time she took a bite. The abundance of food was meant as condolences, as it always was in an Italian, New York neighborhood, and y/n knew this. It made her even more sad, sad that everyone knew and everything was going to shit.

"Can you go through your old clothes today? Geanie's daughter. . ." Y/n stopped listening and agreed, not really interested in the backstory of someone she'd met once when she was eighteen, or her supposed daughter.

The thing about heartbreak is that it's all you can think about, all you can feel, but the hardest part is forgetting, letting go, and getting over it. She attempted to remember how she got through it the first time.

"You have to accomplish one thing at a time." Her mom plopped down on her bed. Jeff was gone and he wouldn't talk to her. He'd blocked her number. He abandoned her. Left her in the dust as he went off to L.A. to get rich. She did feel abandoned, like everything she'd done the past few years was for nothing. The second chance she'd given him before was now worthless, and she wondered why she did it in the first place.

"Do you hear me? One thing a day. One thing at a time until you're okay again." Y/n looked up at her mother and nodded. "Today you're taking a shower."

Her one thing today would be sorting through clothes. Maybe finding some tshirt from college that would make her smile. So she spent the day on her bed, three tubs of clothes poured out in front of her, and a comedy special playing on the TV. She chuckled a bit every now and then, actually enjoying herself until she found something at the bottom of the pile.

Jeff's sweatshirt. The one that started it all.

"Take it." Jeff held the sweatshirt out of his window.

"No, I can't, it's yours." but she took it anyway.

It was a plain sweatshirt, nothing exciting, but she knew it was his by the stain on the hem. She'd always wondered what it was from, but never really found the time to ask. She held the cotton against her face, the scent climbing up into her nose. Of course it just smelled like her other old clothes, it'd been years, but she swore that if she sniffed hard enough, she could smell him. Not the Jeff she knew now, but the one that pulled up next to her on the street. The sweet guy that didn't want her to freeze to death. The shiny new car she was yet to buy.

She was crying now, holding the sweatshirt to her chest. A faint knock on the door downstairs was heard, but she paid no attention. It was probably just another baked ziti being delivered from her mom's card playing partner.

"Y/n!" Her mom called, alarming her. It wasn't another ziti. She wiped her eyes and headed down stairs, stopping when she saw who it was.

"I just wanna talk." Jeff pleaded. The anger and sadness filled her chest again and she continued down the stairs.

"Talk about how you cheated on me with my best friend?" The sharpness of her words made his heart hurt. He stepped inside, her mother closing the door before disappearing into the kitchen.

"You don't understand-" He started, but y/n wasn't having it.

"Don't understand what? That you slept with her while I was fucking sick? You couldn't fucking wait until I felt better?" She was screaming in his face, tears rolling down her cheeks, traveling the familiar path.

"Y/n-"

"No, let me fucking talk." She took a deep breath. "You told me you were sober. I fucking loved you for that. I thought that you wouldn't hurt me anymore. I fucking trusted you. A lot.

"Do you know how many second chances I've given you? because I've lost count. I'm over it. I'm done with you. Don't even try to tell me that she forced you into it because I know that's not true. I know you. I know what goes on in your brain. You fucking piece of shit."

Jeff was stunned. He didn't know what to say, or why he wanted her back. He knew he fucked up. He knew that he loved her. He knew what he felt for her, even still after all these years.

"You have to understand my feelings for you, and-" His words had no meaning to her, she wanted him gone, out of sight.

"Fuck you, and your feelings. Get out." She pointed towards the door. He stood still so she started pushing him. "Get out, just get the fuck out!" She screamed, barely moving his body.

"I love you!" He screamed back, now holding her shoulders in place. Her eyes locked with his. Hers were full of emotion, depth, deep sadness. His were nothing of the sort. They looked hollow, empty, only a tiny spark of emotion barely flickering through them. That was enough for her to know his true feelings.

"If you loved me we never would've broken up in the first place." She pushed him off of her, her voice quivering as she crossed him to open the door.

"You said in your note that history repeats, but it doesn't have to. We can change history. We can forget it all." He attempted to use her own words as a way to get through to her, but she was smarter than that.

"I already have forgotten it all, a million times over. I've let you back in only for the same shit to happen again. You can't change the past, Jeff." She turned and ran upstairs, grabbing his sweatshirt off her bed. He was walking down the driveway when she called his name. He thought for a moment that she'd changed her mind, that she did still want him.

"I don't need you to keep me warm anymore." She threw it at him, hitting him in the face. He let it fall to the ground, a tear falling from his eye as he looked back at her.

She slammed the door shut and there he was.

Left alone, back right where it all started.

[cindyxaurum]

GET TO KNOW THE BLOGGER

Can be used for RP and non-RP blogs to get to know a bit about the person behind the screen!

1. FIRST NAME: Stacey 

2. STRANGE FACT ABOUT YOURSELF:  Lately, to help with my anxiety..I’ve been listening to romance ASMR’s. 

3. TOP THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU FIND ATTRACTIVE ON A PERSON: Eyes, voice, and hair.

4. A FOOD YOU COULD EAT FOREVER AND NOT GET BORED OF: Mac n cheese <333

5. A FOOD YOU HATE: meat in general (I’m a vegetarian. :p )

6. GUILTY PLEASURE: Iced animal crackers  ♥

7. WHAT DO YOU SLEEP IN: Pajamas or sometimes nothing..depending on my pain.

8. SERIOUS RELATIONSHIPS OR FLINGS: Serious relationships

9. IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN THE PAST AND CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT YOUR LIFE, WOULD YOU AND WHAT WOULD IT BE: Spend more time with my friends in NY before moving to PA. I miss them a lot and regret not bonding with them more. 

10. ARE YOU AN AFFECTIONATE PERSON: Yes, maybe..a little too affectionate. 

11. A MOVIE YOU COULD WATCH OVER AND OVER AGAIN: A Knight’s tale ♥

12. FAVORITE BOOK: Though I do adore the Harry Potter books, the erotica book known as ‘Night Stalker’ by Angelina Evens was so good..I didn’t sleep for a whole two days ‘cause I couldn’t put it down. It was THAT good! lol 

13. YOU HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO KEEP ANY ANIMAL AS A PET, WHAT DO YOU CHOOSE: A wolf. Cuddle buddy + big doggo protection= best pet ♥

14. TOP FIVE FICTIONAL SHIPS [IF YOU ARE AN RP BLOG, YOU CAN USE YOUR OWN SHIPS AS WELL]: It’s hard to pick..but I’ll try to narrow it down a wee bit. XD  Cindy x Prompto (FFXV) ,Anzu/Tea x Yami Yugi x Yugi (Yu-Gi-Oh!) ,Flannery Moore x Steven Stone (Pokemon), Sora x Karir (Kingdom Hearts) , and..Sora x Matt (Digimon)....my gosh I’m a weeb..XDD

15. PIE OR CAKE:  Ehh...not a big fan of both..but if I had to pick..cake.

16. FAVORITE SCENT: Coffee and new books. ♥

17. CELEBRITY CRUSH:  Johnny Depp ♥

18. IF YOU COULD TRAVEL ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD YOU GO: Britain ( I have friends there I wanna legit meet! 

19. INTROVERT OR EXTROVERT: Introvert.

20. DO YOU SCARE EASILY: Sadly, yes..

21. IPHONE OR ANDROID: Android

22. DO YOU PLAY ANY VIDEO GAMES:  Yaass

23. DREAM JOB: Photographer or fashion designer.~

24. WHAT WOULD YOU DO WITH A MILLION DOLLARS: Help my friends and family out of debt..after paying off my own student debt. ‘Cause my gosh..is it expensive to live! 

25. FICTIONAL CHARACTER YOU HATE:  Anders from Dragon Age II. I know I’m gonna get hate for this. But like..what he did at the end of the game really pissed me off. Plus..there’s just something about him that just..makes me wanna take his staff and beat him upside the head for being so annoying. lol 

26. FANDOM THAT YOU WERE ONCE A PART OF BUT AREN’T ANY LONGER:  The Forgotten Realms fandom. I used to rp as all sorts of people from Ajantis the paladin to Coran the super flirty rouge elf. Not to mention all sorts of different OC’s from the Sword Coast. Mind you..that was bad in my noob rp days..so, guess it’s a good thing I do rp those characters any more. XDD Tagged by: @dragoonxdive​ (Thanks hon!)  Tagging: @adventurouswind​ , @blackcowledbat​ , @ore-no-taan​ , @jester-of-genocide​ ,and anyone else who wants to do it!

[theartificialdane]

Blue ain’t your color: Bad aim

A drink too many and a ride home starts the first of /many/ stories Sutan will have to tell about drunk!Violet.

Dedicated to @imanationalphenomenon

“Sutan..” “Yes darling?” Sutan smiled, gently running his hands through Violet’s hair, the soft black locks between his fingers. Violet had pulled it out the moment they got in the taxi, dumping down at Sutan’s side and practically curling around him, her head resting on his shoulder, a bottle of water in hand that Sutan had bought for her as soon as he saw her at the club, Violet obviously drunk and happy, her body moving to the music like nothing else mattered. They had been texting back and forth all night, Sutan checking his phone again and again since Violet often disappeared for hours at a time, Raja almost stealing his phone twice but how could he concentrate on the party he was at with art snd wine and cheese when he knew Violet was across town, dancing the night away at some underground club with Pearl Liaison.

He didn’t know Pearl very well, at least not any better than anyone else in the industry, but he had been able to follow the two girls night out on Instagram, Pearl happily documenting the entire thing. Sutan knew that Bianca would have called him creepy if she caught him, saying he was a stalker, and yes technically she was right. Checking your.. somethings... friends profile to catch a glimpse of her was pretty creepy, but how could he not? It was both infuriating and delightful that Violet didn’t have her own profile, though it was beyond annoying when he wanted to know everything about her.

“I don’t feel good...”

Sutan smiled, gently lifting the hand that had Violet’s water bottle, trying to bring it to her lips. “I know sweetheart.” Violet took a sip of water, her nose scrunching up like it tasted all wrong, her red lips still perfectly dark even though he knew from Pearl’s photos that they had done rows of shots, Violet telling him that she needed a night with no responsibility, and it seemed like that wish had come true. “We’ll be home soon.”

“No, I don’t-“ Violet tried to sit up, her silver dress hugging her body tight, the straps down around her shoulders, the threat of her breast peeking out becoming more and more real as she moved around. “I really don’t feel good, I think- I think- Shit“ Violet’s hand flew to her mouth, panic clear in her eyes, and Sutan knew instantly what was about to happen.

“Stop the car!” Sutan opened the door, unbuckling Violet and pushing her out on the street with practice only a model agent could have, the maneuver one he had done close to a thousand times with different girls, most models drinking too much if not doing something worse at least once during their first year as a professional.

“How are you feel-“ Sutan tried to take Violet’s hand, but it was too late, Violet grabbing his arms and bending forward, throwing up, most of it landing directly on Sutan’s shoes.

“Oh god, I’m so-“ Violet puked again, and Sutan sighed, the second splash also hitting him, Violet’s forehead against his chest.

Violet’s head was spinning, her cheeks flaming hot even though she could feel her toes turning to ice, her bare shoulders shaking in the cold air, the open taxi door right behind her almost boyfriend. If he was still her almost boyfriend.

“Sutan I’m, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

Violet didn’t want to look up, tears forming in her eyes. God she was an idiot, a fucking idiot, she knew she got carsick if she didn’t eat when she was drunk, but destiny was cruel enough to remind her only after she had basically emptied a rainbow on the very, very expensive shoes of the man who had been kind enough to pick her up.

And then it happened, the weird thing that kept happening over and over again, just like when they had fallen off the couch, just like it did whenever she did something so stupid she wanted to bury herself in the ground. Sutan laughed, he laughed and Violet didn’t know what to do with herself.

“Don’t worry.”

“But your shoes, I, all over them, and they’re Armani-“

“Only you would care about the brand of the shoes I’m wearing right now.” Violet felt a hand tug gently on her hair, only now realising that Sutan had kept it in a tight grip the entire time, keeping it out of her face. She looked up.

“It’s just shoes darling.” Sutan smiled. “Even if they’re Armani.”

[vapew0rm]

part one sksk

1. What is you middle name?

Catherine

2. How old are you?

17 babey

3. When is your birthday?

12/18/2001

4. What is your zodiac sign?

sagittarius

5. What is your favorite color?

maroon

6. What’s your lucky number?

seven

8. Where are you from?

Michigan babey

9. How tall are you?

5'11

10. What shoe size are you?

i think 10 1/2

11. How many pairs of shoes do you own?

4

12. What was your last dream about?

it was weird sex dream

13. What talents do you have?

yeah???

14. Are you psychic in any way?

??

15. Favorite song?

ambulance by mike krol or lets go by stuck in sound

16. Favorite movie?

okja and or howls moving castle

17. Who would be your ideal partner?

the person im with rn is perfect

18. Do you want children?

maybe

19. Do you want a church wedding?

no

20. Are you religious?

eh

21. Have you ever been to the hospital?yeah :/

23. Have you ever met any celebrities?

i met the VA who played jake the dog and i met brendon urie

24. Baths or showers?

showers

25. What color socks are you wearing?

cheese socks

26. Have you ever been famous?

idk??? I was known on vine for a bit

27. Would you like to be a big celebrity?

no

28. What type of music do you like?

Its a mix bag

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping?

yeah

30. How many pillows do you sleep with?

(1) body pillow

31. What position do you usually sleep in?

its random

32. How big is your house?

its a two story

33. What do you typically have for breakfast?

nothing or (1) bagel

34. Have you ever fired a gun?

yes

35. Have you ever tried archery?

i want to

36. Favorite clean word?

darn

37. Favorite swear word?

bitch

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep?

a week

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer?

secret admirer turned stalker

41. Are you a good liar?

?depends?

42. Are you a good judge of character?

yeah

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own?

i can do a rlly stereotypical British one

44. Do you have a strong accent?

no??

46. What is your personality type?

???!?!?!?!

47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing?

i have a dress that was 45 dollars

48. Can you curl your tongue?

yea bitch

49. Are you an innie or an outie?

fucknidk

50. Left or right handed?

left

51. Are you scared of spiders?

yea

52. Favorite food?

pizzs babey

53. Favorite foreign food?

stir fry

[jamieisjoshing]

13 March 1992

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with N” “Nose?” “How could I see my nose, it’s pitch black” I didn’t answer. “…” “I don’t know.” “The answer’s nothing. I can see nothing, you idiot.” We had been held up in the back seat on what felt like the thousandth hour of a cross country road trip to hell. It was the start of Spring Break and dad had thought that instead of spending the long holiday at home, it would be better for us to go and visit our gramma in New Jersey. I’ve never been much of a fan, especially as the other option was us going to Epcot like everyone else had. “Get a couple of hotdogs in you and you’ll forget all about Florida.” Dad promised on multiple occasions. I wouldn’t. As previously stated, my best friend Duncan had already gloated about his family having already gotten their tickets and how they would be staying for the entire week, kicking around Horizons and World of Motion. “I’ll take pictures for you.” He said as we waited for the bus. “Why?” I asked, “you know I’ll be there.” I replied. And that was the beginning of having to keep up with a lie. “Where are you staying?” He asked “The Yacht Club.” I said coolly. “We should meet up then.” He said “Actually, we’re going to go drive to see my aunt Carol first. She lives out in Port Charlotte” He didn’t believe me, which was understandable as I was lying. Not about aunt Carol, but about going to see her. When I attempted to convince my parents that going to Epcot would be educational, I was met with all of the ways that it would not only not be educational, but exactly how it would be far too expensive. I sulked up to the point that we started packing the car and then that sulking became pure anger for the situation. Outside, the sky had gone from burnt orange to inky black. The only thing visible for miles was whatever was in the range of the headlights. 10:32 glared back at me in dull green light from the dashboard. Was it only ten? No longer on a road, we were on a tunnel of pure, inescapable darkness. We hadn’t even seen any other cars in what felt like ages. The miles and miles of road went from the familiar stand-alone stores like Kmart to the altogether alien of an Al’s Grocers or Mica’s Pizzas. London Calling warbled meekly through the speakers as we sped through the wind whipped darkness. Dad considered himself a rebel, but I’ve never seen a punk who couldn’t make it through Cujo without flinching. “Where are we?” I asked, peering through the window. It had only gotten darker out and the once visible outline of the trees began to blend into the background, making it seem more and more like something from a storybook. “We’re nearly there.” Dad answered, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Just…sit back.” Part of me felt on edge, the endless hours of being cooped up in the backseat had finally started eating into me. “I need batteries” I replied, only to have it come out as more of a whine than anything else. “Why do you need batteries?” Dad asked, his voice rising slightly. “These are dead” I replied, flicking the switch from on to off and back again. Mom sighed. “I thought we told you to pack extra” Mom shot “Where’s your bag?” She turned her head to look at me or the void space where a dark green JanSport might be, had I bothered to place it into the car. Racking my brain, I was only able to come to one conclusion. “I…forgot it.” I muttered. I knew where it was, clear as day. It was still on the living room couch, stuffed with batteries, comics, and a flashlight for reading. I had snuck a roll of Oreo’s in one of the side pockets, stuffing them neatly in a roll of socks. I knew what was coming next “You have to be more careful, bud.” Dad said, “you’re nearly a teenager.” Technically, I had packed it. I had just forgotten to bring it. I wouldn’t say that though. She answered with her usual, emphatic “hmpf” and that was that. She turned around to face the abyss in front of her. The car fell silent again as some song about a stalker hit its peak. We drove, no longer playing the kinds of games that were meant to pass time, but actually just wasted it, the shadowy outline of everything slowly becoming hypnotically metronomic. “That was Rockwell’s ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’, and if you’re hearing this, you are officially up past your bedtime.” The voice on the radio spoke. It was another hour or so before I was jostled awake by the car coming to an abrupt stop. Outside, large plastic letters advertised “Gas and Sip” on which the G-I-P seemed to have long gone out, so the place was literally called the asS diner. The parking lot was dotted with 18-wheelers and cargo trucks, all of whose decals had faded away, so all that was really distinguishable about them were the bottom portion of what could’ve been a diamond or a triangle or…maybe it was an M. “Go get you and your brother something to eat.” Dad said. He handed Maya a handful of wadded up ones “And put ten on pump three.” “Can I keep the change?” Maya asked Dad gave her a wary look before turning back to the car and starting to take the gas cap off. “Come on, loser.” Maya grabbed me by the sleeve of my shirt and we walked quietly towards the diner. Inside, the halogen lights flickered and dimmed at every turn. The tic-tac linoleum floors held the same stickiness as every movie theatre floor I had ever seen, pulling at my shoes with every step. Wh-uick Wh-uick Wh-uick We made it to the counter, where a lady in a grease splattered apron stood watching the matchbox tv that hung in the corner. David Letterman was talking to Bruce Willis and Demi Moore about their dogs and the lady at the counter found it to be the most hilarious thing “What’ll it be?” She asked, not turning to look at us. “Do you have chicken nuggets?” I asked “We are not getting chicken nuggets.” Maya said, her voice firm. “I want chicken nuggets.” I replied Annoyed, the waitress, who’s name tag read “Ann” tapped the counter with the edge of her pen where a scrap of paper had been tapped down at its edges. Ass only served three things. Hamburgers, cheeseburgers, and fries. “We’ll have four cheese burgers…with four Cokes” Maya said, “and can you put ten on pump three?” She slid the money across the counter. The waitress, who’s name tag read “Ann,” looked harshly at us both as if we were being interrogated before taking the money and giving Maya her change. “Four burgers with cheese.” She shouted through a pass-through in the wall. The face of a man wedged itself into view before letting out what I assume was a grunt of understanding before it disappeared again. “Find a table.” Maya said before tossing the placard to me. “Where’re you going?” I questioned “The restroom.” She replied, “just go and wait for the food.” With that, she turned and disappeared down the hall. I found a space near one of the oversized windows and pulled my Gameboy out of my jacket pocket in the hopes that it might have magically recharged itself in the time I left it to sit. It hadn’t. A clock hung on the wall, its occasional tick drowning out Letterman. 12:03 shown in eerily slanted letters that looked like they had been painted on. The line-up of the Late-Night show in the diner consisted of an elderly couple eating pie, a younger couple, also eating pie, two truckers who looked comically like what you might expect a trucker to look like, and a guy who looked like he’d been pulled out of an episode of COPS; large, bulging eyes, weird hair, covered in dirt. He kept fidgeting for no reason, his feet tapping against the bottom of the stool like a rabbit’s foot. He wore the puffiest, heaviest coat I’ve ever seen, even though it was crazy hot outside, even for summer. I tried to not think about it, focusing solely on the space where someone had carved their initials on the diner wall, above a jukebox that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. ZK Wuz Here The waitress, whose name tag read “Ann” slid a tray of burgers onto the table before setting the drinks out. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until right up to this point. The burgers at asS tasted like burgers. Nothing made them one way or another the best thing that I have ever eaten. The bread was great, but the ketchup was watery. The cheese was melty, but the meat was dry. At 12:03 in the morning, food is food. Hastily, before Maya had come back, I started to devour the burger I claimed, tearing clean through the wrapper and scarfing greedily at it. I didn’t look up until I heard someone slide into the booth across from me. Half expecting Maya to be looking at me, disappointment clear on her face, I was surprised to find the guy who looked like he was from an episode of COPS sitting across from me. It wasn’t until he was this close that I could fully appreciate just how uncomical and awkward his appearance was. His eyes didn’t just bulge out of his head, they hung from it. They looked like those googly eyes you’d be forced to put on something like a clothes pin or a cotton ball to give it human-like features so that someone might say in passing, “this isn’t a cotton ball, this is a goddamn snowman. You get an A in art class, Kandinsky.” His hair was a mop of blond that had been streaked with blues and greens and barrettes and clips of every colour. His face was covered in literal, not figurative, sharpie drawings. “How’re you?” He asked, his voice a snake-like whisper. I didn’t answer, choosing to stare at him, mouth open, food half chewed. “What you playin’?” He asked “Listen,” I said with a start, “I don’t know you, but please leave me alone.” He stared at me for a moment, his creepy eyes looking as if they’d tilt out of his head and smash on the table, sending bits of creepy eye goo everywhere. It’d probably smell like bubble-gum and ass and for good measure, it’d be acidic enough to burn straight through the table, straight down to the basement. “I’m just asking a simple question.” He said, “no need to freak out.” “I’m playing Batman” I said. “Sweet,” He hissed, “can I play?” “Batteries are dead.” I answered resignedly He extended his hand as if to say, “let me see,” before sliding it away from me. “What I always find,” he said, removing the battery cover, “is that patience is a virtue.” He fiddled around with the batteries, moving them into different places. He took a paperclip from his pocket and wedge it in for good measure, before turning the entire thing over and staring at it like a proud father might look at their kid riding a bike and flipped the switch to ON. With that, the game sprung to life. “Good as new.” He said, smiling as if he’d just pulled off the greatest magic trick before returning the game, “So, where are you from?” “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” I said “But, I’m not a stranger,” he said, “we were just talking. I fixed your game.” “That was more of a nicety.” “A nicety?” He asked another chuckle finding its way out of his mouth, “how old are you.” I looked around, hoping that Maya might be walking out of the restroom, her usual surly big sister face on. She’d see the creeper, cross the room, and stab him in the side of the head with one of her bony ass fingers, say something bad ass and then he’d leave. What I did find was that on the outside of what I’m assuming is the only restroom’s door, a notice to “wash your damn hands” had been taped. I could feel a little piece of me die. “Listen, I just want to be left alone, yeah?” “I just wanted to tal-” He started. My armpits started to tingle, and I could tell that on some level I was close to vomiting or crying or both and then I felt the part of me that wanted nothing more than to walk back to the car, climb into the backseat, and go back home. And so, I started to cry. He stared at me for a moment before laughing to himself. He raised his hands in defeat and slowly stood before walking out of the diner. Even though I couldn’t see him, part of me could feel him staring in through the windows, his eerily large eyes boring into me. “Why are you crying?” A voice asked I looked up to see Maya standing next to me, her glasses in her hands. “Just tired.” I said She whispered something that sounded exactly like, “you a fucking bitch” “Where are mom and dad?” She asked without taking her eyes off the space directly behind me. “They haven’t come in yet.” I said, my mouth still full of burger. “Ellie, where’s the car?” She asked I turned to find the space by the gas pumps void of anyone, especially not a station wagon with a bunch of luggage strapped to the roof. “Shit.” I muttered as I pushed past Maya. We ran through the double doors and into the night. The air was sharp and musty, the taste of dirt and the moments just before rain caked itself thick on everything. “What the hell.” Maya asked as she too looked around, confused. I could feel my heart in my throat, goosebumps crept across my arm and neck and I immediately felt as if I was going to be sick. We stood outside, looking up and down the road for any sign of anything, but there was nothing. No cars. No lights. No sound of something far off in the distance. Nothing.

[loremaster]

BNHA 167 SPOILERS

Many people think this chapter is a red herring. I don’t, and here’s why. Prepare for a lot of words.

First off, I love Aoyama very much, if you couldn’t tell already. I think his weird flashy persona is hilarious, especially combined with the way he tries and fails to get attention. He’s been effective comic relief (for me, anyway) and he’s often the butt of the joke, but he bounces back and puts his persona back on anyway.

The audience is also made to sympathize with him at key points during the story so far. During the training camp arc, he is frozen in fear but finally wills himself to act against his cowardice to save Tokoyami’s life (and almost Bakugou’s as well). During the hero license arc, he experiences a similar dilemma, overcoming his insecurities to help his classmates in a big way (and at his own expense). Both times, we actually get a glimpse into his internal monologue, so that the audience can relate to his struggles.

The hero license arc is perhaps the biggest chunk of information we’ve gotten about Aoyama’s story so far. He flashes back to receiving his precious belt as a gift, while he thinks the words “Mama… Papa… why am I so different from everyone else?” This could mean a lot of things, but a popular theory (that I personally subscribe to - I even made a comic about it) is that Aoyama is secretly quirkless.

We’ve never seen him without his belt. During the entrance exam and the sports festival, it’s stated he took the time to fill out the necessary paperwork so he could use his equipment in the arena. We don’t know how his Navel Laser functions without it… or if it even does. It’s entirely possible the quirk itself is contained within the belt, and without it, he is useless. Either that, or without the belt, his quirk is unstable and a risk to himself or those around him, but I think it’s more interesting to believe the former.

To my knowledge, Deku is the only major character at this point to have been born quirkless. (at least in the main story - we have Knuckleduster in the Vigilante spinoff.) Other characters have had their quirks taken away, sure, but if 20% of the world is in fact born without superpowers like Deku… it’s a little strange that there hasn’t been a single other quirkless character. I think being quirkless is an important part of Deku’s heroic journey and his identity, and having another quirkless character go about it completely differently would provide an excellent foil to Deku.

(On a side note, Deku and Aoyama’s surnames seem to be parallels of each other, corroborating the idea of them set up as foils. “Green valley” vs. “Blue mountain” …? Horikoshi puts a lot of thought into his characters’ names and what they mean, so there’s no way this is a coincidence.)

So in Chapter 167, we see that Aoyama is not quite what he seems. After a display of hilarious and unexplainable behavior at lunch time, Deku’s internal monologue from the future kicks in and says “Aoyama was someone I could never understand… until his true nature started to reveal itself.” We see Aoyama with an uncharacteristically grim expression, with no silly sparkles to be found, looming over Deku from outside the balcony as Deku sleeps. Yeah, this is ominous - too ominous to be the setup for a bait-and-switch, in my opinion. It doesn’t seem tonally cohesive to go back on all this buildup suddenly, especially since we’ve been waiting for a traitor reveal since Present Mic first pitched the idea after the training camp fiasco. Deku’s monologue hinting at understanding Aoyama’s “true nature” is also ominous… but vague enough to not be entirely condemning. More on that later.

Some people have brought up the idea that this Aoyama we’re seeing outside Deku’s window is in fact, not the real Aoyama, but Toga disguised as him using her quirk. I won’t deny this is a possibility - yes, the wine glass earlier in the chapter could possibly be filled with Aoyama’s blood, which could be a reason to insist on eating alone - but, again, unless Horikoshi is less straightforward of a writer and more of a troll than I thought he was, I don’t think this would be tonally consistent with the buildup in the narration. Deku also says “Aoyama is a man whom I could never understand” … If it’s Toga as a doppelgänger, that wouldn’t make sense, as this statement applies to both Aoyama’s present and past behavior. Toga didn’t get involved with the League of Villains until after the Stain arc, whereas Aoyama’s mysterious absence during the USJ arc before that is one of the things that makes the idea of him as the traitor all the more likely.

When Horikoshi drew up a chart of each student and major villain’s location when they get split up at the USJ, both Aoyama and Hagakure’s locations are unknown. I don’t think this is without reason. Both of their absences are played off as jokes - Hagakure claims to be near Todoroki, who is unable to confirm either way because she’s invisible, and wonders how she escaped being frozen, and Aoyama, after failing to get attention several times in a row, proclaims his location is “a secret.” The Hagakure traitor theory is already very popular, and there are many posts and videos about it already, so if you’re curious, please look it up. Not many of those posts have discussed the idea of Hagakure and Aoyama being partners in crime, though. I think that’s very possible at this point.

So, if Aoyama really is a criminal working for the League of Villains, what is his motivation? Based on everything we’ve seen, I think he is being manipulated by the League, and All for One in particular. Why? Because All for One can give out quirks.

What if Aoyama was born quirkless, but isn’t quirkless anymore? All for One would have the means to give this insecure boy what he wants in order to feel “equal” with the rest of the world, and use that as something to lord over his head and demand loyalty, as he could just as easily take that quirk away. This quirk could be the Navel Laser quirk, or if the laser is contained entirely within the belt, it could be something completely different - a second quirk we haven’t seen yet.

This would mean that Aoyama, while being the traitor, wouldn’t exactly be an unsympathetic character, which fits with the things we’ve seen directly from Aoyama before. He’s an incredibly insecure and cowardly young teenager who sees himself as unequal to his peers, and covers that up with a flashy persona to get attention. Up until now, he’s been annoying (to others, maybe) comic relief who knows how to stand up for himself and his classmates when it really matters. His past actions and the way they’re framed wouldn’t really make sense if he were entirely malicious and the entire thing was faked. I think he’s really bad at faking things! When someone pokes holes in his sparkly facade, he visually reacts! He gets nervous! He hasn’t been very competent at much of anything, not quirk tests, or grades, or even getting the attention he so clearly craves. If every part of that is an act, color me impressed.

But even though I think he’s sympathetic as a whole, that doesn’t mean I think he’s innocent either. Remember how he got to participate in the last section of the sports festival? He was in dead last during the race, but Shinsou brainwashed him and rode on his back for the cavalry battle, carrying him to victory (pun intended). Ojirou and Shouda, who had also been brainwashed, both dropped out of the final round because it wouldn’t be honorable to participate without having relied on your own strength to get there. Aoyama, however… sees nothing wrong with this, and participates anyway. This seriously calls his morality into question. He clearly thinks getting attention is more important than honor or skill. So he participates, only to be absolutely humiliated in front of thousands. Butt of the joke indeed.

Something else I have thought was odd about him was during his introduction at the UA entrance exams, when the teachers are describing various ways students can be strong and succeed. They indirectly describe Aoyama as someone who can “remain calm in any situation” … but this isn’t quite true, from what we’ve seen later. This could be something I’m reading into a little too much - I don’t know what it means, but it stood out to me.

The running gag of Aoyama breaking the fourth wall and always looking at the camera/the viewer is also something notable about him… at this point, it seems a little creepier than it did before. Maybe it’s symbolic of his constant unsuccessful plots for attention, maybe it means he’s aware of something his other classmates are not. I always thought it was endearing and funny, but others probably thought it was creepy. This latest chapter seems to confirm that.

His behavior - his “true nature” - really is unexplainable at parts, though. Especially during the cheese scene during this chapter. What’s up with that? I don’t think he was trying to poison Deku at all - that’d be way too obvious. My guess is he was just trying to make friends and win Deku’s trust in his own weird way… but then why is he so awkward about it? Why is he so unsuccessful at getting the attention and praise he wants? There’s still a lot more to be discovered here.

Some people have also suggested that Aoyama’s creepiness and upfront behavior in this chapter is because he has a crush on Deku. Again, not entirely out of the question, but I’ll be surprised if it happens in canon. Aoyama has read as very flamboyant since the beginning, but at the same time… I’m not sure I quite like the idea of the Gay Character being a creepy stalker. We’ll just have to see with this.

So what do I think is going to happen, then?

I think this next arc will be about uncovering Aoyama’s secrets, of course. We, the audience are aware that there’s something darker going on with him now, as is future Deku given his narrations… but the Deku of the present is still sleeping soundly as he is being observed. I don’t think this will lead to a confrontation immediately - I think Deku has to work for his suspicions to be confirmed. Quite possibly, he will be the lone doubter of our sparkly boy until some more evidence comes into play.

Iida, especially, will be an obstacle Deku has to overcome. In this chapter, he is incredibly trusting of Aoyama and willing to pardon his strange behavior without a second thought. He likely feels a kinship with Aoyama after their struggles together in the Hero License arc. He, unlike Deku, saw Aoyama’s display of brilliant bravery - and vulnerability - in that moment. He understands more of Aoyama’s true feelings… or at least he thinks he does.

In addition, none of the students know about Present Mic’s (and therefore the other teachers’) suspicion of a traitor within the school. Because of their shared trials together, I don’t think Class 1-A would be so willing to cast doubts on any of their classmates - their friends - unless given irrefutable evidence. (Given what we know about Iida and how he gets when he’s emotional, it’s possible he might take even longer to convince.)

So I think uncovering these truths will take a while to happen. Perhaps Deku will approach Aizawa about it, someone who does know about the traitor theory.

After that though, I don’t think it will be resolved right away. As much as it pains me to say, I think Aoyama’s time in Class 1-A will be coming to an end. Horikoshi did say Shinsou would be getting some major character development soon, right? The fan consensus seems to be that he will replace whoever ends up being the traitor.

But then what happens to our beautiful sparkly boy? Does he hang with the League of Villains? I can’t imagine him getting along with that crowd very well at all. Especially not since he helped fight against them during the training camp to save Tokoyami… it’s possible he’s entirely unrelated to the League and merely working with All for One… who is in solitary confinement. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him at all, but the only way for AFO to get out is to be broken out with help from someone from the outside. That could end up being Aoyama… somehow.

As far as Aoyama’s relationship with Deku, though… at some point I think he will confide in Deku and share his weaknesses so we can understand his real story and his motivations fully. Whereas Deku worked hard to do his best as a hero even without a quirk, Aoyama clearly has trouble with that, and will try to coast by on the backs of others. He relies on gadgets, and I don’t think he studies for school at all. But at the same time, Deku also understands what it’s like to feel completely hopeless and worthless, and I think he will end up connecting to Aoyama even despite everything, and help him become a better person. Nobody can solve all their problems by punching them in the face, not even All Might, and I think a true future Number One Hero would try to look for a better way.

So, yes, I think Aoyama is the traitor we’ve been looking for… but I don’t think this makes him a bad person. I think the audience is made to feel bad for him. He’s weak, cowardly, and pathetic, but when it comes down to it, he has a heart of gold and has been willing to put himself in danger to save his classmates on multiple occasions. I think anyone would have to be a true evil genius to fake that much, and I really don’t think Aoyama is an evil genius… just being manipulated by one.

All in all, I’m really excited to see where this arc will lead. I’ve loved Aoyama since the beginning and I’m so excited to see more character depth from him, no matter what that means. I could be completely wrong about all of this! (If you see a hole in my argument, feel free to point it out!) So either way, here’s hoping the rest of this arc is something great.

[write-about-love]

The Girl With the Scratch-Covered Hands | Part 1

The large ballroom was shining with golden lighting, sparkling jewelry, and fancy sequin-covered dresses. To the suit-wearing businessmen and the high-heeled women, it was all very delightful. To Jane, however, it was just a room full of pretty idiots. Prettiots, she liked to call them; stupid men and women with enough money to avoid any and all kinds of injury or hard labor. The prettiots looked down on ugly people from humble origins. Jane would know, with her frizzy hair, zit-covered face, and burned arm. Yes, her right arm had been burned in a fire she was in at the age of 12. She had been at her aunt’s trailer in Oklahoma, of all places. Her gas stove had caught fire, and it burned the house down. Jane had been asleep at the time, and she was lucky to have gotten out with as little as she did. You see, if Jane’s aunt had been able to afford an electric stove, the fire wouldn’t have happened. If she had been able to afford a house closer to civilization, the firefighters would have been able to stop the fire before the house had burned down completely. Jane didn’t blame her aunt for this tragedy. She blamed the rich corporate assholes who had emptied her metaphorical wallet of all of its money. She blamed the pretty idiots who would dress up and go to expensive parties to talk to people they didn’t even like. The prettiots.

Jane sighed. She was getting hungry. Her parents had said they’d be out of there at 10, and it was only 8:25. She walked over to the refreshment table to grab some fancy grapes or tiny sandwiches to tide her over. Not wanting to talk to anyone, she stopped for a second to put her earbuds in, turn on her favorite metal song, and slip her phone securely into her bra, since her navy blue dress had no pockets. It was designed for pretentious rich women who wanted expensive purses and bags, not rebellious teens who resented their parents’ wealth and refused to flaunt it like a peacock during mating season.

Absorbed in her own music, as opposed to the bland classical ambiance, Jane made it to the glorified snack table. It wasn’t very crowded, since most of the people there were ‘watching their weight.’ She reached her left hand over to the last chunk of cheese on a toothpick, but was surprised when she made contact with another person’s hand. Taken by surprise, she looked up to see a pretty girl about her age staring back at her. Hoping to catch the stranger by surprise, Jane looked back down to grab the-- wait a minute. It was then that she noticed that the girl’s right hand was covered in scratches, each one a different shade of red on her light brown skin. Clearly the stranger was more surprised than she was, since the toothpick ended up in Jane’s burned hand. She popped the chunk of cheese into her mouth, then pulled an earbud out.

“Hah! I win.” Jane smiled, spinning the blue earbud around like a cowgirl with her lasso. Swallowing the cheese, she held a hand towards the other girl and looked at her slyly. “Good game. I'm Jane. What's your name?”

The girl with the scratch-covered hands looked Jane in the eyes, and Jane could swear she saw the slightest hint of a blush. “Ari.” She paused for a moment, but she looked like she had a sentence still behind her lips, trying to escape.

“Go on,” Jane said. She had heard it all before. She much preferred when people asked about her burns than when they pretended not to notice them.

“Okay,” Ari took a deep breath, drawing together her confidence. “What… What are you listening to?”

“What?”

“What are you listening to?” Ari blushed a little bit. “I know it’s a bit stalker-ish, but when you took out your earbud I heard a vocal note that sounded really--”

“It’s called ‘Deport Report’ by Soapbox.”

“Isn’t that that really political metal band that’s made up of LGBT people who do songs about activism?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the one!”

“I’ve been meaning to listen to it! I’ve heard it’s great.”

“Well,” Jane grabbed a paper plate and threw some grapes on it, “wanna go sit in a corner and give it a shot? Not like we’ve got much else to do ‘round here anyways.”

Ari paused for a moment. Was this a good idea? What if this girl wasn’t as cool as she seemed?

“Come on,” Jane said, “It’ll be fun!” ‘Peer pressure’s a good tactic,’ she thought, ‘right?’

Ari smiled. “Alright, I give in. But only if you’re sharing those.”

“What kind of a gentlelady would I be if I didn’t?”

“You’d better hold to that promise.” Ari laughed a little, grabbing a grape and putting it into her mouth.

Hey guys! I started writing this a while ago, got to a page break, and wasn’t sure if I should continue or not. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it!

[itspatsy]

the most wonderful time of year

Growing up, the closest Trish gets to traditional family Christmases are holiday specials she films for It’s Patsy, curled up with her reel family and friends by the fireplace, trading presents and smiles and hugs. Then it’s cut and take two, and she can’t pretend it’s her life anymore. For her, the reality of Christmas is weariness and restlessness and walking on eggshells. Filming breaks, but so does school, so there’s no refuge from her mother’s sharp tongue or backhand. Christmas is uncomfortable dresses and wide vacant smiles and fake gratitude for thoughtless, impersonal gifts and stuffy dinners with empty suits and food she’s not allowed to eat. It’s scornful words and fingernails digging into her shoulder and flying plates and busted lips and licking her wounds and “don’t hide in your room, dear, it’s rude, and this is a time for family” guilt trips.

But then there’s Jessica. Jessica is disdainful of most things, and Trish isn’t sure if that’s just her natural state of being, or if it was losing her family that did it. And yet, for all her sneering bitterness and withering sarcasm about everything else, Trish realizes Jessica gets unexpectedly sentimental about Christmas. 

Trish doesn’t know this until she walks into the kitchen and finds Jessica roasting chestnuts. Actual fucking chestnuts. More specifically, Trish finds Jessica ducking on the linoleum floor to avoid exploding chestnuts because Jessica doesn’t know shit about cooking anything that’s not microwave popcorn and Kraft Mac and Cheese. Of course, Trish can’t help but poke fun, and Jessica tries to brush it off like it’s a joke. But when Trish won’t let it go, Jessica storms off and refuses to talk to her for days. Even keeps her door locked, which she never does, not even after an argument, because she knows it’s Trish’s only safe place. Trish is baffled and annoyed and… lonely. They’re always mean to each other; it’s just how they communicate. Why should this be any different? 

It finally occurs to her what might be going on, and she feels like an idiot. Trish might hate Christmas, but it’s entirely possible Jessica doesn’t. Jessica grew up with a family that loved her. They probably chopped down their own tree like fucking lumberjacks and decorated it with stringed popcorn and stars, left milk and fresh baked cookies out for He-Sees-You-When-You’re-Sleeping-Stalker-Santa, watched The Muppet Christmas Carol curled up together with a fire blazing in the wood-stove, or whatever bullshit. Those twee things loving, happy families do in Christmas movies that make Trish roll her eyes and her chest ache with something she can’t verbalize without her throat closing up. 

Jessica never admits to it, of course, but Trish thinks it’s the one time she lets herself do something in remembrance of her family. So she makes a peace offering. It’s turns out easy bake Plilsbury sugar cookies with the ugly little Christmas trees aren’t so easy to bake, or maybe Trish is just bad at it, but she tries (she’s always trying, for better or worse, probably most often worse). She sets down a plate of the mostly brunt cookies and a glass of milk on the floor in front of Jessica’s door, gives it a light rap, and walks away. When she walks by later, the cookies and milk are gone, and she can’t help but smile. She smiles even wider when she finds an ugly, misshapen reindeer made of pipe cleaners outside her own door. 

Trish still goes to the awful industry holiday parties, and she makes increasingly stupid decisions at those parties, but with Jessica in her life, the bad Christmas memories are more often replaced with something better. Dorothy takes to fucking off with whatever slam piece she’s currently seeing, so that gives Trish and Jessica a moment’s reprieve in the house. They make their own traditions. The chestnuts become one of their things, and they get better at cooking them in ways that don’t involve explosions. Same for the Pillsbury cookies, except those don’t really taste good even when they aren’t burnt. They order take out and curl up together to watch stupid movies and snark MST3k style.

Inspired by Jessica’s first gift, they trade shitty DIY presents. Some highlights over the years include: 

a tote bag that says “fuck off” in gold glitter

a gratitude jar full of insults

a vision board of Dorothy’s demise

a piece of cardboard cut into a circle with a picture of a smiling Jessica on one side and a judgmental Jessica on the other, with the instruction of “flip it to help you make decisions when I’m not here”

When Trish starts at the radio station and especially after Trish Talk takes off, she’s back to attending business related Christmas events. They’re always dreadfully boring, but she much prefers boring after the kind of parties she used to attend. She mainly goes because they’re an excellent opportunity to network, pitch ideas, and win over advertisers. She convinces Jessica to come once or twice, but a bunch of suits talking about work isn’t enough to make the free alcohol and food worth it for her. The parties are in the days leading up to Christmas, not on Christmas, because normal people have families that they love and want to spend time with, and that’s okay, because Trish has Jessica. 

Until she doesn’t.

For the first time since Jessica came into her life, Trish spends Christmas alone. Trish knows something is wrong and that Jessica would never just leave her like that, but she can’t get in contact with her or find her. The only thing she can do is pretend it’s okay. Before she stopped answering Trish’s calls, Jessica said she was safe and happy and loved, so Trish tells herself it’s all true. She orders Chinese takeout, calls Jessica’s old number, now disconnected, just in case, and she spends the night curled up in Jessica’s bed watching Jessica’s favorite stupid YouTube videos so she can laugh instead of cry. (She has no idea Jessica is also eating Chinese, not so far away, with a man in a purple suit.)

The second Christmas without Jessica is worse than the first, because Jessica did leave her, of her own free will, in the way Trish never thought she could, and there is no pretending this time. And she feels like everyone, at the station, strangers she passes on the street, somehow knows that when she goes home, she’ll be the sad lonely woman spending Christmas by herself, and it’s probably all in her head, but she swears she sees pity in their eyes, and fuck that. 

She goes to a bar on Christmas Eve, orders a drink with no intention of touching it, and picks up a guy, fully aware the only men in bars on Christmas Eve are almost certainly human garbage. The garbage she chooses is good-looking enough, though, and she takes him home to relieve some stress. The sex is okay, but when it’s over, she doesn’t feel better, only nauseous. She kicks him out and lays on her couch starting at the ceiling and when it becomes obvious she isn’t going to fall asleep, she pulls out her plans to convert Jessica’s room into a workout space.

On Christmas Day, she orders takeout (not Chinese, not after everything Jessica told her) and listens to the awful, drunken messages her mom leaves every Christmas because a blocked number means nothing to Dorothy Walker. Feeling particularly masochistic, she connects to her expensive speaks and plays the messages on repeat in the full glory of surround sound. It’s always the same old song from her mother: it starts with ingratiating compliments and begging guilt trips before transforming into berating contempt. She blubbers about how sorry she is and she’s better now and she’s just so glad to have a brilliant, beautiful daughter that’s successful and will you just give me a chance to be a mother again I just want to be part of your life if you’d just let me why are you always so selfish you ungrateful little bitch.

She sits at her kitchen table and eyes the absurdly expensive whisky she’s gifted Jessica with since they became legal (she bought it this year out of habit… and hope), and she almost breaks, but she isn’t willing to take her pity party so far that she’ll risk a relapse for Jolly Old Saint Nicolas. Christmas is bullshit, but it’s not worth that. Not even Jessica is worth that. (That is, of course, a lie. Jessica is worth everything.)

Kilgrave is dead, for good, and Jessica is in her life, maybe for good and maybe not, and Trish is relieved and grateful but it still hurts. She isn’t sure that Jessica actually wants to spend Christmas with her, and she’s not even sure if she wants to spend it with Jessica. So she just avoids mentioning it, and Jessica doesn’t bring it up either, and they both assume they’ll go about their own thing just like last year. Trish still hasn’t figured out how to spend Christmas without Jessica, but she’ll manage.

She goes to a charity dinner on Christmas Eve, and even though she finds them dull, it seems a little more rational and healthy than her ill-advised one night stand and pity party last year, and that’s progress, right? She smiles her red carpet smile, laughs and nods and looks sad at all the appropriate times, and makes a generous donation to the cause, but all she can think about is how strange it feels, knowing Jessica is there, within reach, but not with her. It would only take a call. 

When she gets home, she spends a few hours with her punching bag. When she finishes, she’s exhausted, but not the kind that leads to peaceful sleep. It’s after midnight, and she resigns herself to another night of insomnia. She prepares a Merry Christmas text for Jessica, intending to save it for a reasonable time in the morning, but after staring at it for a solid minute, she sends it. She makes sure the little line below her text says “delivered,” and her stomach does a tiny flip when it changes to “read.” She’s honestly a little disgusted with herself for it, but the number is still connected, she can still reach Jessica, and even if she doesn’t get a response back, Jessica’s listening. 

Not an hour later, there’s a knock at her door. She worries it might be her mother. She’s given the woman an inch in order to obtain information about IGH, but she knew Dorothy would try turn it into a mile. It’s not her mother’s cloying smile she sees through the video feed, though, it’s Jessica’s scowl. Trish scrambles to let her in, asks if everything is okay. Jessica nods and lifts the scowl into a half smile. Trish smiles back.

They stand a little awkwardly in the hallway, part haunted by the memories of their last two Christmases, part hopeful that this year will be better. Then Jessica catches sight of her usual gift sitting on the kitchen island, laughs, and tromps over to pour herself a glass. Trish rolls her eyes fondly but also kind of hates herself for enabling Jessica. She wishes she’d thought of another gift, but that would’ve been too obvious, would’ve led to defensiveness and coldness and avoidance. She knows they’ll have to talk about it eventually, but she doesn’t want to scare Jessica off. Things are still too fragile. 

Instead, Trish sits by Jessica on the couch while she sips her whisky. They watch videos of people falling down, and when Jessica busts out laughing, Trish sneaks looks at her out of the corner of her eye, savoring every moment. It’s a good Christmas.