#i love that he opened with the idea of disordered thinking

[ifistayitwillbedouble]

oooh interesting, i'll give it a shot

2 Red Flags:

1) I'm Airport Mike Sometimes: WAIT! Hear me out-so I have social anxiety disorder and I'm absolutely not saying that that's the red flag! It's just that the disorder has helped me foster some not-so-great behavioral habits that make it hard for me to express how I really feel, especially when I don't know someone so well. Sometimes I just don't know how to be myself so I just "play it cool" and put on a sort of facade to help me get through a social interaction. But then I don't tell people stuff like how much I love their laugh or how I wish we could go out and skateboard together more often or how it hurts that we've been drifting apart lately. It can be hard to guess what I'm thinking. So I'm like Mike at the airport, but I'm not as much of a gay mess as he was.

2) No Romantic Vulnerability: I am aspec, so the idea of romance being prized over all types of relationships is something that I have thought about a lot and despise greatly. But I wanted to focus on it here just because this is a "get to know me" kinda game and this is honestly something that I find interesting about myself: I'm asexual and while I do want romantic relationships, I'm super averse to them and my own romantic feelings, which is kinda wild because it's one of the only ways in which I'm in the majority (being alloromantic rather than aromantic). Basically, I kinda shut down any time I feel like someone might be showing interest in me and I almost always brush my feelings off to the side (i like to pretend it's just gender envy or other things i can internalize to myself only). I also kinda lied earlier, I'm absolutely as much of a gay mess as Mike, but I've had lots of practice keeping it in lmao. I think this one comes from most of romance in media and such not being appealing to me and gender roles (can you tell I like analyzing myself).

Romance in media and to an extent in real life feels like a lot of people reaching for the idea of a romantic relationship itself rather than forming a relationship with someone naturally as a consequence of caring about the other person. It's like an ideal that distracts people from the base fact that a relationship is with another person and that never made much sense to me. It felt like dating often was using other people as a means to end and to achieve ✨a relationship✨and that was never it for me, so I didn't wanna participate (also that so much of what I saw was imbued with strict gender roles and I personally could not be in a relationship that didn't feel gay). The gender stuff though was a bit more sticky. With growing up very nonbinary, I basically gave up on the idea that someone could like me in a way that didn't hurt me. It always felt like I was shoehorned into a certain gender and that was how people would treat me and it genuinely caused me pain. It made a younger me give up on the idea that I could ever feel seen for who I was in a romantic relationship because it's really hard to get a lot of people to truly see you and respect you as nonbinary. While I was consistently treated as a binary gender, when it came to romantic things it felt like that increased tenfold. I don't believe this quite as much as I used to anymore (thank god for queer friends), but the feelings still stick. Okay that was long, lmao, I just feel like it's something that's interesting to try and look at from an outside perspective so I had a lot to write about it 😅

2 Green Flags:

1) I'm a Huge Fan of Communication: I'm not trying to claim that I'm good at it, but I think even being open to communication goes a long way. My biggest troubles in relationships have always been with people who sort of view communication as a sort of conflict and avoid it entirely, but not me baby! Communication is wonderful and hard and so so necessary. I wanna understand other people as much as I want to understand myself and there's nothing quite as satisfying as being able to bridge that gap. I like admitting I'm wrong. At the end of the day, it feels good.

2) I'm Not Judgemental: Unless it's something that's unethical, I'm pretty good at not being unnecessarily critical. Cringe culture never really got its hooks into me. I don't let those feelings quickly mar how I see someone forever, and I'm pretty good at changing my mind about people. I know it's impossible to fully understand how another person came to be where they are/do what they do and so I feel like I don't really have a place to judge. I just want everybody to figure out what their authentic lives look like to them and find a way to live it. Plus, judgemental people can make people feel on edge around them and I'd never want to be that.

3 Things I Look For:

1) Sweet/Gentle: Honestly, sweet/gentle people have been some of the most beautiful people I've met and I think they deserve that acknowledgment. I really admire them and I find them so easy to be around. I think it's kinda hard to stay that way, especialy with the internet now? Like, I think a lot of people find it more rewarding/cool to by cynical or witty even in ways that can hurt others. I want the people around me to either have these traits or 100% see their merits.

2) Similar Moral/Political Values: What is it they say, "the personal is political"? I know some people think they can push aside things like their political views to get along with someone, but honestly a lot of my political views feel like basic things to me. If a person doesn't believe in things like gay marriage or that nobody should ever have to deal with poverty no matter what, they're just ethically not on the same page as me. There's plenty of opinions/beliefs I have that I'm absolutely willing to be flexible on, but there's just some stuff that I absolutely will not.

3) Thinks Deeply: Someone who thinks there's something worth thinking about in themselves, other people, and life in general. Also someone that I can talk to about my favorite bits of writing and Queer/Feminist Theory. Someone who engages with those conversations! That would be awesome. There's so much that comes along with the willingness to think about things that I think shows both in silly and serious moments.

Love/Intimacy:

i got a little silly with it rather than just aesthetic (i'm also sorry to any ex-vld fans who might see this, but i had to)

(the sleep one got me a bit because I have pretty bad sleep problems, but being around people/cats that make me feel safe essentially makes them disappear)

Thanks for the tag! This was really interesting to do and it's so cool to learn more about people on here, especially stuff that feels a bit deeper. This was also interesting for me to do because I still sometimes struggle with the idea that my love is less than on account of me being ace, but it made me feel a lot better to talk about it, ngl

npt: @bylerpining @boyfriendsmalec @pansexualdisasterrr

let’s play a question game because i’m tired and i like talking about myself + i’m curious about you’re guys’ answers

Rules: State 2 of your red flags, 2 green flags, 3 things you look for in a partner / life companion and make a collage of 6-8 pictures about what intimacy and love look like to you <3

i’ll go first

2 Red flags

1) High standards / Loses interest really fast. In general, i tend to get overly excited at first when i meet someone and im very eager to get to know them, but the moment i sense something not clicking i shut them off and distance myself. I’m nervous about being disappointed and slightly scared of intimacy. I mostly need to feel understood, like on a philosophical and psychic level (i feel like a goddamn book character, sue me) so if that isn’t the case, i’m not interested.

2) Overthinker / minimal self-confidence. I’m pretty insecure and feel like everybody hates me so it’s pretty difficult for someone to convince me that they genuinely like me as a person and they’re not in fact disgusted by me (trauma babe <3). I also tend to over-explain things and i get too into my head, being suspicious of everything and everyone. I also apologise like- a lot. Must be tiresome.

2 Green flags

1) Emotional intelligence. I feel like one of my best qualities is my ability to listen and at least try to understand other people. I’m very considerate and i always confirm my love for my beloved ones via poetry, art, physical touch and words of affirmation. I’m also a very sensitive person so i don’t judge and try my best not to make others uncomfortable.

2)Always has something to say. Yep, im a yapper and a nerd to the bone. I have plenty of interests and i’m a very curious person who always looks for meaning in things. Im also very animated when i speak, which may be annoying to some, but it’s certainly entertaining, for better or for worse.

3 things i look for in a partner

1) Communication skills. I feel like communication is the basis of a healthy relationship, without which there can’t be trust, sincerity and depth. Someone who’s willing to reach out, to talk things through and not give up immediately, to express their love, fears, dreams, things i could do on my part to strengthen our bond. Someone who makes their boundaries clear and asks whenever they are uncertain about things.

2) Intelligence / Interests. To be clear, by intelligence i do not mean “ Straight A’s, PhD, successful, NASA FUCKING APPROVED”. Nope. I mean in general, someone who thinks for themselves and has opinions, someone with interests and passions, real passions that give meaning to their life. Someone with a high EQ (emotional intelligence) because i could never be with someone emotionally unavailable.

3) A strong ethical compass. Someone who stands up for what’s right and whose ethical values align with mine. Someone brave and outspoken, who doesn’t tolerate bigotry, insensitivity, ignorance. Someone kind and gentle.

What is intimacy?

No pressure tags <3 @robintheoriedbyler @bylerfiles @justwhenbluemeetsyellow @miwihearts @miwiromantics @yourlocalbadgerscales @star-41306 @nommereranger @somewiseoutthere + anyone who’d like to join

[edenspoem]

𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. (𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞)

summary. | next chapter (tba). you're expecting—and ellie is sick in love. one thing inhibits her: she thinks it isn't requited.

reader discretion is advised. mdni. fluff. a punch of angst: one instance of abuse. mentions of previous. pregnant!reader. jackson!loser!ellie. damaged relationship with a man explicit (for the plot.) the pining creeps in. strangers to lovers (in the future). requited but assumed unrequited love. cheesy romance scenes. evident undertones of addiction: substance mention, cannabis, strained relationships (ellie and joel common occurence. reader and their scumbag bf too). a realistic motherhood. depression. apprehension. you get it. wc: 4.3k. series masterlist.

note.

based on this anon i got. shoutout to @serqphites fr. art in header creds to @nramv. thanks to @s-4pphics for proofreading this one for me! join the discord to see content such as this in creation.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 

It is the thought that stomachs you.

“Shit,” you curse and bite the mouth that does. Mindless thing. “He’s gonna murder you, damn idiot.”

Control is contraception. You kneel your head to the faucet, its trickle the thing that embraces your ears; if you could crawl out of one, you would. Here is said to be simple. Here is an embellished free port. These people, neighbours and founders—elders, to be exacting for spiteful whims, sold the idea that you would have support and homes to crash in outside your own if it did ever crumble to the ground. Bandages to bleed in. But the shameful wound is open, unclosing. No one wants to account for a burden that isn’t their consequence.

You had a dream in the palm of your hand.

But what is wanted—is not for sale. You just assume control over disorder. It happens to a girl at least once, right? That dreadful blue in the sound once you learn for sure that you lost to it: to nature.

You wash the vacant spot.

Fucking pregnant.

It felt possible the first run to the toilet. Then, too terrible to be a lie the third roundabout. Vomit litters the porcelain basin.

Cat figured something was up before you caught this nauseous spell. She mentioned and argued that your constant trips to the bathroom were irregular, and you made light and nodded in a sunlit direction. Capering under its false pretense. “Yeah, what about it?” you segued, but not without heel-stumbling. Frou-frou foxes in Midsummer fires, your all-differentiating, all-time repeat from the Cocteau Twins; the radio thrummed with its rounding lulls and ethereals around a crowded living room, a whirling concoction for your hapless intoxication. Bird without its wings.

So is it the alcohol, or the condition—hurling you over the toilet bowl?

Either consequence creeps up from intestinal serpentining, as you pull apart your own single-headed carelessness. Who to blame, other than the carrier, right? Shit, well, a condom was used. You made with that precaution. So, are you the luckless one percent, or is the old-world hiding something important about fucking contraception? Can one girl be—ill-fated to this? You cocoon against the cupboards, slipping down the hinges, the knobs and indents. “Shit,” repeats your stunned mouth, quieter this time. 

The walls seem to listen; a disagreeing wind quivers the window.

Even if you weren’t a statistic: the abandoned alcohol, now advantaged and emptied, returned to its fine-china neighbors in your father’s parlor, is evidence. Chastisement waiting to scream. He hates parties—and with much less than a tolerant grunt, hates girls who attend them. It seems sensible; Cat is a regular host, and he chastises your friendship. 

Not her. You, being her friend.

Cat sighed, mashing the butt of her cig into a bisected can. The nutritions label was faded. “You’re a damn wreck,” within amusement, she scolded. But it was not without a heartstopper. She laughed, “If you end up pregnant, ‘m not watching the little shit. Get enougha’ that out of daycare to take it home with me as well. Damn it.” and it tore your stomach open; the organ pummeled into your serpentine guts, and the deafening throb frightened itself higher. You could taste what wanted to come up.

You swallowed. “Pregnant?” Concentrated on the purple under sienna-brown eyes. Distraction meant the world, in that moment.

She nodded—and shrugged, an unsure note. “Just a hypothetical.” 

Fuck you, psychic.

The guilt was beginning to make itself felt. You relapsed, in a heartfelt confession, to a state of adolescence this evening. “You’re so goddamn selfish!” It is one thing to be treated as innocent; Mateo could be condescending at times, but to be spoken at like a cruel, bird-brained and intentioned child, and with innocence, crushed you. He argued that wanting to keep this pregnancy—after you gave him the boot—was not your moral to preach while consequences were afoot. “Do you really think you have it in you to be a mother?”

Fetal termination exists, still, in the apocalypse. At life-threatening costs. That was reason enough to let nature take its pathological course.

One tremble. “Yes.” You are a child again.

You can see it in his lineaments. He flinches his person in disgust, hundred somethings held under his tongue. “If you want to believe that.” The air is too pure for him. He rifles the cartridges on his wardrobe for a lighter, joint in the opposite hand. He takes a drag, hides his face with the pungent result, and espies the resentment shining your under-eyes with less care than before; these are just crocodile tears to him. “Sure,” he shrugs.

Then his attention drops a little lower than your chest, a brief change of heart. You feel the need to crawl inside your arms. More than ever.

He points with the smoldering dog-end. Silence snaps. “Not mine.” Flicking it to enunciate himself. The discarded state of him, and his disclaim, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth—if not the entire esophageal hole. Your lungs: filled with his exhaust. “Go find some other dude to blame. M’sure you had a couple who..” The joint finds its purpose again. “Might happen to look a little more identical,” he accuses.

You left before the air became his.

Time does not bring relief; the emptiness in your bed does anything but suffer silence. The growing hours are loud, and Jackson is still a paradise to some who are convinced it has its comforts.

You all have lied.

𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡

“Of course he went and narced on her to her father!” 

Jackson is outside the rest of America. Yes, it craters in national alpines, but it was a roadside seedling at the end of the last generation. Wood rotted to cordyceps in its neighbors; this place was given a second life. The standing tables here in the one and alone bar—the famous, aliased Bison—are so red, so wood-strong, so anointed with caring hands, you can catch a glimpse of yourself in it. 

Cat treats it with the same purpose as if it were decades ago, and nothing ever happens here; she slams her lighter and pint glass down on it—pissed to express the least of the most. “Who else does shit like that?”

Despite the fact that Cat is virtually your sister from another mother, you went to Jesse about the argument first. He isn't a volatile pipe bomb with ears and earful intentions that create more harm, not good; she absolutely fucking is. One mention, and her fingertips are spitting fire. Cast iron doesn't even get near hot enough as the hands that share a piece of her trouble-starved mind.

But, she found out regardless. Not that you should ever stop her from; on some occasions, she has the right.

Jesse left your big news out of it, though. Not his right to tell.

“His corner of the town,” Jesse adds, his soft fingers around his glass, and up to his splitting mouth. He glances round the booth in search of all attention. Sure of it, he piled on. “Got a lotta assholes with the same notions in mind.” Chuting a sip of wine—a drink which lost its romantic significance to casual consumption, on par with beer—down his gullet.

Slow, agreeing nods pass around until another lip chips in. “Fucking dick.” Ellie, with the fullest glass, and untethered fingers tapping about the rim, has her head resting low on one fist, doubled over the curl-leaf surface. 

Jesse scoffed. “Tell me about it.” Sardonic sort of response—to her short, but symptomatic one. He leans in his corner and trains the attention on her, a question in his squint. “Say, Ellie, you dealt with him on occasion, right? When he collaborated with Eugene. All that weed?”

She hates to hear it. “Just one time.” In her head—her head when it escapes out here into social wilderness—she was a good girl. Clean, rectified, an adolescent state of mind, and it has the whole world to do with Joel and learning to forgive. It is the least bit detectable on the outside, but she really is doing better than before. Rough-faced or not. “What about it?” She looks up, at last, the perfect shrug to her cross-question.

“Was she even there?”

Ellie crumpled up having to account for that one time; wrinkles in the brows, a snagged or yawning mouth, post-insomniac ripples and redness in her optic profile. Imagine an irate basset hound.“Reno?” She means your given alias: Reno, or Nevada, your origins. And she is Boston, or Massachusetts. “No, not at all.”

“See, he makes that shit up all the time,” Cat interludes. “First it was Justice, then it was me who he ratted out to Maria. Stopped trading with him after.” 

Jesse has not traded once, or thought to smoke pot once, but he agrees. “Mhm.” A man of no judgement—when it comes to friends.

Sunset is climbing and pushing to stoop in the apertures of the table. The lithe, gold tadpole-ends creeping in, beating over faces, and so the restaurant had its lights switched on to make up for those recalcitrant pockets; soft, water-black mottles in the deeper corners. Ellie laced fists, cupping one around the other, and a particular string of light dug for this vulnerable formation. She has a heap to process in her own head; the sudden silence, deafening.

Shifting to his elbows, Jesse rests his well-slept eyes on her—a sore sight. “Gonna finish that?” He points, withheld fingers stretching for his own glass.

She clicks her tongue to her teeth. “Nah,” responding with whatever is left in her, a breath or a reaching-more. The glass grates as she hardly straightens her fingers to push it aside. “Tastes different.”

The claim draws out the doubt from their faces. “Tastes the same as before,” Jesse professes as he rolls the last droplets of his wine past his lips and along the columns of his throat, replacing his grip with the full glass of scotch, sunlight streaming through the liquid with blonde lines against nectar-gold. Her choice of spirits. “I best be joinin’ Seth in the kitchen. Have fun, ladies.” He crawls knee-first from the booth.

Cat shoots an astonished sneer, one he cannot see or sense in his bones as his legs were haste to vault the counter. 

Ellie does, though. And she is too low-spirited to guess what for and laugh; a strange demeanor. “Hmm?”

“He'll be drunk on the job,” she clarifies. “But, I guess it's up to who cares. Not enough for me to keep watch.” And she, too, sidles out from the cornered booth, leather brushing against denim. Watching Jesse vanish behind the crowded bar made her suppose it's that time; the fading sun calls you home, and when it does, you go home. Nothing more to it in Jackson. “See ya, geek.”

She waves with an unprepared hand. “Yup. See you too..”

The jog home was not without its usual discomforts. Paths, loved still by a residual winter, were hard not to slip on. The unhesitating side-eyes were too common to dash out of their sight. Ellie is aware of what has them wringing their necks just to look at her, but as it continued, she just accepted it. 

Her hoodie is half-sufficient. “Fuckin’ warm up already,” she curses, digging both fists into her pockets for warmth outside the steeple church. She notices three distinct paraphernalia in her pocket when her knuckles hit the seam: the larger, thicker one is obvious—Joel's watch. She inherited it on her own terms when he wasn't there. “Ow! Shit!” The cracked dial case nicks her for her mindlessness.

Second one is a mechanical lighter. Last time she wore this hoodie, she was squinting back the tears after telling Joel she didn't need his fucking help.

Ellie pinches the thinner, paper-textured item, and pulls it out with no clue to what it might be. This should be a simple guess.

Old feelings rush when she sees it in-between her fingers.

“Fuck.”

The word goes quiet in the night. Surrounding sycamores rustle, listening, and they respond with the eerie wind that rouses through their crown-shying bough. Invisible hands dislodge the strand from behind her ear.

Something shifts in her to listen in return.

She raises her chin. Gazes into pitch-blackness with a racing heart; her trees are there somewhere. Under the hole of light up there.

Ellie believed, from a very naive and insignificant age, that she was born and fell from the bough of a tree. The idea has some flesh and blood to it; her mother is unknown to her. She has the head of hair of the autumn sycamores, burning oranges, and delightful greens. Too green yet; left without the hour to decide what living meant and what her reason was to begin doing so—to live. She was given a gun before she was given a purpose. At least to her, matured and ripened, that is how it seems. Little bit careless considering her important condition; did Marlene think it through? Looking up into the same blanket of nothingness, she ponders whether reigniting this bad habit would still get her to the moon or not—if the world ever returned to pre-apocalypse.

From the hour you're born, you begin to die.

Simone de Beauvoir.

“Make it seven?” quoting herself, she slots the pointed end of the joint in-between her fresh-licked, rose-kissed lips and hopes she suffers no bite from it in the future. “Fuck it.” The watch becomes the last thing in her pocket. Flick, flick.

Her lungs fill with nostalgia.

“Ah..”

And puff.

She purses her mouth into an open ring, the somber, but lit against its will, night stolen from her sight in a cloud of white. It ebbs the stress in her she had not noticed was beginning to pulse again, searching for her heart with a pair of circling fingers. She palms her chest down. Maybe this is what the wind was telling her.

Ellie is nowhere near stoned, but swears she can feel it slowing. Easing her into something good, this time around. It feels good to have faith in something true.

Silence bends, not snaps. It fits in the gentle start of sobs, a dreadful blue sound, enough to interrupt her star-watching. She pierces around the grassplot for a source and sees the woman of the hour. 

Guitar strums pick up in the wind.

She recognises who it is.

The sniffles reel her over. You see a pair of slow-strolling converse, scratching the ground upon steps, before you see the person. She stands an illuminated silhouette under stelliform, globe-string lanterns, the same ones from the winter dance a week ago that no one has thought to disassemble, several feet from your place on this bench. 

Her heart has no reason to be thumping.

Strange, the smoke coming from her mouth, like a gun, is not unsettling—it should be. It parts when it clears. “Hey.” Her hesitant voice pricks your skin with goosebumps. Thinned-out, mint eyes at first glance harsh, but gentle at the second; the tired under-beds of purple is a prevalent stigma, but the shining pupil crawling over her iris struck this overwhelming sense of being understood. The soft structure of her face clasps them. 

She looks at you like she has no clue what you are, but in the same glance has been raptured with an idea of what you could be. Creature to creature.

Watching, for a long time.

You wipe the cold under your nose onto your sleeve. Hesitant as she is. “Oh, have I taken your spot?” The first thing that comes to mind rolls from your tongue. You begin to collect yourself without an answer.

She stutters, her mouth ahead of her thoughts. “No, n-no! You're totally fine.” Hand freeing from her pocket to pause you. 

She seems sweet.

Her curious eyes drop to where your arms are tangled—sheathed around yourself. You haven't moved them since.

Ellie cannot handle these lingering pre-spring conditions, even in her getup. The white avenues are gone but the winds have fought abating, the worst of the weather at night. In your case, a thin cardigan, she can only imagine.

She thumbs her hem. “Are you cold?”

You register that it might seem that way shooting a once-over glimpse of her collar—blue plaid poking through. To be honest, the cool air slipping under and around the hemlines hasn't occurred to you until she made a scene of it.

“Here,” she quietens, rustling in her layers. The slate-grey hoodie is folded outside-in and being offered before you can protest your independence. Nothing but misunderstandings have come between you and her. Charitable ones. “Keep it. I need to clean out my wardrobe, as others would say, anyway.”

It is a small, nothing-much distraction, but you wonder who others are to her. Good, or damaged too?

Someone once said: it's more trouble to refuse help where it is cost-free. You decide to trust that sentiment and crawl from your arms, reluctant to reply. “Too many hoodies?” Letting a glint of light peek through, you let something slip identical to a laugh. It sounds so unfamiliar.

Hers sounds perfect. “No, uh—sneakers, actually. Been told I have too many pairs.” She laughs again. You adjust the hoodie around your waist.

Your ears ride on the grace of that laugh. Replay, replay, and replay it in your head to the point your eyes are staring absent-minded and the colors on her person begin to remind you of a sycamore in autumn. Her deep-auburn burns with the lantern glow, the collected bundle of mane under the hind of her head an incurious shadow still. You wonder if it comes from her mother, or her father: the fire. “Yeah, been there.” Your answer has no substance to it either; you have nothing but a couple worn-out pairs. Your mouth is just saying things—the mindless thing.

Her mouth line shrinks from its last laugh. She now smiles small, with a feature she can't wipe off curling. “Yeah.” She catches your timid voice and echoes it, glancing down before she releases the joint in her fingers to the ground, squashing it under her sneaker. She twists it around, a mix of earth and ash scraping.

It blows a kiss of smoke.

Reminds you of those stump puffballs—mushrooms, bubbling in the depressions of dead or decaying wood, that puff green when puttered at by an early curiousness. One enveloped the tip of your shoe with it when you were little: stretching your underdeveloped leg that managed to reach once through a metal fence peeled at the sides, making squeamish cries when the thing of nature fumed. Memories do return full circle.

She leans an inch on her toes, still absorbed with the ground. The orange roots of her lashes catch that same fire. 

Who is she?

For a small town, you should know; there are a few hundred faces in Jackson. But hers is not one you can remember. It seems misplaced. Her brown freckles are symptomatic of the sun. She lets quiet drapings of stress hang from her tear corners to her anti-brows, not so conventional for her age, but unafraid. Her stares are soft, and don't make you feel like a gullible child or a faithless woman.

She looks like she was born in the springtime, but made for October.

“Thanks, again.” You tire restless from that word. Said too often, heard too often. When will there be more? 

You notice her half-arm tattoo right as it gets concealed, the strange comfort pulling her ruched, blue sleeves to her wrists. She pins the hems into her palms with her fingers. “It's nothin’,” she humbles. Her lips and nostrils are redder when she abandons her focus from the ground. No doubt she burns without trying in the summer. “Uh, I should be going—now.” She sidles in a direction and you feel urged to follow with your eyes. She uses her arm in a nervous toss to demonstrate where she is headed. “Do me a favor and get home safe, yeah?”

“Of course.” You watch with a farewell smile, a sweet shape creeping on your lips you can't stop. Maybe, you don't want to. Then, remembering one thing important to you, the so-called sweet mouth curses again. “Fuck, her name!”

You hope the two of you stumble into each other again, on some distant morning or near night. And learn her name, just not at your lowest.

Those guitar strings stop with no one around.

𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

Late night dislodges from the space ahead and is punctured with light. Slipping through the door, closing it behind, a home of damaged goods that should feel familiar and smell of floral nothings repulses you at the entrance. You catch it as soon as it hits—alcohol, marijuana.

Mateo. 

Your throat burns from the scent.

His presence becomes known through a sharp shout. “Fuck took you so long?” It stabs through the house, the walls thin enough to not be considered in this, or his, material world. 

His rage begins to beat, one foot after the other, on the hardwood floors, and your hand returns to where it felt it was needed. Hoodie fabric—that smells nothing like here, or him—is palmed in-between. Your heart pumps with fear and knowing; God is not restless to punish, but a darker, closer, corporeal counterpart is and he steals you from this life on earth, and he tells you that you have not suffered enough. The stranger in this hoodie is your tether. 

But, after that fleeting conversation with the girl in the common acres, you feel you have known her for ages—and you're dating a stranger.

Swallow your pride and knowledge. He will smite you for it. “Um, Cat.” Quick, quick, the lump goes. But slow, slow, the lie creeps and is hesitant to be heard, afraid of its flaws. You turn to the kitchen before his ugly, three-headed emergence, running a hand over the budding holes of flowers. Jesse cut them from his garden, a secret congratulations from him and his mother. “She went to Bison and called me along. Time gotta-'head of us in there. Sorry, baby,” you stall, trembling.

The drunken stench gets worse. You cough but the air is all the same.

His footsteps take a pause at what you sense to be the fridge, a thimble distance. The kitchen, entrance, and couch are all subsided into one long room and aren't interrupted with inessential walls. Trailer gradient. It is not so glamorous as it is discreet; months into the relationship you noticed its perfect usage for taboo practice. The earth tries to return to itself as paint peels from the walls.

He converges with the eerie silence. 

It is his discontinuation that turns you around. Otherwise, his hands fallow and large would be and in each press would be apologies you have heard in timeless befores. This time—out of all times—he just stares at you, head to toe, without one. Checking, like, to see if you're all there.

No. He is looking at you like you have done something wrong.

Scrunching up, you blurt. “What?” Quiet. Weak. But you regret your tone as it leaves your throat. The gestures blow your cover wide open.

He knows. “Somethin’ up?” And that is his cue to creep with inertia, his unwillingness to confront a potential problem, his face you cannot read. His alcohol kisses are disguises and his blows to your soul are the realest emotions he has stirred in you, post-beginning. Your nights begin with expectation.

He will either be enraged or lethargic.

But he stops crawling too close to the sun and reaches the rest with his hand, pinching the sleeve of the hoodie, rolling it together. His face shifts and unfortunately—you can read it.

Fuck.

He has his idea. “Where did you get this shit from?” You wish he drank himself to bed; his breath is hot, biting and in your senses and he does his part to fill each nerve. He has your arm, but he could very well have your heart, too. In his grasp. “No, better question—who did you get it from?” 

Cold sweat. You answer on high alert.

“Cat!”

He chews it up. “No.” Shakes his head, pins the sun closer in on itself. The counter pinches your lower-spine. “She doesn’t do weed no fuckin’ more. This smells of it. Who does it belong to, huh! One of mine?” 

Yelling is nothing compared to his gaping volume. 

Your eardrums wobble. “No,” refuting, you open yourself to him. Open to his open-ended judgement. He out-reprimands—until it clicks. “Are you sure it isn't just you?” 

He is just projecting.

Where did that come from?

Mateo fumes. His seams come apart. “Yeah, is it just me?” His rhetorical disturbs the somehow sound of nothing, but the hope that it would be yelling and nothing else—bangs against the cupboards. He holds your head in the side of it.

The impact disorients you from this kitchen.

You expect to meet a floor next.

As soon as the sharp pain leaves, it returns. He uses the lightheaded silence he created as a second reason to wrangle you a sweep over, aiming your head—or the whole, his anger is extensive—into the fridge. “Stupid bitch!” The door handle gets you in the stomach before he can.

It escapes your throat with a bubble of nothing to come out.

“Hope that solves your morning issue.” And it stops there. On the cold, slate tile. You have been here before.

Made swollen sounds.

You clutch for the floor. The floor that exists in your mind; too flat for any percievable grasp, your fingers find themselves in your palms, indenting. You press and tighten, searching for pain, but her sweatshirt is long and loved enough to protect those parts of your hands. 

You regret having a mouth.

Small room, big conniption. You feel a little too seen retrieving your tears through these wordless-oath, congested inhales. Being in here is suffocating. Outside was bigger; omnipresent, not so wall-to-wall, not so focused on your problems.

But you catch her scent. Not the thing he smelled. Her scent.

Unnostalgic.

Wearing a little bit of some-stranger-else does have a coalescing effect. Some chemical change. Rewiring.

Does she?

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comment to be on either!

[enderlovez]

Oooooo I have a Spencer x germaphobe reader where everyone knows how Spencer is with germs, which isn’t that bad. But imagine everyone’s surprise when they find out he has a huge crush like I mean in love with their coworker who is an extreme germaphobe (think of Ms, Pillsbury from glee) so she’s extra clean but he doesn’t mind he only has eyes on her so he tries to help her while also helping himself and she already has a crush on him but thinks he sees her as a patient in a lab even when he doesn’t but their feelings come to surface and they get a lil dirty lol angst, smut, and fluff thank u❤️

Germaphobe, Too

Spencer Reid x Female Germaphobe Reader WORD COUNT: 3600+ (yeah I got a little carried away)

Summary: You hate germs more than anything else in the world, and Spencer is so very much in love with you, so he's always trying to help you in any way he can — little does he know, that maybe you're feelings about the situation are a little bit different.

Content Warning: reader shows traits of obsessive compulsive disorder, germaphobia and germs, probably misinformation about germaphobia, NSFW content, reader is a freak, dry humping, reader bites Spencer a few times, miscommunication, Spencer likes boobs, groping, nipple play (sort of), unprotected vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it), virginity loss on both ends, Spencer doesn't pull out, and I think that's it!

A/N I've never actually watched Glee so I went on a bit of a search-spree to try and find out how I would write this, so I hope I did it justice! Also, thank you so much for being the first person in my inbox, you have no idea how excited I was when this popped up, and I hope I did your idea justice!

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

From the moment you joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit, everyone knew you were different — from the way you open doors with your sleeves rather than your bare hands, to how you scrub your hands raw after touching something that's not even really that dirty.

And it's not necessarily a bad thing that you're so conscious of these things, it can just be a little... difficult to navigate sometimes.

Take that one time for example, when you were helping out on a case! Morgan had no writing utensils on him, so without thinking, plucked a pen from the breast pocket of your blouse. To anyone else, it might not have seemed like such a big deal, but you were close to tears.

To put it plainly, you are a germaphobe. You're like a female version of their very own Doctor Spencer Reid, but on steroids, and somehow still a whole lot more sociable despite this fact!

Seriously. It's not to say they don't still see you as the strange new girl doing 'strange-new-girl' things, nor is it to say they don't frequently talk about you when you're not around, but they think you might just be the sweetest human being to ever grace the BAU.

Which is why it really shouldn't have seemed like such a secret, shouldn't have shocked everyone as much as it did, that Spencer was absolutely and irreversibly smitten with you.

At first, it was just little things like watching you from across the room with this strange look on his face — he was just watching the strange new girl doing 'strange-new-girl' things!

When he started spending more time around you than anybody else at work, and when it became apparent that he preferred your quiet company, it was just because you showed some similar traits to him, right? Nobody thought anything different, because come on, this is Spencer we're talking about here.

But in truth, Spencer is beyond mesmerized by you, the most beautiful woman he's ever met, and so kind to everyone even though they clearly treat you different to your other coworkers.

The poor man doesn't think he could ever admit this to you, though, considering he's a blabbering mess of hot skin and stutters every time he talks to you. So instead of further embarrassing himself (and giving Morgan ammunition to tease him for the rest of eternity), he shows his affection towards you in other ways.

Spencer himself is not a big fan of germs, so he can understand, to an extent, how you must feel most of the time. You've explained it to him before, while he was standing beside you at your desk, watching as you wiped the surface down with an antibacterial wipe.

"I know it probably seems like I overreact, but it's not something I can just turn off," you'd said to him in a whisper once. "I don't do this because I want to annoy people or make life harder. It's just... if I don't, I feel like I'll unravel."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Sometimes it feels like the world is too loud. A stranger is screaming in your ear, you can't see them or touch them, but they're there; there's a bee buzzing in front of your face, but you can't swat it away.

How are you supposed to get rid of something you can't see?

You can't — it's as simple as that, but you can try you're very best.

As if sensing that your thoughts are headed somewhere unsavory, Spencer appears beside you on a rolling chair, as he does most days.

Out of all your coworkers, he's the only one that doesn't poke fun at you behind your back. That's how it's been your whole life, people testing your boundaries and teasing you for something you have no control over, so it's... a nice change of pace.

"Good morning, Spencer," you say softly, offering him a warm smile before turning back to your work. "How are you today?"

"Good—um, good morning," he responds awkwardly, smiling even though you're not looking at him anymore. You see it out of the corner of your eye, his little smile and his firetruck-red face, smiling faintly to yourself as you type away on your laptop.

You ignore how he completely dismisses your question, knowing he'd probably just say the same thing as always — 'Yeah, I'm doing great, thank you. As—as long as you're doing alright.'

He always gets so strange around you, and while you try your best to ignore it most of the time, it still irks you.

No, he doesn't join the teasing with Morgan and Jareau when they think you can't hear them, but he still treats you differently.

"I got you something," he says in a quiet voice, reaching into his bag and pulling out a book. You eye him nervously as he carefully places it onto your desk, using one finger to push it towards you. A tiny smile pulls at your cheeks when you see it's encased in a protective plastic film, but it quickly drops when you see what the actual book is.

'Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: A Journey to Recovery' by David Veale and Rob Willson.

You peel the plastic away, tossing it into the little trash can under your desk and sanitizing your hands before picking up the bright yellow book, opening the front cover with a blank expression.

It's not like you aren't grateful he's trying to help, of course you're happy he cares so much. But a book isn't going to fix your problems, despite what he may think at times. And right now he doesn't feel like a friend, he feels like a doctor, and you feel like a patient laying on a lab table, vulnerable and stripped bare for the world to see.

For once, you just want to have a normal conversation without it turning into some kind of therapy session.

"Thank you, Spencer — um..." You voice shakes ever-so-slightly as you put the eyesore book in your bag. "I will be reading that tonight, that was very kind of you."

You know you'll probably put that book in a box and never look at it again. He doesn't seem to pick up on your unease, smile widening at your apparent acceptance of his gift.

"Actually," you continue softly, in a voice so quiet it's almost silent, head bowed forward, "I'm actually not feeling too well right now, think I might head home for the day."

The smile on his face falters slightly as you push away from your desk and stand up, packing your things away into your backpack. "Is everything — would you like me to drive you home?"

It's not unusual for your mind to trick you into thinking you actually are sick, but on the off chance that you really are feeling something, he doesn't think it's a good idea for you to drive yourself home.

"You know, about twenty-one percent of fatal car crashes involve tired or impaired drivers."

"I'll be fine," you reply blandly, though those statistics do alarm you mildly, stepping around him and walking in the direction of Hotch's office. "Thank you, though, Spencer."

As you disappear into the Unit Chief's office, Morgan give him this curious look from across the room, eyebrow cocked in question, but all Spencer can do is shrug, his own face twisted with confusion.

Usually when you get like this, there's some kind of trigger that sets you off, like a chain reaction of sorts, but right now, he can't for the life of him come up with something that might've set you off.

You're only in the office for thirty-seven seconds (Spencer was counting) before you reemerge, your head still bowed as you rush out of the bullpen, like there's something chasing you away.

"What'd you do to get Miss Sunshine all blue and teary-eyed?" Morgan asks mockingly when you're out of earshot. "She looks like you just kicked a fluffy little kitten in front of her!"

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Spencer's never been to your apartment before — nobody on the team has, the only reason he's standing here now is because your address is on your information.

It feels a bit like an invasion of your privacy being here when he's not even supposed to know where you live, but Morgan was right. You did look like Spencer smushed a kitten under his shoe as you were leaving, and he couldn't in good conscience not check on you.

He reaches a tentative hand up, hesitating for a (very) brief moment before knocking thrice.

There's some muffled shuffling behind the door before it opens, revealing you, wearing a cream colored cardigan with delicately embroidered flowers on it. And while you're still neatly put together, there's a more casual air about you now, like you're more relaxed.

"Oh — Spencer, what're you doing here?"

Your voice rasps slightly, and when he takes a closer look at your face, Spencer finds that your eyes are a little red.

"I was just..." He pauses, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed upset when you were leaving work."

You purse your lips and give him as once-over, then shift out of the doorway — inviting him inside? You close the door behind him once he's inside, guiding him towards the living room with a gentle hand on his back.

It's shocking, to say the least, that you're actually touching him right now, but he doesn't say a word.

"Would you — um — like some tea, or something?" you ask awkwardly, pushing him to sit on the sofa. "Or — or some water?"

"No, but thank you for offering."

You leave the room for a few minutes, presumably to make yourself something to drink, but come back with two steaming mugs, placing one in front of Spencer regardless of what he said.

Another couple of minutes pass where neither of you say anything, sipping on tea and glancing at each other every now and again. He's pleasantly surprised to find that you've used lavender tea.

Your apartment is very clean, looking more like a set you'd find at a department store than anything, but it's still so warm and inviting. You have a couple of candles lit around the place, and Spencer's fighting the urge to warn you about candle safety.

"I don't want you to try and fix me."

Spencer turns his head away from the tall bookshelf across the room to look at you, eyebrows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Fix you. What do you mean, he's trying to fix you?

"The book," you reply meekly, "I don't want you to try and fix me."

That catches his attention, the emphasis on that one little word — it's not that you don't want anyone to help, you just don't want him to help.

You must see the flash of hurt cross his expression, because you're rushing to elaborate, stumbling over your words.

"It's just that — um — I really like you, Spencer, and — uh — when you're giving me stuff like this..." You gesture to the coffee table, where the yellow book he'd given you is sitting. "I don't know, you kind of make me feel like I'm a patient in a lab. Something to be studied and prodded at and — and fixed."

"There's nothing about you that needs to be fixed," he murmurs, trying his best to ignore what you said — 'I really like you, Spencer.'

You place your half-empty mug of tea onto the coffee table and pull your feet up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around them.

"I wasn't trying to fix you — everything about you is perfect," he says, quiet and without thinking. "You just seemed so uncomfortable at work all the time, and I wanted to help you out."

"Why, though?" you ask sadly, a faint heat rising to your cheeks. "Why not just join in on all the teasing and mockery? It would be easier than dealing with me all the time."

"Because..." You raise an eyebrow at his entire face quite literally turns the same shade as a tomato. "Because I really like you, too. I didn't think about how it might come off, and I'm so, so sorry for—"

You hold up a hand to shut him up, leaning a little further towards him than he would have thought you'd like.

"Spencer, it's alright," you assure him, placing your hand on his knee, much to his surprise (and embarrassment). "You didn't need to worry, though — you're really the only person at work I spend much time around, and I'm not uncomfortable around you."

"You're... not?"

A soft smile graces your lips. "Not even a little bit. Not even at all."

Spencer deflates into himself, every inch of his his skin uncomfortably hot — this is news to him.

"That's a relief."

Your voice takes on a teasing lilt. "Why? Because you really like me?"

And just like that, his face gets infinitely hotter, but he gives you the tiniest nod, knowing that if he said anything, he would fumble.

"I don't understand why you're embarrassed," you whisper fondly, "I am the one who said it first, after all. You should be teasing me."

He might be the only one you'll accept it from, just like how he's the only person you'd ever accept physical contact with, the only person you'll ever trust enough to put your mouth near him, like right now."

Spencer has to restrain himself from physically recoiling in shock when you press the softest of kisses to his blazing cheek.

Your instincts are screaming on the inside, but if you're being honest, you couldn't care less.

This isn't a stranger, you assure yourself, this is Spencer, and he could never make you sick.

Spencer could never make you sick.

"Is this alright?" you ask as you press another slightly firmer kiss to the skin under his jaw, your voice dripping with something unfamiliar.

Unable to form a single word, Spencer nods, reaching to place a hand on the back of your neck, gasping when your teeth nipped at the sensitive skin.

It's a complete one-eighty from the shy, germ-conscious girl you usually are, but he can't find it in him to complain.

The girl of his dreams, the one who can't even bring herself to touch his hand at work, currently has her mouth on him, she's biting him, and his mind is in a frenzy.

"I'm not gonna freak out if you touch me, Spence," you tease lightly, lips fluttering over the space just beside his mouth. As if to prove your point, smirking against his skin, you take his hand in yours and settle it on the space just below your breasts — under your clothes.

Where you're not wearing a bra.

His mind reels and melts into goo at the feel of your bare skin against his hand, so soft and warm.

An embarrassingly loud whine escapes his mouth as you bite down on his neck again, sucking the skin into your mouth. His hand drifts slightly upwards, brushing against the supple skin of your breast and gently grabbing onto it.

Your breath hitches as he gropes at your chest, lips pulling off his neck with a little pop and head resting against his shoulder.

"Can I take your shirt off?"

Your question leaves him speechless, but he nods nonetheless, reluctantly letting go of you to help you get his shirt over his head.

The sigh of his bare chest has your mouth watering, and you want nothing more than to leave a trail of hickeys down his stomach, but first, you press your lips to his, hands threading through his hair.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs into your mouth, hands resting on your hips as you grind down onto him. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, whimpering as your hips wildly buck down on him. You've never been like this, desperate for the touch of another person, let alone a touch so intimate.

Spencer's grip on you tightens some, and he uses this new leverage to guide your hips, carefully pressing you clothed heat against the hardness straining against his pants.

"P-please," you choke out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, gripping him for dear life as he moves you.

"Hm?" he hums quietly, shifting the angle so he's rubbing right up against your covered clit.

"Please," you breathe out again, clenching around nothing. "Please, Spencer."

You're not even sure what you're begging for, only that you want — no, need more of this stimulation.

He seems to understand what you need better than you do, gathering your body to him and laying you on your back.

Your thighs automatically fall open for him, allowing his body to fit between them, one hand holding himself up. He presses himself against you again, drawing a desperate moan from the back of your throat as he works on undoing the buttons of your cardigan, letting the fabric slide off your body and pool at your sides.

The hand he's not using to support himself reaches for you, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple. The corner of Spencer's mouth twitches upward as you arch up against him, eyes screwed shut.

"You like that?" he asks genuinely, doing it again. You nod frantically, mouth dropping open, but no sound coming out of it.

"Yes," you pant, bottom lip catching between your teeth. "Yes, I like that — please."

"Please what?" His mouth descends upon your neck, fingers continuing their attack on your sensitive nipple, clothed cock still rubbing up against you oh-so wonderfully.

"Please... please touch me," you beg, unable to stop your hips from bucking up against him. "I need you to touch me, Spencer."

Such vulgar words coming out of your mouth. It shocks the man, but he complies, shifting his body backwards so he can pull your skirt and underwear down your legs.

The sight between them is magical — your folds glistening in the soft light of the room, you writhing in anticipation in front of him — and something he has, admittedly, thought about once or twice.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, running his middle finger through your slick and pressing down gently on your clit. You shake your head lazily, face screwed up in pleasure, a sight Spencer will cherish forever.

A strangled moan rips out of you as Spencer presses a finger against your hole, thumb rubbing soft circles on your sensitive bud, and enters you with little resistance.

"Neither have I," he admits sheepishly, pumping his finger in and out of you rhythmically, curling it until he finds that spongey spot within you that has you crying out his name and spilling over his hand.

"Two virgin germaphobes," you mumble jokingly, trying to wiggle closer to him again. You fumble with his belt, somehow managing to pull it through the loops, and toss it on the ground carelessly.

He helps you to push his pants down, just enough for his cock to slip out.

"Two virgin germaphobes," he agrees quietly, adjusting your bodies so you're both in a more comfortable position, sliding his heavy tip through your slick folds. "Are you sure—"

"I'm sure, Spence," you abruptly cut him off, running your fingers through his hair, subconsciously pulling him towards you. "Please just — just fuck me."

Spencer doesn't need to be told twice, slowly pushing into you, gasping as your warm walls suck him in, gripping his cock like a vice. He holds his breath, trying not to immediately blow his load.

You're writhing, gasping, clawing at his back, whispering his name out into the air, and it only works to make him more hungry for you. But he stills one he's fully sheathed inside you, giving you time to adjust.

"Does it — uh — does it hurt at all?" he asks in a whisper, directly into your ear.

"N-no," you gasp back, the small pain slowly morphing into one of pleasure. "It doesn't hurt, you can — fuck — you can move, when you're ready."

He doesn't think he'll ever be ready, with how tightly you're gripping him, but he still finds himself pulling out until only his tip is nestled in you, and slowly pushing back in all the way. You hum shakily, trying to press yourself closer to him as he repeats the action, then again.

Already so sensitive from your first orgasm, you know you're not going to last long with his slow movements, thighs clenching around his. Pressure grows in your abdomen as he thrusts back in, slightly harder this time, grunting into your neck.

"God, I'm already so close," you choke out, head thrown back, sounds you didn't even know you could make raking out of you. Spencer can't get enough of them, leaning down and catching one of your nipples in his mouth, gently sucking on the sensitive nub.

Without warning, you're spasming around him, drool dribbling out of your open mouth as you come, body going slack against the couch.

"W-where do you want me to—"

"Inside," you mumble incoherently, biting your lip hard enough to leave marks, tears building on your waterline. "Please, Spence, I want you to come inside me."

Your words alone are enough to have him spilling inside you, thrusts sloppy and unrhythmic. Your hum in content, clinging to him like a koala as he gently pulls his softened cock from inside you, rubbing soft circles onto the skin over your breastbone. It's comfortably quiet.

And then...

"Hey," you whisper in a tired voice, "you wanna go on a date with me?"

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your hip. "I would love to," he whispers back fondly before standing up from the couch, "but first, we need to get you cleaned up and rested.

[queensunshinee]

So sweet- part 2 || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (mention of p in v sex, oral sex), mention of an eating disorder, family drama, death in the family, cheating. It's a mess.

Word Count: 7.9k

(Part 1)

So sweet- part 2:

Art leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you. Since your back was to him, you hadn't seen him yet, and he felt like he had the upper hand. As if he didn’t need to be defensive. As if he was still part of your life. Your hair looked shorter than the last time he saw you. But then again, the last time he saw you, you told him you never wanted to see him again, so maybe he didn’t remember all the details as well as he’d like to.

Maybe he felt that "never" was subjective. That everyone could choose what to take from the word "never." That a year and a half without speaking to you was enough "never" for him, and you'd be a hypocrite if you said it wasn’t for you too. "Are you going to stand there much longer, Donaldson?" Your voice sounded the same. He'd recently discovered he hated a lot of things, but at the top of his list were all the times you called him by his last name instead of his first.

"You really do have eyes in the back of your head," he tried to joke, but he didn’t hear you laugh, not even a chuckle. He hadn’t seen your face yet, but he could guess you weren’t even smiling. "Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?" you asked. If he didn’t know you, he might have thought you were fine. That this was just polite conversation between two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in a while and ran into each other by chance. "My first match isn’t for another two days. I couldn’t miss the funeral," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry for your loss, you know that, right?" He took a few large steps and sat on the bed next to you, hoping you’d give him this moment. Hoping you wouldn’t be angry. Not when he was trying so hard.

"She was a mean drunk," you muttered. "Not a huge loss," you added, glancing at him for a second, allowing yourself to surrender to the moment. He recognized the piercing gaze. Maybe a wrinkle that wasn’t there before, but your eyes were the same eyes. You were the same girl he used to love. Used to. Used to. Used to. Before he went on his path in life and you on yours. Before he made a decision, and then you made a decision, and then both of you made decisions. Before words were said. Before he left and you stayed. Before he opened up and you shut down. Used to.

"You’re a grown man, you should know how to tie a tie by now, don’t you think?" you asked, probably trying to lighten the sadness that filled your childhood room, located right across from his childhood room. He wanted to thank you for that. But he never knew how to talk to you honestly. Why would he start now? "Tashi usually does it," he said quietly, and you stood in front of him, starting to adjust the damn tie. You had no idea what you were doing to his heartbeat. "I’m sorry about your grandmother. I was at your parents’ house afterward. I don’t know if they told you," you mumbled.

He was so angry at you for not coming to the funeral. Because by what right did you take his tragedy and make him consumed with thoughts of you? About your absence. About your hand that could’ve held his tightly, just like you did when he was eight, and Jameson died. Instead, he held Tashi’s hand. She didn’t squeeze. She let go after a few minutes. He was so angry that at his grandmother’s funeral, more than anything, he missed you. So now, a few minutes before heading to your mother’s funeral, he squeezed your hand for a moment while you adjusted his tie, looking at him with big eyes filling with tears you refused to let fall. "Better," you said.

He didn’t think it was better. He didn’t want to argue. He just nodded. . . . Patrick couldn’t focus. Every time he hit that stupid ball, he thought about the fight he had with his dad a week ago and the dumb argument he had with you before leaving for Atlanta. He hadn’t told you yet that his parents decided to cut him off from the trust fund. He hadn’t told you that he was basically broke. Sometimes Patrick thinks you’re the only person in the world who looks at him like he understands something about life. Like he’s capable of pulling off magic at any given moment. Sparkling eyes and a smile. He wonders when was the last time you looked at him like that. It’s been a few good months. He can’t deliver. Not the damn ball and not in real life.

He hesitates. Everything he does comes with a certain delay. He knows that at 24, he’s expected to understand who he is and what he wants from life. But what he wants from life doesn’t want him back, and that’s something he’s not willing to accept. He blames his parents for the fact that he’s too spoiled. That he doesn’t know when to stop. That he can’t let go of dreams. That he has to be the best, even though he’s drowning in his own mediocrity. He moves too fast between knowing how good he is at what he does and the harsh slap of reality that comes with each of his failures. Every tournament he loses in the second round, every person who was once in his life and doesn’t want him anymore. They found something better. Something more put-together.

He saw Tashi from a distance for the second time in the last two days. Always alone, Art wasn’t with her. He wondered why Art wasn’t here. He knew Art was competing. Everyone knew Art was competing. The rising star of American tennis. Motherfucker. His dad screamed it at him when he lost it a week ago— “I wish Art Donaldson were my son, maybe then I wouldn’t be so ashamed.” Patrick won’t tell anyone that it hurt. Not because he cares what his shitty dad thinks of him. Not because he cares that Art is succeeding on an international level, breaking into the world’s top ten. Fulfilling all the dreams they once dreamed together. Patrick cares because he knows that at any given moment, he could beat Art. He’s better than Art. So how is it that Art is ranked eighth and Patrick is a nobody? No one takes him into account.

“You planning to embarrass yourself in another tournament?” Tashi’s voice crept up behind him. “You know that if he competes against me, I’ll win, right?” he asked. Overconfident. Always overconfident. “I know you’re ranked 243rd, and he’s ranked 8th. It doesn’t matter who wins this, you’ll still be a loser, and he’ll still get a Nike campaign. They asked us about a winter collection.” She was trying to hurt him. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her—to hurt him. But he thinks only two people can: you and Art. Tashi isn’t on that list. He doesn’t think Tashi comes close to being on that list.

He thinks Tashi is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman he knows. Maybe you’re the most beautiful woman he knows. He doesn’t really know- it’s blurry and messy. But hearing you moan or say his name softly, sweetly, is the most beautiful thing he knows. So maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe he measures beauty differently than he did four years ago. “Sounds good. I promise to buy a jacket with his name on it. Do you need anything, Tashi?” he tried to end the conversation. He didn’t want her to see the pathetic training session he was having with himself against a wall. “I don’t know, maybe to ask why you’re here?” She shrugged like it was obvious. Like she cared about the useless existence of Patrick Zweig. Like he mattered. “I’m competing, just like Art-” he started, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but Art’s not here. How is it that you are?” she cut off the monologue he was about to throw at her. “I don’t know why Art isn’t here, Tashi.” If it were possible, his eyes would roll so far back into his skull they’d get stuck there. “Because he’s at a funeral, obviously. She’s your girlfriend last time I checked- how are you not there?” The furrow of her brows showed she was genuinely confused. But now he stood in front of her, terrified too. Whose funeral? Who the fuck died? “What are you talking about?” he muttered, feeling his heart pound. Every muscle in his body tensed. “(Y/N)’s mom passed away, Patrick. How am I the first one telling you this?” She doesn’t understand. But he does. And right now he hates Tashi. And Art, who’s with you. And himself- mostly himself- because after four years, he’s still a selfish bastard who only cares about himself. . . . You’re not crying, and you suspect it bothers your father. He looks at you strangely. As if you’re making things difficult. Because this is an event. A funeral is an event, and you need to behave the way you're expected to behave. You just can’t seem to do it. Because you don’t think you have a warm spot in your heart for the woman you called Mom for the pathetic 24 years of your existence. To anyone else, it would sound sad. Pathetic. You don’t say it out loud very often. You don’t want to make things harder for anyone. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You considered cutting an onion before you left, just to save yourself from the weird looks from the extended family you haven’t seen in years, but Art fucking Donaldson hasn’t left you alone since the second he heard she kicked the bucket.

His hand held yours like his life depended on it. Maybe yours. Someone’s life depended on it. Definitely not your mother’s. She’s dead. You wonder if the need for sacrifice died with her. You wonder if your constant need to make everyone feel comfortable all the time died with her too. It’s exhausting. You wish you could be less like that. Your hand is sweating into his. He probably thinks it’s disgusting. He probably doesn’t like it. You miss the time when your whole world was making sure Art Donaldson was comfortable. His parents hugged you, and you’re pretty sure his mom left lipstick on you. He’s been staring at you for an hour straight. Maybe two. Maybe your whole life. You can’t know; it’s an emotional day.

You try to move your hand away from his; there’s no way this is comfortable for him. He grips harder. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t leave you alone. Your father says the Kaddish, everyone responds "Amen" and cries. You don’t. Maybe you really are crazy, like she hinted at a few times when she got drunk and called you at an inappropriate hour. Maybe you really are the reason for every problem she ever had. Maybe you didn’t sacrifice enough. Maybe you didn’t love enough.

Maybe you just don’t know how to love, and then it makes sense that you don’t deserve to be loved. Not really. Not unconditionally. Not like your father loved your mother. Not like Art loves Tashi. Not like Patrick loved Tashi. Not like Patrick hated you. Maybe he still does- sometimes you’re not sure. Patrick isn’t here. Art’s hand keeps holding you both steady. You finally cry.

When you walk into the house, your extended family is already there. Uncles, cousins- you think you saw the grandfather of someone your father goes to synagogue with. All you wanted was to sit quietly in your room for a second. Take off the heels and the damn dress. You felt the thong digging into your ass. That’s what happens when you let a dead woman dictate what you'll wear to her funeral. A woman who had conditions for her own funeral. Who told you what dress to wear. What underwear to put on. Sometimes you wonder how many years ahead you’ll keep dragging her advice, her judgmental looks. The tongue clicks. The general dissatisfaction with the world, wrapped in fake smiles. Maybe that’s where you learned to fake so well. To fake who you are down to your core. To fake and fake until you don’t know what you want or from whom.

“You disappeared. I figured you’d be here.” Art walks into your childhood room like it’s his. Like he always did. “You’re still here?” you mutter, and he hands you a plate of food he picked up from downstairs. “Where else would I be?” he sighs. As if that’s the only answer that makes sense to him. As if you two were in touch. As if you know anything about his fancy life or he knows anything about your painfully mediocre one. “In Atlanta,” you answer and place the plate on the nightstand beside you. “When’s your flight?” you ask, not looking at him as he sits next to you on the bed like he did before the funeral.

“I can stay-” he starts quietly. You know he’s looking at you, almost begging you to see that he means it. "Ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself, but you know he hears. “When’s your flight, Art?” you ask, your voice steadier, looking at him with an almost hollow expression. One that doesn’t show any emotion or maybe shows all emotions at once. A look that scared him. A look that worried you. A look you’ll think about a month from now. You’ll sit at home, writing the structure for one of your classes, and you’ll think about Art Donaldson and the empty look you gave him when your mother died. Embarrassing. Everything is so fucking embarrassing.

“Tonight,” he sums up. You glance at your phone’s clock. Sixteen missed calls from Patrick. Instinct says to call him. But it’s 6 p.m., and his first match is at 8 in the morning. “Don’t you need to pack?” He rolls his eyes, ignoring your attempt to dismiss him. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. “Excuse me?” you snap back, not understanding the direction of the conversation. “Now. In general. What are you doing?” His gaze surrounds you from every direction. You can’t look anywhere that isn’t Art Donaldson. He reflects off the damn mirrors in this room. “Trying to sit quietly in my room, clearly,” you reply stiffly.

You remember how all your conversations used to be warm. Soft. You’d talk about dreams. About books you’d write. About tournaments he’d win. You’d kiss. He’d touch you. You’d touch him. There was curiosity. There was love. Or at least that thing you’ve spent years believing was love. The thing where you become exactly what he wants and needs and disappear when he needs something else, something better. That was the unwritten contract between you. Lately, you’ve been thinking that’s the unwritten contract between you and everyone you know. A depressing thought. You try not to dwell on it too much. On the way you please people in your suffering. Please in deprivation. Please to the point of tears, and more tears, and more tears. You try not to think about all the dreams you had when Art Donaldson -maybe- loved you. You try not to think about the joy of life. About how much you loved seeing him happy, how much you loved making him happy. How much you loved being responsible for his happiness. "Why isn’t Patrick here?" He quietly asked what he really wanted to know. He wanted to understand if you’d broken up. If you were alone. If he could laugh and say he told you so. That he told you; you had no business being with Patrick Zweig. "Because he has a match tomorrow at 8 a.m., and he trained too hard to miss it," you said it coolly, without breaking eye contact. As if it made perfect sense that you hadn’t told your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to be your confidant, that your mother had died. "He didn’t want to come?" Art continued, confused. Ice. That look again. The immediate shift in his mood confuses you, but it doesn’t throw you off balance. You know him. For the past four years, every time he’s seen you, all he’s tried to do is confuse you, to knock you off balance. It never works, at least not in his eyes.

"Hedoesn’tknow," you mumbled the words as if they were one. Quietly, knowing that what you’d done didn’t make sense. Wasn’t reasonable. Wasn’t acceptable. Didn’t fit into the unspoken rules of a relationship. "You’re an idiot." He stood up and started pacing back and forth. "A fucking moron, really." He was angry, as if he was the one who hadn’t been told your mother had died. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t have known either, but his mother told him. Whatever. "I’ll tell him when he gets back from the tournament, it’s not a big deal," you said and shrugged. Art stopped and looked at you like you’d just fallen from the moon. Like you were some natural phenomena. "If you did that to me, I’d kill you. If you thought some shitty tennis tournament in shitty Atlanta was more important to me than you, I’d murder you and then die myself. I don’t like what you have with Zweig, God knows I hate it, but how could you not tell him? Do you even understand the concept of a relationship?" He let out this Shakespearean monologue while looking at you with a half-pitying, half-angry expression. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he thought you were Tashi.

"Art, I’m not your problem. Do you remember that?" You didn’t know what else to say, so you said the only thing you knew for sure in a defeated voice. Art Donaldson was not a part of your life. "You’ll always be my problem. You should know that by now," he said, half despairing at himself. As if wondering how you both got here. As if wondering if there was anywhere else you could be. . . . Patrick was beyond frustrated. He won his first match after two and a half hours, barely. It didn’t come easy. All he could think about was how nothing came easy for him anymore, and how everything used to be so easy.

The thought that you didn’t tell him your mother had died, and then didn’t answer his calls either, hovered over his head like a rain cloud focused solely on him. He didn’t know how to approach it. He knew why you didn’t tell him- because unlike what Art thought, unlike what your dead mother thought, he knew you. He knew how you thought. He understood the mechanics behind your strange decisions. He hated that he had become someone you had to overthink things for.

That afternoon, he went to one of the courts and caught Tashi and Art’s practice. They both saw him sit down. He thinks it made Art play better. He wondered if Art imagined his face when he hit the ball. He thinks he does. Because when Tashi checkmated his relationship with Art, Patrick wrapped his life around yours as if that was how it was always meant to be, while everyone involved knew it wasn’t. While everyone involved knew that you had embroidered Art’s name on bags from the moment you learned how to stitch. While everyone knew that Art Donaldson didn’t know how to exist in the world without you.

So, Patrick took you for himself. Most of the time, he didn’t think of it as something technical, as a game he was playing against Art. Most of the time, he looked at you, really looked at you. Most of the time, he tried to make you laugh and understand the world through your own eyes. Most of the time, he tried to protect you from complex emotions you couldn’t express, from hunger. He tried to protect you from yourself, the way you protect some helpless creature. In some way, you were. In his eyes, you were helpless.

When you first started sleeping together, Patrick treated you with kid gloves, in a way he had never treated anyone before. Like you were porcelain. Like you could shatter and crumble in his hands at any moment. You had gestures and habits, ones you thought no one noticed. But he always saw. You tried to please everyone all the time. You switched from a smile to a sad look in a second, for the sake of the feelings of whoever was in front of you, for the sake of what you thought they wanted from you.

But Patrick didn’t want anything from you. He wanted to give you all the orgasms that you missed and for you to eat at least three meals a day. Some days, he didn’t know how to make you do it. Some days, he raised his voice. When he was desperate, he cried. When he was really desperate, he asked you to eat for him, so that he would be happy. That was the easy way, it always worked. He exploited a destructive mechanism someone had embedded in you (he suspects your dead mother) and used it to get you to do something he thought would be good for you. He wanted to throw up.

Art was playing well. He was playing against Tashi in front of him, and he was playing well. Too well. Patrick no longer thinks he can beat him. Not something he would ever say out loud. He wanted to ask him how you were. He didn’t want to admit that you hadn’t answered his million calls. He didn’t want to admit that he was a loser who didn’t know where his life was going. Not when Art had been with you at the fucking funeral of your awful mother. He hated that woman with everything he had. More than he hated his own father, and that had to be some kind of record. Art looked at him for a moment. The moment passed. Patrick thinks Art won. He’s not sure. . . . Patrick finds Tashi alone in the evening. Completely alone in the middle of the lobby restaurant. She suddenly looks small and fragile to him, holding a drink he can guess is whiskey or cognac or whatever it is that Tashi Duncan drinks these days. He doesn’t know anything about her anymore. Only that a few years ago, he thought he loved her, and in return, she took his best friend away from him.

When he stands in front of her, he is like a streetlight- impossible to ignore. It dawns on him, belatedly, that he is wearing her shirt. She must think he’s pathetic. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t think he cares about being pathetic in front of her. Because he sees her for what she is right now, and she is miserable. She doesn’t have much in life. She clings to what Art has. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but that’s reality. They both cling to things they shouldn’t be clinging to, and his eyes wander to her ring. Massive. Flashy. A bit like her, like the woman she tries to be when she’s not half-drunk and pathetic in front of him.

He places his hand over hers just as she’s about to take a sip of her drink, stopping her. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not from her, not from himself, but his lips find hers within seconds, and she doesn’t resist. He knew she wouldn’t resist- he saw it on her face. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Maybe more. And what a thought that is- that Tashi Duncan wants Patrick Zweig more.

They exit through the back door of the restaurant, go up to his room. Naturally. As if more than four years haven’t passed since the last time he was with Tashi. He wishes he knew what he was doing; it would make this easier. But it’s not particularly difficult, either- otherwise, he wouldn’t be pressing Tashi against the wall. Otherwise, his lips wouldn’t be kissing every inch of her body he can reach.

Hunger. Patrick feels hunger. It’s the only emotion coursing through him as he looks at her. He thinks he wants to hurt Art. He thinks about how Art was there for you at your mother’s funeral, and that was supposed to be his role, but you didn’t call him. So he strips Tashi of her shirt. Only to discover she isn’t wearing a bra. He compares her to you every few seconds. You never go without a bra. He can barely convince you to just be at home, without clothes, without defenses. Just be. He doesn’t think you’re capable of that. He doesn’t think you know how to feel at ease. That worries him more than he’s willing to admit.

“You’re thinking about her?” Tashi’s voice is almost angry as she kisses his neck. “No.” A lie. A complete lie. He can only think about you. He realized that a few years ago and stopped fighting it. You and tennis, as if that’s all there is in the world. What else even exists? What else even matters? “You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters against him, and somehow, the ugly shirt he’s pretty sure was Tashi’s -he doesn’t even know why he wore it- ends up on the floor. ‘You’re not thinking about Art?’ he should have asked, but he’s not here to ask questions. He’s here because he’s angry. At Art, at you, at Tashi for telling him, at the world. So he’s here. And they’re both shedding more pieces of their clothing and maybe their souls, because what they’re doing now has no way back. No forgiveness. They are bad people. Patrick knows it. Tashi knows it.

And after he wrings a heavy moan from her, one that follows an orgasm, she quietly tells him she thinks Art loves you. Patrick stares at the gaudy ring stuck on her finger, the ring that, in another universe, Art would have placed on yours. “Why do you think that?” Patrick asks softly, because what else is left to do? “I didn’t want him to go to the funeral. I wanted him to stay and train, but he went anyway,” she mumbles. Patrick says nothing, just nods. He would have done the exact same thing, and that’s why you didn’t call him. He would have come. Despite the dreams. Despite the tennis. Despite everything.

And Patrick remembers all the times Art called you sweet. All the times Art never wanted to tell him anything about what happened between you two. All the times Art didn’t want to talk about you. And it wasn’t because it wasn’t good. It wasn’t because other girls were better. It was because there was depth Patrick can only put his finger on now. So much happened beneath the surface- so much that Art had no words to describe it. So much that Art drowned in his own emotions. Repressed them and kept them bottled up until he found something shiny to bury his feelings in. Until he found Tashi.

And Tashi is safe. With Tashi, you can’t get lost. With Tashi, there’s a plan. With you, he just has to be himself. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. And that’s terrifying.

For the first time, Patrick understands Art in absolute terms. He lies in a hotel room, stroking the hair of a woman who isn’t you, and understands everything there is to understand about life. Mainly, he understands again- that you are so fucking sweet. And that there’s no way he can win. . . .

You're going over tomorrow’s lesson when you hear the door open. Without turning around, you already know it’s Patrick. Who else could it be? His scrutinizing gaze doesn’t waver from you, even when he says nothing. “How was it?” You find yourself breaking the silence, lifting your head toward him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back. He looks exhausted. The message Art sent you lingers in the back of your mind; He’s cheating on you. -Art Donaldson- Art has his reasons to make something like this up, but you doubt he’d be cruel enough to lie about it. Not while you’re mourning your horrible mother. No matter how angry he is at you. No matter how angry he is at Patrick. You don’t think Art is capable of that. You want to believe he isn’t capable of that. Then again, you also want so badly to believe Patrick wouldn’t do it. That Patrick wouldn’t cheat on you. That he wouldn’t find someone prettier, better, more cheerful and do all the things with her that he probably can’t do with you. You don’t want to think about the possibility that you haven’t sacrificed enough. That you didn’t try as hard as you were taught to. Your fault, your fault, your fault. You don’t want to believe it’s your fault. That another love will slip through your fingers, as if you’re trying to hold water. So, you choose to say nothing, because even if it’s true, even if he was with someone else, he came home. And home isn’t big, to say the least, not grand, not dazzling. But he came back. He’s right in front of you. You’re not alone. He knows you. He knows such ugly parts of you that sometimes you’re scared to acknowledge they even exist. He knows what you refuse to recognize in yourself, and sometimes he reminds you that you deserve more than you think. Which is a bizarre thought in itself. But you let him think it, you let him believe it enough for him to believe it for the both of you. “I lost in the third round. To Peter Michelson,” he says shortly, and you nod. “No choice but to make a voodoo doll with Peter Michelson’s face,” you try to joke. He usually laughs. At least smiles. He does neither. He just stands there like a block of wood, with the same expression. “I’m sorry you lost. I wish I’d been there,” you mumble, not knowing what else to say. “What about you? Anything special happen this week?” he asks, his gaze never leaving you.

Now you could tell him your mother died, but there’s no way to say it without it turning into a fight about the fact that you didn’t tell him the moment you found out. “No, nothing special, you know. My routine is boring.” You shrug and shift your focus back to the lesson you’re supposed to teach tomorrow. The Great Gatsby. A shitty book. “Nothing special at all?” he presses. “If you count the fact that Mr. Grace forgot to put in his dentures on Monday -again- and I had to sub for his class, then no.” It’s a half-lie because the thing with Mr. Grace and his dentures did happen, just not this week. Most of this week, you were at your parents’ house, helping your father deal with shiva and all the people who came by. He was completely heartbroken.

You see Patrick shake his head slightly and close his eyes. You know this is something he does when he’s trying to restrain himself. When he doesn’t want to lash out. When something is bothering him, and he doesn’t want it to turn into the biggest fight in the world. He has a bad history with fights that spiral out of control. “No one was born? No relatives died? I don’t know, maybe the woman who gave birth to you?” he says, his piercing gaze back on you. “Shit,” you mumble. Because what else is there to say in this situation? “Yeah, shit,” he stays exactly where he is, making you feel like a child being scolded. Like you dropped a lollipop and won’t be getting a new one.

“I’m sorry-” you start. “My mom isn’t dead; your mom is dead. I think I’m the one who’s sorry.” Patrick hated when you apologized. He said it was irrational with you. That you apologized more than was normal and more than people around you deserved. “Patrick,” you sigh, scrunching your nose as you try to think of a good way to explain it. “I really need to understand this, (Y/N). When were you planning on telling me your living mother was no longer alive? Another month? Two months? Two years? What was the timeline in that head of yours?” His words drip with sarcasm, like the way he used to talk to you before you became you and Patrick. Before you learned to love who he was and before he started treating you like you weren’t the worst person in the world.

“I didn’t want you to withdraw from Atlanta. You trained for it so hard.” You sigh again, quietly. This time, you’re the one closing your eyes, not wanting to look at him- and in doing so, you miss the fact that he moves toward you in giant strides. “I wish you’d told me, Little Dove. I wish I’d been with you instead of being there.” His hands cup your face as he crouches in front of you, looking up to catch your eyes. “I’m sor-” You stop yourself mid-sentence when you see his displeased expression. “How do you feel?” he asks, and you shrug in response. Because what you feel isn’t something you can say out loud, not even to Patrick. It’s not okay to feel relieved. A lot of sadness, of course. But also, relief.

“Tell me,” he insists. He has a habit of knowing the things you don’t want to say. He can look at your face and catch the slight twitch of your left eyebrow to understand what you’re feeling. To see what you try so hard to hide. You can’t beat him at this. You can’t lie to him, not too much. Not about your feelings. Not when he spent years of his life learning what to hate about you, and then a few more years learning to love it. “She wasn’t the nicest woman in the world,” you murmur quietly, like you’re confessing the most forbidden secret. Like it’s a secret that could start a world war. Like Patrick would tell someone.

“She didn’t like me.” Patrick lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes glassy as if he’s remembering something. “She used to call me Art all the time and then correct herself, like it was an accident, but she did it on purpose. So I’d know she wanted me to be Art.” His jaw tightens slightly. You can see the anger and frustration behind the fake lightness in his tone. “I’m sorry,” you say because you don’t know what else to say, and he sighs. His large hands wrap around you in an almost crushing hug. Almost making it hard to breathe.

But that’s how Patrick is. Everything he feels is out in the open. Everything he thinks, he says. Everything he wants, he does. And most of the time, he wants to be present in your life, which is ridiculous because there is no one more present in your life than him. He still acts like he needs to prove something to you. “I wish you’d let me take care of you, Little Dove. It would be easier.” He whispers into your hair, not letting go for a second. You can almost feel him thinking, almost see him guessing what might help you. “I know you care about me,” you say, shifting slightly to look at him, to show him that he doesn’t need to prove anything. That you’re okay.

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks, stepping back slightly, scanning you, then moving toward the half-empty fridge. “What did you eat?” he follows up. “I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t keep a journal,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. What did you eat, (Y/N)?” He doesn’t let up. “A sandwich,” you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Since this morning?” His eyes stay locked on you. “Patrick, my mother just died. Can we not focus on what I eat for one second? It’s exhausting,” you roll your eyes and cross your arms, turning your face to the side as he steps toward you and nods. . . . "What do you want to focus on?" he asked. Patrick felt guilty. He looked at you and saw nothing but the fact that just a few days ago, he had been with Tashi. While you were mourning your unbearable mother, he was busy fucking Tashi in a fancy hotel room, at a tournament he lost and that Art Donaldson would probably win. "You," your voice was small as you looked at him, almost pleading for a break from the interrogation and the anger. He hated when you made him the center of your focus, when you tried to do what you thought he wanted you to do. So he nodded and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

Patrick felt like a man on a mission as he dropped to his knees in front of you. "Pat-" you tried to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to. You always tried. As if going down on you was a burden to him, as if all it would take for him to spend a lifetime just like this was for you to fucking ask. "Baby, can you take these off for me?" It was a question, but there was no question mark at the end. Not in that tone. Not when he was looking up at you like that, completely in control of the situation.

So you slid your pants down slowly, trying to hold on to the last bit of control slipping away with every second he stared at you like that. He took care of your underwear himself. Leaving you bare in front of him. "Fuck, Pat," you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall, making him look up at you one last time with a smirk stretched across his face. And then he got to work.

His lips explored you like you were his source of oxygen. Like his natural place was buried under you, his mouth inside you. "Baby, I’d eat you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every fucking day." His grip on your thigh was ruthless. Patrick felt like he was holding on for dear life, like this was all there was left to do. Like it was all he knew. "Sweet fucking pussy," he kept mumbling into you, until his face was coated with his own spit and your slick. He was ready to take it all, everything you gave him. In these moments, everything that was yours became his, and the little that was his became yours.

So he was milking it. He licked your clit in slow, agonizing strokes- for both of you. He took his time. The euphoria would come, but he was going to enjoy it until it did. Your small whimpers made him growl directly into you. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," like a prayer. He felt it. He felt divinity in all of it. He sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. Merciless to the near-sobs escaping from you. "You're so sweet, baby. Do you want to come?" And he wasn’t asking if you wanted to come for him, because he wanted you to come for yourself. Because he wanted you to always, always come for yourself. He wanted to be a vessel. He wanted to erase all the stupid patterns in your head and make sure every orgasm you had was yours and for you. "Patrick." He thought that was the only thing you were capable of saying coherently, and he was fine with that. He was selfish enough to be satisfied if his name was the only word you could say forever.

And when you came with a moan he had learned to recognize and nearly worship, he told you how good you were. How rare you were. That he was yours and that he would always take care of you. He looked up at you from below, saw the tears slipping down your face, and pressed another kiss to your thigh. One that emphasized the word always. Because he didn’t think he could ever let this go. He was too selfish to ever let this go. . . . Art peeked through the door of the room every few seconds, searching for you among the guests. At this point, he didn’t even bother lying to himself about it. Because he didn’t know what else was left for him besides admitting the truth to himself- things he was never able to admit before. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about the nights he used to lay beside you. When you didn’t even fuck. When you just lay in that rickety twin bed in his dorm room. He was willing to take that. He was willing not to fuck you if it meant you’d hold him again. More than that, he was willing not to fuck anyone ever again. But you were too sweet, you wouldn’t let him go through life without sex. The thought made him chuckle for a second. But he was nervous. So fucking nervous.

He was about to marry Tashi, and she didn’t cross his mind even once. He accidentally saw her dress, even though he told her that he hadn’t really noticed it was there. He knew she would be a stunning bride. That months from now, people would still be talking about Tashi Duncan in a wedding dress. He knew people would envy him, he knew everything. His mind knew everything.

But all he could think about was what kind of wedding dress you would have chosen. He was almost sure it would be something less extravagant; you’d try to draw as little attention as possible. But the Art he was today wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve told you that you deserved all the attention the universe had to offer. That you deserved to be seen. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to realize that. Only when you truly weren’t there. Only when you belonged to someone else. Only when you chose Patrick Zweig of all people.

Patrick Zweig, who hated you with every fiber of his being. Patrick Zweig, who Art was almost certain had cheated on you with Tashi. It should have hurt him much more than it did. But all he cared about was figuring out if this would be the thing that made you get up and leave. You had to know you deserved better. That if not him- if not Art, the guy you both knew you loved with all your heart- then at least someone who didn’t want anyone else. That was the bare minimum you deserved. For years, he’d wondered if he had something to do with how little you thought you deserved, with how low your standards were.

He convinced his mother- who probably loved you even more than he did- to take upon herself convincing you to come to his wedding. Which was almost sadistic of him. Maybe masochistic. Maybe both. But he had to see you. He hadn’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. Sometimes he dreamed about that day and how his hand held yours, he wanted it again and again and again. He wanted everyone to die if it meant he could hold you like that again. If it gave him an excuse.

He noticed that everything about you required an excuse. It hadn’t been like that when you were his. Except you were never really his. He didn’t even understand why it had been so complicated- why you hadn’t told him that’s what you wanted (though he could have guessed). And more than anything, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t known what he wanted. Why it hadn’t been clear to him that you were his person. That you knew the deepest parts of him.

He saw you walk in and texted you, almost begging you to come to the room where he was. You could tell him to go to hell, but that wasn’t your style. No, you were sweet. So sweet that all you did was knock on the door and push it open. Looking at him while he already had his eyes on your little black dress. While he was already studying the red nail polish. While he was already focusing on the lipstick he so badly wanted to wipe off of you.

“Your mother asked me to prepare a speech. Was that your idea?” you asked. There was no coldness in your voice, which made him happy. You stepped closer and started fixing his tie. He wanted to close his eyes, but at the same time, he wanted to see you. To remember you like this; in a little black dress, in heels, standing in front of him, helping him with his tie. “What can I say? You’re my best friend,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t the truth. “That’s really sad, Art,” you said, probably referring to the last four years you spent apart. “Are you saying you have a better friend than me?” he asked, hoping you’d deny it because a yes might make him break down crying.

“It’s a mediocre speech. I didn’t know what to say at your wedding,” you sighed, confessing a secret. “Saying you don’t want me to get married would’ve been a good start,” he said, taking a risk. Because he calculated the timing, and you were late, so he had a very short window for this risk. “Don’t be ridicul—” you started, quietly. “If you tell me not to do this, I won’t get married. Tell me not to do it. Tell me it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay,” he whispered. Not looking away from you.

The silence in the room was deafening, and the chuckle that escaped him was bitter. Fake. He felt pathetic and small and miserable, and maybe he was all those things because he never knew what he wanted in time. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. Not knowing what else to add, because what was left to add? He could see the wetness in your eyes. He knew how unfair he was being. “I’m sorry,” he echoed. He didn’t think he had ever told you that before, but he really, truly was. “Did you write something good about me?” he added. “That you’re my best friend. And that my soul will always love yours,” you said, letting a single tear fall as his rough hand wiped it away with whatever gentleness was still left in him.

It was a nice speech. Everyone applauded. Art cried. . . .

Here we are- the second part of So Sweet! Hope it turned out good enough. Thanks for stopping by and reading what I write, it means a lot. Let me know what you think. Love you guys, stay sweet! 💕

[ozzgin]

OZZGIN!

May I request an idea/imagine?

It is about yandere! mental asylum patient and psychiatrist! reader, who is very practical and strict regarding her job, takes no BS from others. But, for some reason, she has a soft spot for yandere! mental asylum patient. The reason could either be he had a hard childhood in which he had to do what he had to do, which brutally killed his father, who used to abuse his mother and sister, but when the father tried to sell the sister into prostitution to buy more alcohol, all hell break lose. Psychiatrist! reader thinks what yandere! mental asylum the patient did was OKAY, and she wants to get him out of the asylum. They love each other deeply and would do anything, so far as to kill for one another. If you can, make it as twisted as you can. I live for some dark romance!

Please ignore my request if you are not able to do it. I completely understand. Thank you in advance! <3

Oh my, this request hits somewhat close to home as I have a friend incarcerated for similar reasons. I'm pondering the logistics behind this context you've provided, since murdering someone won't necessarily land you in a psych ward unless there are other symptoms that come with it. And so I've taken the liberty to expand the character's profile if that's alright. (Conveniently enough I still have my psychopathology lecture notes)

I want to add, however, that this story in no way romanticizes mental illness! If anything, one may consider it an opportunity to reflect on the fact that so many people struggling with disorders do not receive the proper care for it, or only do so when it's too late. Furthermore a medical professional should never, ever behave like this and whatever is written here should stay in the realm of fiction!

Yandere! Patient x Psychiatrist! Reader

Featuring a patient that's pushing the boundaries of your work ethic and might even succeed.

Content/warnings: female reader, detailed mentions of mental disorder, violence, obsessive behavior, breach of professional conduct

You roll up your sleeve and check your watch. He should be here soon. Out of habit, you shuffle the papers for a quick case review, even though you already know all the details by heart. You carefully set aside the patient’s MMPI and WHODAS entry assessments, then your first interviews. Your eyes briefly rest upon the resulting report you’ve comprised: Schizophreniform Disorder (Provisional) with good prognostic features; Diagnostic criteria consisting of delusions, disorganized speech (frequent derailment with episodes of incoherence, echolalia) and comorbid catatonia. Responds well to antipsychotic (clozapine 25mg/12 h) with no imminent need for dosage increase. As it currently stands, he will be fit for proper incarceration in less than 6 months. Is it something you agree with? Not quite. You’ve presented your case many times and it has always been met with pitiful shrugs and dismissals.

The door opens and you fix your posture, sweeping the documents back into your drawer. “And? How are you feeling today?” You ask, flashing a professional, cordial smile as the assisting nurse leads the patient to his seat and prepares her leave. “My chest hurts.” The man answers in a low voice, glaring at the nurse. He taps his foot against the plush carpet, seemingly restless. “How bad would you rate it? Chest pain is a somewhat common side effect of your medication.” You retort, following the movements of the woman finally excusing herself and exiting the room. Once you’re alone, the man’s shoulders droop and he visibly relaxes. “It’s not that, you know it. When can I touch you again?” He pleads, despair twisting his features. You tense up at the words. “Behave yourself. It hasn’t been that long.”

It’s not something you’re particularly proud of. In fact, you might even call it one of your great shames in life. You’ve always been a textbook professional, perhaps even too strict according to your coworkers and most patients. Not even in your wildest dreams would you have dared to imagine you’d violate the code of ethics by falling in love with your patient. But something about his situation stirred your sense of justice. Surely one cannot be punished for protecting their loved ones. The only criminal in the equation, at least in your eyes, was that joke of a father and he had it coming. So you found yourself wrestling against a blooming protectiveness and favoritism towards the young man brought here last month.

What would have normally compelled you into action had therefore been silently swept under the rug. Or even worse, you secretly indulged in it. A patient showing signs of affection towards you would instantly be transferred to a different psychiatrist. Yet you couldn’t put away the letters written by this one. Erratic, crumpled notes of “I love you” written countless times, pencil dug so deep it tore into the sheet. Bizarre illustrations that looked almost threatening. His elaborate delusions before medication was introduced, where he’d detail in grand narratives how you were fated for each other and nothing would stop him from having you sooner or later. You do not know what forces possessed you into this addictive plunge, but you’ve come to enjoy his violent, frenzied confessions. So much, that during one of the unsupervised meetings you let yourself pushed into the sofa as his hands tugged at your body in rabid need. It was so out of character that you wondered if it truly happened, though the bite marks and scratches on your neck and chest proved otherwise.

“Are they going to send me to prison?” He changes the subject and stands up, walking towards your desk. “Most likely. What you have is the result of a traumatic event, not a lifelong condition. Sporadic episodes that can be kept under control with antipsychotics aren’t enough of a reason to keep you in the hospital.” You press your legs together nervously and glance at him. “Can’t you just say it’s no longer working?” He suggests, kneeling before you and placing a hand on your thigh. “You know I can’t lie on the report.” You really don’t like it when he manipulates you like this. “Ah, yes, because lying is worse than fucking your patient.” He scoffs, annoyed. “Don’t threaten me like that”, you say as you turn towards him, but you’re stopped by the rough grip of his hand over your cheeks. “I’m not threatening you, I’m threatening everyone else. Listen, (Y/N), I’m not fucking around. I don’t mind pretending to be crazy if I have to. Will the meds still be working if I steal a shaving razor and cut the nurse open?” You try to open your mouth, but his fingers are pressed into your skin, locking your jaw into place. “I’m not going to prison. I’m not. Then I’ll never see you again and that can’t happen. You know that.”

Eventually he releases his hold, allowing you to speak. "I understand. Then there's no choice but to arrange your escape." You sigh, defeated, and he raises his eyebrows. "Won't that get you in trouble?" You chuckle at his statement. "Either way I'll be in trouble. You said it yourself. Might as well quit before I have to stand in front of the ethics board and have my license revoked." You'd prefer to keep the last ounce of pride if possible.

He sits on the floor and you notice his trembling hands. "Nervous?" You ask. "No. Just really happy. I'm not a bad person and you were the only one here to see it. But God, (Y/N), I'd kill anyone if it was for your sake. I can't wait to hold you whenever I want." He gazes at you as a smile widens on his face.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

Ok idea

S1/2 rafe making a mean comment to pogue situationship reader about her weight not knowing she had a ed. And then she spirals.

let me show you - rafe cameron

warnings: eating disorder, body dysmorphia, a bit angsty, insecure!reader, suggestive ending

au: love love love getting requests for insecure!reader! thank you so so much for this request, i hope i did it justice

word count: 1.1k

The bar at the country club was packed tonight, filled with the usual crowd—Kooks with too much money, loud conversations about boats and stocks, and the occasional sneaky pour of top-shelf liquor when they thought no one was looking. You moved through it all like you always did—quick, efficient, unnoticed. That was the job, after all. Blend in. Smile just enough to keep tips coming. Keep your head down.

Except tonight, you couldn’t stop yourself from listening. Rafe was at a table in the corner with his friends, all of them deep into their drinks, talking the way rich guys do when they don’t think anyone else matters. You weren’t even paying attention at first, too busy wiping down the counter, but then you heard your name. It was barely a passing comment—one of them, slurring slightly, laughing as he muttered, “Man, Rafe, you’ve been slumming it, huh? Didn’t know you liked ‘em built like that.”

Your stomach dropped.

And then Rafe—Rafe, who had been sneaking into your bed for the past few weeks, whose hands had traced every inch of you, who had murmured things against your skin that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he saw you differently—just laughed. He didn’t even hesitate. Just went along with it. You didn’t hear what he said after that. You didn’t care. The sound of his agreement was already playing on a loop in your head, digging under your skin, pressing into your ribs like something sharp and heavy all at once.

After that, you couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

—

It got worse after that.

You told yourself it was fine. That you shouldn’t care. That it wasn’t like you and Rafe were serious, anyway. But it clung to you, sinking into the back of your mind like poison. Every time you looked in the mirror, you heard his voice. Every time you stepped onto the scale, the number felt heavier. Every time you skipped a meal, it felt like control. It wasn’t new. You’d been here before—this feeling, this pattern. But now it was worse because he had put you here.

And Rafe? He noticed something was off, but he didn’t put it together. Not at first. At first, it was just a passing comment. “You good?” he asked one night when you were curled up in bed beside him, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. You hummed a vague answer, and he didn’t push.

Then, it was little things.

“You’re barely eating.”

“You look tired.”

“You’re acting different.”

He noticed. He always did. He just didn’t know how to really ask.

Until tonight.

—

The scale in the en-suite bathroom was cold under your bare feet, the number blinking up at you in bright, unrelenting red. Too high. Your jaw clenched as you stepped off, heart pounding. The mirror in your bedroom was waiting for you—tall, unforgiving. You turned in front of it, hands resting lightly on your stomach, your ribs, your thighs. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

You barely heard the door open. But you felt him. Rafe’s presence filled the room instantly, his footsteps slowing as he took in the scene. The mirror. The way you stood in front of it, scrutinizing yourself. The way your body tensed when you realized he was watching. You didn’t turn around.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was rougher than usual, laced with something unreadable. You swallowed, forcing your arms to drop to your sides. “Nothing.” Rafe scoffed. “That’s not nothing.” Silence stretched between you. His gaze felt heavy, pressing into your back like the weight of a thousand unspoken things.

Then—he stepped closer. His reflection appeared behind yours in the mirror, taller, broader, solid in a way you suddenly envied. His eyes flickered over you—over the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curled into your palms. Then, over to the en-suite bathroom, where the scale still sat, numbers glowing faintly. Something clicked.

His expression darkened. “Are you—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “How long?” You didn’t answer. Rafe’s jaw tensed. “Jesus Christ, y/n.” You finally turned to face him, wrapping your arms around yourself like that would somehow make this moment less unbearable. “What?” you muttered, voice flat. His eyes flickered with something almost like frustration. “You—this.” He gestured vaguely at the mirror, at you. “Why?”

You hesitated. Your throat felt tight. And then, before you could stop yourself— “I heard you.”Rafe’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“At the club,” you said, forcing the words out before they could suffocate you. “With your friends. When they were talking about me.” You swallowed hard. “You laughed, Rafe.” Realization crashed over his face. He opened his mouth. Shut it again. Exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he was trying to buy himself time. “I—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. Hated the emotion rising up in your chest, the sting behind your eyes. “Just—don’t.” Rafe ran a hand through his hair, looking more frustrated with himself than anything else. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admitted, voice lower now. “It was just stupid bullshit. I didn’t mean—”

“But you did say it.” The silence after that was unbearable. Then, quietly—

“I hate that you think you need to change.”

Your chest ached. You squeezed your eyes shut, hating how badly you wanted to believe him, hating the tears that slipped down your cheeks anyway. “I hate feeling like this,” you whispered. Something in Rafe’s expression cracked. He exhaled, slow and careful, before stepping closer. This time, when he reached for you, you didn’t pull away. His hands slid to your arms, warm and solid, grounding you in a way you didn’t know you needed.

“I didn’t say anything before not because I didn’t care,” he admitted. “Not in the way you think. I just—I’m not good at this shit, okay? At emotions, at knowing what to say.” He exhaled. “But I do care. More than I should, probably. And I swear to God, I never meant for you to—” He cut himself off, his grip tightening like he was scared you’d slip away. “I was an idiot.” You hesitated. Let his words sink in. Let yourself feel them. For the first time in weeks, the weight of it all didn’t feel so unbearable.

Then, softly, Rafe tilted your chin up, searching your eyes. “Let me fix this,” he murmured. “Let me show you how fucking perfect you are.”

His fingers trailed down, curling around your wrist, and he slowly led you toward the bed. His lips brushed against your forehead, your cheek, then lower, tracing reverent paths over every part of you that you had spent weeks hating.

“You don’t need to change,” he whispered between kisses. “Not for me. Not for anyone.” His hands explored, his mouth worshipped, and for the first time in forever, you let yourself believe it.

[sweetestcaptainhughes]

the order of which this series will be written has not yet been decided. this series is currently on hold. Trust me I love this series and I plan to come back to it and finish. But this is a very very HEAVY series to write if do it properly and I don’t half ase any of my writing on my blog. That being said, currently I don’t think I am not mentally in the current headspace to do give it justice. Give me some time, but I promise I will finish it. 💜

Is today a dark day? - Cole Caufield (depression)

For the first time since you started dating Cole, your depression seems to be coming back to kick you in the ass. Scared of how Cole will react, you do the only logical thing and pull away.

Quinn Hughes (ADHD)

Can you tell me what hurts? - John Marino (PCOS)

Always struggling with having a abnormal menstrual cycle, and doctors not seeming to care. It sort of became the norm for you to just not really know what's going on with your body. After meeting John, you were worried if he would get scared with how sick you really got so often and run. Or would he be the one to stick around and try to help you figure out what's wrong?

Jack Hughes (OCD) (requested)

What are you trying to say? - Trevor Zegras (Dyslexia)

In the talking stage with Trevor Zegras you're not sure how his joking personality will respond to your struggles that you have with being an adult with dyslexia, especially since it doesn't affect you how media expects it to.

Why do you think that? - Nico Hischier (Body Dysmorphia)

Y/N was happy with Nico, he made her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. But what happens when an old friend of Y/N visits and they start looking back on old pictures. Or how does Nico handle Y/N pushing away when her body dysmorphia seems to finally catch up to her after so long of it being pushed to the back of her mind.

Brock Boeser (Anxiety)

Matthew Tkachuk (PTSD)

Luke Hughes (Binge Eating) (requested)

Auston Matthews (Anemia) (requested)

Borderline Personality Disorder (player undecided) (requested)

I am open to the idea of adding players and different disorders or health issues to this list if you have any ideas please send in an ask.

[achilles-rage]

achilles-rage’s twelve days of christmas

day twelve: have yourself a merry little christmas (ft. evan buckley)

summary: spending christmas eve with your boyfriend, evan buckley.

word count: 1.6k

series masterlist

a/n: so sorry this is late, my grandparents just got here for christmas and i’ve been spending time with them!! and if i’m not online tomorrow, merry christmas!! i love and appreciate you guys so much, you have no idea!! enjoy<3

warnings: none, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

Despite all the disorder and chaos the holidays bring, Buck loves everything about it. He’s often stressed about finding the perfect gifts for his loved ones, but the pure, unfiltered joy it brings him to see his friends and family happy always makes him completely forget about the hunt to find said gifts.

Coming home from work on Christmas Eve this year, however, felt off. His heart felt warm as he left work; feeling the brisk December air, seeing the multicoloured lights, and watching those around him frantically searching for last minute gifts and turkey dinner ingredients. He was only pulled back to his own Christmas Eve when he got to his apartment, remembering that you’re working late tonight, and he won’t be able to spend the night with you.

His face lights up, however, when he opens the door to Christmas music playing, and you standing in the kitchen in an apron, rather than a dark, empty house.

“Merry Christmas Eve, baby.” you say in a sickly-sweet voice, looking up from your mixing bowl to give him a wide grin.

He drops his bag and crosses the apartment to give you a kiss, unable to say anything as he wraps his head around the fact that you’re right here. He could already see his night in his head; all of his friends were spending the nights with their own families, so he’d be sat on the couch, all alone, wishing you were beside him in your matching Christmas pajamas.

“I thought you had to work?” he says when he pulls back from the kiss, one hand finding its home on your hip. 

You drop the spatula in your hand and raise your shoulders, giving him a cheeky smile. 

“I may have wanted to surprise you. My boss told me I could go home early, so I figured I’d keep it a surprise. I thought we could-” you explain, but you’re cut off by his lips on yours again, his shirt most definitely getting covered in flour and sugar as he presses his body against yours.

His kiss is slow and passionate, and it makes your head spin as his cologne invades your every sense. You haphazardly raise your hands to his wrists in a desperate attempt to ground yourself as he holds your face in his hands, and the stubble that scratches along your chin and your cheeks makes you shiver.

“This is the best surprise ever.” he murmurs as he pulls back, looking down at you with a dazed smile. 

He then looks down at the cookie dough on the counter, and smirks as he dips a finger into the bowl and raises a glob of it to his lips. You roll your eyes with a soft laugh, then push him away and take the mixing bowl back into your arm to keep him away from it.

“Hey, stop that! These are for dinner tomorrow.” you tell him sternly, although the smile threatening to make its way onto your face betrays you. You’re going over to Athena and Bobby’s tomorrow for Christmas, and you desperately want to make sure you don’t run out of sweets.

“I don’t think anyone will mind if we’re one cookie short.” he tries to reason, taking a step forward. You step away again, a quiet giggle escaping your lips as he lunges at you and wraps his arms around your plush middle.

“What about 10 cookies short? I know you; you always eat them when they come out of the oven.” you argue, raising your shoulders to protect your neck as he drops his head and begins to press sloppy kisses to your neck, his stubble tickling your skin.

“Quality check.” he mumbles against your skin, and you laugh again, trying to squirm out of his grip.

“Buck, I’m serious.” you get out through breathless laughs, feeling your heart rate increase at the feeling of being wrapped in your boyfriend’s arms.

“And I’m in love with you.” he purrs, pressing one last kiss to your neck before pulling away reluctantly. He looks at the big smile and your face, and his chest swells with pride. He loves being able to make you a giggling and flustered mess with just a few kisses.

“And I love you. Now, please, can you get started on dinner while I finish these?” you ask him sweetly as the oven dings to signal it’s reached the right temperature.

“You’re no fun.” he teases, but complies, making his way to the fridge to pull out ingredients for dinner.

“Hey, I came home from work early for you. And, I bought more cocoa powder at the store so we can make homemade hot chocolate and drink it while we watch Christmas movies in our matching Christmas pajamas, which I also bought for us.” you argue in a teasing tone, narrowing your eyes at him. 

He beams over his shoulder at you, and he has to resist the urge to pull you into him again at the thought of spending Christmas Eve with you on the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms with no worries or stress.

“You’re the best.” he tells you with a wink, balancing the food in his arms before dropping it on the kitchen counter.

“Damn right, I am.” you tell him with a smirk.

You both continue to work around each other in the kitchen, falling into a comfortable silence as the soft hum of the Christmas music envelopes you. 

When the cookies are done and cooling on the counter, and your bellies are full from the dinner Buck had made, you go upstairs to change into your pajamas. While Buck’s consist of pajama pants and a t-shirt, yours are shorts with the same pattern, and a long sleeve shirt.

You sit on the counter as Buck makes the hot chocolate, swinging your legs absentmindedly as you talk about your days, and the plan for tomorrow. You sit close enough to the stove that Buck can keep a hand on you when he’s stirring the hot chocolate, at his insistence, of course, letting him run his fingers over the soft flesh of your thighs.

Every now and then, you pull him towards you, distracting him momentarily with a kiss as you wrap your legs around his waist. He melts into the kiss each time, the task at hand slipping his mind as he gets wrapped up in you, but he always pulls away before the hot chocolate burns, and you’re not sure how it hasn’t burnt already.

You bring your hot mugs to the couch once it’s ready, and curl up under lots of blankets, sides pressed together as you rest your head on his shoulder and he extends his arm behind you on the couch. 

“What movie should we watch?” Buck asks as he turns on the TV, beginning to scroll through movies.

“How about It’s a Wonderful Life?” you ask, eyes following the flipping of movie titles passing on screen.

“What?” he says, brows furrowing as he looks down at you. Your brows furrow as well, and you look up at him quizzically, eyes searching his face.

“You’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life?” you ask in disbelief, letting your jaw drop as he shakes his head.

“No? Was I supposed to?” You sit up straight, hot chocolate in hand threatening to spill over the edge of the mug as you stare at him, completely dumbfounded.

“It’s a classic, I used to watch it every year growing up. What kind of movies did you watch as a kid?” you ask, turning your body completely to face him. He shrugs sheepishly, then looks down at his lap, feeling a little embarrassed.

“We never really celebrated Christmas much. I mean, there were presents and stuff, but there were never any traditions or anything. My parents got even more upset and distant around holidays, which makes sense now, I guess. But at the time, I just didn’t really see the point in celebrating Christmas if all it did was make my parents sad.” Your eyes soften at his words, and you feel a pang in your chest as you picture a little baby Buck wondering why his house seems to be the only one not filled with joy and laughter.

“Oh, baby. I’m sorry.” you whisper, a frown on your face. You move your fingers up to his chin and force his face back up, ducking your head a little until his eyes are back on yours. “We should make some new traditions, give you a real, happy Christmas.”

“Like homemade hot chocolate?” he replies, a small smile coming back onto his face. It’s true, his Christmases were never great, but now, with you, he’s extremely excited about the holidays.

“Yeah, and Christmas movies in matching pajamas.” you reply with a smile, leaning in to kiss him softly.

He hums as he kisses you back, and when your hand comes up to rest on his cheek, he lets out a content sigh. This has got to be the best Christmas ever. He has everything he could ever wish for right here in front of him.

“Sounds perfect. As long as it’s with you.” he tells you sincerely when you both pull away. 

You feel heat rise to your cheeks at his words, and you bite your lip, as you stare into his eyes, entranced.

“Merry Christmas.” you whisper, then move to face the TV again, settling against him.

“Merry Christmas.” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before resting his head on top of yours and clicking play on the movie.

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[tealvenetianmask]

I'm sick, so I'm going to do the very normal thing and wax poetically about the positive neurodiversity representation is in HB. That's because they manage to make it appear neither purely good nor purely bad. It's allowed to just be part of what makes our characters who they are in their beautiful complexity.

Exhibit A: Blitz (there's no exhibit B yet, but maybe there will be!).

He never gets a diagnosis. No one in this show does.

I think ADHD is obvious. I did a post on this a long time ago, but the man barely sits still, and he's always climbing and sitting on things in odd ways. He misses things other characters say when he's caught up in his own ideas. He sometimes falls on his face when distracted despite having literal acrobatic skills. He gets stuck . . . hyperfocusing on things to the point where he ignores other pressing matters. He's an out of the box thinker and has an infectious enthusiasm for life.

You've probably seen me on here arguing that he has dyslexia. ADHD and LD (learning disabilty) are a much more common combination than most people acknowledge, just like ADHD and autism. If this is your take on him, I welcome you to comment too, but to me the LD/dyslexia thing is pretty powerful because I have ADHD and LD too. We all come to these conversations with our lived experiences.

And just like lots of real people with these and other neurodiversities, he also deals with a shit ton of trauma and related disorders as an adult. BPD . . . PTSD . . . you get the gist. The trauma is portrayed as bad, and some of his resulting behaviors certainly are too, but he's still fundamentally a good person who's been through a lot.

I think the part of his story I most understand as a neurodivergent one is the concept of "not being good enough" that he carries around. It originated before the fire, with Cash devaluing him (literally) in favor of Fizz. Blitz has an ever-present itch to prove himself, believes that he is not worthy of love, and that what he can DO for people is all that will make anyone want him around.

I think that most neurodivergent and/or otherwise disabled people get this, either from the always pushing side or the giving up side, or both at different times . . .). I grew up with parents who expected A LOT, and frankly, to this day, I often CAN'T meet their expectations because of how my brain works. I learned that I need to accomplish things. I also learned that I need to accomplish them IN MY WAY, or else I'd just fall short. I spent a lot of time when I was younger thinking that no one was like me (cue angsty music), but it turns out, a lot of people are. We just weren't very open about it in the 90's/2000's. That's why representation is important.

Blitz finds ways to work. He works very hard for his company, because he cares deeply about it and about the people who work for him, and also about PROVING SOCIETY WRONG (yes, there's a pushing back against racism element here too). He chooses to not care too much about spelling or paperwork and leans on employees for some of that- not justifying Moxxie being stuck with it, but, yes, this reads as self-accommodation to me.

And having to work around having more trouble with certain things because your brain works differently? Well, when a person grows up like that, you can get a really inventive, dynamic problem solver. Some people will say that this is inherently part of ADHD, and I don't know, but it's part of Blitz.

Anyway, I'll try to write a more coherent essay on some of these issues as they appear in the show later. Stolas is also an interesting case.

But do discuss! Entertain me on my snotty sick bed. XD

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsters Reimagined: Yeenoghu, Demon Lord of Insatiable Hunger

It's been some years since I did my overhaul on the lore of the gnolls and how they embody the weird de/humanization that goes on with various monsters over d&d's history. Ever since I've had more than a few folks write in asking about how I would handle the default Gnoll God Yeenoghu, who exists in a similar state of "Kill everything that ever existed" to Orcus and a good portion of the game's other late game threats, thematically flat and not really useful for building stories around.

For a while I've avoided doing this post because I thought it might skew a little too close to my personal philosophy, and risk going from simply being influenced by my views to an outright soapbox. I personally hold that despite being part of our nature hunger is the source of the majority of human cruelty, and if society and cooperation are the tools we developed to best fight against the threat of famine, it is fear of that famine that allows the powerful to control society and secure their positions of privilege.

I've also dealt with disordered eating in a prior period of my life, alternating between neglecting my body's needs and punishing myself for needing in the first place. I'm well acquainted with hunger and the hollowing effect it can have, though I'd never claim to know it so well as someone who went hungry by anything other than choice and self hatred.

Learning to love food again saved saved my life. The joy of eating, of feeling whole and nourished, yes, but there was also the joy of making: of experimenting, improving, providing, being connected to a great tradition of cultivation which has guided our entire species.

If I was going to talk about an evil god of hunger, I was going to have to touch on all of that, and now that it's out in the open I can continue with a more thematic and narrative discussion on the beast of butchery below the cut.

What's wrong: Going by the default lore, there's not much that really separates Yeenoghu from any other chaotic evil mega-boss. He wants to kill everything in vicious ways, and encourages his followers to do the same. He's there so that the evil clerics can have someone to pray to because the objectively good gods are on the party's side and wouldn't help a bunch of cannibalistic slavers.

This is boring, we've done this song and dance before, and the only reason that there are so many demon lords/evil gods/archdevils like this is because the bioessentialism baked into the older editions of the game's lore was also a theological essentialism, and that every group had to have their own gods which perfectly embodied their ethos and there was no crossover whatsoever, themes be damned.

Normally I'd do a whole section about "what can be salvaged" from an old concept, but we're scraping the bottom of the barrel right from the inset. Likewise my trick of combining multiple bits of underwritten d&d mythology to make a sturdier concept isn't going to work as most of d&d's other gods of hunger or famine are similar levels of paper thin.

How do we fix it: I want Yeenoghu to be the opposite of the path I found myself on, a hunger so great and so painful that it percludes happiness, cooperation, or even rational thought. Hunger not as a sumptuous hedonistic gluttony but a hollowing emptiness that compels violence and desperation. More than just psychopathic slaughter and gore, it is becalmed sailors drinking seawater to quench their thirst, the urban poor mixing sawdust and plaster into their food because their wages are not enough to afford grain.

This is where we get the idea of Yeenoghu as an enemy of society, not because violence is antithical to society ( I think we've learned by now how structured violence can really be) but because society fundamentally breaks down when it can't take care of the people who provide its foundations. Contrast the Beast of Butchery with one of my other favourite villainous famine spirits: Caracalla the grim trader, who embodies scarcity as a form of profit and control in to Yeenoghu's scarcity as suffering.

Into this we can also add the idea of the hungry dead, ghouls yes but also vampires, anything cursed with an eternal existence and appetites it no longer has the ability to sate. A large number of cultures across the world share the idea that the dead cannot rest while they are starving, which is why we leave offerings of food by their graves or pour out a glass to the ones we lost along the way.

On that topic, there's also a scrap of lore involving Doresain god of ghouls, who has been depicted as an on and off servant of Yeenoghu. Since I'm already remaking the mythology, I'd have Doresain act as a sort of saint or herald for the demon lord, the wicked but still partially reasonable entity who can villain monolog before the feral and all consuming demon god shows up.

Summing it all up: Yeenoghu isn't a demon you wittingly worship, it's a demon that claims you, marks you as its mouthpiece and through you seeks to consume more of the world. It gives you just enough strength to keep on living, keep on suffering, keep on filling that hole in your belly and feed it in turn.

The greatest of these mouthpieces is Doresain, an elf of ancient times who's unearthly hungers elevated him to demigod status. Known as the knawbone king, he dwells within a dread domain of the shadowfell, and is sought out only for his ability to intercede with the maw-fiend's rampages.

Signs: Unnaturally persistent hunger pangs, excessive drool and gurgling stomach noises, the growth of extra teeth in the mouth, stomachs splitting open into mouths.

Symbols: An animal with three jaws, a three tailed flail or spiked whip. A crown of knawed bones (Doresain)

Titles: Beast of butchery, the maw fiend, the knawing god

Artist

[knoepfl]

Fractured Obsession

Okay I recently saw a post with this picture in it and I just thought "Fuck, this is amazing, what if...?" So I decided to take several characters and write as if those were locked in that room. Now here we are. This will be the first one of many more. If you want to see specific characters just write a comment or a request and I shall do them.^^ Right Under this will be a link to a Masterlist where I will update and announce the coming characters. So be sure to check that out once in a while! Now let's start with dear Shigaraki! Have fun! That Post was from @devotion-disorder so be sure to check them out!

Masterlist

---

It started with a flicker of disbelief.

Tomura Shigaraki stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by walls plastered with pictures—dozens, maybe hundreds, all featuring you. At first glance, relief washed over him. Seeing your familiar face, the soft curve of your smile—his fixation, his obsession—so beautifully captured.

But then his sharp eyes caught the details. You weren’t alone.

There, in every photograph, was someone else. That stranger stood too close, his hand resting on your shoulder in ways Shigaraki thought were reserved only for him. In some pictures, the two of you laughed together, and in others, you leaned into the man like you belonged to him. Every frame was agony, stabbing deeper into Shigaraki’s mind.

“What…?” His voice rasped as he slowly reached out, fingertips grazing the glossy surface of one photo. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

5 minutes in: He tried to rationalize it. This had to be some kind of prank, right? Some attempt to mess with him, to twist his mind. They’re not real… They can’t be real.

But the images were so detailed—every smile, every casual touch. They were the kinds of moments that looked far too natural, far too intimate, to be faked. His stomach churned at the thought. Did you… No, it wasn’t possible. You wouldn’t betray me… would you?

He shook his head, trying to steady himself. “This is stupid,” he muttered under his breath, pacing the room. But doubt clung to him, tightening like a noose.

1 hour in: The rationalizations were gone now, replaced with gnawing paranoia.

Shigaraki stared hard at the photos, tracing each of your smiles, memorizing the way your hand lingered on the stranger’s arm. It was driving him mad. “Did you know about this?” he whispered, running his tongue over his dry lips, his mind spiraling. “Were you lying to me the whole time?”

His nails dug into his scalp, tugging at his hair in frustration. The edges of his mind blurred, thoughts turning jagged. “No. No. No.” He repeated the words like a mantra, but they did little to stop the images from burning into his brain.

What was worse—the idea that these moments were real, or that someone had gone to such lengths to fake them? Either way, the result was the same: you weren’t his anymore.

His breath quickened, chest rising and falling as if the walls were closing in. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I hate this.”

3 hours in: He was unraveling.

His hands trembled as he clawed at his throat, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The thought of you with someone else was poison, flooding his veins, suffocating him. Every photo seemed to scream betrayal, and the faces—the laughter—blurred together into a haunting mockery.

“I can’t… I can’t breathe,” he choked, collapsing onto his knees. His fingernails scraped at the floor, leaving trails of red where his skin split open, but the pain barely registered. He could only think about you—your smile, your scent, your warmth—and how it now belonged to someone else.

Each thought was a knife twisting deeper into his chest. “Why would you do this to me?” he whispered, voice hollow with anguish. “Why?”

6+ hours in: By now, reason had long since abandoned him. His mind was a storm, a swirling mess of obsession and fury, of love and hatred. He sat slumped in the corner, hands clutching his face as he rocked back and forth. His nails dragged across his skin, leaving angry red streaks in their wake.

“It’s not real… It’s not real…” he whispered over and over again, but the words rang hollow. The photos were everywhere—on the walls, the floor, even the ceiling—and there was no escaping them.

In his mind, the stranger became an enemy—a threat to everything he had built in his obsession with you.

“They won’t have you,” Shigaraki muttered, his voice low and dangerous. His red-rimmed eyes glinted with manic determination as he dragged himself to his feet. “I won’t let them.”

Even if it meant destroying everything—even if it meant tearing apart the world itself—he would make sure no one ever took you from him. Not in this life, not in any other.

The Aftermath: When you finally returned to the room where Shigaraki had been kept, the sight that greeted you was… horrifying. The walls were scratched, the photos crumpled and torn, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—glowed with a madness that chilled you to the bone.

“You’re back,” he whispered, his lips curving into a smile far too wide to be sane. He staggered toward you, as if every step was a struggle, but his hands reached out eagerly.

“You won’t leave me again… right?” His voice was a mix of desperation and obsession, a promise and a threat.

And in that moment, you realized: there was no escaping him now. You belonged to him, in his mind, and he would stop at nothing to make sure you stayed that way.

Forever.

---

[nick-writes-stuff]

Coming Home (MC reunites with the demons post-Nightbringer)

Satan x Reader

warnings: one use of MC, hurt/comfort, anger toward reader for a moment, disordered eating mentioned?

notes: I'm gonna be doing a series of these for the brothers! I have one for mammon half-written and ideas for beel and lucifer. i still need to think over belphie, levi, and asmo so they might come later!

Reentering the House of Lamentation was a strange feeling. You hadn't really left it, as you were in the building constantly throughout your stay in the past. But it wasn't the same place you knew. Most of the aspects that gave the building its charm were missing in the past, and it just felt a lot less like home.

You made your way up the stairs as quietly as possible. When you imagined coming back to your time, you didn't think you would be sneaking in, rather loudly announcing your presence to the brothers. But as you spent time with the past versions of the brothers, you knew that one of them would definitely need your presence as soon as possible.

Satan.

You couldn't imagine the thoughts he must have been thinking. Back when he was newly created, he was so angry and unpredictable and violent. But you saw through the facade the whole time. He was just scared and confused and you knew that. However present-day Satan is convinced you are never coming back because he did something to you in the past.

He had hardly talked to any of his brothers since you vanished. He spent hours going through every single book in his collection, desperately searching for any information that could bring you back to him. When his search didn't lead to any breakthroughs, he tore the library apart in a rage. Lucifer tried to be supportive but ended up causing one of the worst fights the two had ever had. He had been holed up in his room since, over two weeks alone to ruminate and loathe himself for how he likely treated you in the past. He only ate when Beel and Belphie brought something up from dinner, although on nights when Lucifer cooked, he didn't make Satan a serving out of spite about their confrontation.

You needed to see him. You had to prove him wrong and show him that he was wrong about himself. He needed to know you were okay and that you still loved him with every fiber of your being.

The metal doorknob was cold in your hands. The house was still and quiet except for your heart racing. You twisted it slowly, trying not to make much noise to alert the other 6 brothers.

You entered the room with confidence that you knew how to navigate the room. You had been living in the past for so long that you had a good sense of where Satan's piles of books were placed even in the dark.

After your foot made contact with the spine of a hardcover book, you came to the sudden realization that the layout of piles in the room had likely changed within the many, many years since the time you were accustomed to. A stack of books came crashing down to the floor with a thud.

Before you could say a word, you heard the bed creak loudly and saw the faint silhouette of Satan's demon form rise from his bed. His voice boomed through the room as he charged closer to your location: "I swear to Diavolo whoever is in here I'm going to fucking rip you to pieces if y-"

Unlike most individuals in the devildom, you didn't even flinch as one of the most powerful demons moved to attack. Instead you interrupted him by flicking the light switch in the room with your magic. This stopped Satan in his tracks as he instinctively closed his eyes due to the sudden brightness. Once he opened his eyes again, his eyes landed on you. Looking at you with a gaze only the present-day Satan, your Satan, would have toward you. Not a glare of hatred and anger and disgust but rather his green eyes full of concern and love.

Before he even thought about checking you for any injuries, he rushed forward and pulled you into his arms. He buried his face into your neck as he let out a strangled sob. You felt your heart break into a million pieces at the sound of his sorrow. One hand rubbed circles on his back while the other found its way into his hair.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm okay. I'm right here, " you said softly. You continued murmuring similar sentiments to him until you heard the door swing open behind you.

"What the hell is going on in here-" You hear Lucifer's voice, cutting himself off once he recognized that it was you.

You felt Satan tense up in your arms, breath quickening as he felt his rage growing once again. You could already assume that something happened between the two of them. Regretfully, he pulled away from you and turned away from Lucifer to allow you to talk to him. You grabbed Satan's hand before turning around, rubbing your thumb along his.

You opened your mouth to say something until you saw Mammon behind his elder brother. The second you made eye contact, he bolted down the hall yelling "GUYS MC IS BACK!!" to alert the others. You winced slightly, knowing it was going to be hard to turn away the others to have a moment alone with Satan.

"You aren't hurt at all, are you? I was worried sick that someone would have-" Lucifer asked, with a slightly accusatory tone. It seemed like he was referring to a prior conversation, but you didn't entertain his attempt at starting a fight.

"I'm fine. Can you give me a second alone with him?" You cut him off. He was clearly taken aback by your comment and thought about snapping at you, but he left the room and swung the door shut. He would lecture you about it later.

Once the door shut, you turned around to face Satan, pulling him back into your arms for a quick hug. You took in the moment, finally realizing that it's really him now. You were finally back with your cat-loving bookworm once again.

When you pulled back, you noticed Satan scanning your form, probably looking for any injuries you were hiding from him.

"Satan, I'm fine." You said. He met your eyes, still seeming slightly suspicious.

He began to ramble nervously. "I must have hurt you. If not physically than emotionally because back then I was a mon-"

You interrupted him by pressing your lips onto his. He was surprised for a moment but eventually kissed back.

When you pulled away, you reached for one of his hands. "I promise, you did nothing to hurt me." You said with a gentle yet stern voice.

"I had to. I was so volatile and wrathful and-"

"Scared." You interrupted him once again. You squeezed his hand lightly. "You were just created and learning how to live in an extremely chaotic environment with emotions that were hardly your own."

He looked away from you to the floor as you spoke, and you gingerly guided his gaze back to meet yours. "You always seem to forget that I can read you like a book." You said, earning a light chuckle from him.

Satan took a deep breath, taking a moment to think before asking his next question. "If I hadn't done anything to you, why were you so insistent on getting to talk to me alone?"

You sighed softly. "Because I knew you would have been spiraling thinking that I was never coming back because you killed me."

He doesn't obviously react to your statement at first, but he then pulls you into a hug with a shuddering breath. He murmurs a soft "I love you" which you reciprocate. You'd never tell his brothers, but you feel a tear hit your shoulder.

After a moment he pulls away, covertly wiping his eyes of any remaining evidence of crying. You see a slight smirk on his face, a sight you were grateful to see. "Of course you would want to come see me first. I am your favorite, after all," He said jokingly.

You laughed, a sound he had been wishing to hear for weeks now. "Of course you are." You said, leaning forward to give him a soft kiss on the cheek.

"I know you were in a rush to see me, but did you have to go wrecking my organization?" He said, referring to the collapsed pile of books across the floor.

You lightheartedly rolled your eyes. "Listen okay, I was so used to living in this house but hundreds of years ago, and your room's layout has changed a lot since then."

He chuckled at your comment, a sound you too had been waiting to hear for weeks.

"I know you would love to have my company all to yourself, but I think we should stop torturing your brothers and let them have a proper reunion too." You said softly.

He was obviously displeased with the comment, sighing in annoyance, but you gave him a disapproving look. "Fine, you can reunite with everyone except Lucifer." he said in a tone where he was only partially joking.

You rolled your eyes slightly, giving him a kiss on the cheek before moving to open the door. Once you did, you were instantly surrounded by the other six most powerful demons in the devildom, but the most important to you stood aside for the moment.

[penvisions]

zest {chapter 5}

Pairing: Chef! Joel Miller x Professor! Reader (formally known as Bartender! Reader)

Summary: The summer semester starts and with it comes a whole new batch of issues. But Joel is there for you in every way he can be and then some.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, c'mon reader and joel have potty mouths, protective joel, reader is canonically midsize, pregnant reader, surprise pregnancy, reader goes through nicotine withdrawal, smoking, cigarettes, nicotine use, cannabis, marijuana, cbd, edibles, pregnancy complications (not serious or life-threatening), lots of feelings, lots of emotions, complicated family dynamic, reader has family issues, reader has religious guilt, restaurant lingo, triggers associated with the food industry, reader canonically has an eating disorder, therapy, academic world, triggers associated with academic settings, gun violence, i think that's it for this one!

A/N: the ideas are in my head, but they don't wanna come out to play. love y'all

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

The meeting goes well enough, Ellie acting as a buffer to the unspoken tension that adds weight to the air within your office. You swallow down any rebuttals that would end up being trouble or seem confrontational, opting to remind the younger man that this was an important responsibility and that you expect him to treat the position with respect- as well as his professor and mentor. An aggravating eyeroll and a clap of his hands was the best agreement you could get, and it would have to work for now.

As both of them left the office, Ellie off to class and your new source of headache somewhere he didn’t feel like sharing with you- you packed up your bag and headed straight to the advising office in search of the person listed at the top of his academic profile. After a quick search in the database, your sore feet carried you across campus. Taking in the busy campus, you can feel the excited energy of newer students getting a leg up on their credits for the summer and that of the older students cramming in an extra semester to cross the finish line- it was exhilarating and a wide smile graces your features as you watch the bodies move about, hand cradled over your swollen middle.

You never thought, dared to hope, that you would be where you are right now- in life, in love….alive.

Quiet, somber moments with Joel allowed for you to share with him you past difficulties with depression, with anxiety, with all of the crushing weight your upbringing brought up and the things that both dampened it and helped it to flourish. In turn, he shared with you his own feelings, his own experiences- not out of comparison and to shift the topic to him, but to show you that he knows it’s a hard thing to handle, to keep a handle on. Because he knows it just doesn’t go away simply because good things are happening and being happy seems like the new normal.

Getting out your phone, you smile at the messages from Ellie online, sending you funny videos and recipes for desserts she thinks are cool. Maria’s name shows links to the items she thought were the best during her later months of pregnancy and a request to come for dinner sometime so you could go through the stuff they’ve kept- she’s confident in her decision to only have one kid even despite the quite handsy and enthusiastic way her and Tommy danced just the other night when you went out for mocktails and appetizers at a soft opening for a new place in downtown. You love her, she’s been so helpful alongside your other two friends who have bid you good luck for today, knowing the semester starts this week.

Tommy, likewise, sent a selfie of himself fixing something in the kitchen at the restaurant with Joel frowning with his hands on his hips in the background- completely unaware of the photo being snapped if the wide grin on the younger man’s face is any indication.

Your man is grumpy today, walk in door came off the rails :(

Nooooo, I was just gonna call him and see if he’d be okay with me running errands before coming to get him.

Come get him now, please, for the love of god.

…it’s that bad, huh?

Been barkin’ at the kitchen kids all day.

Be right there, want a coffee from the shop on campus?

You’re my favorite sister-in-law, you know that?

Tommy, I’m your only sister-in-law.

He doesn’t respond, but you assume he either got back to work or Joel caught him goofing around on his phone and snapped at him too. Both of them are out by the back door once you pull into the open gate, Tommy’s truck pulled up at an angle for him to get tools in and out easier. They’re sharing a cigarette, the most probably cause for Joel’s irritability.

He’s been insistent on quitting, but the stress of hard shifts and the worries of you and the girls as you go about your days as the heat rachets up, it gets to him. Joel snubs it out before disappearing inside, waving a hand at you to signal that he would be just a moment. Tommy saunters over,  grinning at the drink you shake out the window at him.

“I love you so much, Sabrosa!” He downs a third of it as soon as he takes it from you, the whip cream and blended coffee. He’s all smiles and easy, deep laughter until the brain freeze sets in and then he’s stone faced as he holds a hand to his throat.

“Totally your fault.” You laugh as you feel giggles bubble up.

“Which one do you like better?” You hold two outfits up, not able to decide yourself. Both of them were cute, but Joel was focused on the display of monitors and cameras. Brow furrowed as he reads the small print through the thick frames low on the bridge of his nose.

“Either one, sweet girl. Or both.” He doesn’t look up, even as he puts down the box in his hand and picks up another one. For some reason his concentration irritates you and you huff, putting both outfits back on the rack before walking over to the cribs. He’s been so great, from going to doctor check ups, cooking you everything you even mention craving or linger on in the store on shopping trips, to ensuring you have everything you need at home and more. But this one thing, the thought of picking out clothes on your own- it just…it hurts.

You feel his approach, the way he’s reaching around to place his hands over your own where you grip tight to the railing of a crib. The glint of your engagement ring and matching wedding band layered on your finger catches your eye just as Joel’s own simple band clinks delicately against it.

“It’s not that I don’t have a preference, Sabrosa, it’s that I want you to get everything you want. Our little boy is going to rock whatever you decide he needs.” His scruff brushes against your temple as he leans in to kiss you there, smelling delicious from his shift and the cologne you know he sprayed on before he left the office to meet you in the car. His soft voice vibrates through you, his chest flush with your back.

“I want you to want to be involved and not just with the serious stuff like doctor visits and monitors.” You mumble, unable to find your voice. Your breath trembles in and out, your chest rising rapidly despite feeling like you weren’t getting enough air on every intake. One of his hands comes up, palm spread over the fabric of your shirt, right over your heart. His warmth sinks into you, his own chest moving with his deep breath as he quietly tells you to follow along with him.

Once you’re calm, you loosen the grip of have on the cribs railing though you don’t remove your hand from it completely.

“I love you and I am absolutely thrilled to be doin’ this with you. Every step of the way, remember?” He steps away from you, spinning you gently into his chest where you bury your face and sniff the remnants of the tears that sting behind your eyes. “I have some stuff saved from Sarah, but it might all be too worn. Want to go through the boxes with me when we get home? We can get both of the outfits you were showin’ me, think he’d like how soft the fabric is.”

“You kept her baby clothes?”

“Kept everythin’ she ever made me too, from macaroni art to what she claims is a bowl.” His lopsided smile makes him look younger than he is, like he can recall every single piece he’s got carefully tucked away in his house. The same one he raised his girls in, brought them home to for the first time. It heals something in you, to picture him packing it all away, making sure there’s enough room and supplies to keep it all safe and secure. That even if the moment has passed for them to be on display and

“I never took that stuff home, cause my dad had a tendency to throw it out or just toss it into a box in the garage. He never put anything on the fridge and then my grandparents had this rule about clutter.”

More little pictures of your childhood and upbringing are revealed to him as the pregnancy comes to term, memories and ideations of what you dealt with in comparison to the type of parent you want to be. You’re realizing more and more than you want to be more like Joel, more like the parents shown in family shows and movies- nothing like the strained and lonely environment you were brought up in.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother, darlin’,” He guides you back toward the clothing section with sure hands. Once back in front of the display you had been fawning over, he rests his chin over your shoulder and spreads his hands over the entirety of your bump. “You are doin’ such a good job already, taking care of yourself and your body to ensure that our son is healthy and has a good first home right here.”

He spends the next hour going over clothes with you, packing up a shopping basket with a few outfits, the monitor system he deemed the best choice, and a few star themed bedroom decorations.

“Finally!!” Ellie shouts as soon as the truck pulls up into the driveway, the door wide open as she rushes over to your side and pulls open the door. She’s helping you down and out in a flurry of excited movement while Joel just watches with a smirk dimpling his cheeks.

“What- Ellie- hold- hold on!” Laughter bubbles up as you try to gracefully catch your balance. She pauses in her corralling to let you get your phone from where it was charging before she links her arms around one of yours and quickly ushers you toward the door and up the stairs. The truck’s rumbling engine cuts off as Joel follows at a more leisurely pace, making sure to grab a few of the bags in the cab behind the seats.

Ellie’s energy is puzzling, exciting and you wonder what she’s been up to since you walked her to class earlier that morning. It all become obvious as she puts a paint stained hand on the door knob to the nursery and looks over at you with an wide smile.

“Sarah and I have been sketching ideas for a few weeks, she’s just now putting up the lights but we wanted to get it done since you were a little off today after the meeting and…” She opens the door and Sarah is standing in the middle of the newly painted room with her arms spread wide.

“Surprise!” She jumps up and down a few times as you gasp, eyes roving over the space that was white and full of unopened boxes just this morning when you got ready to head to campus. A deep, midnight blue is painted on all four walls, the ceiling a mix of grays to simulate cloud coverage. The wall opposite the door has stars and planets detailed all over it, the evidence of their hard work scattered in paint brushes and water cups, palettes and designs drawn up in on the cloth covered boxes they used as stands while transforming the room.

“Dios mio, es perfecto,” You whisper as you turn around to take in the golden trim of the baseboards and accents around the light switches and outlets.

“We’ve shocked her back to her native language,” Sarah stage whispers to Ellie as you trail a hand over your middle, feeling as light as air as you take in all the hard work and dedication they devoted their day to- all of it for you and their unborn little brother.

A sob wracks your body, hand moving to cover your mouth and muffle the sudden sound.

“Oh no, we made her cry. Hey, hey, okay, we wanted to do something for you, to show you that we love you. We just- shh, it’s okay.” Sarah’s arms are wrapping around you in a tight embrace, her forehead knocking into yours as she looks into your eyes to make sure you’re okay. “We do, Sabrosa, we love you. You’re the best thing to happen to our family in a long time and we wanted to show our appreciation.”

“She’s right,” Ellie joins in the hug and that’s when Joel steps into the open doorway. “We wanted to do this for you, we wanted to throw the baby shower. We’ll be here for you, every step of the way. Family is important, you’re important.”

“Girls, you did such an amazing job. Thank you,” He walks over to you all and wraps his arms around everyone, placing a kiss to the top of your head in the middle.

“Th-thank you, really, sorry I’m so blubbery lately.” You laugh as you try to wipe at your eyes, at the happy tears streaking down your face.

Once you get them under control, everyone gets busy assembling some of the items like the wooden dresser and changing station, the thick cushioned rocking chair you picked out and Joel even gets started on the camera and monitor system, to go along with the string lights the girls got in the shape of yellow stars. When the girls run off to get the takeout- philly cheesesteaks at your request, you and Joel simply hold each other in the middle of the room.

Shifting on his feet, he moves over to the rocking chair and plants himself firmly in the seat before pulling you across his lap and kissing you gently. With one hand curved around your bump and one behind your upper back, he tells you how proud he is of you and how he’s so glad the girls love you as much as he does.

“As for the crib,” He rumbles, hand caressing over your back in a soothing gesture. “I got one started in the back shed, you know I do a little wood working but nothing too crazy. Figured since I didn’t keep Sarah’s that our little boy could have one of his own. Picked out this beautiful mango wood, to match the dresser and stuff.”

“Joel, I don’t know what I did to deserve you- this life.” Your lips find the tip of his strong nose, his plush bottom lip, his chin.

“Didn’t have to do nothin’, darlin’, you deserve the world no matter what.”

Joel walks into the nursery to see you on the floor amid the boxes of unopened stuff from the baby shower, the piles of stuff you’ve bought, and the boxes with his own handwriting from where he brought them down from the attic. Bright swatches of color surround you, clothing and bedding, blankets and spit rags. As he steps into the room, he notices with the help of the fairy lights and the cloud lanterns strung up from the ceiling that you’re completely passed out with your arms folded over one box and your cheek resting atop them.

The girls had just gone to the townhouse, something about going out to meet up with friends or something, he couldn’t get a straight answer out of either of them as they helped to clean up the mess from dinner’s take out. He just told them to be safe and to call if they needed anything. Especially if they needed a ride and a ride share was too expensive. With twin kisses to his cheek they bid him a goodnight and were out the door.

He stops and watches over you for a few moments, taking the scene in.

It’s something he never thought he’d be doing again- preparing to be a dad once again.

But he’s glad for the chance, for the life you’re leading alongside him. The age difference only ever bothered him because he once thought of the things you might miss out on being with him, but here he is- giving them to you in such a special way. The smile you couldn’t control while he stood across from you in the warm sand and exchanged vows, the way his family has banded around you both with endless support and love, the sonograms stuck to the fridge and tucked into his wallet.

He feels so grateful for you, for your love. For being able to love you in return.

He counts down the days he can be at home with you, he can experience all of the firsts that unfold with having a newborn. With seeing you blossom into motherhood with all the same grace and passion you have shown in the past with your classes, graduation, moving on and moving into the role of a professor yourself, of working alongside him in the kitchen, running the bar flawlessly even when he expected less.

He walks into the bedroom across the hall and readies for bed and unfolds the covers from where you tucked them underneath the pillows. Donned in his boxer briefs and a white shirt, he goes back across the hall and gently scoops up your sleeping form. You mumble quietly into his chest where you head tucks into, arms in the cradle of your lap over your bump as he takes the few steps to the bed.

When he places you down atop the bed and reaches for the covers, your hands reach for him. They cradle his face as you guide him back up toward the pillows you rest on and press your lips to his with far more awareness than you just had a moment ago.

“Hmm, you take such good care of me, Mr. Miller.” You smile against his lips even as you feel sleep try to pull you back down, your hands trailing down his chest and plopping gently on the bed.

“Anything for you, Mrs. Miller.” He tries for the covers again but you grip his shirt and pull him with enough force that he stumbles forward, shins meeting the plush sides of the mattress.

“Wanna take care of you too,” You press the words into his neck, teeth and tongue trialing over the skin there, pulling a low groan from him. He hardens as one of your hands cups him through the thin fabric, eliciting a shiver to rush down his spine at the thought of you and him, tangled together- notched together in the same way that made the baby growing in your belly.

“Darlin’-“

“Nu-uh, let me, please,” You bite into his collarbone, pulling a hiss from him as pleasure sparkles across his skin. How could he possibly say no to that, when you were being so sweet and soft with him?

“Let me, just, please, Joel.” You sigh, the sound swallowed by the still sizzling onions in the pan, the quiet roar of the flame from the burner, the drone of the industrial kitchenware. It was peaceful, even if the whole world was calming down, most brunch services wrapped up and hazy afternoon energy sweeping over the quiet city. Everyone is gone, the last server walked out to her car and ushered through the gate by Joel himself, large frame filling the doorway as he steps back in and securely locks it behind him.

Dark eyes watch you across the kitchen space, accessing. But he grins, whatever worries he has melting away as he watches you move about the space with ease. The smell of seasoned meat, veggies, fresh bread- fills the air and the whole scene fills his heart with so much ease.

He’s barely seen you the past two weeks, finding remnants of your presence around the house- a cup of tea half empty, the empty snack packs he kept stocked in the fridge, a note with your looping scrawl letting him know about small things, the lingering scent of your perfume. To be fair, he did the same, the restaurant booming as summer tourists flocked to Austin, rave reviews and booked nights spurring him on to work alongside his sous more and more. Partly to train the man up and to assess if he would be able to handle the rushes as well as he needed to- Joel definitely wants to try and take the first month off after the birth once the time came around.

Stepping up to the expo line, he rests his arms flat over it and put his chin on them to watch you flit around.

“Whatcha makin’, momma?”

“Was cravin’ philly cheesesteaks!” You chirp, expertly flipping the contents of the pan with a flick of your wrist. You leave them to simmer while you take the pan with the sliced open loaves of french bread with cheese layered over the tops and toss it in the salamander over your head. The stove clicks as you turn the burner off and walk the few yards over to the fryer and pull up the batch of zucchini you breaded with panko and toss it into a small mixing bowl with some parmesan and herbs.

“Maybe we should check the baby book, see what vitamins you’re lackin’ if that’s all you wanna eat lately?” His concern isn’t overwhelming, but you see the slight worry behind his eyes as he tries to think of what more he could be adding to the meals he makes or brings home.

“It couldn’t hurt,” You smile over at him as you take out the bread from overhead with a towel, placing it on the counter before piling the contents of the pan inside with a pair of tongs.

Once everything was done, you carried it over to one of the prep stations while Joel pulled two chairs from the dining room into the kitchen. After the first bite, he groans in appreciation.

“Now why am I always doin’ the cooking if you can whip something up like this in no time flat?” Joel teases around his chewing. You scrunch your nose at the sight, but truly nothing the man could do was unattractive. His chef’s coat is unbuttoned and open to reveal his black shirt underneath, black jeans worn but not torn as he props up a leg onto his knee and devours a handful of the zucchini bites.

“Hush, I cook plenty, Chef Miller.” You trail a finger over his thick moustache to get some of the horseradish aioli out of it and tap a quick kiss to his greasy lips. After a few more bites, you reach for a towel to wipe your hands clean.

“So, remember that cute coffee shop we went to in Dallas?”

“The one where I almost murdered someone, yeah. What about it?” You couldn’t meet his eyes, swirling the straw in the soda you snuck from the bar.

“Well…it’s kinda funny actually- not funny haha but funny like of course with my luck this is how things happen-“

“What happened?” He cuts you off, bite to his tone at he threat of that man in his memory. The way he had shoved you roughly to the ground, the sight of you crumpled on the floor of the coffees shop. The way you shook as he helped you up, it had been in rage but still, it wasn’t a good memory of the weekend he proposed to you.

“He was assigned to be one of my teaching assistants, he was in the meeting with me and Ellie this morning.”

“No he ain’t,” He practically growls, hands curling into fists atop the cutting board. “First thing in the morning we’re going to the dean’s office and telling them what happened.”

“I already talked to them, told them that I didn’t feel safe with him. They said they could contact the coffee shop and get their explanation and then get back to me on the decision to either put him with another professor or expel him altogether.” You reach for one of his hands and uncurl his fist to thread your fingers through his.

“Should be in jail, with the way he was quick to anger over a damn stain on his shirt.”

Just as your phone rings with the university’s number, the sound of tires squealing to a stop just outside the building. A car door slams and banging on the front entrance carries through the dining room. Joel jumps from his chair and storms to the front with a frown on his face.

“Stay in here.” He orders as he disappears through the swinging door, the hinges squeaking with the force of his large body rocketing through it.

“Back off.” Joel’s voice boomed, fury in his eyes as he frowns at the man he recognizes from another city, another moment that was ruined because of him. The exact same one you had just told him about being on your campus. This one, so much more important because he was in Joel’s city now. Strutting up to Joel’s restaurant with his wife’s name like an insult on his tongue. And that wasn’t gonna fly.

“Who the fuck do you think you are trespassing on my property?”

The wild eyes peer over Joel’s shoulder and land on you, nestled into the small space you hold the kitchen door open to peer through. The door opens as the man pushes it open, the last server not locking it behind them when they left an hour ago now. Joel grips the handle tight, other palm flat on the glass to keep him from entering completely.

Your name flies off the younger man’s tongue, full of hate and vitriol.

“Your goddamn whore lost me my internship!” Neither of you had the chance to move before he roughly shoved against the door again, knocking Joel down. He lands harshly with a grunt, and you step through into the dining room with a shout of his name just as the man reaches into the back of his waistband.

Both of you freeze as he brandishes a gun, clicking the safety off.

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@theoraekenslover

[weebsinstash]

You know what I've been thinking about lately? Reader x yandere Japanese coworker who gives you inappropriately elaborate bento boxes

That sounds so ultra specific and you're like "well weeb what do you mean, INAPPROPRIATELY ELABORATE" and like I don't mean there's gold leaf and pearls in there or anything but

Say we have Izuku because he's actually specifically who I've had this idea for. I've been having ideas specifically for a Quirkless AU where you work at a company and you're a grown ass adult and he's like, freshly 20, 21, and he's already a significantly higher position in the company than you. I'm talking one day you start hearing of a new transfer and you're standing at the bus stop/train station whatever to go to work and there's some baby faced young man who is being a little too chatty and friendly with you and you're almost wondering if he's stalking you to work when you find out... He's the son of the president of the company or he's like a few positions below CEO 💀💀💀 you could be like 32 and you've worked here for 4 years and here's this, almost KID making like triple if not even more multiples of your entire year's salary

So you're frugal with your money, saving up for a house or something big, or just straight up in a position that isn't paid very well or, maybe you even have an eating disorder or have a diet where you skip meals, and one day Izuku is doing the thing where he's standing inappropriately behind you to look over the quality of your work on your current task when he hears your stomach grumble and asks if you've taken your lunch yet, and pressures you to go eat, oh "it's our obligation as a company to make sure you're taking your legally mandated breaks :) go take a break, you've worked hard today", and then he's being nosey as fuck about THAT too, snooping to find out what you're eating, maybe even taking his lunch at the same time to try and follow you to where you're eating

Either after finding out you straight up don't eat lunch, or you eat too little, or food that isn't very good for you, one day Izuku is very confidently setting a bento down in front of you, all smiles, so friendly, "I made this for you! I really hope you try some of it!"

I've heard Japanese people say things along the lines of "we don't say I love you but we will ask if you've eaten today" and how in a lot of cultures food is a love language (like how the Mystic Messenger boys would ask if you've eaten?). So. You go to open this lunchbox, having no idea what to expect. And it's. It's not just like, store-bought rice balls, he obviously COOKED THINGS. You open up your bento thinking it's just something easy and simple and it's something like THIS

like. Appreciate the love language that is "cutting food into fun and cute shapes". The man hands you something that took WORK, DEDICATION, FOCUS. There is no point in all the detail besides to make it more enjoyable and he's giving it to YOU. He's handing you an ENGAGEMENT RING OF BENTO BOXES here. And this man is... your boss whom you spend absolutely 0 time outside of work with and you also resent his success 💀

I also see Japanese yandere, specifically in Japan, taking advantage of the Japanese culture of drinking after work. There's real pressure to go to certain company drinking parties, to know how to politely serve drinks to and obey your higher ups, how you'll be ostracized if you don't go when invited, so then you're being awkwardly pressured into situations with a yandere who is trying to make you slip up and let loose little personal details about yourself. So what's your favorite color? Aaa, mine too! I think you said something about growing up innn.... yeah, that was the name, thank you!" and just. Really boiling your frog, you know what I mean? You're getting more comfortable, not realizing the yandere is gradually increasing the amount of alcohol you're drinking and the intensity of their questions

"So, you said you were saving up for a house? Are you going to live there with your partner? Oh, you don't have anyone? Well, surely there was someone in the past, right? No? But... but you're so wonderful, that's so sad! I'm sure someone will come along and, help provide for you and help you settle down someday :) so, what kind of house were you thinking of buying--"

[carpkoinobori]

[†] thursday girl — giselle x reader

[𖤐] 1/1 [please be aware this is all fiction! none of this is real and idols behavior is not accurately represented.]

song(s): abbey - mitski | wife - mitski | goodbye, my danish sweetheart - mitski | circle - mitski | shame - mitski | once more to see you - mitski | thursday girl - mitski | pink in the night - mitski |

summary: you debut in SM’s newest girl group. The industry isn’t what you thought it’d be. It’ll be fine, right? or , more accurately: a girl’s guide to breaking all ten commandments.

pairing: giselle x aespa member!reader

to be honest the dynamic is more like the apple x the snake x eve

tags: angst, happy and open ending, literally just angst though, reader is raised catholic

wc: 7.3k

cw: dieting, eating disorders, religious trauma, catholic guilt, homophobia, internalized homophobia, comphet, mild implied sexual content, creepy variety show hosts and fans mentioned, the mortifying ordeal of being a girl

ex: not beta read, reader is third oldest/youngest - middle of five. reader’s stage name is Eve.

a/n: leaving this warning here. I was raised catholic. if you find negative mentions of organized religion upsetting, this one isn’t for you. NOT BETA READ ONCE AGAIN

psalm 32:1-5 Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord does not count against him, and in whose spirit is no deceit. When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer. Then I acknowledged my sin to you, and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord’— and you forgave the guilt of my sin.

——————————————————————————————————— debut.

that’s what you’ve been working towards your entire life, what you hungered for, what you wanted.

since your early teen years, you’ve dreamed of debuting. You loved to perform, to sing, to dance— that’s why you were in your church’s choir group. The advent show, the way of the cross, everything— you were there.

did your parents approve of you being an idol? Absolutely not. They tried to convince you to settle down with one of the nice churchboys, the son of one of their friends. He was.. nice, okay looking. But you just didn’t like him. You dreamt of falling in love, being swept off your feet into happily ever after— but for most of your life, you had never even had a real crush! You must just not have found the right guy yet. It only counted when it was with a boy.

you auditioned for SM, and miraculously, you got in. Your days were spent training, dancing, weighing, singing, dancing, showcasing, singing, training, dancing, weighing— a cycle, really.

you met Yu Jimin and Kim Minjeong pretty early on, and you got along great with Jimin. She was catholic, and so were you! She wasn’t as dedicated as you, of course, but it was nice to have something in common.

you all didn’t get the chance to talk with Ning Yizhou a whole lot, even if she did share a dorm with minjeong. You dormed with jimin, but there was an empty bed.

that bed would be filled by one Aeri Uchinaga.

and from that day, your life would also be filled by aeri uchinaga.

The five of you were called to a meeting. You were a little worried, of course, clutching your silver cross chain and pressing the tip of it into your chest. A nervous habit.

“Hello girls,” the man began, the five of you sitting and fidgeting nervously.

“I have good news for you all. You five will be debuting as SM’s newest girl group, Aespa. Congratulations,” he smiled, and it felt like your world had just crumbled and rebuilt itself, three times over.

“We’ll begin thinking of your stage names soon, so feel free to give us some ideas. We’ll be waiting,” the man continued, and like that, the meeting ended.

you all had to celebrate, right?

The five of you met in your dorm, as minjeong didn’t want to bother the other trainee living there. You all begin thinking of stage names, and your eyes drifted to the figurine of Mary that sat on your nightstand. Jimin was thinking of using Katarina, her baptismal name, anyway! Your confirmation name could also work, but you weren’t sure.

“What if I used Mary?” You thought out loud, the other four girls turning their heads to glance at you, and the figure just behind you.

“Mary?” Jimin began. “Like, the Virgin Mary? Our Lady of Naju?” She questioned.

“Yes, I quite like the idea, don’t you?” The other girls knew you spoke a little formally, never really speaking in slang or impolitely in the slightest. It was your parents, after all. You had grown up in a secluded, small town in America, but your parents had taught you Korean, along with your own interest, reading books to perfect grammar. Sadly, that didn’t really teach you many informal words— not that your parents would allow that. You had to be a lady, of course.

“It seems a bit.. outdated, doesn’t it?” Aeri voiced, tentatively, and the other girls agreed with her. They began giving suggestions.

“What about Lily?” Jimin offered.

“Eden— no, maybe Eve?” minjeong hummed.

“Lilith!” Ning exclaimed, much to the amusement of the other girls.

“Ning, that’s similar to Lily, though, isn’t it?” Minjeong gave an amused half-smile.

“I guess so,” she sighed.

“I like Eve,” Aeri voiced, and the other girls all mostly agreed, although more name suggestions were given out, for everyone.

You debuted with the names Karina, Giselle, Eve, Winter, and Ningning.

you said a prayer every morning and every night, with the rosary that was around the figurine. A small Our Father, a Hail Mary, an Act of Contrition— no matter what, you never missed your morning and nightly prayers, no matter how small. You attended mass on Sunday, and while you usually couldn’t go in person, you’d try to listen to it in the morning, before it was time for practice, or at night, before bed— it didn’t matter how much sleep you gave up for it.

You were moved into a group dorms a bit after debut, Black Mamba being a sensational hit. You dormed with aeri, while ning and minjeong dormed together, karina having pulled the leader and oldest card to secure the single-room.

You and aeri weren’t exactly close. There was no animosity, of course, you two just never really got the chance to talk. It was definitely by chance. Not because she made your heart beat just a little faster, your steps a little more uncoordinated, your words fail. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.

you just admired the other girl. It didn’t help that you two had more than one language in common— aeri had gone to an international school, you were raised in america. You just hadn't gotten the chance to approach her, that was all.

well, the first night before the debut stage, you couldn’t sleep. You tossed and turned, finally sitting up, when—

“Can’t sleep?” aeri’s voice was low with sleep, and she was speaking in english. You felt an uncomfortable skip in your heart.

“Oh, yes, I’m just a bit restless,” you laughed, definitely not nervously. “I am, too. Just a little,” she replied, making a pinching gesture with her fingers, and a smile.

“Why?” You asked, even if it was kind of a dumb question.

aeri was silent, for a beat. At one point, you started to wonder if she was even going to respond.

“I’m just kind of.. scared,” she admitted. “We’re gonna be on display to the whole world, and who knows what’ll happen?” She chuckled, throwing her arms up just a bit. “I’m just.. worried. And.. I mean obviously, I miss home,” she added.

you looked at her, slightly, turning your head just to glance at the dark haired girl. “I know,” you murmured. “I miss home too, even if it wasn’t.. the most exciting place. I just miss it,” you continued. You were just a little afraid you were speaking too quickly in english, but aeri seemed fine. “I mean, I understand. I miss my parents,” she agreed.

you wished you could say the same. It’s not that you didn’t love your parents, but they were a little.. much. They didn’t like the fact you hadn’t found a guy yet. They’d ask you if you.. liked girls. You denied it, you didn’t! You were steadfast in your faith, dedicated, you didn’t like girls. You couldn’t.

“I miss my friends, you know. Sometimes I worry I’ll forget english,” you admitted.

“Well,” aeri gave a grin. “I’ll talk to you in english all you want if you promise to talk to me in japanese,”

you didn’t even speak japanese, but for her? you’d learn.

You smiled. “Of course,”

the two of you tried your best to sleep, after that, but it was mostly you two continuing to talk about anything and everything.

You could tell aeri was going to be one of your best friends. A reminder of home, if anything.

the debut showcase went great, the song was a hit, everything was good.

you and aeri spoke before going to sleep every night— you’d even bought a book about japanese grammar, how to read, write and speak it. You tried your best, but aeri had a nice time correcting you. It was.. nice. You always loved to learn languages, and for some reason, having someone who spoke it already help you was.. a bit comforting, in a way.

you still prayed every night, and aeri would sometimes give you a look, but she never said anything.

everything was going great.

until the hate began

Every little thing you or your group did was criticized, nitpicked, blown out of proportion— and the stress was getting to you.

you had never handled stress very well. You didn’t have a reason to. There was really nothing for you to ever stress about— other than following god, of course, but that wasn’t stressful to you. You had no reason to be stressed about something like that! You were a good person, you hadn’t ever wanted to sin.

some of the comments were about your appearance. It started to chip away at you. The company was always happy when you lost weight, so why not just a little more? It’s not like it would kill you. you were three months into an eating disorder that you called a diet.

the second you got up, you’d pray as your sustenance, head to practice, do your schedules— the other girls would order lunch, you’d ask for a salad. No dressing, of course, you didn’t like the taste. then, as you’d all get to the dorm, again, if there was even an hour of free time, you’d head to the company gym. Sometimes, when you were just in a waiting room, or you couldn’t work out— you’d pace. Anything to keep moving, you just couldn’t sit still. It was taking over your mind.

you couldn’t even eat normally. Any food given to you on a variety show, any drink, anything— mentally, you were counting. You liked to be in the negatives, you liked to skip meals, anything to be better. This was for yourself, so people couldn’t comment on you. You started to come up with even more elaborate ways to prove you were okay, to be better, you practiced more, you stayed late, you slept in the practice room, at times. You begged the vocal coaches to tell you whether or not you were actually good, and as much as they said you were, you just couldn’t believe them.

it was starting to destroy you.

“y/n?” Aeri called, as you prayed right before bed. She stood by the open room door, looking at you with a concerned expression. Why would she be concerned?

“Yes?” You answered, setting down the rosary, putting it back around the statue of Mary that watched over you so carefully. Sometimes, you wondered if you’d made her proud. Maybe if you said the suffering was in the name of god, he’d forgive you. He’d forgive you for the things you had thought and done and wanted to do. He’d forgive you. You could punish yourself, already. You could pray for him to fix you quickly, maybe you could give up eating for lent entirely—

“You.. haven’t been sleeping here, lately. We haven’t gotten.. to talk,” aeri began, sitting down next to you, looking down at you from where she had sat on your bed, right next to where you knelt.

you had completely forgotten your promise. It had just slipped your mind, you never really were awake enough for it, lately, and—

“Are you okay? You’re kind of.. pale, and you have dark circles, and-“

“Oh, I’m fine,” you smiled, quickly. “It’s just.. lent,” you lied, quickly. “All catholics fast and give something up for lent, don’t worry,” you assured, waving a hand dismissively. While it was true, it didn’t call for someone to starve themselves. You were lying. That’s a sin. But it’s just a white lie, so they won’t worry, right? It’s okay, you told yourself.

“We’re worried about you,” aeri frowned, putting a hand on your shoulder, the weight making you go from a kneeling position to sitting with your legs crossed. “I’m worried about you,”

god damn aeri, and her kind personality, and her need to care for others, and she was just so good- she was such a good person, and here you were, about to ruin her, damn her to hell. You were a horrible, filthy, disgusting person. For some reason, your eyes grew hot, but you couldn’t cry. You simply stared at her, with wide eyes, like seeing god’s light, it blinded you. You wished she didn’t care about you. You wouldn’t blame her. Vaguely, you remembered the first commandment.

the first commandment. Exodus 20:1 I am the Lord your God.  You shall not have other gods beside me. You shall not make for yourself an idol or a likeness of anything in the heavens above or on the earth below or in the waters beneath the earth; you shall not bow down before them or serve them. For I, the Lord, your God, am a jealous God

“Aeri, I-” your voice cracked, and you were so determined not to cry, but you could feel your resolve breaking, because you were weak, you were weak to your vices and weak to aeri, you were so pathetic. The older girl let out a small sigh, sinking down onto the floor next to you, taking you into her arms. She was silent, for a bit, while you choked out words that were mostly incomprehensible. She ran a hand through your hair, and was a bit unsettled to feel how cold you were to the touch, but she pointedly ignored it.

“Y/n, you can��t let the words of those people get to you.. they won’t do you any good, and.. I know that’s hypocritical of me, I’m learning to ignore it too, but.. you can’t let it kill you like this,” she continued, voice soft. It made you sick how much you liked her comforting you. What would she do if she knew that you were so disgusting. You wanted aeri, you realized as you held her shirt, with some sense of finality hitting you. You didn’t want her to leave. You wanted her to hold you, and she wasn’t even aware of what you felt towards her. You were taking advantage of her. You were so disgusting.

“I’m sorry,” you croaked out, voice a little choked as you bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry,” “It’s okay,” she said, a little confused on why you were apologizing, look of worry on her face. Not that you could see it. You had your head in the crook of her neck.

that’s why you were apologizing, really.

you were sorry that you loved her. You were sorry she wanted to help you. You she couldn’t fix you, no one could. you were defective, and wrong, and oh so selfish. Aeri was such a good person.

the presence of the statue on your nightstand caught your eye from the corner. You turned away. She shouldn’t have to see this.

you could feel the tears stinging at your eyes, the shame, the guilt, the hate— it was all too much. You needed to push aeri away, to get as far away from her as possible, to save what little integrity and goodness you had left—

but you didn’t.

you clutched her shirt tighter, breathed her in desperately, and let out a choked sound. You wanted to cry, but you screwed your eyes shut and bit your lip. The blood was heavy and sharp in your mouth.

You woke up the next day beyond exhausted, but in your bed and off the floor. You surmised that aeri had put you there. You held your head, and got down on your knees in front of your bed. You prayed.

“Mary, mother of God, please guide me away from sin, as you have for so many others. Help me to continue being steadfast in my faith, and to follow all commandments well. Allow me to be worthy of your son, and continue to protect me from sin. These thoughts have been given to me by the devil, as a challenge of my faith. Guide me out of temptation, and forgive my actions, in the Lord’s name, I ask for this mercy,”

you stood up. Your knees ached. Aeri was up, sitting cross legged on her bed, watching you with a concerned expression. “Why are you praying to Mary?” aeri asked, voice light but expression still a bit worried, if not a tad curious.

“Catholics pray to saints as well. Especially depending on their patronage— I mean, if I lose something, I usually pray to Saint Anthony,” you chuckled, explaining the concept.

“What’s Mary the patron Saint of?” aeri asked, softly, curiously.

“Many different things, depending on which version of her you choose to pray to. Our Lady of Lourdes is Mary, but when she appeared in Lourdes. She’s the patron saint of the sick. There’s Our Lady of Loreto, the patron Saint of pilots,”

“Which one do you have, then?”

“Our Lady of Sorrows,” you murmured, glancing towards the figure on your nightstand. The rosary was draped around her carefully. Her downcast, frowning face, her hands clasped together, the feeling of her porcelain eyes boring into your back nearly burned.

“What’s she the patron Saint of?”

“Sinners,”

the second commandment. Exodus 20:1-7 You shall not invoke the name of the Lord, your God, in vain. For the Lord will not leave unpunished anyone who invokes his name in vain.

practice that day went on for a long while. You were all practicing for next level. At one point, you took a small break, drinking water— your heart had been beating quite fast, that day, and your throat had been dry the entire practice.

during the beat change, it was nearly impossible for you to keep your eyes off aeri- or should you start calling her giselle, now? maybe it would be best to separate the two.

you shouldn’t be looking at aeri like that— but giselle was an idol. giselle was not your friend— she was someone untouchable, unattainable. It was okay to like her, to find her pretty, to want- no, no. You didn’t. You just envied her appearance, was all.

Your eyes were glued to her, the way she moved, her expression, everything, it was-

“Oh my God,” you mumbled, eyes locked onto her movements, before you heard the instructor call for you to get up and were immediately snapped out of your haze. You didn’t even remember the event before you went to sleep.

the third commandment. Exodus 20:1-11 Remember the sabbath day—keep it holy. Six days you may labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of the Lord your God.  You shall not do any work.  For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them; but on the seventh day he rested. That is why the Lord has blessed the sabbath day and made it holy.

It was Sunday. It was always a toss-up whether or not you’d have a schedule that day, and today you did not. You watched the six a.m. mass, while aeri slept a few feet away. You knelt when they knelt, stood when they stood, prayed when they prayed.

but you did not sing, no. That would wake aeri.

the girls usually used their rest days to sleep. You always woke up early. You were restless. You hated to sleep. In your dreams you’d see images of a life you could never live, of things you shouldn’t— couldn’t— do. You’d see aeri. No, not aeri— giselle. Aeri didn’t look your way on the stage, hold your gaze for a moment too long, send a wink. The company didn’t order aeri to hold you closer, smile at you more, intertwine your hands.

aeri would never look at you that way.

but giselle would.

you went to the practice room after you prayed. You rehearsed until you felt the world spin, your skin too hot- until you forgot about aeri, and giselle, and the figurine on your nightstand, and the pastor’s homilies, and the way your parents would never love you the same because of what you had done. You danced until your vision became blurry, so you couldn’t see your hands, so whatever or whoever you touched wasn’t your fault, so you couldn’t see their face. More likely, so you couldn’t see yourself, and the body you lived in. You danced until your ears rang, so you wouldn’t have to listen to the sounds, to how your members pleaded with you to stop doing this to yourself. Till you couldn’t hear the people telling you it wasn’t enough.

till you couldn’t hear yourself telling you it wasn’t enough.

till you couldn’t hear your parents words resounding in your head, the endless comments of it being unnatural, of being sent straight to the hellfire, to how it was the most hideous thing in the world.

till you didn’t hear the way fans leered after you, and your members— the stares they’d give you, as you walked, the way they’d clamber for you, so many hands reaching, reaching for you, to touch, to take. it ate you up inside, how badly you wanted to be pure. and how you knew, through it all, you never could be. they could imagine you any way, salivate, draw, take, write it in comments. They even had the confidence to say it out loud, passing comments on variety shows.

you danced till you could forget their words, their looks, what you knew so well that they thought, you danced till you thought your body would give out—

or, conversely, till the leader and main vocalist of red velvet opened the practice room door and rushed over to the the shaking body of their junior, nearly unable to breath, head in her hands and knees to her chest in the farthest corner of the room, brightly illuminated.

you wanted to assure them you were fine, but the cross chain you wore was too tight on your neck, the silver feeling like hot iron burning your throat. You swore if you looked down it would be burning into your skin, leaving a brand.

each breath felt like swallowing glass, and your eyes were unfocused, and your ears were ringing, and your body was screaming in protest of each movement, and your eyesight was blurring—

but you got up, bowed, apologized, assured them you were okay, thanked them, and left.

you had been lying a lot, lately. To your members, about how you were— to your managers, your staff, to your seniors, now. Lying was a sin. but you could excuse it, couldn’t you?

you hoped they wouldn’t mention it to your members.

the fourth commandment. Exodus 20:1-12 Honor your father and your mother, that you may have a long life in the land the Lord your God is giving you.

you rarely talked to your parents. You should call them, more. Or, more accurately, you should pick up their calls, more. Except, it was maddening. You hated talking to them. No matter how much you tried to convince yourself you didn’t, that they were your parents, and what they said was gospel, you couldn’t stand it. Their prying questions, asking how being an idol was, if you kept up with your faith, asking why the media would report on how “close” you were with your members— with Aeri. Asking why you had gotten so thin, and that you needed to gain weight. They would pick and pry at every little thing. You couldn’t stand it, you couldn’t-

the phone rang. Again. You picked up.

“Finally, you answer the phone, y/n,” the voice of your mother crackled, thousands of miles away.

“I’m sorry,” you respond, robotically, like a reflex. “I was in practice. We’re busy, since we’re preparing for a comeback,”

“You always have some excuse for us, don’t you? You can’t just talk to your parents? What a daughter, you are. We’re your parents, y/n, you should actually listen to us, more. I told you being an idol wouldn’t be good for you, and look at you now! Barely any respect for your parents, how horrible is that? I can’t believe you,” she ranted, going on and on about this and that and every failure and everything you should’ve done better.

“This is why I didn’t want you going away, I knew what it’d do to you.. we tried to fix you, but you are a sick, sick little girl,” she spat, accusingly. “You know what you did, you know what you did to this family— that I have to live with a daughter who’s-”

click.

You hung up.

her voice was so grating.

Your mother loved to spout silly little ideas, didn’t she? She was wrong. You didn’t do anything. You weren’t gay. You didn’t like girls, or a girl. They had just been confused. The reason you became an idol was because you loved to perform, not because it was your only way out— after they saw you with her. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kiss her. You didn’t, you’d never-

the truth was that you had left your hometown because of an incident. Yes, you loved to perform, and being an idol was always on your mind. But you never thought you’d do it, how could you leave?

You soon found out what it was like to live outcasted, alone, treated like something wrong and filthy and horrible. Your parents didn’t help. So, you did what anyone would do— you ran away, off to Korea, off to the harsh idol system

because anything

anything

would be better than living with the guilt and shame, with the knowing eyes and hateful stares. anything would be better than being stuck in that suffocating smalll town, where everyone knew everyone, and all your secrets were magnified.

she had moved away, anyway. Her parents protected her. you protected yourself. You had to run.

so you did.

you had to kill that part of yourself, bury her more than six feet deep, deep enough so that the world would never find her.

You died the day your parents opened your bedroom door and found you with the daughter of a deacon, who helped at the church, who your parents had invited over for dinner, who they had been invited by for dinner. When they found you with the daughter of their friends.

they didn’t know whether to say if she corrupted you or you corrupted her.

they chose the latter, of course, they got to it first. They drove them out of town, blaming that girl for your transgressions. For your sin.

she kissed you, after all.

you just sat there and took it.

it wasn’t your fault, they said to the town. It was hers. You’re just too trusting and naïve.

if only they knew, the rest of the people. Your parents certainly did.

they forbid you from having any friends that were girls over, again.

and you understood. You knew. And you took it.

You killed that part of yourself, that day. Buried her, and tried to forget. But there’s dirt and blood on your hands and you’re still hollow. There’s nothing left of you, from before. Bright smiles and eyes, a cheery demeanor, giggling in secret with her- there’s none of that left.

You’re not a little kid anymore, a teenager with a crush, no.

You grew up. You had to.

and that little girl is dead.

dead and buried, underground.

you wished Aeri knew you when you were younger.

she would’ve loved the softer you.

the fifth commandment. Exodus 20:1-13 You shall not kill.

You know, there’s a reason priests and nuns can’t get married.

it’s because, allegedly, they’re married to god.

so, in that case, is it wrong for you, married to god since birth, by your parents— that anything, anyone other than a boy, was wrong?

you tried to understand, but you couldn’t. What was the consensus?

you knew, deep down. What you were was wrong.

and yet, you couldn’t stop. You tried. But you were weak, at heart. A sinner, with no control.

that was your downfall, you thought.

or maybe salvation.

You and Aeri were the last two in the practice room— you were near obsessive with your need to perfect choreography, and Aeri asked you for help, so— you were here. You had already released Next Level, but the practicing never stopped, obviously. You had to perfect it, make it yours, make it the best— so that’s where you were, right now.

it was late, honestly. Already dark out, and your other three members had long since left. You regretted saying yes to Aeri— you knew the choreography for next level, obviously, you knew the way Giselle moved made you feel something wrong, something dark and wanting. You tried to push it down, though— you ran through the moves together, you fixed some posturing and some other small timing issues, really, it was nothing major. You watched her run through those parts, and clenched your jaw.

you felt hot, and your hands itched to reach out and touch her. You couldn’t be making this up, could you? She was looking at you through the mirror, your flushed face barely visible from the darker corner you were sitting at. You swore you could see a smirk on Giselle’s face, for a split second, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

you hated it, hated how Giselle made you feel out of control, made you feel wanting, made that dark thing in you, shoved deep down, squirm and claw. You felt sick. You wanted her.

“I’ll be back,” you said, abruptly standing up and turning the door of the practice room, practically scrambling out. “Bathroom,” was what you supplied as reasoning, before you got out the door, rushing through the empty halls. They were weirdly eerie, at night.

you walked into the bathroom, the sound of your shoes clicking on the ground far too loud, the yellowed glow of the SM building’s bathrooms surrounding you. You gripped the sink, turning on the water and splashing some on your face. You felt dirty, and wrong. Your skin crawled in the suffocating space, the sound of running water driving you insane, the sound of your breathing almost too much. It seems you were in there for longer than you thought, though, as you stated into the mirror, lost in thought, knuckles turning white with the bruising grip you kept on the sink counter.

“Y/n?” Aeri called, opening the door.

You snapped your head to her— she was wearing just some white tanktop and sweatpants, with a black sports bra, but god.

Giselle walked over to you, with a concerned expression. “Are you okay? You’re breathing pretty hard,” she asked, walking closer, putting a hand on your hip, other hand touching your arm.

your composure snapped. You moved your hands to her face, holding it in them, looking at her with wide eyes. “Giselle, I-”

“Why are you calling me Giselle? That’s my stage name, y/n, just call me Aeri?” she said, a little confused and a little irritated. Why the hell were you calling her by her stage name?

you held her face a little tighter, taking in a sharp breath, mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“Aeri,” you murmured, voice low. You leaned in, and her eyes widened, slightly. She didn’t push you away, in fact, she met you in the middle, holding you tighter, moving her other hand to your waist, squeezing your hip, where she could feel the outline of your hipbone. You hated how much you needed her, the kiss messy and desperate, filled with an underlying sense of want and need.

“G- Aeri,” you mumbled, out of breath, panting against her mouth. You couldn’t reconcile the two, easily. Giselle was the one who was making you do this, right? Not Aeri, you didn’t like Aeri, right?

no, that wasn’t true. You liked Aeri. A lot more than you’d admit. You wanted her. You needed her. You couldn’t stop, now.

“Aeri, please-” you murmured, between kisses. They were more desperate, now, wanting, as she pushed you against the cold bathroom wall, the light flickering once. Twice. Three times.

“Yeah? What do you want?” She asked, lowly, eyes dark and pupils blown wide as she looked down at you.

“Lock the door,” you muttered, grabbing her wrist, tightly, and moving her hand upwards.

the sixth commandment. Exodus 20:1-14 You shall not commit adultery.

you and aeri never spoke about it.

but it became a thing, now.

you needed her like a drug, constantly wanting and waiting for the next time you could have her.

you and giselle shared a room, after all. you were pretty sure everyone knew. and by everyone you meant your members, of course. the public could never know, they’d ruin both your career and hers, and you couldn’t do that to her. you weren’t evil, just weak. just horrible, but not evil. you could never hurt her. you loved her, didn’t you? the way a friend doesn’t hurt a friend.

deep down, you knew. It was so much worse than that.

they couldn’t know the way you put concealer on, before practice. the way you were strangely hot and cold, terrified of her touch, but how the both of you would disappear into your room, or somewhere, together, always appearing back, more than a few minutes later, though the tension was always still there.

the way you had become a shell.

you were ashamed, really.

you felt so disgusting, all the time. here you were, dirty, filthy, robbing someone else, sullying them, damning her, all for your own selfish needs, desires, wants.

you had always wanted, too much.

giselle was your temptation and aeri was the sin, the collateral to the damage.

it’s not like she protested, either, the way giselle’s hands lingered, a beat too longer to be friendly. the way her fists would clench on those stupid variety shows, when the hosts mentioned your appearance, saying you were so pretty.

she hated how they’d look at you.

but you couldn’t see that, really.

you hated yourself, and you had stolen aeri’s sanctity.

it was giselle’s fault, though, you would think, sometimes.

but deep down, you knew the truth.

it was your doing. Your fault. You ruined everything you touched, everything you wanted would die and burn because you were a sinner. All because you couldn’t control yourself.

eve ate the apple, too, you’d think. but maybe, the snake wasn’t just the creature, no, but the whispers of lilith, beckoning her away, promising her everything she’d wanted. forbidden knowledge, godhood, becoming better— and maybe, even herself.

was biting the apple an act of naivety, of greed?

or the blind, blissful ignorance of trust? of love?

someone you loved wouldn’t damn you, would they?

but oh, you knew better. You knew.

you had stolen both of your chances of sanctity and holiness.

out of blind, ignorant, nearly all encompassing love.

it was love.

the seventh commandment. Exodus 20:1-15   You shall not steal.

The weeks went by, in this strange commitment.

you had just arrived back from yet another variety show, and Giselle was obviously annoyed at something. It was late, and everyone wanted to sleep. You made your way back to your room, the door open a crack—

giselle was changing into some sleep clothes. You didn’t really care which. the glimpse of her back, of skin, made you nearly feel ill. You shut the door, quickly, feeling like you couldn’t breathe. It made you feel sick.

you entered about a minute later, to see her scrolling on her phone, with a bored expression. You, instead, went and knelt in front of the small Mary statue you kept.

“Mary, mother of God, please hear my prayer. I’m asking you to give me the strength to-”

your breath hitched as you felt giselle put her hands on your shoulders, leaning into your back, feeling her smirk press against your neck.

“y/n,” she called, a mischievous lilt to her voice like this was a fucking game.

“y-yes?” was the reply.

Her hands moved, pressing along your collarbone.

“You know, I hate variety shows, sometimes,” she hummed, voice so unbelievably distracting. “I don’t like the way they talk about you,” she continued.

“I- I agree, I do, it’s quite-”

her blunt nails dug into your shoulder, slightly, as she pulled you back, just a bit, your back pressed to her front. Her head craned forward, to murmur into your ear. “It pisses me off,” she added.

of course, you tended to her anger. You had to, as penance.

later, when you were laying beside her, panting with tears in your eyes, saying anything that came to mind—

“I love you,” you choked out, reverently, like a prayer.

god never responded to those, usually. aeri didn’t love you back.

there’s no way god loved you. and aeri didn’t, either.

the eighth commandment Exodus 20:1-16 You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

“Tell me not to,” you begged, clutching onto giselle like a lifeline, holding her arms. “Tell me no, tell me not to love you. I can’t, I shouldn’t, I don’t want-”

girls never hungered. They never want, like a boy.

“And what if it’s what I want!” She spat back, acidly, pushing you off. “I love you, and I don’t know why you can’t accept that! I love you, not like a friend, or coworker, or whatever else you think! I’m in love with you, why can’t you get that!?” she asked, sharply, voice far too loud.

you didn’t know how to explain that you loved her, too, that you wished you could love her. You always wanted, so badly, to like a boy, and to love him, so you could hold his hand in public, and kiss him, and introduce him to your parents and they wouldn’t say a word, to be able to love him without just that fact being controversial, to love someone without it absolutely ruining your career. Idols couldn’t date, yes, but they’d survive if they were rumored to be with a man.

god forbid it was a girl.

you couldn’t ruin her career, or yours. You couldn’t damn her more, you couldn’t ruin everything, like you always did-

“I can’t,” you cried, desperately. “I’ll ruin everything, I’ll ruin you, I’d-”

“I don’t care!” she retorted. “I don’t care! I want you, and I love you. Is it that you can’t, or you won’t? You’re just scared,” she accused, rightly so.

“I am,” you admitted, pathetically. “I’m scared.”

She scoffed, clenching her fists. She turned, sharply, turning the door handle, wiping her eyes and slamming the room’s door.

You were alone.

god abandoned you, long ago.

you don’t know why it hurt more the second time.

the ninth commandment Exodus 20:1-17 You shall not covet your neighbor’s house. You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, his ox or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.

it was a few days later, at night after an off day. You had been hiding in your room most of the day. Cowardly, yes, but the other members weren’t exactly thrilled with you. You couldn’t blame them. You were currently pretending to be asleep.

you heard aeri enter the room. She laid down, to sleep. The lights were off. It was dead silent. You turned.

“aeri,” you called. No response.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” you continued, after surmising she was asleep. “I love you. I really do. I’m just so, so scared. I don’t know how to let myself love you. I feel wrong. I’m sorry. I want to. I don’t know how to love you how you deserve, I don’t even know how to love myself. Im weak and pathetic, really. If you knew the real me, I think you’d hate me,” you chuckled, without humor. “As long as you’re happy, though. I’ll be okay,” you murmured, finally.

“Im not happy, actually,” she informed, suddenly, and you felt your heart leap into your throat. “I love you, y/n. I don’t care if it’ll make everything more difficult, or if you think I’ll hate you. I won’t, by the way,”

you didn’t know how to respond. aeri did it, for you.

she got up, walked over to your bed, and made you sit up.

“so can you stop being scared? I love you, and-“

you cut her off.

you clutched her face, and kissed her, desperately. You felt tears well in your eyes, and this time, they fell. You pulled back.

“aeri, I love you, I love you so much. I love you, please forgive me. I’ll try, I swear. Please, just-”

she kissed you, again. nothing was completely fixed, yet, but you both loved each other. You were still scared, of course, but aeri had seen you at your worst, already, and was still here. so maybe, it was okay.

the tenth commandment. Genesis 1:1-Revelation 22:21 Love thy neighbor as I have loved you.

The last few weeks had been.. different.

You had started eating again, or, more frequently, was a better way to put it.

it was mostly because aeri had taken up cooking, and you could never say no to her, and it was kind of nice, really, to see her happy when you told her you liked the food.

you started to ignore the comments online, not even bothering to read them most of the time. You called your parents less, if that was even possible, and started talking with aeri and your members more.

it was nice, to have friends. To have people that you knew cared about you. It was nice to know that people didn’t view you as disgusting, or filthy, or wrong.

you had a hard time viewing yourself, differently, but if someone like aeri, someone so good, could stand you, then maybe, you weren’t as bad as your parents said you were. They were wrong about a lot, you’d come to learn.

on one of your breaks, you had found another statue.

it was of Saint Maria.

you put it next to the statue of Our Lady. You thought it fit, in a way.

you didn’t attend sunday mass, or hear it. You didn’t pray much, anymore, either. but you kept the statues as a reminder, of sorts.

aespa had been doing very well, as well, and you didn’t practice late into the night, as much, anymore.

all of you were currently deciding what takeout to order, and trying to pick a move. no one could really come to a final decision, and you watched the bickering amusedly. You got up, heading to the kitchen, filling a glass with water. Aeri appeared behind you, a sly smile on her face as she wrapped her arms around your waist. “Hey, y/n,” she hummed.

“Yeah?” you replied, turning your head. she had a smirk on her face.

“I got you somethinggg,” she grinned, tilting her head, a mischievous expression on her face, her hands clasped behind her back.

“what is it?”

she handed you a gold necklace, with rose quartz in the shape of a heart at the end, a bashful expression beginning to take place at your silence. “I didn’t know if you would like it, but it reminded me of you, so-”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupted, a genuine smile on your face. “Can you put it on for me?”

aeri removed the silver cross necklace you had worn for years, and years, placing it on the counter. She clasped the new necklace, the gold sitting pleasantly on your skin.

you turned to her, holding her face before kissing her, smiling into it. You left the chain on the counter, a smile plastered near permanently your face. “It’s beautiful, aeri, thank you,”

“Of course,” she replied, with a very self-satisfied grin on her face.

“I love you,” you added, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“I love you too, you sap,” she rolled her eyes, good naturedly, but still held you, too. “Come on, let’s go back— i’m not letting them watch a disney movie for the millionth time,”

“So what, you can watch Deadpool?” You teased, with a grin.

“Maybe,” she replied.

it was definitely certain, now, with the silver chain thrown in the garbage, easily.

you loved aeri uchinaga

and you hoped, prayed, even, that the rest of your life would be filled by aeri uchinaga.

A/N: hi guys… so I love aeri uchinaga btw. uhmm so basically the catholic version of the Ten Commandments the ninth commandment is separated into nine “don’t covet your neighbors wife” and ten “don’t covet your neighbors goods” but technically all Ten Commandments can be followed by following the one big rule which is “love thy neighbor as I have loved you” and basically symbolism forever eve breaks all nine commandments but follows the one big one which is like love everyone which means she never actually sinned she just thought she did because she is doomed yuri ☝️🤓

I LOVE TOXIC YURI AND DOOMED YURI FOREVERR pleek send asks+reqs btw I need ideas

[writingmeraki]

i heart u !

a min ho drabble !

genre : fluff. ( disgustingly cute )

pairing : minho x gn!reader, established relationship.

warnings : none except Minho is a menace but he's your menace :D ( not edited or proofread. )

author's note : this was a pretty random idea I got 😭 but also a little gift as a celebration to xo kitty getting a season 2 !!!! 🥳 ( praying for more minho screen time but also dae my boy deserving better :( confused on yuri & kitty endgame 🤞or minho & kitty ) anyways enjoy this minho brainrot i offer u and let me know what you think !!! let's also ignore the quality of the minho pics thanks xx also this is my third time trying to upload this i will cri if this doesn't upload now

word count : 1.1k

It'd been exactly two hours, twenty seven minutes and four seconds, five seconds, six seconds…

"You know I can feel your eyes burning into my face."

Putting down your biology textbook aside for a minute before you turned to face the one who’d been looking at you as though you’d disappear at any given moment.

Minho stared at you, now narrowing his eyes as he scoffed lightly,

"I'm not staring."

You deadpanned him as you raised an eyebrow.

"Okay then, do what you called me here to do. Study."

You nonchalantly said, ignoring the slight pout forming on your boyfriend's face because today you definitely didn't need to waste any time.

"Oh come onnnn it's been almost 3 hours!"

He said in a whiny tone that even if you didn't want to, made you bite your inner cheek to prevent yourself from grinning.

You wouldn't think he would complain about not getting attention because he didn't ever have to actually. If he wanted it, he'd get it unasked, be it from your friends or you.

But lately, both Q and Dae had been busy with their own studies, hence that also meant spending less time with their other best friend.

And as for you, you weren't one to deny your oh so lovely boyfriend of attention, in fact you'd welcome him with open arms when he would suddenly hug you tightly or when he'd kiss you at any given moment.

Unfortunately for him, you'd also been busy with your own studies, having to work a bit harder since you struggled in a few subjects.

Still, you paid no mind as you continued to read over the text about chromosomal disorders even if you could see from the corner of your eye that Minho had moved closer to you.

You had both decided to study together, having done your studying alone in your dorm but on his insistence to study together, you agreed to come over to his place, currently sitting at his desk with all your necessary items laid out.

"Why do you even need to continue studying when you have the most handsome, amazing, fantastic and bloody hot guy right by your side?"

Snorting at him, you turned your gaze to look at him from the corner of your eye,

"Please, I'd never say bloody hot, that is such a…British thing to say."

"So you do admit everything else is right?"

He smugly said as he smirked at you.

"I don't have time to feed your ego, I'm busy."

Sighing, you turned away from him as you now moved your chair to have your back facing him.

If you could have been able to see his expression, you'd probably have laughed because he just puffed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He felt even more frustrated because frankly he was tired of studying now.

Suddenly he got an idea that he knew would make you give in to him and as much as he found your current ignorance appealing, he'd never admit that to you, he wanted your attention then and there, and with him.

Scribbling on a piece of paper, a cheesy equation he'd found on instagram while scrolling on his explore page, yet he knew you'd find it adorable.

9x - 7i > 3 ( 3x - 7u )

9x - 7i > 9x - 21u

-7i > - 21u

i <3 u.

Lastly, finishing it off by drawing a small heart and adding a " ;) " at the end.

He folded the paper and quietly moved behind you, putting his hand above your head and slipping the note on the page you were reading.

Your gaze shifted to the sudden movement, curiously eyeing the note that was laid in front of you.

Putting your book on your lap, you opened the note with a little suspicion, Minho's face having a small grin upon successfully diverting your attention.

The second you opened the note, you read over the contents still keeping a straight face up until you saw the small "i <3 u” with a little winky face.

Snorting at the cheesiness of the note with an equation you were pretty sure you’d seen saved one of your plenty Pinterest boards,

“Love, we don’t even have a maths exam next, we have biology.”

Turning your chair you faced him, you bit your lower lip to prevent the grin from showing on your face.

It was Minho’s turn to now deadpan you,

“Even after I wrote such a…such a meaningful message portraying my true feelings, yet you’re still worried about studying when it’s almost been three hours already and you’re not even paying attention to me or what I want to say.”

“Babe I’m pretty sure I already saw this on Pinterest...and not to mention this is just 8th grade algebra.”

He glared at your words after his overdramatic speech to which you couldn’t help but burst out in giggles, he seemed like an angry little puppy when he glared at you like that.

“Okay okay fine, what do you want to do? I should take a study break anyways”

You asked putting aside the book, making sure to carefully place the note between the pages acting as a bookmark you’d always cherish.

With those words, it was as if a switch was flipped on his attitude and his eyes lit up as he grinned,excited to finally have your attention.

“So what I'm saying is we should…”

[ A few hours later, still, your “fifteen-minute break from studying suddenly extended to hours, as usual. ]

Laying on Minho’s bed, you’d both finished watching the final episode of a show that you binged on together, the laptop going into sleep mode since having been ditched after a while.

Minho laid down with his head in your lap, you sitting upright as you caressed his hair, something you loved to do and well who was Minho do deny his lover's affection when he admittedly loved it just as much, maybe even more.

"You know, I know I say you should be lucky to have me but honestly I got lucky having you."

He said randomly while looking at you, a gentle smile on his face and gaze shining with sincerity.

Even if it was quite a simple sentence, your heart still fluttered at the sincere tone and you too now had a small grin forming.

You hummed, now smiling at him, nodding as you pushed your fingers through his hair strands, gently patting them down as well.

"I meant it though. What I wrote in that…note." He said grinning up at you.

"Though I'm sad you didn't take me seriously at first." He slightly pouted to which you giggled at how offended his tone was.

"That's because you're an absolute idiot." You told biting your lip and just as he was about to protest, you leaned down and pecked his lips to shut him up, smiling at the way he complied so easily to you.

Moving back a bit, you whispered so tenderly as if the words should only be between you two.

"But you're still my idiot and I love you too."

all written works as well as images and edits (unless credited) belong to pri. do not plagiarise, repost, re-edit or claim as yours. pics mostly found on pinterest.

writingmeraki Ⓒ 2023

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