#sometimes it feels like no time has passed at all and then i have to remind myself what all happened

[orangeblossomsintheair]

HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33

summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

wc : 5k

an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))

Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.

It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.

When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.

But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.

Monaco isn’t a city, not really.

It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.

Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.

The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.

It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.

Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.

There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.

Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.

Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.

Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.

He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.

That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.

He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.

A voice.

Your voice.

It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.

Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.

The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.

He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.

You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.

The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.

And God, you look good.

For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.

You look different.

Not in a drastic way, just… grown.

Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.

And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.

To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.

You were his best friend.

No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.

He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.

People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.

Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.

Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.

But Max has never been great at logic.

For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

But then you glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes lock.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt

You see him.

And Max realizes he’s fucked.

For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.

He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.

It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.

But this? This disarms him completely.

You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.

“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”

Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.

No one except you.

“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.

Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”

Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”

You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.

He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.

It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.

Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.

“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”

“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

��An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.

The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.

Maybe months.

It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.

You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.

“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”

“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”

Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”

Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”

“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.

Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”

You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.

“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

“He is,” Max agrees.

When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.

“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.

“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.

“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”

“WHAT?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.

So you double down.

“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.

“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”

“WHAT?”

This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.

He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.

“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.

“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.

“UPSTAIRS!”

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.

The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.

The second you step into the VIP area, the relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.

“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.

“For what?” you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”

You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”

You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”

Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”

You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”

“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”

Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”

“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.

“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”

“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”

“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”

“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”

He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”

“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”

You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”

“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.

“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.

“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.

“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.

“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.

Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.

Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.

The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.

Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”

“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.

“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.

“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.

“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.

His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.

“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”

“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”

You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”

Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”

“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”

“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.

Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”

“’S not my fault!” you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”

Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”

“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”

“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.

“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”

“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”

“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.

“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”

You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”

“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”

“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.

Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”

You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.

“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”

“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”

“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”

“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.

“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.

“Am not,” you huff, pouting.

“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.

When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.

“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.

Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.

His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.

You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”

He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.

Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.

By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.

It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.

The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.

As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.

Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.

You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.

“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.

The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.

Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.

You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.

The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.

Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.

Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”

You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.

“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.

You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”

When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.

The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.

Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.

“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.

At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.

The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”

“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.

He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”

You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.

With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.

“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.

Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.

“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.

The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

—-

Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.

Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.

He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.

A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.

He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.

He’s still in his room. So far, so good.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.

For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.

But then—

There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.

Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.

It’s... a person.

A person in his bed.

What the actual hell?

His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.

Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?

Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.

The person is you.

You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.

“I need to call Daniel..”

For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.

How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.

This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Mo' Money Mo' Problems

See Me Through You Blurb

Synopsis: Asking for help has always been hard for you, but when you aren't left with another option, your recently drafted NFL boyfriend comes to your rescue

Pairing: Boyfriend!Joe Burrow x Girlfriend!Reader

Requested: by a gorgeous anon 😍

Series Masterlist

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Erin looked at you as you sat down across from her and sighed. This had been going on for the past week and you had now given yourself a headache trying to figure out what you were going to do.

“Call your boyfriend.” Erin told you as she threw your phone for you to catch it, but you quickly shook your head no as you caught it before it hit the floor.

“I am not calling him.”

“And why NOT?” She exclaimed and looked at you as if you were crazy.

“Because this is my problem and I'm going to deal with it. I don't have to run to him for every little thing.”

“YOUR BOYFRIEND PLAYS IN THE NFL! AS A QUARTERBACK! Or did you suddenly forget?”

“Just because he plays in the NFL doesn't mean I’m going to take advantage of that.” You said as you crossed your arms.

“Bestie, I love you but you fucking annoy me so much sometimes. So let me ask you this, Joe doesn't have a problem asking you for sex correct?”

“What in the world are you getting at?”

“Answer my question.”

“No, he doesn't.”

“And he fucks you raw simply because you had a fucking pregnancy scare two semesters ago when he won the Heisman.”

“Erin, get to the point already. I was scared out of my damn mind.” You replied as you rolled your eyes.

“My point is that you shouldn't have a problem asking your boyfriend who fucks you raw for money. At the very LEAST like bare minimum he can give you a little cash.”

“I get it but..”

“Uh no you obviously don't. And you know how he is. First thing out of his mouth is going to be why didn't you tell him. I'm convinced that man would drink your bath water if you let him.”

“I swear you get on my nerves.”

“Welp been doing that since we were three and that's not changing any time soon.”

“I don't know. I feel kind of weird asking people for anything. Like not just him and I’ve always been like that.” You said as you got up to go into your kitchen with Erin following close behind.

“It's not like he's going to want you to pay him back. I guarantee you that he'll give it to you without a second thought. You never know unless you try. Surprised he hasn't put your name on the bank account yet.”

“Something is wrong with you.”

“Bitch, don't act like he's not going to put a ring on your finger. Surprised he didn't do it our first semester.” Erin told you as you turned to look in the freezer for ground turkey to make homemade burgers for the two of you.

“Yes, obviously but not yet.”

“He is literally just waiting for you to graduate to do it.”

“And how do you know all this?” You asked as you began to cut up red onion along with some green bell peppers.

“I just do and like I said, he would drink your bath water.”

“Ew, Erin that's nasty.”

“Just calling it like I see it. But if you don't fix this in 48 hours when your rent is due, I'm calling Joe.”

Twenty four hours later you were finally lying down in your bed after a long and exhausting day, your phone rang indicating a facetime call coming through and you rolled over onto the other side to answer it. When your boyfriend's face came into view, you instantly smiled.

“Hi my love.” You quietly said and wrapped yourself tighter in the blankets that were covering you while propping up your phone.

“Hey baby doll. How was your day?” He asked while it looked like he was sitting up against the headboard.

“Hmm, long. I've been up since 4 in the morning. But you know I never pass up an opportunity to talk to you. I miss you.”

“I miss you too and Erin called me.”

“What? Why?”

She literally only gave you 24 hours and not 48 like she promised.

“You tell me. Something going on that I should know about?” Joe asked and you continued to look at him confused.

“Uh, not that I can think of.”

“Let me ask you this then. Have you paid your rent this month for your condo?”

“No and I have no idea why she called you. I told her I would take care of it.”

“Because you miscalculated your bills for this month and they added a whole bunch of fees and you decided to suffer instead of calling your boyfriend for help.”

“I…”

“Is that it?”

“I didn't want to bother you.” You quietly said and Joe just looked at you.

“Seriously? When are you ever bothering me? I have another question for you.”

“Yes?”

“You plan on being with me for a long time, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you know that I'm going to take care of you right? Especially when you graduate and move up here.”

“Yes.”

“So, why wouldn't I take care of you now?”

“I know you will, but if I can do it on my own, I'm going to try to.”

“But I'm here and you don't have to. Aren't you a WAG now?” Joe asked as he smiled at you.

“I want to be the W and not the G.” You replied without skipping a beat.

“Who’s to say that I don't already have your ring?”

“Well, my finger is still bare so? What does that do for me?” You told him as you held it up so he could see your hand.

“Touché, princess.” Joe told you as he smirked.

“Mm hmm, that's what I thought.”

“But next time you come up here we're picking out a house.”

“I…”

“Me and my future wife along with my future kids need a place to live so we can start looking. Or we can have it built, your choice."

“And a new car, mine is on its last leg.”

“Name it and it's yours. That goes for whatever else you want to.”

“NO! I'm going to get it! You are not going bankrupt buying someone who is not even your wife expensive things.”

“You ARE my wife; it's just not on paper yet.” He told you as he shrugged while your cheeks began to heat up.

“Babeeeee.”

“What? I'm not saying anything that isn't true. And besides, I'm not spending any money from my contract. Just my endorsement deals. But back to our original problem, you're good for the rest of the year.”

“I… JOEY! That was like 4,000 dollars!”

“Money is not a factor when it comes to you. If you need it, I'm getting it. So can we move on?”

"Fine, while I have you in a giving mood, I want an elephant." You replied and Joe simply gave you a blank stare.

"Best I can do is the Cincinatti Zoo, you gotta work with me here."

"Well, you said 'name it and it's yours'."

"Baby, I meant within reason and an elephant is not within reason."

[the-original-skipps]

|| Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine x Reader || Headcanons || Honkai Star Rail ||

you guys voted so here it is! I tried to write it without the yandere but I couldn’t lol also I got another yandere pirate aven where’s he’s alive if yall wanna check that out

HUMAN VER.

CW: slight sexual content. forced relations. major yandereness. ghost possession. non-consensual touching. mentions of death & the afterlife.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who feels himself standing by death's door but doesn’t want to actually die. He thought he’d be able to accept it or welcome it even - it’s what he’s always wanted; to be free from this cursed life but images of you flash through his mind as he takes his last breaths.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who before he completely loses himself to the beckoning darkness, silently pleads for death not to take him. There’s so many things he wants to see, to accomplish, that lost treasure he’s yet to find - but most of all he wants to remain beside you longer.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who realizes his luck somewhat saved him again as he’s now a ghost. He’s disappointed that he no longer has a mortal form, completely phasing through any physical object. He also no longer feels urges like hunger or sleep but one urge still remains within him. The urge to see you again.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who leaves the cold waters of the ocean to roam the mortal realm to try to find you again. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he died, he’s not sure if you’re even alive but he needs some closure. Maybe if you’ve died, he hopes that by gaining that knowledge there will be no more lingering regrets tying him to this world. He’d pass on, hopefully to see you in the afterlife. Though he doubts that sinners like him wouldn’t end up in the same place as you.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who has supposedly died but is somehow here in your very living room. After an excruciating long time, he manages to find you alive and well. He looks the same as the last time you’ve seen him except now his fingers have turned blue. Ghostly blue orbs floating around him as he smiles at you gleefully.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who decides to bind himself to you. It’s the whole reason he’s still alive right? The gods he never believed in - they’ve heard his pitiful last wish to remain by your side. They’ve granted it to him! He’ll remain by your side until death comes knocking at your door too. Then you’d be together forever right?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who’s just as mischievous and teasing as when he was still alive but only this time you can’t do anything against him. He’d play countless pranks to scare you - delighting in your frightened expressions. He’ll randomly appear behind you, make objects float around you and purposely make sounds late into the night to frighten you into not sleeping. Don’t sleep, he’s awfully lonely when you do that.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who spends every single second attached to your side. Even if you’re at home or outside in town - he’s there floating around you. Not only is he always there, he also never stops talking. He can’t help it, he’s got no one else to talk to and you’re the only one who can see him.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who likes to whisper distracting and sometimes dirty things in your ear when you talk to other people. Making it hard to concentrate and for the other person to look at you weirdly. Because why are you glancing at something behind them? There’s nothing there right? Right?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who asks - borderline pleading for you to let him possess you. It’s been awfully long since he’s done anything besides being glued to you. You don’t always respond to him either, choosing to ignore him, he needs something else to do. So he constantly asks you to the point of annoyance to give up your body for him. Which one day succeeds because you’re tired of listening to him - even when you’re trying to sleep he doesn’t leave you alone. A decision you’d come to regret.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who immediately breaks the rules you’ve set for him once he’s possessed your body. He can’t help it, there are just so many things he’s always wanted to see you do but you keep refusing to. So he uses this opportunity to make you pull different faces and say things you’d normally not say for his amusement. Is it weird to feel his heart fluttering when he makes you say things like you love him, that you only need him - even though he’s the one who’s controlling your body to do these things?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine after being deprived of you for so long, wants to play with your body. He’s missed you deeply, the sight of your bare skin reflected in the mirror inducing excitement within him - your body. It’s a strange feeling he must admit as he runs your hands through your body, wanting to know what makes you tick. He can’t help it, he wants to know everything about you, especially what makes you feel good. As your hand inches closer to your most sensitive parts, Aventurine thinks to himself. You wouldn’t mind if he played a little right? Your body would definitely enjoy it.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who had to forcibly peel himself from the mirror finally heads into town to indulge himself. He doesn’t want to spend the money you painstakingly made so he has to earn some himself. Aventurine in your body hits up the largest tavern in town to gamble. It didn’t take long for him to sweep the table clean of riches, all for his taking. The usual accusations of cheating happens, and a fight breaks out. The last thing he wants to do is to get injuries on your precious body so he ends the fight quickly and cleanly. He has some shopping to do after.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who lays down beside you on your bed after enjoying a night out in town. As much as he enjoyed possessing you, he misses your actual presence. So, he lays there beside you until you wake up. When you do, you almost jump out of your skin with how close his face is to yours. You feel as if you’ve gone into the deepest sleep, not remembering anything after you gave Aventurine permission to possess you. You immediately ask him what happened and what he’s done while he controlled your body. Only for him to give you a teasing smile. Which makes you horrified and confused as to what he’s done. Also as to why your room is filled with ribboned boxes.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine as days goes by starts to become more possessive of you - wanting to monopolize you. He keeps track of the people in your life, who they are and what they mean to you. He wants to get rid of them one by one until you have him remaining. So, don’t be so surprised to hear that your friends want nothing to do with you anymore - or if the person who was seemingly interested in you disappears. Oh, they got into a tragic accident? How unfortunate! Don’t look at him like he didn’t do anything or so he wants you to believe.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who’s starting to miss touching and holding you like he used to when he was still alive. At this point he’s starving for the feel of your skin on his hands again. He ponders if he should possess someone to make that happen but he doesn’t want anyone else’s hands to touch you even if he’s in control of it. He’ll just have to find some other way then. He’s heard rumors of a sea witch who supposedly grants people’s wishes. Maybe he’ll pay her a visit?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who contemplates every now and then when you’d die. If you died would you also become a ghost? He ponders this question a lot in his abundant free time. What if you just pass on? There are too many uncertainties, he needs to find the answer. When the time comes you’ll gladly join him right? No? Well, he has ways to make it happen whether you’re willing or not. Only then would you both be truly bound to each other, beyond life and death. 

[yoroshiu]

Legit THIS! I've had thoughts about the perception others had of Sora in-universe throughout the series, especially during this time period! It's the way he's portrayed as a distant almost divine being with barely any of his joy and down-to-earth whimsy, so looking at it from Xion and especially Roxas' POV, he comes across as colder.

So many characters and things in general seem to have a specific use and view of Sora, and on the surface, it's usually good and for the greater good, but KH has gone out of its way at multiple points to give the audience the notion that this has affected Sora negatively. As time passes, the consequences start making the scars more noticeable.

It always stuck with me how 3D brought up Sora being "next on the list" whether it be for the Organization (which initially went for Riku, then even Roxas (which in itself is interesting to think about), then finally Sora) and even the keyblade (Riku to Sora). Sometimes it feels like, even if unintentionally from the others most of the time, view Sora in a sense of "what he is capable of doing" rather than Sora as a person with his own opinions on things.

I'm reminded of the many times I've heard players refer to Sora as a reactionary character. Things tend to happen to him rather than him starting things in many cases. It reflects well with the personality he's introduced with in KH1, but interestingly, I feel it plays into how he keeps getting pulled into things whether he'd want to or not. Sora doesn't get a choice—he has to save the world, he has to be the one others are sacrificed for, he has to be the one. The universe banks on the fact that Sora is just so good and loving that it will ignore any potential damage that will be inflicted on him.

And what sucks even more is that Sora believes that all of his value and strength comes from everyone else. He feels that he can't do anything without them. Time and time again, Sora is never given the breathing room to properly process anything. It's one battle after another, and even if he does say something, there isn't enough time to linger on it.

(In a way (I can't stop saying it), I think this actively affects how people in-universe and in real life view Sora. How you usually don't see as many people talk about the more tragic aspects of him and his journey. If you ask others in the general fandom, you're much more likely to hear about Roxas and Aqua (for good reason!). But not often do we think about how Sora was being used in CoM-Days (or just throughout the series).)

Anyone else find it fascinating that whenever we're shown Roxas's feelings through Sora, it's just kind of melancholic and wistful, but the reverse scenario always feels like you just walked into a psychological horror?

Seriously, the way it's presented, it's like we're meant to see Roxas as an old friend that we miss talking to, but Sora - our original "old friend" that we would have reasons to miss - is hardly even shown as a person. The contents of his memories feel less important than the effect they're having on Roxas, which is usually Extreme Distress and/or physical pain.

And it's insane to me because KH1 was so whimsical! The memories that Roxas and Xion are experiencing are literal Disney magic! But the way they're shown, with the fuzzy filters and the glitch effects, sort of removes the emotions you associate with them and makes them come across as eerie and unsettling.

Not to mention, Sora's memories rarely prompt any feelings of happiness, the way Roxas's might make Sora extra fond of the Twilight Town crew... which might say more about how KH1 affected Sora's mental health than anything.

(I personally stand by the idea that the story revisits it so much as an analogy for how repeating events in your head over and over can alter your perception of them)

But like. how wild is it that this series found a way to take its cheerful protagonist, and without changing anything about him, turned him into this constant, unnerving presence that haunts the lives of two other characters?

And I think another reason Roxas doesn't feel like he haunts Sora in the same way is because no one really... treats Sora like a person while he's asleep. He's either a tool or an object of affection, and regardless of which you pick, his feelings are seen as secondary to the goal of waking him up. As a result, the narrative focuses entirely on Roxas and Xion's personhood, and unlike Sora, they never stop being treated like people once they're made inaccessible due to the plot.

It's probably a bit late in the story to bring it up by now, but I still wonder if we'll ever see Sora be upset with Riku for sacrificing people in his name. Sure, it worked out in the end, and I'm not sure if Sora's even aware of what happened (how likely is it that he's properly sifted through all of Roxas's memories at this point?) but there's a list of things he could still conceivably be mad at Riku about that he hasn't processed, and I want this to be one of them

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

P*rn ☆  Chapter 1, a familiar stranger

Masterlist Word count: 1.2 k Sylus x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been following a spicy content creator by the name of Red Crow for some time now. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what would happen when he moves into the apartment next door.

Warning! This story is meant for mature audiences. It contains sex, swear words, porn, smoking, intimate piercings, mentions of drugs, and other mature themes. Do not engage if you are under 18.

Mature content under the cut. No graphic content yet.

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘ 

'Did Rafayel find someone to rent my apartment yet,' Zayne questions as he puts two mugs of tea on your coffee table. You shrug in response. 

'Haven't heard anything yet, but knowing him, it'll probably be soon.' Zayne smiles at your sulking expression. He reaches out to ruffle a hand through your hair. You quickly smack his hand away and stare at him with pretend anger. 

'How have you been holding up without me?' That question is loaded, and he knows it. For the past four years, he has been your neighbor. But he has always been much more than that. 

When he noticed you were living on your own, he would sometimes bring over leftovers. Some days you would come home to a note taped on your door with a request to be quiet because he had a long shift and another even longer shift coming up. You started doing the same, but with notices if you had someone over or were doing something that could cause noise. Eventually, you two got to talking and formed a familial relationship. It always felt like you had a big brother looking out for you. 

Ever since he moved to the next city over to work in another hospital, you have missed him tons. Sometimes it hurts when you realize you can't just walk two steps from your front door and be talking to him. Meeting up is even more strenuous than it was before, and you miss him like crazy. It's not just the proximity though, no, it's also that you don't know everything going on in his life anymore. He's doing amazing things, meeting amazing people, helping to make the world a better place, and you barely know the names of his closest colleagues. 

'I'm fine,' but your voice betrays you, trembling throughout your words. Zayne's eyes look worried, and his hand moves to touch your shoulder to comfort you. 'I'm fine, really. Just getting used to being alone in the city again.' 

'You're not alone anymore. You've got Tara, and you get along alright with that new colleague of yours, right? Jeremiah?' 

'I know, it's just...' He reaches out to pull you into his chest. 

'I understand. I miss you too.' 

'I just hope the next person is nice too,' you mumble against his shirt while he gently rubs your back. All this feels so normal, so nice. You're not sure if you'll ever fully get over not living next to Zayne anymore. It was perfect, and now it's gone. You can't blame him though. This was a very important step for his career and you're glad he did it, it just makes you feel like you're stuck in the same place all over again.  

Everything just feels so stagnant, so normal. Like nothing ever changes. You can only tell that time has passed by your growing fingernails and the dust building up on your windowsill... You should really clean. It's been too long. 

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘ 

'This is nice,' Luke awes as he walks into Sylus’ new apartment. The place is completely empty and there's a bit of an echo, but he's right. The place is nice. That doesn't mean Sylus has to be happy about it. In fact, he's not even close to being done groaning and whining about being doxed for the third time. 

Sylus grumbles: 'My last place was nice.' Kieran nudges him over the threshold of the apartment. 

'Stop whining you big baby. Shit happens.' Sylus turns to him with a death glare. Kieran rolls his eyes and holds up his hands in defeat. 'Sorry man. There really isn't much else to say about it.' 

Sylus knows damn well that he's right, he's just not ready to admit it. That last place was a little bit special to him. It was the first place he moved into on his own after a long relationship. He knew his job would always be an obstacle in any relationship, but he thought she had gotten over it. She clearly hadn't.  

When his popularity skyrocketed, she left him. Told him she couldn't keep sharing him, no matter how many times he told her there was no one to share him with. She was part of the reason he started doing solo stuff. He even offered her to stop doing it. It wasn't even a big deal to him. That didn't matter to her. 

Luke and Kieran tried to get him back to who he was, yet even they couldn't ignore the fact that he became a little different. He distanced himself, became harsher, became colder. He wasn't particularly rude or anything, just a bit off-putting if you don't know him. 

'Anyway, I'm going to let your neighbor know we're moving you in this week,' Kieran states and quickly leaves the apartment. Luke gives Sylus a look. 

'What,' Sylus snaps at him. 

'Shouldn't you join him?' Sylus raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. Suddenly, he looks a lot bigger and a lot more intimidating. 

'I just got doxed. Why would I go around introducing myself to everyone?' 

Luke just shrugs. Sylus antics don't do much to him anymore after knowing him so long. 'Fair enough.' 

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘ 

The doorbell buzzes. It's ever so slightly longer than the average person would press a doorbell, and so ever so slightly more annoying. Mayorly more annoying because you were just dozing off cuddled up to Zayne on the couch. It has been a long time since that happened. 

You groan and shift, but Zayne tightens his grip. 'Don't go.' His voice is gravelly, tired, a little strained. For a little while you're considering it, but then the bell buzzes a second time. Longer this time. 

'It's just for a second,' you whisper back. He nods and his grip loosens. You get off his chest and quickly shuffle to the front door. When you open it, you have to take a few seconds to digest the picture in front of you. 'Kieran? Why are you here? Does Tara need something?' 

It seems his head short-circuits just like yours has as he takes a few seconds to answer. 'Eh, no. I didn't know you live here. I'm just... I'm helping a friend move in. I'm doing a round to warn people about the noise.' 

'Oh, good to know. Thank you. Who's your friend?' 

'His name is Sylus but he's a pretty private person, so I can't promise you he'll stop by to introduce himself.' 

'Fair enough,' you respond while you think back to how Zayne used to be. It was a similar situation. Took more than half a year before you two would even greet each other when passing in the hallway. 'Well, give Tara my best. I'll probably see you soon.' 

'I will. See ya.' 

'Who was that,' Zayne asks from the couch. 

'Friend of the new neighbor. He's moving in this week.' You grab your phone from the coffee table to check if Rafayel send anything about a new tenant, instead you see a notification from Red Crow's socials. A new post. 

"No smutty chapter this Friday. I have a busy week.   Maybe if you beg, I'll record myself getting off." 

Previous - Next

[daeyumi]

Cycle of the Stars: Prologue II

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60104758/chapters/158660371

Prologue II

Ipseity

***

23rd day of Rising Sun

It happened again today. That uneasiness, a looming duress; like thunderheads come at last to devour the hungry sky. A catalyst. It seems a portent of things to come. I feel it when I walk the streets of the town, a grim wind between the crowds. Not in their faces or in the busy markets, vibrant as always. But I feel it all the same.

Reports are the same as ever. Monsters to the west, far across the sands; dispatched by the party who brought the news. An unconcerning pattern. Our people are strong, we carry the wind and the sky in our swords.

All is well.

And yet….

Current emotions: apprehension, stability, resilience

24th day of Rising Sun

I passed by her effigy. I didn’t intend to, lost in thought and wandering the back streets of my city, away from my pretensions and the relentless eyes of its denizens. I’ve walked these streets so many times, day by day over the years, the markets, the inn, the homes of my people. Our lives.

I know them like the tracks on the back of my hand, each line a story, an introspection, a defiance. I do not walk the path that leads to her. Always taking alternate routes- a lifetime of avoidance, of cowardice; a king hiding like a rat from the burning glare of a sun that was never meant for me.

And yet I saw her. That abhorrent goddess. Weathered stone worn smooth by the ardent consecration of many hands; an immutable effigy to match its subject. She leers down at me from her hallowed alcove; her cold eyes watching me, freezing me, judging me. Using me. She would use me if she could, as she has so many of my predecessors. I reject their fate, as I should have rejected their path and tread another.

Sometimes I think I should have chosen a different name, far removed from this accursed title and its implications. But the associations persist, groundless; and so I remain.

Current emotions: defiance, wistfulness, steadfast rejection

25th day of Rising Sun

I keep running it over again in my mind. Did I feel this way before? Yesterday? This morning? There’s no evidence. My records show the same; the persistence of my resolve unequivocal in these pages.

I feel they’re plotting against me. The goddesses.

Every movement I make, I suspect interference of a higher power. A puppet on divine strings, a doll tossed to the callous earth and left to rot amongst the refuse, swallowed by avarice and the fetters of eons spent in limbo.

I wonder if she smiles down at us as we fight and kill and die in her name like playthings.

I will wander no further down this path tonight; I have other matters to occupy my mind.

Current emotions: introspection, suspicion, anticipation

26th day of Rising Sun

The merchants whisper of strange disappearances across the sand, some travelers claiming to have lost contact with inhabitants of the far dunes.

Swallowed to the earth without a trace.

These allegations are unsubstantiated at best; yet still I am forced to consider the implications of an unknown actor upon my lands.

Current emotions: scrutiny, quietude, steadiness

27th day of Rising Sun

Another skirmish broke out on the northeastern border with Hyrule. None of our own were lost, yet I cannot but suspect that larger pieces are in motion. For today, I remain grateful that all my warriors have returned to me.

Current emotions: peace, requital, suspicion

28th day of Rising Sun

I couldn’t sleep last night. My dreams were filled with faces; features scratched out and incomprehensible, looking down on me from a formless haze of revelation. So many in their number that a thousand lifetimes could not count them, and yet so few that they seemed only One. Flaying the skin from my bones with their judgment until nothing remained of me but the crest upon my right hand, tattered skin peeling back from the bone and shredding, fragmenting, returning to the sand in all corners of the world; scars releasing their hold on their captive and fleeing to the edges of my vision, absolved by the light in the piercing eyes above. And still those etched triangles remained. I felt my eyes recede into sand in the wind as I woke, my consciousness ebbing to the void at the same time it returned to me in wakefulness.

And yet nothing disturbs us in my waking hours.

Current emotions: foreboding, apprehension, resistance

29th day of Rising Sun

They say a Hero has appeared. They say he heralds a great darkness, the misfortune only endowed upon those forced to the wrong side of fate. The Hero’s rise has only ever spelled desolation for us. It’s the same damned prophecy I’ve been running from my whole life. The Princess, the Hero, and the sinistrous man held fast by the thrall of the dominance forced upon him by birthright.

I see my deepest fears laid to light before me. Strung out along my path like corpses wrung by the neck, withered husks prefacing a descent to erasure. They beckon me forth with voices of autonomy and empty promises.

Is there any other recourse to be taken than to wait? For if I make a move now, I throw myself willingly down the same declivity of actions as all those who came before, abandoning my will to providence and to the whims of the curse upon my flesh.

Current emotions: unease, disgust, rejection

30th day of Rising Sun

Hyrule wants war with us. They won’t state as much, but I see it in their eyes; the way they look at us, at me. Blame.

The envoy arrived this morning with an air of finality. Only a handful of Hylians; ambassadors and their guards. That woman striding brazenly at their helm. That Gerudo-turned-traitor, come to accuse us; burying the intent of Hyrule’s words beneath pleasantries and clarifications. Hiding behind the swords and shields of a so-called honor guard.

Their precaution is telling enough. And their adjurations when we spoke has only strengthened my conviction.

I spell it plainly here, so my future self can recall these terms without influence or bias- above all else, I must know my own thoughts. They suspect us for the monster attacks that threaten their kingdom; they claim the border skirmishes are waged in self-defense, citing raids on the settlements at the fringes of Hyrule. For disappearances and deaths. Brutality.

I demanded proof. They had nothing to show. Only discarded shards of bone, warped beyond recognition. A splintered, massive claw, serrated at its edge; holes driven through the carapace as if awaiting new growth from within. The tip of a weathered blade, blood rusted upon its surface. Nothing but refuse and remnants and blame. Blame for the past. Blame for the future. Blame for the unknown and the secret and the goddess-scorned and the false. They left in a stone-faced resolve, disappearing in the haze of heat across the sun-smeared dunes.

They’ve said nothing about the whispers of the hero. Is it ignorance, or subterfuge? And what does it say about my own state that I am unable to discern between the two?

I ill wish for bloodshed, but I will do what is necessary. Always.

Current emotions: tension, regret, unease

31st day of Rising Sun

I’ve begun to wonder if I’m overthinking this.

Perhaps what I sense is merely a facet of the larger scope. If the enmity I perceived was instead representative of a more tangible threat. I’ve had time to reflect upon the events of the past few days; and now having a clear sense of Hyrule’s intent, I fear the threat of men over formless cosmic interference. War. Or perhaps she has once again played me for a fool.

And when my senses fail me, I can trust nothing more than my own writings.

Current emotions: doubt, intrigue, contemplation

1st day of Zenith

I feel once more a fell wind upon our city. The masses pray in earnest to their delusory goddess; beseeching salvation from a burden which should never have been theirs to bear. I do not begrudge them their faith, though I wished they had chosen a better target for their prayers.

Current emotions: contempt, rejection, stability

2nd day of Zenith

Nāori brought the report today. One of our scouting parties did not return from their sortie; a routine patrol to the southwestern border. They were expected back at dusk two days past; a search party already dispatched to their aid. This development... it weighs heavily on my mind. I wait until the morrow, but no further.

Current emotions: impatience, unease, worry

3rd day of Zenith

Trouble. A giant pit in the sands. My soldiers are missing. Glass sphere. Vast abyss. I will write more as time allows.

Current emotions: anxiety, resolve, anger

4th day of Zenith

I found them.

I set out yesterday at dusk, after one of my soldiers returned bearing news that their scouting party had been swallowed by the desert. She cited a massive pit in the wasteland like a giant abyss; it opened up suddenly in a in a flash of searing cold, rending a hole in the dunes. Isa is her name. She claimed herself the sole survivor, witness to the desecration. I have no reason to distrust her, though I am forced to consider the possibility that she is an agent of a higher power, sent to lure me away. I go forward regardless. I will not risk the safety of my people to send another.

I tread the long path to the southwest, to the cruel corners of the desert, following Isa’s footprints until the sand reclaimed them; tracking my soldiers by the moon and stars alone. Out to the far reaches of the kingdom, away from the border with Hyrule.

I saw it there.

A gaping fissure in the earth; a compressed sphere of sand above, its surface glassy and dark as if burnt by the sun, forging a black eclipse in the arid sky. It cast an ominous presence above me. I descended along the cliffs in the midday sun, finding rest along the shallow crevasses in the sun-baked earth; seeing no one, hearing nothing. Only the wind howling rough across the entrance to the abyss. The further I plunged, the more the cracks in the walls opened up, pushing deeper into the earth like the seamstress’s needle on coarse cloth. I found the entrance to the cavern far below; a tunnel rough-hewn but steady, unnatural.

I beheld the first signs of despair upon that threshold.

Empty eyes. Twisted, broken limbs. Once familiar faces contorted into mockeries of amity. Blood on their bodies and the floor and the walls and the ceiling; glittering rubies dyed crimson with the sunset draining from the sky, leeching the color from ashen skin. The final nightfall before the end.

Rhine. Luka. Ryza. Fyrani. Palu. Osa.

Their bodies haven’t even started to decay yet. Maybe it would be easier if they had. Perhaps then, they would not be so easily recognizable. That I would wish for the desecration of those I should have mourned…. The cycle begins anew like violence welling up beneath my skin.

I never want to forget this feeling. Numbness; ineptitude; guttural, sickening, twisted fury. I dared not move for fear that I would act upon my impulses. I refuse to allow her a way in.

I will not become her tool.

…

The silence has afforded me the time to write, but little else. I wish it were not so. I sit with them still, one final vigil in the gloam.

It is all I can offer them now, ill solace that it is; this and the promise of vengeance with every breath I take.

It is not enough.

It will never be enough.

Current emotions: wrath stability, perseverance, vengeance

—NO—

preservation

***

I cannot sleep.

I remember the carnage on the sands. Standing amid the corpses of a dozen grown men. A child. The feeling of the spear haft in my grip, battle hardened and slick with blood and sweat, sticking between the crevasses of the treated wood and freezing my hands in place. And I remember Sumiira’s eyes. Holding me, pleading. Not for her life, but for mine. She was wrong. Unseeing; the vitality in them extinguished by the ring of persecution laid lifeless at my feet. And all I could think about was what I could tell our mother. Feeling even then that I had already fallen victim to the curse of my forebears.

Enough.

If I have time to write, I have time to search.

Tonight I will return my soldiers�� remains to the desert, and press forward into the hungry earth. There are still more bodies unaccounted for.

5th day of Zenith

I am running out of time. I swept the catacombs from the early hours of the morning til the sun disappeared once more from the tenuous horizon, dripping light from the edges of the hollow eclipse hanging over me. Unable to sleep, unable to rest.

These tunnels reek of her influence. “Divine intervention”. It seeps into the floors and the walls and the air, clawing it’s way into my throat, infecting me from within. I hear voices calling in the darkness but I dare not open my mouth to respond, for fear that she will use that ingress against me.

I make haste to the depths of the labyrinth now, wondering if I lead myself to the precipice of my demise.

Current emotions: unease, impetus, melancholy

6th day of Zenith

There are other corpses still, in the tunnels. I passed ever more in my descent: those unfamiliar to me in their garments and features. And some of our own. Rotted flesh flayed beyond recognition. The stench settled heavy around me as my footfalls broke the requiem to sully the tainted ground beneath me. Alone, I walked the winding crevasses beneath the sands; alone I searched in vain for the last of the unaccounted for.

I heard them, first, but suspected another trick of the fetid air. Their silhouettes came into focus as I rounded a corner in the catacombs, stone-still and broken. But the bodies that crouched amid the blood and rubble still drew breath— their eyes desperate and wary, reflecting back the firelight of my torch. Five living in total. Makure cradled her sister’s limp body in her arms. All of them bore wounds. Even so, knowing that they yet lived strengthened my resolve and justified my quest; I was more relieved to find them than anyone may ever know.

I forged on.

I left the survivors but long enough to confirm the passing of the final two missing women; laid cold and solitary at the back of a dead-end passage. Time spared no kindness for us this day. I honor the dead by reconciling the living.

We returned through the winding paths of the chasm, ascending; emerging once more to the surface under the watchful reign of hardened glass, sun piercing the sky around its edge. I brought my warriors home. Delivered them hence to their families and their lives, carrying the wounded on my back and the dead in my heart. Yet still I feel the weight of an imminent future upon us. Tonight, I ordered the southwestern dunes closed off. I haven’t the numbers to investigate this anomaly further; and my own attention needs be turned to preparations for the inevitable conflict ahead of us.

I feel her eyes on me still; scorching my back in the candor of the sun, binding my hands and committing my mind to preclusion.

This is not the end.

Current emotions: foreboding, resolve, resistance

[Exerpts from the diary of Ganondorf, 71st King of the Gerudo.]

[charmedimsure]

Wake Up Call

pairing: Thanos/Choi Su-bong x f!reader

summary: Thanos is you're least favorite regular at the club you bartend for. But when you find him passed out against the building one night, you can't just leave him there. No debt/no games AU.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: drinking, drugs, addiction, depression

A/N: i'm really proud of this fic. expect a second part sometime soonish (gonna work on requests first tho). if you find any mistakes no you didn't <3

The music in Club Pentagon is so loud it feels like it's inside of you. You're placing the olives in a dry martini a patron is waiting for, handing it to them with a smile. You're one of the most popular bartenders at Club Pentagon. Men order from you because they're drunk and want to fuck you, and women order from you because they're more comfortable drinking cocktails that have been made by another woman.

"Señorita, over here!" A voice yells out to you and you sigh at the familiar voice.

You turn and put a hand on your hip, spotting the telltale purple hair of your least favorite regular. "What do you want?"

He puts a hand over his heart. "Ouch, you hurt me, baby. I just wanted to see my favorite girl."

You roll your eyes, grabbing a nearby towel and quickly wiping drops of different liquors off the bar. "Well, you saw me, so you can leave now."

He takes a glance at his little posse around him, consisting of guys hoping to get famous, girls wanting to say they slept with a rapper, and your least favorite coworker Nam-gyu. You have no idea how the runner still has a job here, considering he spends more time licking the failed rapper's boots than actually running anything.

"You know, I have an extra space at my table," he says. "I'd love if you came over after your shift. Thanos will treat you well."

You groan. The boy has been relentless in asking you out ever since you started working at the club. "I would rather sit with the movie villain than you." You look over his shoulder at your coworker. "Nam-gyu, take him away or I'm gonna volunteer you to clean the floors."

With a hiss, Nam-gyu puts his hands on Thanos' shoulders and steers him away from you. Thanos smiles over his shoulder, waving at you. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Señorita!"

You cringe, knowing that you most definitely will see him again tomorrow.

<>

The next night goes by much too slow for your liking. You spend your shift mixing the same drinks over and over, putting up with the men who flirt with you, and calling security on some men who won't leave girls alone. You had of course seen Thanos, but the club was so busy that you didn't even have the time to reject him, instead just huffing at him and turning to another person waiting at the bar.

Once your shift is over and you've finished everything you need to do, you step out through the back door, taking a deep breath of air that doesn't smell like smoke or alcohol.

As you walk toward the street to hail a cab, you spot a flash of purple against the wall. Getting a bit closer, you recognize the passed out body of Thanos.

While a small part of your mind is telling you to just leave him there, you know you can't do that. You crouch down next to him, putting your fingers on his pulse point and letting out a sigh of relief when you feel his heartbeat. You look down at him, furrowing your brows when you notice that the cross that always hangs around his neck is slightly open.

Carefully picking it up, you take a peek inside and see an assortment of multi-colored pills. Shit, he's lucky he's just passed out. Had you known he'd been on... whatever this shit is... you would've banned all bartenders from serving him drinks. He may be the bane of your existence, but you're not going to let him die.

You close the cross and remove it from around his neck, shoving it in your pocket. You lightly slap his cheek a few times until he blinks his eyes open, looking around him. He looks at you, eyes adjusting to the light.

"Hey, Señorita," he slurs. "Where is everybody? Where's Nam-su? He was supposed to take me home."

You let out a small chuckle at the name he called your coworker. "They aren't here."

He frowns, trying to stand up. "I need another drink."

You grab onto his shoulders, supporting his weight as he nearly topples to the ground. "I think you've had enough, Thanos. It's time to get you home."

He makes a sound of protest, but doesn't have the strength to stop you from dragging him to the curb as you wave down a taxi. The car pulls up and you help Thanos into the back seat before sliding in next to him.

"Where to, Miss?"

The plan was to take Thanos to his place, but you don't know where he lives and the odds of him telling you or the cab driver right now are slim. He also can't be left alone in the state he's in. One more pill could send him over the edge.

With a sigh, you tell the driver the address of your apartment building, holding Thanos upright as he pulls away from the club.

<>

Thanos wakes up, his head pounding worse than ever. He reaches for his cross to pop a pill to get rid of the headache, but instead of finding the necklace, his hands just grab his shirt.

He opens his eyes, hissing when the light makes a pang of pain go through his head. Looking down, Thanos' cross is nowhere to be found. That's when he realizes that he's not in his bed, or any bed, for that matter. He's laying on the couch in an unknown place, a small garbage can on the floor next to him. On the coffee table in front of him is a glass of water. He reaches for it, downing the whole glass in one go. Spotting a small note next to the glass, he picks it up and reads it.

'If you barf I'll make you clean it up. Use the garbage.'

He hears a noise coming from the other room and stands up, wanting to figure out what is happening and where he is. When he steps into the kitchen, he nearly gasps when he sees you with your messy hair and oversized t-shirt on.

You turn to look at him. "Oh good, you're not dead. I really didn't want to deal with that." You walk over to the fridge. "Blue or red?"

He gives you a confused look. "What?"

"Gatorade," you clarify. "Blue or red?"

"Oh, uhh, blue."

You grab the blue bottle and place it on the table. "Drink that. The electrolytes are good for hangovers."

Thanos walks slowly to the table, picking up the bottle and taking a sip. "Do you have a bathroom?"

"No, I just pee out the window," you deadpan without thinking. You see him look down, a look of embarrassment and shame taking over his face. You sigh. "Down the hall to the left."

The boy nods and disappears down the hallway. He walks into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He feels in his pockets, taking out his phone and huffing when he sees the battery is dead. Looking inside your medicine cabinet, he frowns when he can't find what he's looking for. How can you have no painkillers? Instead he takes the mouthwash, taking two big gulps. Mouthwash has alcohol, and he needs it. When he doesn't feel the familiar sting, he looks down at the label.

'Alcohol free'.

Just his fucking luck.

He puts the bottle back in the cabinet and closes it, coming face-to-face with himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes have never been darker, at least not that he can remember. His skin looks pale, and his hair is disgusting. He turns the knob for the sink, splashing his face with cold water.

When he walks back into the kitchen, you're no longer there. He moves to the table, seeing a plate with scrambled eggs and toast sitting next to his drink. Thanos hesitates, not really knowing what to do.

"That's for you, you know."

He jumps a bit when he hears your voice behind him. You come out of your room dressed in your casual clothes.

You smile slightly at his expression. "Do you not like eggs?"

He shakes his head. "No, eggs are good."

Your smile grows. "Good because that's all I know how to make. Do you want any hot sauce with it or something?" You put the rest of the eggs from the pan onto your own plate and leave the pan to cool off.

"Do you have pepper?" Thanos asks.

You nod, walking to the table and putting your plate down on the opposite side of his. "It's on the table."

Thanos cautiously sits down in his seat, reaching for the pepper and putting it on his eggs. He takes a bite, pleased to find that they are cooked just right. He watches you as you eat your breakfast in silence, scrolling through your phone mindlessly. A shot of pain going through his head and he winces. "Do you have any painkillers?"

You shake your head, not taking your eyes away from the screen. "I do, but I think you've mixed enough substances with whatever's in that cross you carry."

Thanos feels his entire body tense at the mention of his cross. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing ends up coming out.

You lock your phone and put it face-down on the table. "Don't worry, I didn't throw it out. It's in a safe place, along with the painkillers and anything else that could potentially be abused."

The boy lets out a breath and nods, continuing to eat slowly. He looks you over silently. Your face is bare of makeup and your hair is still messy. Thanos has liked you since the moment he first saw you at the club, but you've never looked more beautiful than you do right now. "What happened? How did I get here?"

"I found you passed out outside the club last night when I was leaving," you explain. "You said Nam-gyu was supposed to bring you home but I couldn't find him, so I took you back here."

Thanos huffs. "Fucking idiot," he says under his breath.

You snort out a laugh, and Thanos thinks it might just be the most beautiful noise he's ever heard. He wants to know what he can do to hear that noise again.

You both finish your food in a comfortable silence, you looking at your phone and Thanos looking at you. At one point you catch him looking at you and raise an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

He takes a deep breath. "Why are you helping me? Why are you being nice to me? I've been nothing but an asshole to you."

You sigh. "Honestly, I've been asking myself the same question. I think I just saw you there, alone and in need, and I thought that I would've wanted someone to help me had they found me like that. You have been an ass, but I think that's more the pills than you."

Thanos nods slowly, taking in your words. "Well, thank you."

You nod. "Just please don't make me regret showing you where my apartment is. I don't wanna move."

The boy chuckles, and you feel the corners of your mouth twitch up at the sound. "I won't. I promise."

"Good." You stand, taking your plate and his and bringing them to the sink. "I have off today. You're welcome to stay here for a bit until you're feeling better. I'll call a cab for you when you're ready."

Thanos goes back to the couch he woke up on, sitting down. He finds a charger for his phone and plugs it in. You come into the room, putting a new bottle of gatorade on the coffee table in front of him. He thanks you and cracks the seal.

The two of you end up talking for hours. He tells you about how he got into music, and you tell him that you always wanted to try learning to play the guitar, though you've never had enough money to buy one or the other equipment. Thanos feels his heart grow fuller with every laugh he is able to get out of you. He gets more satisfaction from these few hours spent with you than he has every night drinking his life away at Club Pentagon.

At one point, you look at him, a lazy smile on your face. "What's your name?"

He gives you a look of confusion.

"Your real name. I doubt your real name is Thanos."

He lets out a nervous laugh. He hasn't gone by his real name in at least a year. "It's Su-bong," he says shyly. "Choi Su-bong."

"Su-bong," you repeat, as if trying out how it feels. You smile at him. "I like Su-bong. You should be him more often."

Later, as you stand outside your building calling for a taxi, you turn to look at the boy next to you. "You know, you could be so much more than this."

He looks at you with wide eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You have talent and heart, more than you've ever shown while out of your mind drunk and stoned," you say. "So many people's lives are ruined because they keep chasing that high. Don't be one of those people. Please. You're meant for better."

A cab pulls to the curb in front of you. As Su-bong opens the door, you put an arm on his shoulder, stopping him. Digging into your pocket, you pull out his cross and hand it to him. "The choice is yours. And if you decide you want to give your life another chance, I'll be here to support you." You hand him a slip of paper with your phone number. "This is for support. If you text me the way that you talk to me at the club, I'm going to block you. Do not make me regret this."

He smiles as he takes the cross and the paper from you. Once he sits in the car, he rolls the window down. "Thank you again, for everything."

You give him a small smile and wave before walking back into your apartment building.

Once inside his own apartment, Thanos walks to his bathroom. He takes the cross out of his pocket, opening it to find his pills. He picks one up, examining it. With a sigh, he drops the pill into the toilet, turning the cross over so the others follow. He watches as the bright pills swirl around bowl before disappearing down the drain. He doesn't want to be this person anymore. He wants to be someone that you can be proud of. Someone that he can be proud of.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TW: POSSIBLE SUICIDAL INTENT, gore metaphor, self harm (reader scratching herself as a coping mechanism), manipulation.

You remember that time.

You remember that time when Dad looked happy—a nearly foreign sight. For what felt like ages, he had been frowning, dark circles under his eyes, the visible crease on the side of his mouth ever since the constant fights between him and Mother.

But lately, he's been smiling; he's been humming the tune you thought he'd forgotten. You also remember plopping down next to him on the couch, cheeks puffed out, eager to know what had him in such a good mood. "Daddy, what are you smiling about?" you asked then, and yet-

And yet, the moment he heard that, something in his eyes abruptly dimmed, just like it always did whenever Mother walked into the room. You instantly regret speaking up, wishing you had just stayed silent and let him bask in his already rare moment of happiness.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” as Mom used to say. This time, your curiosity will kill Dad. So, you’re never curious again, never dared to ask again.

Dad has been coming home later and later, leaving barely any time for you to spend together. It’s like he’s always working, always busy. Gone are the days of sneaky trips to the ice cream shop or casual strolls through the park. Sometimes, you compare yourself to that old dog the Jenkins had—the one they stopped walking because they lost that love they had when he was still a cute little puppy.

It was as if the unhappiness that had held Dad back had somehow transferred over to Mother.

Lately, the fights between your parents had become increasingly frequent, leading you to shut yourself away in your bedroom and sing loudly just to drown out the noise. Mother would often sigh heavily, slamming the cupboards like she had some kind of grudge against them. The constant frowning had begun to etch deep wrinkles onto her face, and the dark circles under her eyes appeared to grow darker with each passing day. She was even losing her hair—the bathroom sink was a testament to that.

You started to notice strange behaviors from Mother as well. She would constantly check Dad’s phone whenever he was in the bathroom, rummaging through the trash for any stray pieces of paper or receipts, even asking you to check his clothes and bring them to her. Whenever Dad came home, she would confront him, demanding to know why he was home so late.

Everything feels weird. When you try to ask them, they will shut you down, telling you it is a “parents’ problem”—something a child like you shouldn’t know or have any business in.

But their “parents’ problem” quickly becomes yours when you always find yourself lying in bed, desperately trying to drown out another round of their arguing. You even start wishing you could spend more time at your friends' houses just to avoid being at home. Every night, you pray for it to stop.

For this to end. Until it does.

The “parents’ problem” that has been brewing for months finally rears its head when Dad stops coming home altogether. The silence you have grown accustomed to was quickly shattered by the sound of Mother’s hysterical crying, accompanied by the slamming of cabinets and the crashing of plates being thrown across the kitchen. You stop in your tracks, heart pounding as a silhouette emerges.

Mother. She walks toward you, her long hair plastered to her tear-streaked face, and-

And she smelled something like the alcohol Dad used to hide in the fridge. She grips your arms in a tight, almost bruising grip, leaning down to look you straight in the eye.

"I was right, sweetheart. Mommy was right," she whispered, her voice hoarse from all the shouting. "Mommy was right all along." She repeats the phrase over and over, as if you'd eventually grasp its meaning. After all, you were her daughter; you should understand.

But you didn’t. For goodness’ sake, you were just an eight-year-old girl—just enough brains to process why Dad didn’t come to your ballet recital despite his promise, just enough to try to understand why Mother was like this. What was she right about? Was Dad never coming home again? When is he coming back? So many questions, few to no answers. Not enough courage to let them swim to the surface because exactly what Mom said—“Curiosity killed the cat.”

Biting your lip, you ask in a small, fearful voice. “What are we talking about, Mommy?”

Mother took a shaky breath, her eyes so swollen and red from crying that you wondered if she might actually take her last breath right then and there. It makes you wonder if losing the supposed love of her life truly felt like a kind of living death.

“Your father…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your father, he’s… He’s not coming back, baby.”

Something about her own words brought anger to her face. Mother’s visage contorted into unbridled rage, teeth bared and nose scrunched up. You cry out in pain as she grips your arms tighter.

“He’s not coming back! Your father is with another woman—a WHORE! So don’t you DARE go looking for him, because he’s not coming back!”

At that moment, you didn't know which was scarier—Dad not coming back or Mother's anger. Or the thought that this meant you would be living alone with her. Even so, your lips began to tremble and you began to cry.

The anger that mother had was long-lived. Sometimes, it seemed like it outlasted the love she had once held for your father. Or perhaps, in a twisted way, that anger was just an extension of that love. The wound that mother carried was as deep as her affection had been. Love. Seeing its manifestation through your parents' relationship, it appeared like a despicable thing meant for people on a dark path.

Mother never truly recovered from it.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, even year after year, the anger never left her—it simply transformed into a hollow, empty place where the light once resided. Did Dad take it with him when he went off with that woman—that "whore," as Mother had said?

Still, you suppose it was better than those times when Mother would go out for drinks and come back late or even fail to come fetch you from ballet class. More often than not, it was a friend's mother who ended up dropping you home. Some questions they asked about your mother: "Is she okay?" and “Are you okay?”

That, you never know how to answer. Sure, you're doing fine at school and in your ballet classes—your toes are a little sore sometimes, but your teacher says that’s expected. And it’s not like Dad’s gone forever or dead. He’s still out there, even if he wasn’t coming home. Mom is still here, even if sometimes it feels like she doesn’t really see you.

… What an odd thing to feel, an even weirder thing to complain about. When Mother wasn’t at work, she was always there when you came home. She was easy to find in her room except on nights when she went out drinking and came back late, drowning herself in tears.

And yet, it felt like she wasn’t there at all. Dad left, and Mother was gone.

So, when that question was asked, you would just smile and say you were doing fine, that everything was okay. Yes, it was strange, unsettling, but everything was okay.

At least before you hit your teenage years.

Where did this change come from? Where did this hatred come from? Someone flipped a switch, turning your hollow mother into a bitter, resentful woman even to her own daughter. Slowly but surely, you begin to notice the glares she throws at you—the same ones she sports when talking about other women, as she said, “Look at the way she dresses, like some cheap harlot.”

“Change.” One day, she said, her voice sharp and commanding.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “What? Change what?”

Mother's eyes narrowed, settling her gaze on your chest, then your stomach—you hold your breath from the burn of her glare. “I said, change. What, you don't see how you look?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “I don't know who gave you the confidence, but it's like you're asking for it.”

The sting of her words spread across your sternum, and you bite your inner cheek to keep yourself from crying. "But you said this looked good the other day."

“Then I said wrong, change.”

“But I like this top,” you protest, but you add a hollow chuckle for good measure, wanting to avoid coming off as defiant. “And it’s the only thing yellow in my closet.”

Mother’s lips thinned into a disapproving line. “You still have that yellow hoodie.”

“But it’s a birthday party! In the summer!”

“That’s too bad. Either you change, or you’re not going.”

Deciding the conversation is over, your mother walks past you. As you feared, she stops, sweeping her critical gaze over your face. The crease between her brows deepens; her lips curl into a sneer.

“And what’s with all that makeup? You’re trying too hard. Tone it down.”

You say nothing, fixating instead on the mild sting of your nails digging crescents into your palms. Don’t cry, don’t cry. Hasn’t this happened before? Why aren’t you used to this yet? The thing about you is that you cry over the same things over and over again, asking questions you already know you don't understand. “Why would Mom say that to me?” echoed in your mind, and yet, the answer remains elusive, so stop asking that!

You flinched as your mother suddenly swiped her fingers across your lips, smearing your carefully applied lipstick. Out of instinct, you quickly swatted her hand away.

“Mom, stop!”

“A lipstick on a pig is still a pig,” she spat, her hatred for you dripping—soaking into your skin and inciting your own blood to boil and burn you from the inside. “No matter how thick that makeup is, you’ll never be like those pretty girls. So stop trying.”

Your breath catches, your throat tightens. Mother finally walks past you, leaving you to “self-reflect,” expecting you to be on your right side of the brain after. To change your clothes, remove that makeup. “A lipstick on a pig is still a pig,” she says. Your lips quiver; the headache doubles.

Which one you loathe the most, you can't even say for sure. This tube top or the color. Your blush or your lipstick. You and your tendency to persist when you should stop—that you're ugly, a pig, and you'll never be those pretty girls.

You will never be those pretty girls.

You will never be...

Her.

Hayley. You couldn't help yourself from poring over the name on Facebook after hours of scouring for a hint of who she is and what's so special about her. And from what you can tell, she was everything you're not. With her big, bright blue eyes framed by dark, mascara-laden lashes, her light blonde hair, and that perfectly sun-kissed skin. Not to mention she has a figure that just fits right – a body a girl would die for. Hayley's life is balanced between her rising career and her enjoyment, as evidenced by several uploaded holiday photos in Southeast Asia, in places like Bali, Koh Rong, Phuket, Kuala Lumpur, Chiang Mai, and Singapore. She has a good relationship with her parents—both her biological ones and her stepparents. She has a golden retriever named Barney.

You knew enough to understand that she was the type of girl who frequented the clubs, not the quiet pubs where Simon and she met. The only reason she was even there was because of her dark-haired friend, who was now tipping her head back to finish another shot glass.

Are you stalking her? Yes, you suppose you are—there’s no point in denying it when you’re sitting at a bar, watching the social butterfly laugh with her equally beautiful friends. But you’re maintaining your distance, aren’t you? You’re not doing this because you’re a pervert (not that this justifies anything, you're aware)—you just need to know about her, to confirm something.

(Curiosity killed the cat.)

Hayley laughed again, her head thrown back, golden hair cascading down her back. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the way her glossy lips parted to reveal a perfect set of teeth. She and her group of friends looked like they were engaged in some kind of game, and as the loser, Hayley stood up and made her way to the bar. You looked up, pretending to sip at the drink you ordered earlier, appearing casual.

“Four Margaritas, love.” Hayley requested of the bartender, who responded with a nod to acknowledge her order over the din.

The man left his post to get something from the backroom. There wasn't much to do in the bar besides tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the shiny bar surface. Hayley swept a bored glance around: the strobe lights, the DJ booth and the drunk people dancing around it, the crowded booths at the ends of the room, and more drunk people.

Then, her eyes landed on you. Something ignited in those cerulean irises.

A confident smile played on her lips. “Hi there,” she said to you, voice sweet like honey. "Mind if I join you?"

For a moment, your brain stops thinking—completely caught off guard. Hayley doesn’t wait for your response, already sliding into the seat next to you. She widens her smile, the apples of her cheeks lifting fascinatingly. This was not how you envisioned this encounter going at all.

“I’m Hayley, by the way.” She gives you her name that you’ve known before she even knew you existed. You can’t help but wonder if she said the same thing to Simon that night, if he bore into her blue eyes like you do now.

You managed a small, nervous smile. In response, you provided your name, and Hayley tried it on her plump lips. Up close, she was even more stunning—her flawless skin, perfect makeup base, the way the low lighting cast shadows across her face. How was it possible that someone could be so effortlessly gorgeous? What's more, she didn't just seem kind; she also appeared humble and genuine—the type of beautiful girl who didn’t flaunt her good genes or think she was better than everyone else.

Still, despite all that, your dislike for her continues to grow. It’s almost unfair that she gives you nothing but kindness and you try to find her flaws, something that you hope will mar her perfection.

“Are you here all on your own?” Hayley asks again, to which you nod.

Despite already knowing she didn't come alone, you ask anyway, "You?"

“Me?” Hayley glance over her shoulder towards her table. “I’m here with a few friends. Say, love, why don’t you join us? It gets a bit boring sitting on your own, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I’m… I’m kind of not used to such large groups,” you say, only to realize how lame it sounded. The poorly constructed excuse lays out the contradiction more clearly, like a lie written on a billboard. If you’re really the awkward, socially withdrawn weirdo you paint yourself to be, what are you even doing in one of the most crowded places in town?

Yet, Hayley didn't seem to judge you. The raised brow indicated that she thought it was strange, but her lips quirked up in a small smile, as if she found you… interesting.

“That's alright, darling. But you wouldn't mind a bit if I stayed here with you, would you?”

“Not at all.”

Hayley smiled, fishing her phone out of her purse. “Well, I was supposed to grab the next round for the girls, but I’ll just text them to grab the drinks. I reckon they can manage without me for a little while.” She opened her texting app, her manicured fingers making little tapping sounds as she typed.

Soon enough, a dark-haired woman approached the bar. Hayley greeted her friend, introducing her to you and you to her. The other woman smiled and nodded, but not wasting more time before saying goodbye to you and taking the drinks to their table. And just like that, you were alone with Hayley once again.

It makes you wonder why she even bothers to spend time with you—a complete stranger she just met. Is she always like this—always approaching and engaging with people she knows little about? Is that why she approached Simon the other day?

You grip your glass, soaking your fingers from the condensation around it. A temporary distraction from the memories that flash through your mind.

“Sooo, you seeing anyone at the moment?”

When that bold question came out of Hayley’s mouth, you came to a conclusion about her. It was clear that she was the type of woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. The type to pop the question out before dealing with the answer—and whatever it is, she actually has the guts to deal with it. What other people think or feel about her does not define her, and that speaks volumes about the kind of person she is.

It also speaks to the kind of person you are.

Inevitably your thoughts drift to Simon. Shaking your head, you answer her question. “No, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

Then, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “And what about you? You’re not married, are you?”

Hayley laughs at that, wiggling her ringless fingers. “No ring on.”

“Not with anyone?”

An amused smile was etched on her face. “Don’t you worry, love. I’m a free bird, through and through.” She said as she leaned closer to you, the intoxicating blend of floral and citrus notes entering your olfactory. “Why? Got somethin' fun on your mind?”

At this close proximity, you could almost feel the warmth of her breath upon your cupid's bow. Up close, her physical details came into sharper focus—the freckles that peppered her nose, her deep-set eyes, a small mole sitting above the rosy pink of her lips, and the way her lip gloss glistened under the dim, hazy club lights.

And her lips. The ones that touched Simon’s.

The agony coursed through you, pumping in sync with each beat of your heart, spreading into the farthest reaches of your body. Poison in your blood. Thoughts raced in a frenzied, feral way that defied logic and reason. You wondered what it must have felt like for Simon. Had her kisses been soft and sweet, the kind that made him melt? Or were they passionate and hungry, with him nibbling and biting at her flesh?

Memories of that night are recalled to your mind, the image of their bodies pressed together coming with absolute clarity. The way he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, the way she hooks her legs around him.

Before you can register what you’re doing, you close the remaining space between you and Hayley, crashing your lips against hers in a kiss that’s almost daring. But it’s desperation that fuels you—your desperation to find any trace of him in her mouth, across her palate, beneath her tongue. You wonder if she can taste it, the bitterness of you. But when she kisses you back, more roughly and greedily, you find the answer.

Around you, the deafening music continues to play, the flashing lights like a kaleidoscope that twists and turns. Your olfactory senses register the strong smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and tears well up in the corners of your eyes. It reminds you of him—everything reminds you of him. Simon is everywhere but here. Even as you kiss another, it’s him you expect instead. You can’t help but wonder if it was the same for him that night—did he think of you as he sank deep inside of her?

When the kiss was broken, Hayley was about to smile at you before something faded it. A fat tear ran down your cheek. She furrowed her brows in concern.

“Hey, are you alright?” She asked, her accent growing thicker with worry. “Did I do something wrong? Go too far, perhaps?”

Hayley’s soft hands reached up, wiping away the salty liquid from your cheeks. You bit your bottom lip to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape. “N-no, it’s nothing,” you stuttered, voice barely above a whisper as you erased your own tears with the back of your hand.

Swallowing hard, your vision blurs again. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I need to... I need to go.”

Without another word, you turned and fled, ignoring Hayley calling your name. Pushing your way through the throngs of people, you made a beeline for the exit. The air in your lungs seemingly thinning, and your throat tightening. You switched to breathing through your mouth, as it was becoming increasingly difficult. A taxi approached, slowing down when you waved at it.

Two hours had passed since you fled the club, two hours spent waiting in suspense until, finally, the vehicle's headlights flickered to life, followed by the beeping sound indicating someone unlocked it. You remained silent, hearing the footsteps getting louder before you slowly rose to your feet, turning to face the person who had emerged.

“Simon.”

The owner of the name stood frozen in his tracks. The dim lighting of the streetlights only added to your difficulty in obscuring whatever expression he was sporting, but you didn't miss the way his shoulders tensed, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

For a solid two minutes, his name was the only word spoken between the two of you. It wasn't like you were generous enough to offer him time to fully process the situation—no, it was more because you wanted to see how Simon Riley would react, how Simon Riley would deal with the unexpected.

You caught the way his mask slightly shifted—he clenched his jaw. “How?”

Instead of answering, you take a stuttering breath, feeling invisible needles piercing through your chest. “I forgot something in your car.” You tell him.

Simon's frown deepened, his head tilting slightly as he seemed to contemplate your words. It was absurd—after all these weeks, here you are, standing in front of his apartment, having somehow discovered the address, and claiming to have forgotten something in his car.

But he doesn't say anything, just continues to make his way to the car. You follow closely behind him. He opens the door to the passenger seat, then steps aside to let you check the car. You stretch your hand under the passenger seat, blindly feeling for anything, brushing through the dust and small gravel collected there until you finally touch something cold and metallic.

Pulling it out, the phone you had planted there weeks earlier came into view. You knew this meant Simon had laid his eyes on it too. It wouldn’t take long for him to connect the dots and figure out you had been tracking him this whole time.

Fucking hell. Simon remembered what he had said about modern phones. He closed the car door with a sharp click, then turned to you.

“So you’ve been followin’ me, then?”

“You didn't return my texts,” you stated bluntly.

"I asked you a question." He growls, almost like he's threatening you.

You observed the anger brewing in the depths of his dark eyes, radiating from him like a hot flame. Good, you thought silently. At least there was something that riled him up; otherwise, you would be suffering alone while he goes to fuck any willing bodies he can get his hands on.

"Why didn't you call me?" You ask again. “Why does it say your number is no longer in service? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” he snap, voice dripping with venom. “You think I owe you an explanation?”

Your blurry vision missed a flicker of change in his expression. When the tears escaped and the world came into focus again, all you saw was Simon gritting his teeth, jaw locked. He turned and began to walk away.

You followed him, quickening your pace to catch up. “Simon! Simon, wait!”

Despite your best efforts, he continues to keep his back turned to you, refusing to even spare you a glance. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, seemingly hell-bent on creating a vast gulf between you. You called out his name once more, your voice echoing in the stillness of the night, but he kept right on walking.

“Yes, I deserve an explanation! I don’t know why you’re being like this. We were fine the last time we were together. What happened? Why did you just disappear on me?”

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the sleeve of his jacket to get him to stop and face you. He came to a halt. A jolt of electricity surged through you as he encircled your fingers with his own, but it soon faded as he let go of your grip on the leather. Something inside you dropped away, leaving a shameful hollow space inside.

Simon towers over you, his stature imposing and intimidating. He locks a hard glare on you. “I asked you a question, didn't I?” His voice fell to a dangerously low tone. “Why the fuck have you been following me?”

The dam holding back your tears broke, leaving you choking on your own sobs. How could he not know? All these tears, all these cries… how could he still fail to see that it was all for him? To be stripped bare only for him to overlook it. Should you skin yourself alive then? To tear your heart out, to hold the raw, bleeding organ in the palm of your trembling hand as an offering?

“Because I want to know where you are,” You settle for the simpler version, hyperventilating as you take a breath. “You know my place, my workplace... You even went to my cousin’s wedding. And yet, I know nothing about you, Simon. Nothing.”

“You think just ‘cause we fucked a few times, that gives you the right to pry into my life?”

A sharp pang of pain shot through your chest. The world was ruby-colored, either from your boiling anger or the hemorrhage from the sharpness of his words. Your jaw clenched, your gaze sharpened.

“Fuck you, Simon,” you spat. “You know we’re not just fucking.”

The clenched fists at your sides tremble, and you don’t know if it’s from anger or hurt or the weight of your own expectation to make him see it. Or perhaps it’s all three. How could he speak like this when there's a specific section in your dresser for the clothes he frequently brings and leaves, when he constantly returns and stays longer even as the morning has risen, when he drove you to the countryside and dances and twirls you around like those old couples do? Not when he embraces you until your tears subside, nor when each of his kisses offers that one thing you've chased your whole life.

There’s no way this isn’t love. He just needs to stop denying it.

Simon's eyes narrowed into slits. "Then you read it all wrong, darlin'."

The way he said it was cold, without a shred of sympathy—but nothing was colder than the way Simon continually turned his back to you as he continued to walk farther and farther away, as if all he wanted was to get as far away from you as possible. Disgusting woman in love. But you never got the hint, did you? You kept following him, running after him like a stupid little dog created solely to love, love, love, and never be loved back.

“Is that the reason, Simon?” You cried, voice cracking. “Is that why you fucked that woman—Hayley?”

“Who?”

“Hayley. The woman you fucked in the back of that pub alley! Was that why you left me?”

For the first time, Simon was lost for words, gears turning behind his brown eyes. He let out a frustrated sigh, jaw clenched tight. “You fucking stalked me?”

“I did,” you admitted, but this wasn’t an admission of guilt, nor an act of taking accountability. The words falling from your lips lacked the necessary remorse for either of those things. “I know it’s wrong, but—”

“Wrong?” Simon scoffed. “Christ, you’re bloody mental if you think that’s just wrong.”

You try to draw a deep breath through your mouth, your shoulders stuttering with the effort. The pain and the anguish are written all over your face, reddening your skin. But then, something shifts—and when you open your eyes, you are someone new.

Simon watched a thin smile spread across your swollen lips. “Do you think she's a good kisser?”

The question slipped out of you in a voice that was just barely above a whisper, but in the stillness of the night, Simon heard it, caught your quiet words. There was no faltering in your voice, no quaver, no stutter. He felt your pupils searing his skin hotter than the mansion’s fire.

“What?” He asked again, making sure he hadn’t misheard.

You were more than happy to repeat. “Do you think Hayley is a good kisser? Because I know she is—I kissed her. How did she taste? Did you enjoy it?”

“Fucking hell, you’re a fuckin’ psycho.”

“Did she moan when you kissed her, Simon? Did she wrap her arms around you, pull you in closer? Did you run your fingers through her hair—her body? Did she moan your name the way I do when we’re—”

You cut yourself off, your breath hitching again. The numbing agent has worn off, and now you're paying the withdrawal tenfold. Like your own personal hell, the memory of your intimate moments together replays, leaving nothing but a bitter taste and more hot, salty tears streaming down your face.

 “Did she feel as good as I do when you’re buried deep inside me?”

Simon didn't respond, remaining silent. Or perhaps this very silence was his answer. He was always a man of few words, preferring to act instead. Right now, his actions spoke louder than anything.

“Or was she better?” You hissed. “ANSWER ME!”

Nothing. Even when you scream in his face, he keeps giving you nothing. This is the man you love—only able to take, take, and take until there is nothing left to fill the cavern he leaves behind.

You take a step towards him, hands trembling by your side. “Can she love you like I do?”

The confession hung in the air, heavy with the weight of your love and pain. You caught the way Simon’s eyes widened in surprise, but they quickly returned to their stoic stare, and the mask—that damn mask—hid too much for you to make any conclusions about him. The unfairness was palpable: you were tearing your heart out, vulnerable and all exposed for him—while he was hiding behind a mesh of polypropylene.

Always guarded, always unreachable.

Simon’s shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath, gazing up at the sky before turning back to you. “You need to go home.”

“What?”

Before you could really process his words, Simon had already turned and was walking briskly to his car, his broad back starting to move away from you. Hurriedly, you ran after him, your hands outstretched to grab anything of his. Stop. Stop walking away. Stop trying to leave me.

“Simon!” You called out—God, how you hated how weak and pleading it sounded. “Simon, wait! Listen to me!”

Simon reaches his car, already grasping for the handle. Panic rises in your throat. He yanks the door open, ready to get in. Your mind is gripped with desperation, scrambling to find something—anything—to keep him here with you, and yet the only thing that can act fast enough is your voice.

“”Go home,” That’s your response, Simon? After everything I just confessed to you? I just laid my heart bare—I told you that I love you, and your answer is to tell me to go home?!”

You flinch at the sudden slam of the car door. Simon whirls around to face you, chin held high, imprisoning you under his angry gaze. “YES, I'm tellin' you to fucking go home!” He roars, his booming voice quickening your pulse. “I don't want this sappy shit you're tryin' to dump on me. Go home an' leave me the fuck alone!”

“NO!” You shouted, voice cracking as you dangled on the edge of control—on the verge of crumbling. “I won't go home! I-I love you! I don't want to go home!"

You stepped forward, your hands gripping the front of his shirt. "Is it because of me?" you questioned, as if this was the only possible explanation. “Because if it is, I can fix it! I can be whatever you want me to be—I don't care! You don't even have to love me back! Just please, don't leave. If you want, you can always use me—just keep using me. Just don't go, Simon. Please, please, don't leave me."

Because there will always be a really bad part of you that ruins everything. No matter how deeply you love or how faithful your devotion is, it will taint it. At the end of the day, it will be worth nothing. So, if your body is the only thing that would satisfy him—distracting him from your inability to make him love you—then so be it. You were always the cheap and vulgar daughter, after all.

“Fucking hell,” he cursed under his breath. “Stop. Fuckin' stop sayin' shit like that 'bout yerself.”

Despite all your pleading, Simon remains the same man he always was. A rotten one, selfish—a stray dog who loves to wander. He hasn’t changed—his dead heart has no room for your love, for you. The more you try to hold him, the more he eludes your grasp. Perhaps he has grown so accustomed to sadistic things that a woman tearing out her heart for him doesn't faze him anymore.

Or worse: he loves things like this.

A raw, throbbing heart—the soft feast of organs for a home-fashioned dinner. The beautiful swan—you, heart enlarged and sweet from your consumption of his deceit. His prized delicacy, just the way he likes it.

You felt Simon’s hands wrap around your wrist, prying your fingers off him. “No, please! Don’t go, don’t leave!”

But he was unyielding, his mind pinpointed on one goal: to get away from you. He pushed you back. You watched as he turned and opened the car door, sliding inside. Hastily, you tried to wrench the car door open—he had locked it from the inside. You slam your hands against the window.

“Simon! Simon, please!”

The glass vibrated under the force of your blows; your palms stinging with the impact. Tears streamed down your face as you continuously hit the window. Simon turned on the ignition.

“GET OUT!! I’ll die if you leave! I’LL DIE IF YOU LEAVE!”

The car lurched forward; Simon's face remained obscured from view. Your hand slides off the glass as the vehicle speeds away. The sound of the engine faded into the distance, taking with it the last piece of your shattered heart.

You stood there, frozen, alone on the empty street. He was gone.

The bitter realization hits you like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. You sank to your knees, hands clutching at the fabric of your coat as uncontrollable sobs wracked your body. He was gone, and your last memory of him was his dark eyes staring at you as you begged to mean something to him.

But would it make a difference if the last recollection of him stayed on that sunny day in the countryside? Would everything have been better if you hadn't come here?

You dig your fingernails into the back of your hand, hoping the sting will distract you like it did before. Yet, even after collecting your own skin beneath your nails, the long-awaited numbness never comes. Or is it because no amount of bodily harm can relieve the agony?

(It feels like a kind of living death, doesn’t it?)

Sometimes, you get jealous of euthanized dogs.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull @olives10 @cricricorner

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[justinspoliticalcorner]

Ryan Adamczeski at The Advocate:

It’s not lost on transgender youth that they “shouldn't have to feel like this” after an election.

President-elect Donald Trump will soon begin his second term, which already poses greater threats to the LGBTQ+ community than his first – particularly to the trans community, which has seen skyrocketing attacks on their bathroom use, sports participation, health care, and beyond in just the past few years, most of which has targeted youth. As restrictive state laws stand on the brink of becoming national, lawmakers and many in the mainstream media refuse to consider the voices of actual trans people. To bridge this gap, The Advocate asked young trans people about the biggest challenges facing them – and what the rest of us can do to help. The respondents are remaining anonymous out of an abundance of caution for their personal safety. Trans youth shared a widespread sense of exhaustion and disillusionment when Trump’s victory was announced. C, an 18-year-old trans woman, said that she “was able to vote for the first time, and I was really excited because it was my first time.” For those her age, today’s era of polarization and opportunism has been their introduction to politics.

[...]

These youth are acutely aware of how they had to come of age in an era hostile to their existence, in which the elected officials tasked with protecting them have instead used their power to hurt them. To S, a 20-year-old trans man, “it's exhausting to feel like our existence is constantly up for debate,” and it’s “really disheartening to see political leaders targeting people like me.” Still, he says he won’t let it stop him from doing the work that needs to be done. “As much as sometimes I just want to wallow in those feelings, I also feel really determined and almost inspired. I'm inspired by the resilience of the trans community and our allies,” S says. “Every day I'm seeing people stand up to push against the misunderstanding and hate towards our community, whether it's through advocacy and education, work, or simply living authentically.” The biggest concerns trans youth have now are access to gender-affirming care, and safety. As someone who “passes,” D says that he’s not as worried about a random assault as much as he is about having to hide who he is just to participate in his community.

[...]

S also voiced extreme concern over a potential national gender-affirming care ban, as he says “legislation that targets healthcare access, such as gender firming care bans, is life-threatening for transgender individuals.” This is true – The American Medical Association, the American Psychiatric Association, the American Academy of Pediatrics, the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, the World Medical Association, and the World Health Organization all agree that gender-affirming care is evidence-based and medically necessary for both adults and youth. Beyond the effect a ban would have on mental health, S worries “about the mental health toll of living under constant attack, especially for transgender and nonbinary youth who might not have the love and support that they deserve from their communities.” Now is the time that he believes “more than ever, trans and nonbinary youth need unwavering support and affirmation from their family, friends, and community.” “What people can do is just support our trans and nonbinary peers and friends, let them know that we're in this battle together, because constant support is needed,” C adds. “Ensure that we still feel like we belong and that we are loved, even during these really difficult times that we're going to experience.” “It's really important that people see us as just human, because we have so many things that excite us. I don't want people to only see that there's only one thing to meet, because I'm so much more than that,” she continues. However, there is only so much that interpersonal support can do in the face of legislative attacks. S says that “from elected officials, trans youth need policies that prioritize their safety and well-being, such as policy supporting access to proper health care and protection in schools and even beyond.” He believes officials also need to play a bigger role in the ongoing culture war by “amplifying positive narratives about trans people and actively working to combat the misinformation that fuels the discrimination and hate towards individuals like me.”

The Advocate has a must-read story on the terrifying impact of anti-trans policies the GOP trifecta under Trump will harmfully impact trans youths.

[poppyquills]

hello!

i was scrolling through the donna x reader tags and saw your requests were open! could you perhaps write for donna and a reader who's abnormally tall? like maybe some super natural effect or growth defect or something of the sort caused the reader to be like 7'5" or whatever that is in the metric system? (i'm unfortunately from the land of screeching bald eagles and a McDonald's every corner)

anyways, thank you for your time! I enjoy the way you format your writings and all the nice aesthetic of them! have a good day!

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ Donna with an abnormally tall! S/O HCs ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

⋆˚✿˖° warnings -> none.

⋆˚✿˖° content includes -> fluff, Donna doesn't find it weird at all, the reason why reader is so tall is up to the reader.

⋆˚✿˖° Donna is quite fascinated by how tall you are and she isn't weirded out by how abnormally tall you are, her 'sister' is also abnormally tall so she has grown used to it.

⋆˚✿˖° She enjoys sewing and tailoring and she would personally make all of your clothes for you. Donna takes special care to adjust the lengths and sizes, ensuring that you’re always comfortable.

⋆˚✿˖° Donna feels safe and secure with you. She is a lord and she can take care of herself perfectly fine but having you by her side and towering over her just brings her a sense of comfort.

⋆˚✿˖° She loves how easily you can reach things for her. Donna sometimes feels bad for calling you over every time she isn't able to reach something but you always assure you don't mind it.

⋆˚✿˖° Donna likes the fact that she could easily hide behind you when you two go into the village—which is very rare itself but it still happens.

⋆˚✿˖° She is a touch starved woman so she likes holding onto you whenever she can. Donna loves holding your hand or letting you hold her, she wouldn't admit it but she loves the size difference between the two of you.

⋆˚✿˖° Angie loves to make jokes about your height. Donna usually lets it pass since it's always in good fun but when she's apart of the joke? Donna gets flustered and embarrassed immediately.

⋆˚✿˖° She herself isn't one to joke around but she would occasionally tease you about your height. She will stop it immediately if it makes you uncomfortable though!

⋆˚✿˖° Donna sometimes catches herself staring at you, getting embarrassed when you point it out. She can’t help but admire you, she also finds your height difference incredibly attractive but she would never admit it to anyone.

⋆˚✿˖° She enjoys quiet moments where you gently lean down to her level, whether it’s to hear her better or to share a soft kiss.

[bloodhoundsandplagues]

How can I make it OK?

Arthur Morgan x reader

Summary : you're homesick.

gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, not explicitly romantic unless you wanna read it that way, 3K words

Warnings : swearing, mentions of suicide, panic attack described in semi detail, not the jolliest thing i've ever written

A/N : first post that's actually writing in 2025 ! wrote most of this on the train while listening to house in nebraska by ethel cain and more than this by wolf alice so yeah. also this isn't arthur heavy in the sense that it's reader rambling about being homesick mostly. to be read in a southern accent as god intended

Of all the places I have travelled with the Van Der Linde gang, I think this is my least favourite. 

Living- or rather, camping- in the ruins of some plantation, bodies of the former owners stagnating in the pond. Sometimes I hear ‘em- the ghosts, in the walls, screamin’. I know it’s my mind, playing tricks on me; but it’s harder to have that rational thought when you’re lying alone in the middle of the night, wind whistling through broken windows. It’s not that I don’t like having a roof over my head. Shit, everyone in this godforsaken gang is happy to have a real shelter from the weather, even one as flimsy as this house. So I shut my mouth, hunt as I’m expected-which is what I am doing now, borrowed bow over my shoulder, quiver resting comfortingly between my shoulder blades. 

Hunting is familiar. Back in the Grizzlies, where my daddy raised me, we’d go out any time of day, in any weather, hunt for the coming storms. I’d do everything the way he taught me to- lay out traps, wait behind a boulder, bow in hand. It builds patience, he told me when I asked why the hell we didn’t just track the damn animal, instead of waitin’ in the cold for it to find us. 

Now, it’s not cold, and dear old daddy ain’t here to help. 

I left my horse hitched by a lake, with enough grass for him to be fed and well until I bring back something worthy of Pearson. It’s near sunrise; already, the heat is uncomfortable; my skin is sticky, my clothes uncomfortable. It’s moments like these that I long for the snow. 

I wipe my forehead with the back of my head. I’ve been walking for a little while now, waiting for a pack of deer to pass by. There’s something that bothers me about killing them- maybe it’s their eyes, so big and brown, caught frozen as they stare at you. Or maybe it’s their resemblance to this little girl I knew, at a local village at the base of the mountain where I grew up. 

I shake the thought of her big brown eyes and twitchy nose as I spot a herd of ‘em, grazing near a small stream. There’s enough light for me to count them- seven, big enough to feed us. 

I get on one knee, like my daddy taught me. Notch an arrow in the bow, pull it back. One of the poor animals raises its head, looks in my direction. 

Before I can hesitate, I let go, and the arrow flies; a fraction of a second later, it has notched itself in the animal’s throat. It falls; its friends, the rest of its herd (its gang, I think, almost laughing) scamper off, into the woods. I don’t go after them. Pearson will have to do with this, and whatever herbs or mushrooms I’m able to pick up. 

The doe is dead by the time I reach her. I kneel. Pull the arrow from her neck; thick, sticky blood gets on my hands. I almost reach for snow, to clean it off; curse myself when my fingertips meet grass and mud. The doe’s dead eye stares up at me, brown and empty as the sky. I resist the urge to close them. 

“Sorry, sweet.” I whisper it as I hoist her up, put her over my shoulder. She’s heavy. I must be getting blood on my shirt- it’s a shame, because it’s my favourite colour, and I’ve just bought it. 

I swallow any regrets I feel as I walk back to my horse, the weight of the doe uncomfortable against my bow and quiver. 

You’re the reason she won’t come home, a little voice whispers in my head. I stop, then, because my chest is tightening and I can’t really breathe. I say something incoherent. The fields around me are empty- it’s just me and this doe. 

I drop her into the mud and loosen my shirt, gasping for air. I want cold, I want crisp mountain air; not this thick, humid, barely-air that clogs my throat and makes my lungs heavy. 

I dig my fingers into the mud and grass, as I would have done in the snow, back home. Home. What a weird thought. I catch the dead doe’s eye again, and that’s when the tears come, thick and hot and nasty, blurring my vision. So stupid, I think, as I force myself to stare at her. She- no, it- is just an animal. She doesn’t have a home, not the way I did. Do. 

I think of crying out for help, but that’s pathetic, and I’m a lot of things, but pathetic ain’t one of them. 

I think I stay there, on my knees, fingers deep in the mud, for a long time- when my vision clears again and I’ve stopped gasping for air, the sky is clear, clear blue, no traces of sunrise left. If I focus hard enough on it, I can almost pretend I’m back in the mountains. 

I get up, teeth digging into my tongue to prevent any new feelings from resurfacing. I’m not in the goddamn mountains. All that’s left for me there is two frozen bodies deep beneath the snow, and a hut that’s probably been raided or taken over by some other gang. 

I pick the doe up, this time careful to avoid looking at her face. Its face. It’s an animal, not my goddamn sister. 

I make it back to my horse without another incident; strap the doe across his back and climb onto his saddle. His name is Coal, ‘cause of the colour o’ him- black and charcoal grey, a streak of white down his face. 

“Hey, boy,” I murmur to him as I flick the reigns. My voice is shaky, hoarse; it’s obvious that I’ve been crying. 

Coal begins to trot back to camp. I think of changing direction, of going to Rhodes, clear my thoughts. But I gotta bring this back to Pearson, or he’ll skin me. 

The camp is still there when I return, which is a relief. I don’t think I’ll forget the moment when I came back after a hunt and found everyone gone, everything burned to the ground. 

I shiver at the memory and get off Coal. “I’ll come ‘nd fix your saddle later,” I say to him, scratching his neck. He grunts, in a tone I hope is affectionate. I remove the doe, put her back over my shoulder. Make it to Pearson’s stand, where he’s angrily chopping vegetables. 

“Hey,” I say, dropping the doe in front of him. I angle her head- her eyes- away from me. “Got some meat.” 

“I can see that,” is Pearson’s kind answer. 

I ignore him and walk away again, into the derelict house we’ve been callin’ home for the last few weeks. My room is on the top floor; I wish I shared it with someone, but I got lucky (Dutch’s words) and got my own, private room. 

I tug off my bloodstained shirt and drop it on the floor. There’s nothin’ to be done about my trousers- they’re the only pair I’ve got (the others have just been washed, and hang soaking wet outside) and I don’t plan on walking around bare-legged. 

I change quickly. Sit down on the bed, stare at the wall. 

I don’t know how long I stay like that; starin’ at the peeling wallpaper, trying to pretend it’s the same white as the snow I used to see out my window. Obviously, the pretendin’ don’t work, because it’s not the snow, it’s a crumbling fuckin’ wall in a crumbling fuckin’ house. I stand, take a deep breath in (of hot, hot, humid, thick air), push it out. It ain’t cleansing- I don’t feel better once I’ve tasted the surrounding bogs- but it’s enough to calm my heartbeat, and make me feel somewhat human again. 

For the rest of the day, I help around camp, doing stupid, mind-numbing tasks. I try not to think of the mountains, and how much better than this godforsaken swamp they were. People talk to me, and I answer, polite and all. I eat Pearson’s stew, listen to another grandiose speech about Dutch’s plan (or, as far as I’m concerned, concepts of a plan). I finally find a moment of quiet sitting on a log, staring out at the swamp. Not the prettiest sight; all brown and green, with hints of yellow dust. 

I’m alone for only a few minutes before I hear footsteps. I turn, and find Arthur approaching, taking his cigarette packet from his satchel. I shift on the log I’m sitting on, making the split second decision that his company is something I want right now. 

He sits next to me, silently. Offers me a cigarette (I decline with a shake of my head and a wave of my hand) then lights his own with a match. He stays quiet for a little while, blowing smoke from his mouth, tinting the world blue and grey. 

It’s strange, sitting next to him. He don’t mind being quiet; seems to like my company well enough, ‘cause he keeps coming back here to smoke. 

He’s the one who found me, all that time ago, on a solo hunt in the Grizzlies. It was at the edge of the mountains, where it starts to get warmer; where the sun melts away most of the snow. Was from Blackwater, he said- I asked if I could go back with him. Promised I’d leave ‘em all alone when I got there, I just needed a job, as far from my daddy’s corpse as I could get. He’d said yes, maybe reluctantly. 

Turns out, I’d found somethin' better than a job. Not quite a family, but a gang, people to rely on, people to distract me from the emptiness created by my father’s death. I suppose it’s these people keeping me here, in this swampy nowhere, sweating my socks off. Here, I’ve got people- back in the mountains, I’ve got two dead bodies and an empty house. 

My chest tightens again, and wordlessly, I take the cigarette from Arthur’s hand, take a long drag. I hand it back, still silent, and dig my fingernails into my knuckles. 

“You miss home?” Arthur asks me, his words marked by the smoke curling from his mouth. I take the cigarette from his fingers again, press it between my teeth, inhale ‘till I can blame the burning in my eyes on the smoking rather than whatever has grabbed hold of me; whatever old, buried feeling I’d thought long gone had chosen to make an appearance. Guess it must be more obvious than I thought, that I’m feelin’ odd, ‘cause he clearly smelled it on me. 

“I don’t know, I guess,” I say, softly, fiddling with the dirty fabric of my trousers as I hand the cigarette back; as if I don’t know the answer, as if I haven’t spent half my goddamn life thinking about this. I exhale, blowing out smoke from my nose.  “Never really thought about it.” The lie burns in my throat, so thick I can hardly breathe. 

It’s not the stability that I miss. The weather in the Grizzlies was nothin’ permanent, not in any sense- one minute it’s a blizzard, the next you’re standing staring at the bright blue sky, knee deep in snow. I guess it’s the wolves howling, it’s the comfort of a fire as wind rattles against the window panes; it’s even the way the stars look after three days holed up inside. There’s no one thing I miss or don’t miss- I just know I miss it, so much that my chest tightens at the thought. 

When my daddy got shot, three- no, four- years ago, I thought the one answer was to leave that place behind; pack up my clothes and go out into the Wild Wild West, make my own future away from the smell of his freshly dug grave, right next to my mama’s frozen bones. And when I came across Arthur, and later his gang of gung-ho outlaws, who seemed ready to take on the world, I thought that was it- my life was set. 

But I don’t like the constant moving like I used to. It don’t feel like adventure anymore; it feels like escaping, like we’re always running from something. 

“I don’t…” I hesitate, reach up to dig my nails into the dip of my collarbone, try to dig the feeling out, hold it up to the light to examine it. “I guess it’s different.” A veiled confession. Away from the Grizzlies (away from home) it’s hot, stiflingly so; I can’t climb onto my horse without breaking a sweat. It’s already too warm by the time the sun rises- clothes sticking to your skin uncomfortably, flies buzzing above, drowning in the smell of swampy nothingness as soon as your eyes open. I don’t hate it- it has become familiar, but familiar in the way the weight of a revolver at my hip has become familiar; the way the constant paranoia that clogs my throat has become familiar. 

“Different how?” 

Another pause, as I scuff the yellow dust ground with the toe of my boot. Different in a whole lotta ways, I want to tell him; even the colour of the sky isn’t quite the same back home. 

Home. I think of the snow as I stare at the yellowed leather of my shoes. Where there’s snow and wolves and no people to shoot at you unless you really look for it. 

“I don’t know,” I say, even though my whole body knows; it courses through me, the knowledge that a few days ride away is the mountains, and the snow. “It just is.”

The answer dissatisfies him, I think. “C’mon,” he says in that gruff voice of his. “You gotta be able to find one difference between here and the goddamn Grizzlies.” 

“’S warmer,” I say, the words followed by a short, slightly forced laugh. “Don’t snow as much.” 

He snorts, shaking his head. “Alright,” he responds, maybe a little condescendingly. “Think o’ anything else?” 

“You got less wolves down here,” I add, after a few moments. I don’t say that I miss the sound of them howling; that when I close my eyes, I try to picture it, try to pretend I’m back there instead of here. 

“Alright.” He says it kinder this time, like we’re getting somewhere. 

“The sky looks different.” I dig my fingers in deeper. He offers me the cigarette; I take it, repurpose the burning in my throat. The smoke flickers around me as I exhale. “It’s- clearer, up there. More blue.” Here, the sky is tinted almost yellow. It ain’t ugly, but it ain’t home. 

He doesn’t answer, now, staring out at the swamps. I don’t know how he feels about this place- about Rhodes, and the foreignness of Saint Denis, with its factories and smoke and cobbled roads. I wonder if he misses home- if he ever had one to begin with. “I guess I do miss it,” I say, to fill the silence more than anything. “But… I don’t know, I don’t think I wanna go back.” Alone is the word I don’t add. I think- maybe- if I had the gang, my new family, I’d go back to the Grizzlies. After we escaped Blackwater, and hid out in that abandoned town up in the mountains; that was the happiest I’d been for a long time. 

But alone isn’t something I want to be. Not the way I was alone, the few weeks after my father passed- just me and the freshly dug grave, me and the wolves, me and the gun that killed him, sittin’ on the table, an unwanted temptation. 

“I don’t wanna be alone again.” It comes out soft, hoarse, pathetic, the words grating in my throat, like sandpaper on my tongue. 

It’s true. Yes, home is in the mountains; I know that now, when my chest clenches at the simple thought of the snow. But home is also with these people- with Arthur, and Mary-Beth, and Pearson, and the rest of them. Hell, even Kieran, the O’Driscoll boy, has become home, in a way. Home is not just the place where I grew up (the place where my daddy now lies); home is also the people that have become my family; who have embraced me so kindly and warmly. I know deep in my stomach that if I were to leave now, take a horse back to the hut, I’d end up like my daddy, a bullet in my head and a gun in my hand. 

He did it ‘cause he was lonely. So lonely that even I wasn’t enough to stop him from pulling the trigger. Lived in the mountains his whole life, but he had my mama then, and his parents. I guess fifty years of snow and not much else can drive you insane. 

My hand goes to my temple; I dig my fingers into the skin, right where I found the bullet in his head. 

“Y’won’t be,” he responds gruffly. He’s finished his cigarette, and yet he’s not made any attempt to get up, leave me with my thoughts. I snort, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. 

“Don’t know that,” I say. “With the Pinkertons on our asses, ‘nd all.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, but it comes out quiet, rough. 

“Yeah, but they’ve always been on our asses.” He puts a hand on my leg; it engulfs my entire knee. “Tell you what.” He hesitates, clearin’ his throat a little. Squeezes my knee. “I’ll take you huntin’, once a week- or twice, or less, if you want.” 

“I go huntin’ anyway,” I answer. “Not in the mountains, y’don’t.” My chest both tightens and loosens at the same time. I swallow; my heart is thumping in my chest. I put my hand to my collarbone again, digging my nails in. “C’mon, it’ll do you good. Cold air and all that.” 

I know there’s a deeper meaning to that. Cold air- he’s giving me the chance to go home, and not by myself. Even if it’s not for long, it’s enough- to feel the snow again, to hear the wolves. Maybe once I’ll camp overnight, ride back to camp in the morning. The idea fills me with hope- a feeling we’re all starved of, these days. 

“Really?” Is all I manage to croak out. 

“What, you don’t wanna?”

I laugh, and it’s genuine this time. “No, I- I wanna.”

“Alright then.” He gives my knee a last squeeze, then stands. I stand with him, smooth my shirt with the flat of my hand. “Tomorrow then?” Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. I’d sing, if my throat weren’t so damn tight. My eyes sting, and I wipe at my nose with my hand. 

“Thank you,” I say, quietly. He don’t respond, but he nods, and I think maybe he smiles a little. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll get to take a piece of my new home to the place I grew up- someone I love, to the place that holds my heart. 

I watch him walk away; and suddenly, the humidity don’t feel so bad anymore. 

[stars4noah]

HALLEY'S COMET- three.

{WARNINGS}: swearing, drinking, allusions to depression, reader and noah making up yayyyy 🥳🥳

w.c- 2,898

a.n- if you guys couldn't tell by now, this story has kinda turned from being inspired by only halley's comet to being inspired by the entire album! go listen to happier than ever by billie eilish. the album. not the song.

enjoy! <3

{TAGLIST}: @lacy1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @chey-h @rumoured-whispers @oobleoob

if you would like to be added to the taglist, please comment!

i haven't slept since sunday. midnight for me is three a.m. for you.

three more weeks passed since everything happened. the next day, noah tried to come back. i told him to stay away. forever. i promised him that i would be just fine without him, that i didn't need him to prove to me that he was something he didn't want to be. because i was so convinced he didn't want to be better. he just wanted his photographer back.

i started working at a local coffee shop, the spark in my eyes that was once consistent now gone. i didn't have that kind voice that everyone grew to love. i didn't put any effort into my appearance. i just threw my hair into a ponytail and moved on.

a lot of the time, i was glad i lived alone. i could fall back into old habits without being scolded. like drinking, for example. it was the only way i knew how to handle my feelings. which wasn't working very well.

but you're all it takes for me to break a promise.

i knew the next time i saw his face i would break. i would run back. i would stay. spending years with somebody who you're secretly in love with will do that to a person. so i made it my goal to purposefully ignore him.

every time i would go home, i would scroll mindlessly on my phone. i found out that noah canceled the rest of the tour. mental health reasons, or whatever. i rolled my eyes, turning off my phone and cracking open yet another bottle of liquor, feeling the familiar burn go down my throat that i've grown accustomed to. i walked around my apartment mindlessly, humming some unfamiliar tune to myself.

these past few weeks, music has been my number one savior. aside from alcohol.

NOAH'S POV.

these weeks without her proved to be difficult. having fallen into a depression after alyssa and i broke up, [y/n] leaving only made it worse. i sat in my room, staring at the door. sometimes i would pray that she would walk through. surprise me and say it was all just a cruel prank.

countless bottles of hennessy sat in front of my bed. that was all i had been doing. drinking and working out and writing to ease away the pain.

"but nevertheless, i'm fucking depressed. i hide it with sex, and drink till it's fatal." i murmured to myself, taking another sip from the bottle before letting it clatter to the ground, snatching my pen and paper from my desk.

when i went through things like this, i always liked to write down my thoughts. some of those thoughts ended up in songs. and since we were in the middle of writing a new album, this was perfect.

there was a knock at the door and i grumbled a greeting, my eyes never leaving the paper. a couple seconds later, jolly walked in.

"christ, man, you look like hell."

i hummed, continuing to write as he sat in front of me.

"look, i know you're struggling. because of-"

i knew exactly who he was talking about. i didn't want to hear her name. she hurt me enough. "don't say her name."

jolly sighed. "because of her. but dude, we're worried. you know none of it was your fault, right? she was stupid to do that to you."

i scoffed. "she said it herself, jolly. 'he's richer, hotter, and bigger'" i scowled, repeating her words that she had said to me that night. some part of me regretted walking out of that door. i loved her. for years. and i had grown used to loving her. she was all that i had. she was what made me what i am. she was right, really. i would be nothing without her.

"you're doing it again." he said. at this point, i had stopped writing, staring off into space. "doing what?"

"that thing you do when you get all into your head. blaming yourself for everything. how many times do i have to tell you it's not your fault for you to get it in your head, man?" he said, sternly but gently.

i rolled my eyes. "you're wrong."

"how?"

"because i loved her, jolly. i fucking loved her, and i screwed it all up because i can never do anything right. i'll never be good enough. for myself, or anybody."

i buried my face in my hands, sobs racking my body once more. i never liked to be this vulnerable with anybody, even my closest friends. but honestly? i didn't give a fuck anymore. let them see.

"i know man. i know." he said, rubbing his hand over my back in an attempt to sooth me.

it pained jolly to see me like this. i knew that. but it was better to tell people of my thoughts than to keep it bottled up inside, right?

READERS POV.

i was making that damn song all the way till the early morning. i didn't even realize how late it had gotten until i woke up to my alarm. i had fallen asleep at my desk, my computer still running and everything. i didn't have work today, so that left me plenty of time to do whatever the hell i wanted.

months passed. months without seeing or talking to him. i would occasionally text the others, but i wouldn't dare send him a single text. i caught up a bit with folio and jolly, telling them about my ongoing journey with music. i still pursued photography as a side hustle, but my main focus was getting this song perfect.

it was almost done. almost ready to be released. maybe as an album? no, i can't get too carried away. music isn't for me. but as i listened to the song and made sure everything was right, my feelings began to change.

"i don't want it, and i don't want to want you. but in my dreams, i seem to be more honest. and i must admit, you've been in quite a few."

it wasn't a lie. he had began to show up more often in my dreams. not as nightmares, but as something that we could've been.

"Halley's Comet comes around more than i do. but you're all it takes for me to break a promise. silly me to fall in love with you."

that promise. that stupid promise.

"[y/n], please. let me explain-"

"no, noah! i don't care about your shitty explanations and your shitty behavior and your stupid face! i promise, i'll be just fine without you. leave me alone!"

"i haven't slept since sunday. mdnight for me is 3:00 a.m. for you. but my sleepless nights are better with you than nights could ever be alone, ooh-ooh-ooh. i was good at feeling nothing, now i'm hopeless. what a drag to love you like i do, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh."

it wasn't entirely a lie. when i imagined him in the bed next to me, it felt like i could sleep better. when i pretended everything was okay, everything felt lighter. the weight on my shoulders seemed to momentarily disappear, only to crash back down when i realized it was all just a fantasy.

"ooh-ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh. i've been loved before, but right now in this moment i feel more and more like i was made for you. for you. i'm sitting in my brother's room. haven't slept in a week or two, or two. i think i might have fallen in love. what am i to do?"

as the song ended, i found myself picking up my phone, going to his contact. i laughed softly to myself as i saw the contact. it was still the same. when everything was nice. when i wasn't all alone. i decided to jump the gun, shooting him a text.

i breathed out a sigh of relief. maybe he didn't hate me as much as i thought. i immediately thought back to the time i took it. when things were better. happier.

"come on! put it on!" i laughed, holding out the little plastic tiara to him. we had gone to disney world for a summer vacation, and i won a tiara from one of the game booths.

"i'm not putting that on." he said, his arms folded across his chest.

i pouted, looking up at him with those puppy dog eyes i knew he couldn't resist until he groaned, snatching the tiara from my hands and putting it on his head. despite his previously grumpy demeanor, he still wore a smile when i took the pictures.

i missed that.

the moment i saw him walk through those doors, it was like everything hit me all at once. he looked terrible. i did too, but definitely better in comparison.

"hi." i said softly.

"hi." he said back, sitting down in front of me with his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

i bit my lip as we sat in an awkward silence for a moment before i spoke.

"noah, i-"

"[y/n]-"

i couldn't help but smile softly as we spoke at the same time.

"you first." he said.

i took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself. "i know you've been through a lot, noah. and i should've taken that into consideration when i said all that shit. honestly, i haven't been doing too well myself, if you couldn't tell." i said, gesturing to myself.

"it sounds stupid as fuck, but it feels like theres this void in my chest that's just been so empty since i left. i miss you guys. i miss the band." i said.

he sensed there was something more. "but...?"

"but," i began. "i can't come back as the photographer. after i've recovered somewhat from everything, i realized photography isn't for me. i was to pursue something bigger."

"like?"

"music."

he raised his eyebrows. "you want to become a musician?"

"i know, it sounds absurd and like a child's dream, but i really think-"

"no, [y/n] that's fucking amazing." he said with a small laugh, leaning forward. i smiled slightly. there was that smile i missed.

"yeah?"

"yeah. i mean, i've only heard you sing a handful of times, but you're great. you're gonna make it big, trust me." he said.

my heart warmed at his words. "thank you." i said.

"look, [y/n], i'll be the first to admit how much of a douche i was to you. i've had time to think about it. to get over it and stop wallowing in self-pity. and i'm really sorry. i'm kinda shocked you didn't quit sooner, honestly. but, if you'd like, we could start fresh. you don't have to come back to the band, but we can hang out and shit. maybe i can help you with your music."

his words only made my smile brighten. "yeah, i'd like that. a lot. thank you."

"of course, princess."

after our little friend date, we went to his studio to work on some things. he showed me how different things worked and helped me on writing a song that i had been thinking about.

i bit my lip, jotting down a few lyrics in my notebook as he watched.

i don't really wanna know why you went there. i kinda don't care. you want to kill me? you want to hurt me? stop being flirty. it's kinda working.

i hummed a soft tune to myself as i read the lyrics, trying to figure out what would work right.

did you really think this is the right thing to do? is it news? news to who? that i really looked just like the rest of you.

noah snapped me out of my continuous thoughts, turning back to the computer. "i've been working on stuff, too." he said.

"yeah?"

he hummed in response, pulling up a file full of different songs. "pick one." he said, leaning back.

i bit my lip in thought before clicking on the one titled The Grey.

"evened the scores, then i let it all go fall apart. and every step forward put a little more sword in your heart, yeah. looking sideways when i say i'm okay with the past. but i'm afraid of what i might say if you ask."

i leaned back in my chair as i listened to the lyrics, knowing that this song could be about one of two people. me, or alyssa.

"gave you way too many chances, you ran through them all. got everything i could want but it wasn't enough. nobody left for me to talk to, nobody to call. got everything i could want but i still wanted more. yeah, i still wanted more."

the pure emotion in his voice was enough to make my heart break into pieces and clarify who it was about. i knew after what happened with her, he was broken. and this song was only proof.

"there's not another way, don't let me go. don't dig another grave today. i'll make the same mistakes, i'll never know who i was before i faded away into the grey."

the recording stopped, and my eyes darted from the screen to his face. "that's all i have right now." he said. "we have more sessions later this week to finish it."

i gulped. "noah..."

he looked at me and raised a brow. "what?"

"that was fucking beautiful."

i almost felt like i was going to cry. i always loved his voice, but that was on a whole other level. usually he was screaming. he never had those soft vocals like what i just heard.

he smiled softly. "thanks. now get in there."

i blinked, shaking my head. "sorry, what?"

"go on. get in the booth. i want to hear you sing this. we can figure something out."

"noah, i-" "don't argue. go."

i sighed, getting up and heading into the recording booth. maybe it would be okay. i wouldn't fuck it up. i put on the headphones, looking back up at him through the glass. "which one?" i asked.

he hummed, looking through the notebook i had left on the desk.

"what about my future? start it off strong."

i nodded, mentally preparing myself for whatever the hell was about to happen.

"i can't seem to focus, and you don't seem to notice i'm not here. i'm just a mirror. you check your complexion to find your reflection's all alone. i had to go. can't you hear me? i'm not coming home. do you understand? i've changed my plans. cause i, i'm in love with my future. and i, i'm in love. but not with anybody else. just wanna get to know myself."

it really was a beautiful song. and it was me putting all of my feelings on the line. the lyrics didn't have a deeper meaning to them like noah's often did. their meaning was just laid flat out. i changed my plans for the future, and i'm waiting to sort things out with myself before falling in love again.

"i know supposedly i'm lonely now. know i'm supposed to be unhappy without someone. but aren't i someone? i'd like to be your answer. cause you're so handsome. but i know better than to drive you home. cause you'd invite me in, and i'd be yours again."

the lyrics seemed to flow freely as i sang, my eyes closed and hands moving in random directions. i didn't even notice him staring.

"but i, i'm in love. with my future. and you don't know her, mm. and i, i'm in love. but not with anybody here. i'll see you in a couple years."

i opened my eyes and looked at noah, noticing how his mouth was slightly open. i laughed. "don't start drooling."

he shook himself out of his thoughts. "sorry, that was just. really fucking good. you're a natural, princess. i'm jealous." he said.

i rolled my eyes, stepping out of the booth.

"great, now let's work out a tune."

we spent hours and hours fixing up the song, getting carried away in our musical abilities. last time i checked, it was around 2 am. i didn't want to go home, so i suggested we took a little break and watched a movie or something. he nodded and we sat on the couch, turning on the tv (of course he turned on naruto). my head ended up lulling to the side, landing on his shoulder as i slowly fell asleep. the last thing my brain registered before falling into dreamland was the soft kiss on my forehead and his soft words.

"goodnight, princess."

his lips against mine felt like heaven. it felt like my whole life was complete when i kissed him, when i felt him. he felt like home. something i hadn't known in a long time. i pulled away, breathing slightly heavy as i looked into his chocolate brown eyes.

"noah.." i whispered.

he smiled softly and hummed.

"i fucking love you."

"mm.. [y/n]." he mumbled against my lips.

"princess."

"[Y/N]!"

[unhappy-sometimes]

a 2024 writing retrospective (for sxf fanfic)

ignore the fact that i’m a few days late. i’ve been unbelievably busy the past couple weeks.

in this post i’ll go over the fics i wrote in 2024 think of it as an extremely extended author’s notes. i love to talk and will do so when given the chance.

i’ll start from my latest fic and work my way backwards. spoilers for everything i’ve written in 2024.

(Very) Stupid

Something that I try really really hard to maintain in my writing is believability, specifically when it comes to writing characters. Characters acting out of character is one of my biggest fanfic pet peeves: if I wanted to read about someone’s oc, then I would’ve read a regular book. That being said, I think a lot about how Twilight would actually act like if he were in love. I had an interesting conversation with @cantareincminor forever ago about how he’s so emotionally constipated that it’s kind of difficult to write Twilight in love without making him a bit ooc. Right now in canon it’s hard to imagine him falling head over heels for anyone (in my opinion, anyway).

That being said there are moments in canon where he acts flustered in situations that could be interpreted as romantic. So, for right now, my hypothesis is this: if and when Twilight falls in love, he’s going to be an absolute fool. He’s going to do his usual overthinking and overanalyizing, so much to the point that he starts hesitating over the smallest things.

(Very) Stupid is how I imagine all of that unfolding, although for the sake of comedy I did push things to the absurd. Sometimes Twilight does things in canon with such certainty of “Yes, of course normal people do this, I’m nailing this normalcy thing” that he fails to realize he’s being kinda ridiculous. I also wanted to take that element and incorporate it into a fic.

I also wanted to try subverting expectations (ooh fancy literary term) by having them do romantic things that lead them nowhere. I tried to cram in as many tropes as I could—feeding each other with a fork, only one bed, first kiss—but do so under the guise of Twilight completely missing how dumb he’s being the entire time. He only realizes his feelings until after their first kiss, specifically when Yor surprises him with a quick peck on the cheek. This, of course, was deliberate. I figured that it’d make the most sense if Twilight would only realize his feelings in a situation where he wasn’t the one initiating a (somewhat) romantic gesture because he theoretically wouldn’t be overthinking it. Instead, Yor just sneaks in when his guard is down <3

Endings are usually the hardest things for me to write and (Very) Stupid was no exception. I almost had Twilight pass out at the breakfast table when he kisses Yor but then I realized I’d made him faint in almost every fic I’ve written this year and that felt like a cop out. But I figured it out and I don’t mind the way the ending turned out :D

Also, kind of a random reference, but the title is slightly inspired by VERY NICE by Seventeen lol

Holy crap I’ve written so much for only one fic so far. My apologies in advance.

21 Eden Street

I won’t go into too much detail for 21 Eden Street because it’s still ongoing, but I just wanna brag about how fun it is to write hehe. It’s really enjoyable to write pure crack and come up with stupid and insane ideas with Cantare. You don’t need to have seen either iteration of 21 Jump Street to understand what’s going on. Honestly, we’ve taken very little from the source material and treated it more like a loose guide and a basis for brainstorming.

Don’t worry, we haven’t abandoned it! Cantare is waiting on me to finish writing my chapter (hehe sorry, Cantare!) and soon it’ll be back up and running.

Seeing things

Ah, Seeing Things, my beloved <3

This fic has the least amount of hits out of everything I’ve written (which is not surprising to me) but I hold it very dear to my heart. There’s not a specific reason why other than I just really enjoyed writing it. I also spent a ton of time making supplementary drawings and a whole hype campaign for it, too, so I kinda am obligated to feel some sorta way about it.

Anyway, the way this fic came about is simple; I just had the things I am most afraid of happen to Twilight. Yes, I’m scared of serial killers and my loved ones dying like everyone else, but something I am absolutely terrified of are hallucinations. That and doppelgangers.

Not being able to tell reality apart from fiction activates the flight or fight senses in me. Real life can be scary, yes, but reality is bound by the rules of reality. Literally anything can happen in fiction. The most horrific, awful things are possible in fiction and if those things suddenly become possible in reality???? Girl I am GONE. Passing away. Curling up in a fetal position in the nearest corner. I don’t know if that makes any sense. If I ever start seeing things that I can’t be sure are actually happening or not, I am choosing to die right then and there. Doppelgangers as a concept are also really scary to me. It’s like stranger danger but times a thousand because you can’t tell who the strangers are anymore.

In my initial draft, there wasn’t nearly as much of a tension between Twilight and Yor. If I recall correctly, by then I’d written to nearly the end and realized that for Yor this whole experience has been Loid acting just a little more weird than usual. It might’ve been Cantare’s suggestion (just assume everything after Guy’s Night has been beta’d by Cantare and you’ll be mostly right) but I realized that Twilight probably would start to suspect the people around him were screwing with him. I added the scene where his room was messed up and it all fell into place hehe.

I don’t like writing gore or the like because I feel like typical gore quickly starts escalating into levels of pain that the average reader has no possibility of comprehending and it loses its efficacy. Instead I tried feeding into Twilight’s paranoia, adding things that in isolation are just weird but when put together are unsettling. I shamelessly stole the fourth room hallway from Impossible Landscapes, a Delta Green campaign that I highly recommend you check out if you enjoy surreal horror. I purposefully kept some things vague, like the things Anya sees in Twilight’s mind, the way Handler’s face gets warped, or the description of “the watchers” because I felt like going into detail would lose the unknown-ness of it all. That and I’m lazy heehee.

In some way, canon Spy x Family does deal with ideas of doppelgangers and paranoia. Spies are constantly afraid of being listened in on, they don’t know if they can trust anyone, and they always have to keep an eye over their shoulder. For someone who is always a little scared of being spied on (I cover my phone and laptop cameras for that exact reason), that kinda sounds like torture. Seeing Things was a fun way to crank that paranoia up to a hundred. It was especially fun writing the museum scene because I tried thinking of things that are just ever so slightly off, things that theoretically could exist but clearly don’t.

I also threw in other things I’m scared of, like being watched, being followed, the dark, and the bathroom at night just to be extra mean to Twilight <3

Anyway, I’m rambling and this analysis post will be a novel if I keep this up.

Guy’s Night

I do recognize the insane tone shift going from Seeing Things to Guy’s Night.

What is there to even say about Guy’s Night? I got the idea from Psych (the Last Night Gus episode) who got the general basic from the Hangover movies. I wrote it all out in a few days, one of which I was sick in bed. I don’t know what to say.

Looking back on it, I don’t love the way it turned out. I’m glad I wrote it but where I usually don���t mind rereading my stuff for fun I do kinda cringe at Guy’s Night. It relies on a lot of contrivances which I tried masking with humor but it’s still a bit obvious. If you make a timeline of the previous night’s events, it only kinda makes sense.

It doesn’t help that I went into it with no plan whatsoever. I just sat down and said what happens happens. When I wrote in chapter one that something had happened between Loid and Yor, I didn’t know what that was. When I wrote Loid saying “we need to see what’s on that camera film” I was right there next to him saying “buddy, so do I because I have no idea.” When wrote Franky saying that his friend Marko might have answers, I was hoping he would too because I, like everyone else, didn’t know what was going on either.

The ONE thing I DID know was that Twilight got a tattoo the night before. That was it. That’s all.

I don’t typically plan out everything when I write but I usually have a good idea. For Guy’s Night, I had a bad idea in that I had no idea. It kinda shows. Sorry.

That being said, it was incredibly fun writing their drunk shenanigans and banter. The dynamic between Twilight, Franky, and Yuri was so goofy that I’ve seriously debated writing a sequel of sorts. However that’s incredibly unlikely. If I ever do write a sequel, it’d be a Girl’s Night with Yor and a combination of female characters, probably Sylvia and Fiona.

After Peace (and Glimpses of Happiness)

A quick heads up: I don’t go into detail but I do discuss mental illness in this segment.

I am incredibly proud of how After Peace turned out. Not only did it receive a really good reception for being my first fic ever, but it also helped me work through some things in my own life. It’s important to give some context.

I wrote After Peace shortly after graduating college. I won’t go into specifics, but college was really, really difficult for me. I had been so excited for this next step in my life after graduating high school but instead it turned out to be one of the hardest experiences of my life. Depression came out of nowhere and stomped me into the ground.

I used to have very high expectations for myself; I had a clear vision of what I wanted to do with my life and I was taking steps to work towards those goals. Then my mental health tanked and suddenly everything just felt so difficult and pointless. I’d sleep all day and then hate myself when the sun started to set because that meant I’d wasted an entire day doing nothing when I was supposed to be working towards something. But I just couldn’t do it anymore.

That’s something I’ve noticed that a lot of media gets wrong about depression sometimes. It doesn’t always make you feel sad. Sometimes it just sucks everything out of you—sadness, happiness, anger, everything. I stopped drawing, stopped listening to music, stopped eating, stopped exercising, stopped doing everything that I enjoyed because it felt like the equivalent of doing the dishes. Everything was a chore, even the things that I liked.

What really changed things around was when my poor roommate, who was sick of me sleeping for twenty hours a day, dragged my sorry self to the free counseling services on campus. It’s doesn’t fix everything, but having someone who cares about you and you care about can really help your mental health.

Anyway, let’s not forget I’m talking about an anime fanfiction here haha.

After Peace really did start out as a couple of doodles but as I started to write it, I noticed that there were a lot of similarities between myself and Loid. No, I am not a former spy turned grumpy hermit, but I did once have great aspirations and now have to settle for what reality offers me. Realizing that worth comes from simply existing was something that I had to understand in order to begin my recovery process.

I’ve always found it kind of sad that if you took away the goal of world peace from Twilight that you’re basically left with nothing. He doesn’t really have hobbies, no real friends, and he never takes a day off. That’s hardly sustainable. Would he really be happy when there’s nothing left to do? I’d like to think so, but I wanted to see what would happen if he wasn’t.

I mentioned this in the end note, but After Peace was also influenced by this comic I was working on years ago that had the similar premise of “grumpy man learns to enjoy life with the help of a young girl” (very original, I know). I doubt that I’ll ever release that comic in the capacity I once intended, but it does live on in my secret second tumblr account of you ever manage to find it.

Anyway, I was worried about writing After Piece because Anya plays a big role and I am Not Good at writing children. It was hard striking a balance between making Anya likeable but still realistic. I don’t interact with children often and, as a youngest sibling, I don’t have much experience with them. Anya has so many layers—being a test subject, being a telepath, being a child—that it was hard managing them all. But I’m okay with how she turned out.

There is a slight problem in that she basically disappears once Yor shows up D:

I debated having Yor in the fic at all but then I realized that without her the emotional climax would have to rely on a four year old’s emotional intelligence and then decided right then and there that Yor had to be in it haha.

Yor’s whole deal with accidentally killing the wrong person was kind of a last minute addition. I do wish I was able to explore that more, but I also feel like she’s emotionally mature enough to forgive herself more quickly than Twilight would. She ends up serving a bit of a role model to him. It was also nice to be able to write them interacting with the truth out on the table and for them to be honest with each other.

Pacing was something that I was very concerned with. Looking back on it now, I’m still worried that things move along a bit quickly. However, I am reminded of some advice my graphic design professors gave me: “Good design is when nothing more can be take away.” And, because I was writing this as fast as possible, you best believe I was taking things away if I didn’t need them. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of dwelling on Twilight’s thoughts for too long so I instead opted for showing him progressing through experiences instead. I think it worked out.

However because I took so many things out I decided to start Glimpses of Happiness, a supplementary fic to After Peace that fills in the cracks, so to speak. I wanted to have more moments between Twilight and the other characters, like stargazing with Anya and growing close to Yor. Right now there’s only one chapter, but I have plans for at least a few more. I also thought it was important to highlight that mental health recovery never truly ends. Just because Yor and Twilight had a nice chat on the roof doesn’t mean that things are suddenly okay. It’s a long process that sometimes never ends and I wanted to show that.

Of course, I can’t talk about After Peace without addressing the Midwest allegations. As I said, yes, this fic was inspired by my childhood in the American Midwest, even though I was nowhere near any mountains. The Midwest is a silly place full of nothing to do but go to your local Walmart for fun, but I think it served a good enough setting for Twilight to chill out and slow down. If I really wanted to do full Midwest, I’d have Twilight watch a tornado touch down on a cornfield from his truckbed, but that feels sort of out of place.

I feel like there’s more to say but I can’t think of anything and I doubt anyone’s actually gonna read all the way down here anyway. But yeah, that’s After Peace.

Oh, and the A.M. AM by Damien Jurado Youtube video currently has nine comments that mentjon falling from a five story building, which I think is really funny.

So now what?

Against my better judgement, I’m still writing. I have a couple projects in the works, especially one big big big one that hopefully I can start publishing soon. Keep an eye out for that.

In the meantime, thanks for a great year! I hope 2025 holds more great things in store for us all!

-unso ^. .^<

[questionableratatouille00]

ʜɪɢʜᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟʟ 5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: In an effort to get the two of you to bond, Tony Stark sends you and the ex-assassin Bucky Barnes on a road trip together. The reason? You hate each other. The situation? Two weeks in a car together. The reward: three days of a resort vacation. And the problem? He's kinda cute.

Warnings (Entire Series): Enemies-to-lovers, cursing, sexual tension, angst, fluff, crying, fighting, violence, chaos, mentions/talk of trauma, discussions of mental health, and potentially more.

Warnings: Reader wore a dress (past), cursing, mentions and eating of food, reader is called a cow if that’s a warning, both characters being horrible to each other, fighting, mentioned HYDRA themes.

[Series Masterlist] <- Haven’t seen pt. 1?

𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓 𝑴𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔

Day Three

As you hauled your stuff into the truck once again, you couldn’t help but yawn. You were tired, and maybe still hungry even after raiding the hotel breakfast bar. 

Bucky took the driver’s seat, and you were too exhausted to argue. Your feet still hurt from the night before, all that dancing in those heels. 

Glancing at the man beside you, he didn’t seem to feel the same. 

You put on your playlist, blasting obnoxious pop music. You liked those songs, but you liked messing with Bucky more. 

The two of you stopped at a drive-thru for lunch.

Making the best choice for yourself, you decided to squeeze in a nap before you guys would stop for dinner. Leaning against the window, you closed your eyes and prepared for sleep.

When it finally came, it was a peaceful, uninterrupted darkness that allowed you some rest. 

Until you were nudged awake. You glared daggers at the perpetrator—the monster who woke you. 

“Dude, what the fuck?” You grumbled, rubbing your eyes. 

“You snore like a cow with a deviated septum.” He grumbled. 

“You’re such a fucking dick.” You retorted. “I bet you snore, too.”

“No, I don’t.” He answered back, brushing you off as if you had just said that grass was blue. 

“Yeah, you probably do.” You had no idea, but you were too deep to stop now.

“Okay.” He huffed, shaking his head. 

“Asshole.” You grumbled. 

More minutes passed by. Minutes turned into an hour. And after an hour, you were both bickering over the radio.

”You’ve been playing the same shit for the last two days. There has to be something else.” He said, his tone pointed and his eyes widened.

“Yeah, to drown out your loud ass breathing!” You shouted back.

“You wanna talk about my breathing? Really? After sounding like a broken vacuum for two hours?” He turned his head to stare at you.

“Watch the fucking road, you piece of shit!” You shrieked as he swerved.

“What? Does that scare you? Does that fucking scare you?” He barked back, but he turned his head back toward the road. His right hand’s knuckles had turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he had ripped it off, either on accident or on purpose. Wouldn’t have been the first time.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You spat out. “Are you crazy? Are you insane? Is that what HYDRA did? They made you fucking crazy?” It was like watching yourself from outside your body. You would’ve never said that. Never. Personal attacks were not your style. But something about him—or maybe something about the two of you together—made you act in ways you sometimes couldn’t control.

“Don’t you fucking say that! Don’t you ever fucking say that! You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about!” He slammed on the breaks, pulling off to the little gravel section on the side of the road. You were in the middle of nowhere—surrounded by trees on a mountain.

When he slammed on the breaks, your body hurled forward, your arm slamming into the dashboard. “Fuck!” You groaned, clutching your arm. Your phone slipped from your lap and clattered to the truck floor. “You fucking suck!”

“And you’re a stuck-up bitch!” He shouted back.

“I wish Steve never saved your sorry ass, I wish I’d never ever met you.” You growled, clenched fists trembling with rage.

“You really are the worst thing that ever happened to me. I mean that.” When he uttered the words, his teeth were bared. Like a dog, you thought. HYDRA’s bitch in all his fucking glory.

“Really? Seventy years of shit and it’s me? I’m the worst thing?” You were losing your mind. “Glad to know being even near me is worse than torture! Glad you’re sharing your experiences, Bucky.”

“And how would you know? What, like you’re my goddamn best friend or some shit? You’re fucking not. We aren’t even friends!” He roared the words in the loudest volume you’d ever heard from him.

Of course you knew that you weren’t friends. Obviously. But you didn’t need the bitchy Bucky Barnes to remind you. Seething, you decided that you were done with this shit, and you didn’t care what Nat or Tony had to say about it.

“No fucking shit! Thank you so much, Sherlock Holmes! And for once, you’re actually right! I’m not your friend! Thank you for making that clear for me. In fact, I’m so grateful that I’ll give you what you've wanted since the beginning, you bitch!” You unbuckle your seatbelt, before pressing the ‘unlock’ button.

Hopping out of the truck, Bucky began to copy you. “You can’t leave!” He said, and his tone sounded like he was accusing you of something. You responded by sticking both middle fingers up near your chest.

“Watch me!” You slammed the door shut before turning and stalking off bitterly.

You made it maybe fifteen quick steps away before you heard Bucky’s door slam shut. His shoes made noise against the road. Before he could say anything, you whirled around to face him. He stopped, five feet away from you. He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

"Have you ever considered that maybe it's you? Everyone keeps leaving you and you keep acting surprised. It's because you push them away, Bucky! You push them away!" Your voice becomes shrill at the end of your statement.

He flinches at the mention of Steve. "You don't understand." Bucky called out.

"Then explain it to me then, Bucky. Explain it!" It was more of a begging shout than an angry one. "What, are you worried that he'll leave you or some shit? Cause he's not! I followed him halfway across the world for you!"

"He's the only person who's left! He's all I've got left, the last good thing I have!"

"Probably because you refuse to do anything but glare at everybody else! So you can go ahead and be by yourself! Serves you right!" You spin around, beginning to walk down the road again again. You're too angry to check if he's still following you.

You find out once you feel a hand on your shoulder. Filled with rage, you spin around and punch him right in the face. You regret it immediately as you feel the stinging pain in your fist.

He lets out a loud 'fuck!' as he clutches his jaw. His brows furrow and he looks up at you, eyes wide and furious. You knew in that moment that you’d fucked up. Without warning, you turn and race down the road, knowing that he was right behind you. Shit, shit, shit, you repeated in your head.

You trip over a pothole, pausing. Bucky, however, clearly wasn’t paying attention as he rammed into you. You let out a shriek, tripping and falling down right at the precipice of the hill. And then you were rolling. Rolling through leaves, and mud, and sticks as you both swatted and kicked at each other. Then you rolled through a small creek, and you let out a yowl as you felt your clothes get wet, writhing even more as gravity pulled you down.

When it was over, you both laid there for a moment. Bucky had landed on top of you, and you struggled to breathe. Shoving him off of you, you stared up into the starry sky. Something about it made you want to take back what you'd thought about the value of this trip. At least the sky was pretty.

You got up at the same time he did. The two of you looked at each other, tense. You weren't sure if he was still pissed about the whole punching-him-thing. But God, the fall hurt. Your head hurt. Your back hurt. As did your legs and arms and face and literally almost every part of you.

"Fuck you, Barnes." Was all you said, before you began walking forward. Tumbling just far enough that you were basically in the forest, you could still see the hill you fell from. You were insanely dizzy, but the pain in your body and the wetness of your clothes grounded you. You didn’t know where to go, but you knew you couldn’t stand to look at his face anymore. You picked a direction and began to walk. Bucky did not follow.

It was hard to tell how far you’d gone. The darkness, coupled by the fact that all of these trees seemed to look the same, was not helpful towards your already-poor sense of direction.

After a while, you sat down against a tree. Attempting to reach for your phone, you let out a pathetic groan as you realize it was sitting probably under your seat back in the truck.

So you truly were fucked at the moment.

The sky was beautiful. It was the kind of dark, starry sky that had splashes of blue in it. It was like someone had water colored it. You knew you weren't going to die in the woods. You're an Avenger, damn it.

The sound of sticks breaking tore you from your thoughts. You believed it was a wild animal, at first. But even with the darkness, you could tell who it was. Bucky Barnes, the one hundred and six year-old Super Soldier.

"Don't act like you're not happy to see me like this." You called out as he stepped closer.

He was close enough that you could see his face. He looked...almost remorseful.

"Don't look at me like you're sorry. You're not sorry." You groaned out.

He said nothing, but you could tell he disagreed. He stood beside you, and he was quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry. For punching you.” You say quietly. “I don’t regret what I said, though. It’s true. They all..we all want to help you. But we can’t because—“

“I know.” He cuts you off, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry too.” He cleared his throat before speaking again. “I don’t…know why I am the way I am. But I don’t wanna be like that. Like this. Not forever.”

When you didn’t say anything, he continued. “Sometimes I think that this is it and I can’t do anything about it. That this is how it goes. That I lived through…it all, just to be fucked over from it forever.” He fiddled with his hands, looking down. “And I don’t…want it to be that way. So I guess I’m saying I’ll try to do better.”

Your head bobbed up and down shakily. “Yeah. And..I’m sorry about bringing that up. That was…shit, that was awful. I’m sorry.”

He nodded too, still not looking up at you. “Did you mean it?”

“What?”

“About..about me being HYDRA’s bitch. Did you mean that?” He looked up and you could see his expression and it burned in your stomach. It was hard to describe—a boyish suffering; like that of a kicked puppy.

“I…what?” Holy shit. Had you said that under your breath on accident? Now you felt truly guilty. “No. God, no. Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say anything, looking back down and watching as he fiddled more with his hands.

“Do you have any idea where the truck is?” You ask after an awkward silence. He responded by pointing behind him. Great, you thought. You’d been walking the wrong way the whole time.

“The serum made my eyesight better. I can kind of see in the dark.” He explained.

You nodded, sighing. “There’s some towels in the back of the truck. We can put them on the seats. To help with all the…mud.” You gestured between the two of you.

You both made the trek back up the hill to the road, and then began to make your way to the eerily silent truck.

You laid down the towels, and then Bucky put the keys in the truck. He twisted them, and nothing happened. His brows furrowed. He tried again.

Silence.

“When we got out of the car,” he began, voice measured. “Nobody turned it off.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Please. Please tell me you’re joking.” You pressed your fist to your forehead.

“The battery must be dead.” He said, staring blankly ahead through the windshield.

You dug under the seat, finding your phone. “I’ll call for a tow truck, or whoever the fuck I’m meant to call.” You groaned.

The two of you stood awkwardly shivering in the cold as you waited for your savior in overalls.

A/N: Hoping that the tag list works well this time! I was previously having trouble with some usernames not being tagged, but that seems to be resolved! (hopefully)

I cannot promise a schedule, but I do want to finish this series this year! Hope everybody had some happy holidays and a wonderful new year!

Taglist: @afraidofshrimp @kandis-mom @laughterafter @cjand10 @emmsybucky @mrsnotfeelingsogood @matchat3a @identity2212 @ilovemcuff @unaxv @mysticalfuncollectorus @highwaytomichelle @lilbloggs @ordelixx @skiemi-blog @allieb913 @winterslove1917 @chimchoom @moonlight-readings @unearthlydreams @emizlav

graphics by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

If you enjoyed, please reblog!

[velvetvexations]

the thing about socialization + the idea that testosterone/passing/coming out or whatever else people have decided trans men should stop doing is "the thing that makes them an Evil Man becuase the Evil Man Rays are seeping into their unsuspecting heads, but they're even worse because they 'got to' grow up afab and that gives them 'female privilege'" reminds me of something ive seen some people do.

ive met quite a few people who consider themselves academic types and are, on paper, anti-racist. they can and will state that one's race has no bearing on their mental and moral capacities, and they find all the racist scientology things bs. however, when confronted with the 'problem' of actually interacting with nonwhite people (especially in contexts of trust, relationships, and gauging skill) they spew textbook racist rhetoric and then cover it up with "well, ii don't think their skin color has anything to do with it, but im sure that growing up in a Certain Disadvantaged Environment does things to you that makes you less trustworthy/stupider."

and it's a whole shitload of baggage when it comes to nature vs nurture arguments, and i guess i can't prove nor disprove the existence of the invisble force begotten from a specific upbringing that creates all those Evil People we love talking about, but actually my point is this: i don't think it matters to the people they're talking about. if someone flings stereotypes at me but tries to undercut it with "well i'm not saying that because of your'e [ethnicity im not sharing], that's silly. i just think that about you because if the way i think Society has treated you" funnily enough, im not going to care that much. they're not getting extra credit for that

and that's why in all this im like OF COURSE 'tmes' (by which both they and i mean afab trans people and sometimes intersex people) are upset! youre telling me that this group of people, whom we can reasonably assume were not comfortably out from a young age, have dealt with this society's bullshit when it comes to being percieved as a woman...and they're mad about being called basic, whiny, overreactive, stupider on average, soft, and liars about their oppression? man, i'd think so! i'd hope so! i wonder where they might have heard that before!

that's where all the insistence about reading theory (which by the way, a lot of us have!) falls flat on its face. anyone, 'tme' or 'tma' repeating their transphobic arguments have encountered a fundamental failure in how to interact with a group of people with baggage. this is necessary context and i feel insane becuase it's almost never acknowledged, we're just supposed to pretend that transmasc people were never trans? and those who bring it up are 'cligning onto femininity?'

i feel like that's also why we've had so many people say "they sound like terfs." i myself am not really comfortable with the comparison, but to tell someone that they have terf-ish talking points is, i think, not the end of the world. because i thought we determined a long time ago that the problem is the people, the terfs, it's that bs that they believe. and to spout the exact same things while claiming that "well, but im saying it for a different reason! im not arguing that all people i think do gender wrong should die because im a terf, i do it for Enlightened reasons!" again, no extra credit.

yeah but other people read "trans people AFAB have dealt with misogyny all their lives and continue to deal with it" as "trans women have a lesser relationship to misogyny" like bitch dat's a whole new sentence! DAT'S A WHOLE NEW SENTENCE!

[bwat5-blog]

Did Jinx Love Vi?

**Spoilers For All Of Arcane**

Okay. First let me say I am not here to attack or insult Jinx. The title is literally just addressing the question I'm hoping to answer so.. put down the torches and pitchforks. I recently had a very nice short talk with someone on one of their posts, and it was primarily to do with this issue of how Jinx treats Vi in the show. And in truth, I share a lot of their feelings. For the most part, we never really get a moment of Jinx outwardly showing any sympathy or kindness to Vi at all until almost the end. As I always do for clarity let me be crystal clear. Vi is my favorite character. But I think most people watching objectively can agree she tries really fucking hard for the people she loves and gets kicked in the teeth almost constantly.

*Not writing in my usual spot to look up these quotes so some may be paraphrased*

" Never thought my sister would turn blue-belly"- Literally there because of what Jinx did

"I'm a hero. I busted half of Zaun out of prison while you were passed out at the bottom of a mug"- Vi completely spiraling after losing literally everyone she loves and Jinx knowing full well she didn't step in for Zaun until they took Isha

" She used to be pretty cool, til I kicked her ass"- literally the fight where Jinx lured Vi down there hoping to die and it ended with her on her back urging Vi to finish her.

Smirks at Vi when Vi sees the Mural of her and Vander. Even though Jinx literally betrayed everything Vander ever stood for and considers the man who murdered Vander and caused the deaths of their brothers her father. All while Vi is nowhere to be seen.

Now, there is obviously history between them, Jinx has her reasons to be angry just like Vi does. NEITHER ARE PERFECT. But these few examples are not exaggerated or spun. And they are just a few of many. It can really come off like Jinx just does NOT care what happened to Vi at all:

Seven years in Stillwater undergoing god knows what kind of hell

Almost killed getting back to her in the undercity before being taken by firelights

Almost killed by Jinx on the bridge

Almost killed by Silco at the same event where she begs Cait for Jinx life and Jinx responds by murdering Caitlyn's mother

Has clearly been driven so far by Jinx's actions and what has happened that she becomes Enforcer

Abandoned by Caitlyn and on self-destructive spiral that will very likely kill her because Caitlyn has lost her self after everything Jinx has done to her.

However, I think there are some things we need to remember to better understand this issue:

Jinx is severely mentally ill. I know this is obvious. But it matters because everything she says and does is filtered through a different lens than the average person.

Jinx hates herself and in season 2 especially, wants to die until she bonds with Isha. She gives us evidence of this repeatedly but the moment I most remember is when she meets Isha for the very first time and describes knowing she could die at any time as the best feeling in the world. Then goes on to associate herself with cursing a a sister, a family or a society, I think it was.

"I'm losing my snappy comebacks"- Part of Jinx's whole schtick is verbally lashing out. She mocks everyone, at all times, for any reason. It doesn't make it kind or right. It's just what she does. She also absolutely knows precisely what to say to piss her sister off. Like any good little sister would. Additionally, you may be the person yourself but if not, we all know that person whose defense mechanism is cruel or sarcastic words. While Jinx is plenty dangerous, more often than not when she feels insulted/threatened/uncomfortable she goes for the death blow verbally.

Considering all of that, while there are moments I wish she could have shown Vi alittle more kindness and love, especially with how much Vi loves her, I think Jinx's love for Vi remains constant throughout the show, even if her motormouth sometimes makes it hard to see:

The Reunion:

Even after all the terrible things in their childhood, including the incident for which Vi carries so much guilt and some of the fandom think a fifteen year old Vi should have been crucified for, this is how their reunion starts. Vi apologizes immediately and embraces her. Jinx is crying and ashamed of how she has changed but Vi accepts her and loves her. It only goes wrong when Jinx sees Caitlyn, and why is she mad at Caitlyn who she has never seen or met?

Cyclops and lefty to the rescue. Silco to turn Jinx against Vi and Sevika intentionally trying to damage Jinx's mental health, both of these figures poison Jinx against Caitlyn ruining the next several times they get close. But all throughout that series of events we see Jinx trying to overpower the voices in her head because she knows Vi loves her, and she loves VI. Just unfortunately, she does not win.

2. Seeing Vi As An Enforcer:

Now this isn't a happy moment of course. But Jinx isn't so distraught at seeing Vi in the uniform because she doesn't care about Vi. She is seeing what she believes is the total rejection of her by the last person she has who loves her and who she loves, all wrapped up in the package that killed her parents

3. Jinx VS Vi:

Even during the fight Jinx wanted to end in her death, when Isha gets involved and sticks a gun in Vi's face Jinx IMMEDIATELY screams no.

4. Jinx At the Pit:

If you slow down the cinematic of Vi's time in the pit, is actually shown a few times not just the once. Now I admit this is head-canon and probably the least provable one of these. But I don't think Jinx would have show up again and again to take pleasure in or mock Vi's pain. I think she was just checking on her in the best way her mind knew how.

5. Vander:

I already mentioned how their last interaction went, and the fact that Jinx came to Vi anyway to try and rebuild their family knowing full-well Vi would likely want to kill her is impressive and a clear sign of JInx's desire for them all to be together again.

There are plenty more examples to either point (particularly the MASSIVE example of how Jinx feels about vi in the end of the show), this was quick and not my usual quality. But the thought struck me and I wanted to jump on it. Feel free to share your thoughts same/different or otherwise, I appreciate all of you who take time out of your day to read my thoughts. Even when they are quick and slap-dash like this.

The story of these sisters is one that for me, will live on forever. Have a great day.