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pedrosd1ckrider · 20 days ago

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Strawberry Moon.

part two

a/n: This is my attempt—after finishing the second episode of season two—at not losing my mind. It’s going to be a series, or at least I hope so. I’m new here, so please be kind with me; I’m still learning.

Also, English is like my fourth language, so I might make plenty of mistakes—I welcome every polite feedback.

Tags: 18+ MDNI, female reader x Joel Miller, age gap, masturbation (f! receiving), reader might or might not have an hand fetish, grumpy&sunshine vibes, grumpy Joel, sunshine reader, mean Joel (I love him), neighbor Joel, no physical description of reader just that she has hair and is feminine (I imagined myself while writing it, I’m sorry), she fell first vibes, love confession at the very end, food consuming, mostly fluff, Sarah is in here, Sarah throws a punch, fighting, reader is an English teacher. Let me know if I forgot anything 🫶🏼.

Word count: how do we do that? I don’t know someone teach me.

Summary: You recently relocated to Austin, Texas, and began working as an English teacher at a school. Despite your warmth, professionalism, and efforts to be friendly and approachable, you find yourself subtly excluded—particularly by the people you most wish to connect with.

Joel Miller was the kind of man you never really reached. Not truly. He wasn’t just good-looking—he was infuriatingly, ruggedly handsome in that way that made you feel like you were trapped inside a Texas Marlboro ad with no escape. Dark brown hair, always a bit messy, with just enough gray streaks to make you question your entire preference for younger men. He looked like someone who didn’t try to be attractive. He just was. Like the universe owed him something and paid him back in bone structure.

You’d just moved into the house across the street from his. Cute little place. New beginnings and all that. And yet, despite your visible existence as a fellow human being with a mailbox and a garbage bin, Joel never once looked at you. Not a glance. Not even one of those polite half-smiles people do when they see you. Nothing. It was like you lived in a dimension parallel to his—but slightly less important.

Now, look. You didn’t expect a welcome basket or anything, but one day, you worked up the courage to say hi. Just a simple, classic, neighborly hi as you saw him working on his truck—grease on his hands, sun catching on his arms in a way that made your brain forget the alphabet for a second. So, you said it. Clear as day. Loud, even. Because your voice? You could shout over a cafeteria full of hormonal teenagers and still be heard.

And Joel? Joel fucking ignored you.

Like, didn’t-flinch, didn’t-look-up, didn’t-acknowledge-your-existence ignored you. As if your entire being was a rogue breeze passing through his mechanic zen. You’d almost convinced yourself he might be deaf in one ear or deeply entranced by the carburetor, but no. He’d just chosen violence via indifference.

And you felt… not exactly crushed, but definitely mildly offended. Who ignores a friendly hi? Was it the tone? Was it the moment? Was it you? You’d been ghosted by men before, but never in broad daylight and never by someone who lived twenty feet from your recycling bin.

Honestly, it was just a goddamn greeting. You weren’t proposing marriage. You weren’t asking for sugar or spiritual guidance. It was two letters. Hi. H and I. The minimum viable product of social interaction.

Apparently, even that was too much for Joel Miller.

Unlike his older brother—The Human Brick Wall That Was Joel—Tommy was… pleasant. Sweet, even. The kind of guy who actually smiled when he saw you, like a normal, functioning member of society. He said “Good morning” with the gentle optimism.

Tommy had this easy charm about him. The kind that made neighbors wave, dogs wag their tails, and old ladies suddenly remember they had cookies to give out. He was warm. Friendly. The type of man who’d help you move a couch without complaining, and then thank you for letting him help. It was adorable. Unsettlingly so.

And, yes, in the beginning, he tried. Poor guy gave it an honest shot. A couple of subtle hints here and there—a slightly-too-long glance, an offer to fix your leaky faucet, which, let’s be honest, was fine until he touched it. You knew where it was headed. You’ve been a woman on this planet for more than fifteen minutes—you recognized the signs. So, you shut it down.

Because it wasn’t about looks. Tommy wasn’t unattractive. He was objectively cute in a younger-brother-of-the-brooding-loner kind of way. But he was… well, Tommy. You couldn’t imagine him shirtless in your kitchen. You could, however, imagine him helping you set up your IKEA bookshelf and then staying for tea. He was a friend. Full stop. And not every man on Earth was destined to be your love interest. Especially not the ones who made really enthusiastic small talk about fishing.

It wasn’t personal. It was just… simple math. Chemistry: zero. Compatibility: fine, but platonic. Vibe: golden retriever. And while golden retrievers are lovely animals, you don’t date them. You pat them on the head and say, “Thanks, buddy.”

So that was Tommy. Kind, respectful, slightly too eager—but ultimately harmless. If Joel was a closed steel door bolted from the inside, Tommy was the welcome mat in front of it.

So, naturally, you made it your mission in life to get Joel Miller to like you. Or—realistically—tolerate you. Bare minimum. You weren’t asking for friendship bracelets or homemade chili, just a simple, human hello. One word. Two syllables. Low stakes, emotionally. But somehow, this man had turned basic neighborly civility into an Olympic-level sport of avoidance.

Which was especially baffling because his daughter, Sarah, was an absolute sweetheart. Polite, kind, bright-eyed in that way kids are when they haven’t yet realized how disappointing adults can be. She smiled at you every morning like she hadn’t been raised by a walking sandpaper storm of a father. So clearly, the problem wasn’t the gene pool—it was specifically Joel.

And look, you weren’t one of those people who needed to be liked by everyone. That wasn’t your style. You were fine being a little bit much for some people—occupational hazard when you spend your days herding hormonal teenagers and explaining the difference between “their” and “they’re.” But Joel lived right across the street. Directly. Diagonally would’ve been tolerable. Even next door, you could ignore. But no—his house stared into yours like a permanent middle finger from the universe.

You needed him to not hate you. Because what if you had a real emergency one day? What if you were choking on a grape or got mauled by raccoons or—more realistically—your water heater exploded and flooded your kitchen? Would Joel help? Probably not. He’d give you one of his famously unreadable stares, mutter something about “bad timing,” and go back to tinkering with whatever mysterious part of his truck needed twelve hours of maintenance every Saturday.

And yet, despite all of that, you tried to make peace with the man. For Sarah’s sake. Sweet kid. She didn’t talk much in your class—English clearly wasn’t her favorite. Math kid, definitely. You could tell. She had that quiet energy of someone who found comfort in equations and structure. But when she did speak, she had sharp insights, the kind you didn’t expect from someone so quiet. Her writing wasn’t flashy, but it was thoughtful. And clean, mostly. A few spelling issues, sure, but nothing tragic. You’d seen worse. Much worse.

The point was: if Sarah could be nice, there was technically hope for Joel.

Very, very theoretical hope. But still.

You were in front of your house, watering the strawberry plants you’d decided—on a whim that turned into a full-blown commitment—to grow from scratch. Strawberries, of all things. Delicate, temperamental little divas of the garden world. But they were beautiful, and sweet, and they made you feel a little victorious every time a new bud peeked out. You were good at this kind of thing—flowers, herbs, kids, anything that needed patience and gentle stubbornness. The so-called “feminine” arts, as if nurturing life and seasoning food were less impressive than, say, rotating tires.

You’d been mocked for it, of course. Some people rolled their eyes at women who liked “girly” things, as if softness equaled weakness. But not you. You loved being who you were. You loved your mid-length skirts that swished around your calves. Your fitted tops that hugged you just enough to remind you that your body was yours and that you looked good in it. You loved doing your hair every morning—even when it meant getting up early—and painting your face in shades of confidence. And pink. You really loved the color pink.

Which is probably why Joel Miller looked at you like you were an alien from Planet Bubblegum the day you painted your picket fence—not white, not beige, not “eggshell”—but a soft, joyful pink. The look on his face was something between suspicion and mild existential crisis. As if the very existence of a pink fence in his line of sight challenged his understanding of reality.

He didn’t say anything, of course. That would require actual verbal communication, and Joel seemed pathologically allergic to that. But he looked. One long, confused, judgment-laced stare.

You didn’t mind. You weren’t trying to impress him. (Except for the part of you that absolutely was.) You just liked beautiful things. And you were tired of pretending beauty had to be neutral or quiet or beige. If pink fences and strawberries made you happy, then so be it. Let the man stew in his masculinity while you cultivated sweetness and color and a garden that actually responded when spoken to.

At the very least, the strawberries didn’t pretend you were invisible.

You didn’t even hear Sarah approach at first—you were far too engrossed in a very serious, one-sided conversation with a particularly stubborn strawberry plant that had decided to wilt, just the tiniest bit, despite your diligent watering schedule and regular pep talks. You crouched in front of it, brow furrowed, whispering something along the lines of, “You’re stronger than this. We don’t give up just because the sun’s rude today.”

“Hello, Miss,” came a soft voice, polite as pie and twice as sweet.

You blinked, startled, and glanced up from your strawberry-in-distress. There she was—Sarah Miller, ponytailed and sun-kissed, standing on the edge of your lawn.

“Hello there, young lady,” you replied with a warm smile, standing and brushing your hands off on your skirt. “I was just giving this one a bit of a pep talk. She’s being dramatic today.”

Sarah giggled and took a tentative step forward, eyes scanning your little patch of soil like it was the botanical gardens. “They look really nice,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to strawberries before.”

“Well,” you said, “that may be why so many people end up with bland fruit. You have to nurture flavor. It’s all about emotional support.”

She laughed again, a little louder this time, and pointed to the one you’d been scolding. “That one’s just shy.”

“Oh, is that what it is? Shyness? And here I thought she was just a diva.”

Sarah grinned, hands clasped behind her back, and then, almost offhandedly, said, “You know, strawberries are my dad’s favorite.”

You paused. Blinked once. Excuse me?

Joel Miller? Mr. Grimace-and-Glare? Favorite fruit: strawberries?

“That so?” you said casually, as if your entire worldview hadn’t just shifted on its axis. “Wouldn’t have pegged him for the strawberry type. Maybe black coffee and regret, but strawberries?”

Sarah shrugged, clearly unfazed. “He used to make pancakes with them on Sundays, when he wasn’t working.”

Pancakes. With strawberries. The man who looked at your pink fence like it was a personal insult to his masculinity made pancakes. With fruit. On Sundays.

You managed to keep a straight face—barely. “Well, I guess I better keep them alive, then. Just in case he ever wants one.”

She nodded solemnly. “He wouldn’t admit it, but if you gave him one, he’d eat it.”

You smirked, amused by the image of Joel Miller reluctantly accepting a strawberry like it was a peace offering from an alien race. “Good to know,” you said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sarah smiled, and you suddenly understood exactly how she’d turned out so sweet. It clearly skipped a generation.

“Sarah, we don’t talk to strangers,” Joel barked from across the yard. You didn’t even turn your head. You didn’t need to. You felt the words hit like a slap across the back of your neck, hot and humiliating. Strangers? Seriously? You were her teacher. You had literally graded this child’s essay on “What America Means to Me.” (Mediocre thesis, strong conclusion. B+, but generous.)

You lived across the street, for God’s sake. You’d waved at him. Multiple times. You’d smiled. You’d even once offered him banana bread, which he had declined.

Your jaw tensed as you turned back to your strawberry patch, trying not to mutter something illegal. You focused on the plant—the wilting one, of course, the dramatic one—gently adjusting her leaves as if she were a fainting Victorian maiden.

“I swear to God,” you whispered to her under your breath, “if I ever murder that man, it won’t be entirely unjustified.”

You gave her an extra-long pour from the watering can, channeling your frustration through hydration. Joel Miller, patron saint of unwarranted suspicion and gruff, caveman energy. You didn’t dislike him, not really. Dislike would imply he occupied emotional space in your mind on purpose. He was more of an ambient irritation, like a mosquito in flannel.

Still, something about him made you keep trying. Like poking at a vending machine that keeps eating your quarters. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was because Sarah was such a good kid and you couldn’t fathom how someone so sweet had come from someone who looked at you like you were a live grenade in a pink sundress.

Or maybe—God help you—it was the arms. Or the voice. Or the fact that he’d probably smell like cedar and mechanic sweat if he ever stood close enough for you to confirm. Not that you were thinking about that. Obviously.

You sighed and whispered to the strawberry again. “You ever fall for someone who makes you want to commit a misdemeanor every time he opens his mouth?”

The strawberry said nothing, which was probably for the best.

Monday morning found you—yet again—rising at six. You rolled out of bed, stretched like a cat, and began your usual ritual of transformation.

Makeup first. Not because you needed it—God no—but because it made you feel good, pretty even. Foundation, blush, a whisper of shimmer on the cheekbones because why not glow like a romantic heroine in a mid-2000s perfume ad? Mascara followed, precise and practiced, and a slick of lip gloss that smelled like strawberries.

You slipped into your favorite calf-length skirt and a soft blouse that matched—something pastel. Then came the shoes (sensible, but cute), and your two bags—one for your lesson plans, the other for everything else, which included snacks, emergency stationery, and a pepper spray shaped like a pink cat.

The drive to the school at the end of the road was blessedly short. That was half the reason you’d bought the house—well, that and the big windows, the lemon tree out back, and the quiet little thrill of independence that came with signing a mortgage all on your own. There was something deeply satisfying about living close enough to work that you could leave ten minutes late and still arrive five minutes early. That was your kind of power move.

You parked in your usual spot, turned off the engine, and took a moment to admire the day. The sky was pinkish-blue, like the inside of a seashell. Your coffee was still warm. Your eyeliner hadn’t betrayed you.

“Good morning,” you said with a radiant, borderline absurd smile that you’d practiced in the mirror—twice. Maybe three times. You weren’t above that kind of thing. Especially not on Mondays.

The classroom replied with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for funerals. One girl let her head fall onto the desk with a dramatic thud. Another stared at you with such intensity you briefly considered checking your teeth for lipstick smears—even if you weren’t wearing any.

You loved them.

You loved them in the same way people loved stray cats that hissed and clawed and occasionally brought them dead birds as gifts. There was something poetic about the way teenagers hated everything, including themselves, you, the system, and particularly the sun for daring to rise again.

You set your bag down, smoothed your skirt, and picked up your sparkly pink pen. Yes, sparkly. Because professionalism and glitter were not mutually exclusive.

“Alright,” you began, tapping the whiteboard with a perfectly manicured nail. “Today, we’re going to do something a little different. Something that doesn’t require groaning—although I know you’ll do it anyway.”

Silence. One cough. A yawn that sounded vaguely like a threat.

“I want you to write a paragraph about your mother. Or a woman in your life who acted like a mother. Someone who hugged you too tight or forgot to pick you up or taught you how to make eggs without burning the house down. Sound good?”

A collective psychic scream echoed through their eyes.

You clapped your hands. “Great! Let’s begin.”

You passed out the assignment sheets, pastel pink of course, because rebellion is exhausting and aesthetics matter.

They started writing. Or pretending to. Or writing “I hate this” fifteen times in a row, which still technically counted as a paragraph if you squinted hard enough.

You moved quietly through the room, your kitten heels a soft rhythm on the floor, glancing over shoulders, offering the occasional whispered encouragement or sarcastic nudge.

Sarah was sitting toward the back, as usual. She wasn’t doodling on her paper like some of the others. She just sat there, pen resting against her lip.

You leaned down a little, keeping your voice gentle. “Stuck?”

She shrugged. “Sort of.”

“Well,” you said, “just think of something small. Something she used to say. Something she wore. Something annoying.”

Sarah blinked. Her expression didn’t change much, but she finally lowered her eyes to the page.

“She used to wear red lipstick,” she said, very quietly. “All the time. Even when she stayed home.”

You smiled. “That’s a perfect start. Just that one detail tells me a whole story. Go with that.”

Sarah didn’t say anything else. Just nodded a little and started writing.

It was strange—she was quiet, yes, but not in the usual teenage way. There was something about her stillness. You filed it away under “things to notice but not push,” and continued your rounds.

One of the boys had written an entire paragraph about how his mom yelled at football games louder than his dad. Another had written simply, “She left.” You decided to save that one for last when grading.

The class dragged its collective soul through the rest of the assignment, and by the time the bell rang, you were exhausted in the oddly satisfying way only teaching could provide.

As the kids filed out, a few gave you nods. One said thanks. Sarah passed you without a word, but her paper was folded neatly on your desk. You didn’t open it until the room was empty.

It wasn’t long. Just a few lines. But they were honest. And quiet. And sharper than you expected.

You exhaled slowly, folded it back up, and placed it carefully on top of the pile.

You didn’t know why, but something about that girl stayed with you long after the classroom had emptied.

You were gathering your things thinking class was over, when shouting outside shattered that illusion like a cheap wine glass.

A flash of panic sliced through you—sharp, maternal, irrational. You rushed out into the hallway, heels echoing, your heart already preparing for the worst.

And there it was. The worst.

Sarah—yes, your Sarah, the one who sat quietly in the back—was standing over a boy splayed dramatically on the floor like a fainting Victorian lady. You recognized him vaguely. Noah. Noah-something.

Probably a Gemini.

She raised her fist again, clearly ready to deliver a second round, and you darted forward, catching her wrist just before she could clock the poor child again.

“Easy!” you snapped, your voice a little too sharp. The other students were frozen, wide-eyed.

You crouched quickly, helping Noah off the floor, smoothing his crumpled shirt.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded. Dramatically. Theatrically. Boys were such performers.

You turned to Sarah, her jaw clenched, her eyes dark and unreadable. Your instinct screamed at you to handle it yourself—usher them both somewhere quiet, slap on some metaphorical Band-Aids, and bribe Noah into silence with a juice box or the promise of eternal gratitude. Deeply unprofessional. Wildly inappropriate. But her face—God, there was something behind her anger that didn’t look like violence.

And then, as if summoned by the universe purely to ruin your day, Mr. Math walked around the corner.

“Principal’s office. Now,” he barked, pointing at Sarah like she was a shoplifter caught with a candy bar.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. There were about thirty arguments in your brain, none of them appropriate for a hallway filled with teenagers. You looked at Sarah. Then at him.

“Let’s go,” you murmured, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the inevitable.

Sarah didn’t speak. Didn’t protest. But her eyes met yours for half a second, and in that glance was something tired. You felt it sit heavy in your stomach.

Mr. Math strutted behind you like he’d just won something, and you resisted the urge to stick your heel out and accidentally trip him.

You knew you couldn’t fix this. Not completely. But you also knew you weren’t letting that girl walk into the principal’s office alone. Not on your watch. Not today.

You hadn’t been there long—just a month, really, and most of that had been a blur of lesson plans, forgotten lunch breaks, and learning that Room 304 had a permanent leak no one intended to fix. But some things didn’t take time to see.

Sarah wasn’t the type to lash out. That much you’d learned early. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t dramatic. She had a certain calmness about her. Sharp, observant, painfully mature. She didn’t bully. She didn’t fight. So when you’d seen her standing over Noah, fists clenched and lips trembling—not with fear, but with fury—it hadn’t been confusion that swept over you. It had been certainty. Something had pushed her there. Hard.

And you knew Noah.

Of course you did. Half the staff did. Loud, entitled Noah with his smart mouth and wounded pride and those godawful leather jackets he insisted on wearing like he’d invented masculinity. His parents were ghosts with paychecks. The kind who called once a month and made up for it with a new phone and less parenting. And Noah, sweet boy that he wasn’t, had learned early that attention—any attention—came easier when he provoked it.

Which brought you here.

Standing in Principal DeWitt’s office with your back just barely straight enough to mask how hard your heart was pounding and your expression schooled into absolute professionalism. Sarah sat next to you, arms crossed, gaze blank, and so still you thought she might disappear entirely if she held her breath long enough.

“I don’t care what she usually does,” DeWitt said, lips pressed in a line. “She hit another student. There are rules. Non-negotiable.”

“With respect,” you said carefully, “there are always exceptions. Especially when context is ignored.”

DeWitt raised one brow—infamous across the faculty for its capacity to silence an entire room. “This is not a debate, Miss.”

“I’m not debating,” you replied. “I’m providing information. Which is what I assumed we did before passing judgment.”

Sarah blinked at you. You didn’t look at her.

“I’ve only been here a month,” you continued, “but even I know Sarah isn’t aggressive. She isn’t volatile. And she certainly doesn’t throw punches for sport. But Noah—”

“—is also a student here,” DeWitt cut in.

“Yes. A student who has, on multiple occasions, said things to other children that would get him removed from any workplace in the country. You’ve had complaints. I know, because two of them came from students in my class.”

“You’re implying he deserved it?” Her voice was cold.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying he’s been allowed to skate by for quite some time under the assumption that pain at home justifies pain he causes at school. And it doesn’t.”

There was a pause. DeWitt looked at Sarah, then back at you. “If she had a problem with what he said, she could’ve come to a teacher. Or to me.”

“And what would you have done?” you asked. “Really. Because between us, he’s been saying things like that for a year. About girls. About parents. About things he couldn’t possibly understand but says anyway, just to watch someone flinch. I doubt Sarah’s the first person he’s made cry. She’s just the first who hit back.”

You folded your hands in your lap. Neatly. Properly. Like you hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the conversation.

DeWitt sighed and leaned back. She was silent long enough.

“This cannot happen again,” she said finally. “If it does, there will be consequences.”

“Of course,” you said, nodding slowly. “And I’m sure you’ll be speaking to Noah as well.”

“I will,” she said, though she didn’t sound thrilled about it.

You stood, brushing your skirt down and placing a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Sarah followed you out without a word. In the hallway, she finally glanced at you.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you said. “But I wanted to.”

“Why?”

You smiled faintly, adjusting your bag. “Because contrary to popular belief, I like my students. Even the ones who hate poetry and roll their eyes at me.”

She looked away, but you caught it—the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. But something close.

The door opened, and in walked the man who—let’s be honest—looked like he’d just climbed out from under a pickup truck he personally rebuilt out of spite. Of course he was already here. The principal worked faster than gossip in a church parking lot.

He didn’t look at you. Not at first. His eyes locked straight on his daughter.

“What happened?” he asked her, unbothered by your entire presence—as if you were just a coat rack with opinions.

Sarah’s eyes darted to you, then back to him. “I’ll tell you at home,” she muttered. “She helped me. I didn’t get suspended ’cause of her.”

You’re welcome, you didn’t say.

Finally—finally—his eyes met yours, and for a moment, you felt like a rabbit trying to make small talk with a hunting dog. There was no warmth in it. Not even a flicker of gratitude. Just… suspicion.

“Can I talk to your teacher for a minute?” he asked his daughter.

Sarah nodded. You leaned down slightly, lowering your voice into something soft and steady. “Go ahead to class, sweetheart. Don’t miss the rest of your lesson.”

She hesitated—long enough to remind you that she didn’t quite trust this—but then sighed, shoved her hands into her sleeves, and walked out.

The moment she was gone, he turned to you fully. “What exactly do you think you’re doin’?”

His tone wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It hit like a hammer to the kneecap—firm and coated in what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you. That accent of his curled around vowels like he was too tired to pronounce them fully.

You blinked, slowly, turning your head toward him. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, what’re you doin’? Gettin’ involved in me and my daughter’s business like that?”

You stared at him for half a second too long. Long enough to feel your mouth twitch with the threat of a smile you buried so deep it almost gave you a headache.

“Mr. Miller,” you said, “I didn’t realize defending your daughter’s basic dignity counted as meddling.”

“Don’t play clever,” he shot back. “She said you kept her from gettin’ in trouble. That true?”

“Well,” you said, clasping your hands in front of you, “I intervened, yes. Because I watched what happened. And your daughter was provoked. You don’t hit someone unless they say something vile enough to deserve it. He did. She did. I made sure the consequences were proportionate.”

His jaw tightened. “I raise her myself. Don’t need strangers makin’ decisions for her.”

“And yet,” you said, lowering your voice a notch, “you weren’t here.”

That got him. His eyes narrowed.

“I don’t need your judgment.”

“Of course not,” you said sweetly. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to teach English. And apparently, to keep decent kids from being punished for losing their temper after being emotionally cornered by classmates whose only form of self-expression is cruelty.”

He stepped back, just slightly. Like your calmness irritated him more than any shouting ever could. Which, if you were being honest, was probably the best part of your day.

Still, you softened your voice again. You couldn’t help it. There was something about him—about all that stubborn protectiveness—that made you want to both throttle and comfort him. Not that you’d ever admit it.

“She needs someone at school who sees her,” you said. “And right now, that’s me. That’s not a threat. It’s just… kindness. I don’t want to replace you. I just want to help her breathe a little easier while she’s here.”

There was a long silence. You didn’t break it.

Finally, he muttered, “She don’t talk much about school.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly. “Well. If she ever starts, maybe she’ll say something nice about her overbearing, deeply unqualified, overly poetic English teacher.”

He didn’t smile. Not exactly.

“I don’t wanna owe you,” he said flatly. You inhaled. Your lashes lowered just a little, your tone softening like honey stirred into warm tea. “You don’t owe me,” you replied, nodding once. “That’s not what this is.”

His eyes didn’t move.

“But,” you added, and the word came out a little more carefully than you meant it to, “I would like to know what happened. I mean, I defended her. I think I have a right to know.”

Your voice faltered slightly at the end, just enough to betray how much you already regretted saying it out loud. Still, you stood your ground, chin up, hands folded in front of you.

He exhaled, and it sounded like a tired truck engine trying to start in winter. “She ain’t tell you?”

“She told me she didn’t want to talk about it,” you said, with a gentle authority. “I respected that. But you know what they say—secrets fester in silence, and I don’t think festering is good for anyone.”

He looked at you again. Like he was trying to figure out if you were naïve or just very good at pretending not to be jaded. You had to admit, it was a fair question.

“I get it,” you said, a little more quietly now. “You’re protective. I would be, too. If she were mine—”

You stopped. Too much. That was too much. You pulled back slightly, smoothing the edge of your cardigan.

“She’s a good kid,” you said instead, and that was safe. “She doesn’t lash out for no reason. And the boy—Noah—he’s… he struggles. There’s pain there, but pain’s no excuse to make others smaller.”

He squinted. “That boy say somethin’ to her?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s cornered.”

He shifted his weight, hands on his hips now, the fabric of his work shirt pulling taut over his shoulders. A man with too many burdens and absolutely zero patience for people meddling in things he’s convinced he can handle himself.

“You still shouldn’t’a stepped in like that.”

You blinked. “You’re right,” you said, smiling sweetly. “Next time I’ll let the system do what it does best. Which is fail the kids who need it most.”

That got a twitch out of the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile—more like his face forgot not to react.

“I’m not the enemy,” you said gently. “I just care. That’s all.”

For a second, you thought he might say something else. But he didn’t. He looked at the door instead, where Sarah had disappeared minutes ago, and something softened in his jaw. Regret, maybe. Or weariness. Or just the realization that she was getting older, and he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

You didn’t say anything more. Just stood there, waiting for him to leave or stay or tell you off again—whatever he needed.

You could take it.

The air was unusually still that evening, the kind of Southern stillness that made you feel like the whole world was holding its breath. You were seated on the creaky wooden chair you’d painted pale blue last spring—an attempt at whimsy that hadn’t aged particularly well.

You weren’t expecting company. And certainly not her.

She came walking down the little side path, arms crossed, curls pulled back into a loose ponytail, wearing one of those oversized t-shirts that looked like it had survived a dozen sleepovers and at least one hurricane.

“Hi,” she said simply, without looking at you.

You blinked, startled—but you didn’t move. You just gave her a smile.

She stood there for a moment, then sat. Didn’t ask. Just sat.

“I don’t have a mom,” she said, her voice so flat and unceremonious that it hit you like a slap.

You didn’t react—at least, not in a way she could see. Inside, your chest tightened, something old and maternal and wildly unprofessional clenching behind your ribs. You had suspected. Of course you had. You hadn’t seen another woman around that house in over a month. No car in the driveway except the same dusty pickup. No PTA meetings. No “drop-off” mom energy at all.

But hearing it said like that—so casual, so done—it knocked the wind right out of you.

“I figured,” you said gently, your voice soft. “But thank you for telling me.”

She shrugged, and her jaw tightened in that way girls’ jaws do when they’re trying not to cry and also not care.

There was a silence. Long enough for the sprinklers to shut off and the cicadas to pick up their nightly sermon.

“He said it to me,” she added finally. “Noah. That I don’t have a mom. That no one wanted me.”

You didn’t say what you thought. Because what you thought was: I’m going to murder a fifteen-year-old with my bare hands and make it look like an accident involving a rogue biology frog and a textbook rack. Which, understandably, wasn’t a very professional impulse.

Instead, you folded your hands in your lap.

“Kids who hurt other kids usually don’t know how to name their own pain,” you said softly. “So they try to give it away. Doesn’t make it okay. But it makes it… understandable.”

She didn’t respond. Just looked up at the sky.

“I’m not trying to be your mom,” you added. “I know you didn’t come here for that.”

She snorted. “Obviously.”

You smiled.

“But,” you continued, “you should know—if someone ever says something like that again, and you hit them, I will still try to stop you.”

She looked at you.

“And I will still defend you,” you added. “Even if you’re wrong. But especially if you’re not.”

She didn’t thank you. She didn’t nod. She just sat there for a while longer.

And then, without a word, she stood.

“I should go,” she muttered.

“Do you want to take a cookie?” you asked. “They’re store-bought, so morally I can’t recommend them, but they do contain enough sugar to erase most childhood trauma for at least six minutes.”

She blinked. Thought about it. Took two.

You didn’t watch her leave.

You just sat there in your blue chair.

You’d stayed out longer than you’d meant to. The porch light across the street flickered on just as you were considering calling it a night, and there he was—Tommy. That soft-smiled, golden-retriever-in-human-form man.

When he spotted you, he grinned, lifted one hand in a cheerful wave, and—God help you—blew you a kiss. An actual kiss. You tried not to laugh. You really did.

You gave him a dainty little wave back, crossed one leg over the other. It was absurd, really. He was absurd. That man probably said “ma’am” to houseplants and sang harmony with the radio. Too sweet for this world.

And yet, as he disappeared into the house—that house—you felt your stomach twist just a little. Not because of Tommy. No, Tommy was lovely. Charming. The kind of man who brought his own beer to barbecues and made sure your grandmother got the first burger off the grill. He probably remembered birthdays. Probably asked follow-up questions. Probably smelled like cedar and clean laundry.

But your eyes lingered on the door behind him. Closed now.

And somehow, ridiculously, infuriatingly, all you could think about was him. That stormcloud of a man. That grumpy, glowering, perpetually unimpressed embodiment of emotional constipation.

What was it about men who acted like affection was a government conspiracy?

You sighed.

It was a shame, really. You’d always had a weakness for bastards.

You should have been ashamed. Absolutely. Without question. There you were, in your kitchen at 10:47 PM on a Thursday, folding whipped cream into a strawberry filling like some sort of suburban Stepford idiot with romantic brain damage. A grown woman. In her pajamas. Making a goddamn cake. A strawberry cake.

Not just any strawberries either—his favorite. And, by unfortunate coincidence (or divine mockery), also yours. The betrayal ran deep.

Last time, you’d tried banana bread. Moist, warm, comforting banana bread. He’d looked at it like you’d handed him a small explosive and muttered something about “watchin’ his sugar.” You were pretty sure the only reason he didn’t chuck it at your forehead was because his daughter was watching.

And yet here you were again. Round two of Operation: Humiliation. Because apparently, when he wasn’t being the patron saint of passive-aggression, he was telling his teenage daughter—your student—that strawberries were his favorite. You weren’t even supposed to know that. And you—traitorous creature that you are—filed it away like a lovesick raccoon hoarding shiny things.

So. You baked the cake. With a pink satin ribbon tied gently around the container. And a note. A note, God help you.

You didn’t sign it.

Of course not.

You weren’t insane.

But you’d written it. On your nicest stationery.

Cream-colored with little gold roses in the corner.

“I hope your evening is sweeter than your week has been.

With appreciation—

from a neighbor who isn’t very good at minding her own business,

but is trying.”

You stood outside his door for at least ninety seconds. That’s ninety whole seconds of internal monologue, spiraling shame, and wondering if your mascara was still on even though it absolutely did not matter.

And then you left it. Right there, on the mat. Knocked twice and walked away quickly. Not because you were scared. No. You were simply… brisk. Brisk is very adult. Brisk is dignified.

You didn’t look back.

Except once.

Okay, maybe twice.

But only because you thought you heard the door open.

Which it didn’t. Probably.

And as you crawled into bed that night, the scent of strawberries still clinging to your wrists, you stared at the ceiling and muttered softly to yourself:

“I hate him.”

And then—traitorous, traitorous heart—

You smiled.

You exhaled through your nose like some weary old spinster resigned to her fate, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers.

Goddamn it. He was handsome.

And not just in that rugged, grimy, probably-sleeps-in-his-jeans kind of way. No. It was worse than that. He was beautiful in the most irritatingly human way—rough around the edges, sure, but then he’d speak to his daughter in that low, careful voice, like she was the last good thing in a world determined to be cruel, and it made something twist in your stomach.

That little soft “baby girl” he’d murmured the other day? You could have melted. Right there. On the linoleum.

He was sweet. Well. Occasionally.

Between the condescending grunts and the “I don’t need help raisin’ my kid” speeches.

But when he was sweet, it hit like a truck. An emotional semi barreling down the highway with no brakes and a cargo load full of… ugh.

And God. He was sexy.

Not in the traditional sense—not in a movie star, clean-shaven, makes-you-a-playlist kind of way.

No. He was construction-site sexy. Contractor sexy.

He was rough hands and calloused thumbs and a back that probably had stories.

He was “knows how to use power tools” sexy.

“Carries lumber one-handed” sexy.

“Could probably lift you and a kitchen table if he wanted to” sexy.

You sighed again and dragged your palms over your face, groaning softly into them.

What was wrong with you?

You were an adult. You had a degree. Two, technically. You taught Shakespeare and knew how to pronounce “chiaroscuro” correctly.

And yet.

There you were. In bed. Blushing like some sixteen-year-old.

And—

Jesus.

Why was your underwear damp?

You hadn’t even done anything. You were just lying here, catastrophizing and daydreaming and somehow getting turned on by the memory of a man with drywall dust in his hair.

It was pathetic.

He was older. Probably at least ten years. Maybe more.

He probably didn’t even like you.

You were too nosy. Too expressive. Too much.

And yet.

You rolled over, hugged your pillow, and muttered under your breath,

“This is stupid.”

And then, shamefully, you pictured his hands again.

Big. Strong. Rough. Capable.

And that was it. The moment you realized sleep would not come easy—not while your brain was busy conjuring up all the completely inappropriate and objectively ridiculous scenarios in which he might touch you. Ridiculous. Honestly. You were twenty-six, not sixteen, and yet there you were, lying in bed with the covers kicked halfway off, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t your fault he had those hands. Big, rough, working hands that looked like they belonged on a man who built houses with them—and probably did. And it wasn’t your fault he had that voice either. That slow, gravel-dragged Southern drawl that sounded like it could melt butter and scold you at the same time. Or the way he said baby girl to his daughter, soft and low like it was sacred. You weren’t made of stone.

You rolled over, pulling your pillow closer to your chest, as if that might silence the escalating spiral of thoughts currently hijacking your peace. It didn’t. The image of him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed—God, that brow—refused to leave.

And then there was the matter of his neck. Broad. Tan. That slight curve where it met his shoulder. You didn’t want to notice it. You weren’t trying to have a full-blown crisis over the way his shirt clung to his back when he was bent over loading drywall into his truck.

You closed your eyes and whispered, “Stupid,” into the silence of your bedroom. It was all stupid. Every bit of it. He barely looked at you, and when he did, it was usually followed by some variation of why are you talking to me.

And still. Still, your heart stuttered in your chest like it didn’t care how grumpy or closed-off or emotionally unavailable he was. It just wanted him.

You groaned into your pillow and buried your face in it. You were not going to think about the way his hand would feel on your core. Or how warm his breath would be against your neck. Or what kind of sounds he’d make if you’d just take him softly, oh so softly, inside your mouth. Taste him. Suck him. Lick him.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You were a grown ass woman. A professional. With a career. And dignity. And a sleep schedule.

…And possibly a small problem. But one that could probably be solved by cold water, a fan, and pretending that certain contractors with Texas accents did not, in fact, exist.

But then again… he did.

And God help you.

It wasn’t exactly something you did anymore. That kind of thing—touching yourself—was for teenagers, wasn’t it? For girls with pink headphones and crushes on movie stars. Not for grown women with bills and migraines and a complicated interest in a man who, half the time, couldn’t even be bothered to say good morning.

And yet.

There you were.

Your hand slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts with the kind of hesitance that only came from long-forgotten muscle memory and a faint sense of shame that clung to you.

It felt ridiculous. Juvenile. A little bit desperate, if you were being honest.

But it was late, and you were warm, and wet as fuck, and that stupid, slow drawl of his was still echoing in your head—words that weren’t even meant for you, but somehow curled around your ribs.

God, you hated this.

You hated that the mere idea of him—his voice, his shoulders, the way his jeans fit just a little too well—had lodged itself under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t quite reach.

But your hand didn’t move from rubbing your clit.

And so, against every sensible part of your brain, you imagined him.

Because why not?

If you were going to feel embarrassed, you might as well earn it.

It started simple. The way his arms crossed. That voice, low and dry as the Texas sun, saying something completely unnecessary but somehow devastating.

“Just like that, darlin’, just like that.”

You imagined the scrape of his calloused fingers down your sides—rough from lumber and long days, from real work, from knowing how to build something and break it in the same breath. You pictured him not asking permission. Not out of cruelty, but out of certainty. That stupid, maddening certainty he wore. You hated it. You wanted it.

He’d say your name once and it would sound like something old. Like he’d been saying it in his head for weeks. And then maybe he’d mutter something filthy, something plainspoken and brutal and utterly sincere, like:

“You’re drivin’ me damn crazy dripping like that for me.”

And maybe—God help you—maybe that would be the thing that unraveled you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, face hot with shame. This was ridiculous. You weren’t a teenager. You weren’t supposed to fuck yourself thinking about a man that hates you.

But you still did.

Still pressed your fingers against your entrance. In and out. In and out. Your pussy gushing around your fingers, coating them with your juices while you moaned into the pillow. Your teeth scratching your bottom lip, pleasure overcoming your body.

Ridiculous. Repeated like a prayer. Ridiculous to be here, in your bed, with your hand where it had no business being, thinking about a man who barely looked at you unless you were defending his daughter or annoying him.

But it was also real. Tangible. Warm. Wet.

And humiliating.

But God, he’d be good. You could feel it. Not gentle, not really, but careful. Focused. Like someone who finished what he started. Like someone who didn’t know how to take without giving. He’d fuck you against the mattress, make you come so hard you’ll see stars.

You groaned, embarrassed by your own imagination, by the heat curling low in your stomach, by the way his name tasted in your mind even though you hadn’t dared say it out loud.

“Joel,” you whimpered, breathless against the quiet of your room, the sound of his name barely catching on the air like something secret, something sinful. You weren’t proud of this. Of course you weren’t. What decent woman sits in the dark, thinking about a man who barely looks her in the eye unless it’s to scold her? What decent woman fucks herself while thinking of this man?

And yet—God, here you were. Still. Thinking about his hands. Those rough, working hands, capable of breaking apart drywall like it was cardboard, callused in ways that should’ve been unappealing… but weren’t. Not even a little. You imagined them slow at first, curious even, before growing purposeful. That was the word. Purposeful. Like he’d figure you out the same way he figures out what’s wrong with a leaking sink. Because you and the said sink had something in common: both leaking. You pressed your eyes shut tighter as your hips shifted into your own palm, fingers rolling your clit violently. The sheets felt too warm. You hated this—how badly you wanted to know what it would feel like to be fucked by a man who barely smiled. A man who probably thought you were too soft, too girly, too… something.

But still. You pictured him there, kneeling beside the bed like he had all the time in the world. Big hands gripping your thighs.

“You gonna let me take care of you, sweetheart?” And you—of course—melting under it. Because of course you would.

It wasn’t romantic. Not really. It was messy and wrong and probably hormonal. But in your head, he wasn’t yelling or frowning or correcting you. In your head, he was warm. Starving. Because he looked like he hadn’t had his dick sucked in years.

Maybe that was the problem— that he hadn't had sex. That he probably hadn't had a woman in a while. But you would have accepted him. With open arms and open legs and an open mouth.

And sure, maybe your fingers weren’t his. But your mind didn’t know the difference anymore. Not when you could practically hear him mutter a low, “There ya go,” against your leaking pussy, as if your need was a problem only he could solve.

You should’ve felt embarrassed. Maybe you did, somewhere under the heat. But it was faint. Fainter still when you imagined the press of his mouth, low and slow, and that rough palm splayed across your stomach, keeping you still while he fucked you with his fingers. While he sucked on your clit.

It was so stupid. You knew that. You were a grown woman. This wasn’t some high school fantasy. This was worse. Because this felt like want. Not just attraction, but something worse. Like a craving. A habit forming in real time.

And it was all because of that damn man next door with the gravel voice, the brooding eyes, and the gall to make strawberry cake his favorite flavor. Who the hell did that?

You let out a trembling breath, your body arching slightly, his name falling from your lips. Screaming. Begging. It wasn’t going to fix anything. Not your loneliness. Not the awkward glances. Not the way your heart did that ridiculous flutter when he picked Sarah up from school and didn’t even wave.

But maybe—just maybe—you’d be able to look him in the eye tomorrow without imagining his mouth eating you out.

Maybe.

And when it was over—when your breath had settled into something gentler, when your chest no longer heaved like it had been running—it was him you saw again behind your closed eyelids.

That crooked little smile, barely there, tugging at the corners of his mouth like he was in on some private joke. You could almost hear that low, Southern drawl rasping out something smug—something like “Atta girl.” As if he’d just witnessed exactly what you’d done, and thought it was cute. As if he knew you couldn’t help it.

Your mind didn’t even resist anymore. It offered him up willingly, every detail sharper now: the roughness of his palms, the warmth of his mouth, the weight of his gaze—how he might settle between your thighs with a kind of reverence that didn’t match his usual gruffness. He’d look up at you with that infuriating glint in his eye, like he could read your thoughts before you even had them.

And then, gently—God, so gently—he’d kiss your inner thigh. Then higher. And higher still.

You imagined his mouth moving in ways that made your hips shift beneath the sheets even now. You imagined his voice, soft and amused, whispering praise between every deliberate movement. “You taste like you knew I’d do this,” he might tease, lips brushing where your thoughts still lingered.

It was humiliating how easily you unraveled at the thought of him. At the thought of being seen by him like this—laid bare and breathless, with nothing clever left to say. Just want. Just need.

And then, because apparently your imagination had no boundaries, he crawled up your body in your mind’s eye, slow and sweet, his mouth tracing your skin like a map he already knew by heart. When he kissed your shoulder, it wasn’t hungry. It was… warm. Familiar. Like he’d always meant to end up here.

You pulled the covers tighter around you and sighed, your face flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

Ridiculous, you thought again, cheeks burning.

But you didn’t stop thinking about him.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

A week had gone by, and not a single word had been said.

No curious knock on your door, no politely scribbled thank-you note, not even a cryptic text—though, to be fair, you weren’t entirely sure he knew how to send one of those. And Sarah, bless her little teenage soul, hadn’t mentioned a thing at school. Which could mean one of three things:

One, they hadn’t figured out it was from you.

Two, they had figured it out, and simply… didn’t care.

Or three—God forbid—they never even touched it.

That third one made your stomach twist in indignation, because, come on. It was a strawberry cake. Homemade. From scratch. With real strawberries—none of that boxed nonsense. And okay, maybe you’d gone a little overboard with the vanilla bean in the frosting, but that was artistry, not excess.

You’d placed it gently—almost reverently—on their doorstep, wrapped in soft parchment and tied with a ribbon that was way too nice for something that was probably going straight into a Tupperware. And then you’d walked away like it meant nothing. Like you hadn’t spent three hours debating whether to include a note.

But you were almost certain you’d seen Sarah nibbling on a slice two days later, legs slung over the porch railing, textbook open beside her, blissfully unaware of the identity crisis you were having ten feet away behind your curtain.

So they had eaten it. Which meant it wasn’t a total failure. Just a silent one.

You could live with that. Probably.

You were grading first-year essays, which, frankly, felt less like reading and more like deciphering the diary entries of mildly literate ghosts. Some of them had clearly misunderstood the prompt entirely—one student had interpreted “describe your favorite memory” as an opportunity to list every fast food item they’d ever eaten in chronological order. Including misspelled condiments. Katchop.

Another had written, with what you assumed was genuine conviction:

“I feel like the sun is nice because it makes the sky hot and then the grass can grow and also sometimes I cry.”

There was no punctuation. None. It just… flowed. A river of chaotic sentiment. A fever dream on lined paper. You blinked at it for a full minute before slowly, and with great restraint, writing “Punctuation?” in the margin. Underlined. Twice.

The spelling was another crime altogether.

“Fascenating.”

“Expeeriunce.”

One even managed to misspell “my.”

You didn’t know it was possible to misspell “my.”

And the complete lack of imagination—that was the real heartbreak. It was as though they’d all agreed, in some unspoken student conference, that creativity was overrated and that their souls were best left unexplored. The only ones who dared to be a little poetic were the ones who copied lines from pop songs and passed them off as original thought. You knew. You had Spotify.

Still, you were gentle. Stern, but kind. Your notes were neat and encouraging, even when your eyes were twitching from the fifth paragraph that started with “In conclusion, I want to say…” and ended with “this is why my memory is.” Full stop. That was the whole sentence. You didn’t know what it meant. Maybe they didn’t either.

You shifted in your seat, scribbling a 13/20 on the top of one paper with a soft sigh. It was generous. Generous enough to make up for the fact that the student had used the word “awsome” nine times in a single paragraph. Once with three “e”s. You hadn’t even known you could elongate an adjective in written form like that. It was almost impressive. Almost.

You opened the door to find him standing there—his two chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in that familiar way, jaw set firm enough to crack walnuts, dark hair shot through with just enough silver to look distinguished instead of tired. He held out the plastic container you’d left on his doorstep, now spotless and—with a surprise—filled with an assortment of cookies.

“Hi,” you blurted, cheeks warming. Your brain was racing: Did he know it was from you? Did he care?

He didn’t smile. He just nodded once, tilting the container so you could see the neatly stacked cookies inside—chocolate chip, shortbread, maybe a couple of oatmeal raisin. “I figured you’d bring it,” he said, voice low and even. “Only one person on earth would tie a pink ribbon around strawberry cake and leave it on my porch.” His gaze flicked to your own pink-painted fence, then back to you, expression unreadable.

You laughed—half surprised, half embarrassed—brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “Guilty as charged.” You reached for the container, brushing his hand as you took it. The plastic felt cold between your fingers.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, tone clipped. “Consider this… return policy.” He paused, as if to add something, then just turned on his heel and started down the steps.

“Wait—” you began, but he didn’t look back. His shoulders remained squared, distance already growing between you.

You swallowed and called after him, “Thanks for the cookies.”

He didn’t reply.

You closed the door and stood there a moment, cookies in hand, heart pounding. He’d acknowledged the gesture—just—while keeping you firmly on the other side of whatever invisible line he’d drawn.

It was something, you decided. Something better than silence.

You closed the door and nearly danced a jig in your hallway—an embarrassing, gleeful hop, skip, and twirl that felt more like middle school cafeteria material than adult decorum. Why on earth were you so thrilled? He—her father, your aloof and perpetually surly neighbor—had simply offered you cookies. Cookies! It wasn’t an engagement ring, for God’s sake. And yet your pulse galloped, your cheeks tingled, and you found yourself grinning like a fool in front of your living room mirror.

You set the cookies down on your kitchen counter with exaggerated care, lining them up like edible trophies. The chocolate chips glinted under your pendant light as if winking conspiratorially. You eyed them, your heartbeat still racing, wondering if you should sample just one—or perhaps allocate two for scientific accuracy, in the name of research.

And why did this matter so much? Because, unlike the strictly intellectual flirtations of grading essays and discussing participles, this was tangible kindness. A gesture unfiltered by school policies or professional boundaries. A simple container of cookies—shortbread and chocolate chip—wrapped up in quiet consideration.

A reminder that beneath your crisp cardigans and meticulously styled hair, you were still human. That you still felt. And that sometimes, the most elementary acts—a baked good, a nod of acknowledgement—could unravel you completely.

You sighed, that soft, exasperated sigh of someone caught between self-reproach and reluctant delight. Yes, you were ridiculous, but perhaps, just for tonight, you’d allow yourself this small, sweet indulgence. After all, teaching teens how to wield language was your job. Reveling in a neighbor’s unexpected kindness… well, maybe that was your well-deserved after-school activity.

You found yourself continuing the ritual of delivering homemade meals without so much as a twinge of embarrassment. He may have grumbled that he didn’t want you to, but you conveniently pretended not to hear. After all, it was “for Sarah,” right? A convenient excuse when really you were just savoring any reason to see him.

Bit by bit, your exchanges blossomed into something resembling a relationship. He no longer pretended you were invisible—an achievement in itself—but neither did he break into a grin when he saw you. He simply accepted your Tupperware offerings with a curt nod and kept the containers impeccably clean, always returning something small tucked inside.

One afternoon, you discovered a cluster of lollipops neatly arranged in the empty casserole dish. You raised an eyebrow when you saw them—bright swirls of color peeking out from beneath the lid—and he shrugged, voice low: “Sarah’s idea.” You chose to believe him.

You found him perched on his porch just as dusk gave way to night, the horizon swallowed by inky black. He sat there alone in a creaky wooden chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he stared skyward. The world felt hushed around him, as though even the crickets were holding their breath.

You’d just returned from wine night with your school friends—laughter still echoing in your chest—and you looked every bit the whimsical contrast to his brooding silhouette. Your denim jacket was casually draped over your shoulders, framing the charcoal-fitted top that hinted at curves you’d never bother sculpting in a gym you loathed. A wispy white skirt skirted around your ankles, brushing the tops of your black leather boots with each graceful step. Your sleek black purse swung gently at your side.

He glanced up as you neared but didn’t offer a smile. Instead, he rose with deliberate slowness, producing the glass Tupperware you’d left on his doorstep at lunchtime. Tonight, though, it was oddly empty.

“I’ll pay you back,” he said, his voice low and laden with a drawl that curled around every vowel like molasses. “Just didn’t have time to cook today.”

He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot, glassy ash scattering like tiny gray blossoms.

You accepted the empty container with a soft “Thank you,” fingertips brushing his rough palm—an electric moment that you knew he wouldn’t register.

“Well,” you replied, tilting your head coyly, “I suppose you’ll just have to find another way to make me dinner.” You let the implication hang between you, batting your lashes ever so slightly.

He gave you one of those trademark Texan squints—eyes narrowing, as if puzzling over your meaning. “Might be up to Sarah to remind me,” he drawled, arching a brow.

You smiled, cheeks warming. “Or maybe I could remind you. Over coffee—or something a bit stronger.” You offered your best, most innocent grin, hoping he’d catch the hidden invitation.

He shrugged, as unmoved as a statue carved from granite. “We’ll see,” he said.

You whirled on him, exasperation flaring in your chest like a misbehaving firework. “Come on—don’t give me that look! Can’t you figure out what I’m saying?”

He cocked a brow, the Texan drawl dragging each syllable out as though he genuinely couldn’t fathom your anger. “Figure out… what, exactly?”

Your palms flew up in defeat, knuckles whitening. “That I like you! I’m not an idiot—clearly you’re not either—and I want to go out with you. If you’re not interested, just say so instead of pretending you don’t know what I mean.”

A tumble of words rushed out, your voice half-laughing, half-pleading: “We could grab dinner—real dinner, not my sad leftover pasta—and—well, I don’t know, catch a movie, or even just get coffee without my friends tagging along. It’d be nice to see you outside of parent-teacher exchanges, don’t you think?”

He blinked, head tilting to one side like you’d spoken ancient Greek. His dark eyes were wide, the lines around them softening just a fraction. You realized you’d leaned in—too close—your perfume suddenly potent in the night air: vanilla and something floral, something unabashedly feminine.

The moonlight caught the curve of your lip as you forced a small, courageous smile. “Seriously. No pressure. Just a date.”

He opened his mouth, as if to reply, but nothing came out. Instead, he cleared his throat.

“I—uh,” he finally rasped, voice thick with uncertainty. “I appreciate… that. Really.”

Your heart lurched. You dared to hope.

“But I’m not… sure what I’m supposed to do here,” he added, gaze dropping to the wooden deck at his feet. He ran a hand through his hair, bronze strands falling into his face.

You exhaled, cheeks warm, stepping back a fraction to reclaim a bit of your dignity. “You can ask me out, Joel,” you said softly, “or you can turn me down—plain and simple.”

He didn’t answer, just straightened, as if gathering his resolve. Then, with more distance in his tone, he said, “I’ll let you know.”

You took a shaky breath, shoulders squaring as you met his unreadable gaze. The night air was cool against your flushed cheeks, the faint scent of jasmine drifting from your garden. In that charged stillness, you found the resolve to speak your truth.

“Do you—do you ever feel like I’m speaking Greek?” you burst out, voice trembling with equal parts frustration and vulnerability. “Because I’m being as clear as I know how to be.”

He cocked his head, eyebrows arching in mild surprise, as though your question were an unexpected summons from another planet. The porch light behind him haloed his silhouette, turning his rugged features into something almost ethereal.

“’Scuse me?” he drawled.

“I like you,” you said, the confession tumbling out in one breath. “I’ve liked you since the first strawberry cake. And the cookies. And every single time I’ve watched you pretend I don’t exist.” You managed a wry smile, one shoulder lifting in a half-shrug that spoke of both exasperation and earnest hope. “I’m twenty-six, not a child. I can’t—won’t—keep hiding behind sweet gestures and expect you to figure me out.”

He studied you, jaw clenched, arms folding across his chest.

“I want to go out with you,” you continued, softer now. “Coffee, dinner, hell—ice cream at midnight. Just something where it’s only you and me and maybe some bad movie I’ll make you watch. Just say yes or no—but don’t do the whole ‘I’ll let you know’ thing. I’m not interested in riddles tonight.”

He exhaled slowly. For a heartbeat, you thought his stony expression might crack, but he only replied, “I ain’t good at this kind of talk.”

Your heart pinched at the admission. “That’s fine,” you said, stepping forward so the porch light caught the earnest gleam in your eyes. “Then let me do the talking. Let me handle the words if you’ll just—listen.” You let your gaze drop to the empty Tupperware in your hand.

He shifted, boots creaking on the wooden planks. The silence stretched, before he finally replied, “I appreciate it. More’n you know.”

Your pulse thundered at the partial concession. “That’s not a yes,” you murmured, lips curving into a hopeful smile that trembled with anticipation. “But it’s not a no.”

He glanced away toward the darkened yard. “I’ve got things… not figured out.”

You swallowed past the disappointment, raising your chin with as much grace as you could muster. “Neither do I. But I’m willing to try if you are.”

You squared your shoulders and let out a long, exasperated sigh that seemed to echo across the porch. Your fingers flexed as you crossed your arms defiantly beneath your chest.

“Am I really that invisible that you need time to think this over?” you demanded, voice trembling between anger and hurt.

He opened his mouth—twice—but all that came out was, “Look, darlin’, I don’t wanna—”

You cut him off. “Just tell me if you like me or not. I don’t think this is a decision you have to think about. Feelings don’t get debated – they just�� are.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. “You’re a real gorgeous woman, but…” His voice trailed into the cicadas’ nighttime symphony, meaning to soften the blow, but you weren’t finished.

Without giving him the courtesy of a finished thought, you pressed on, biting the edge of your bottom lip. “Good night, Mr. Miller.” Each word was clipped, as you turned on your heel and strode toward your front door.

You heard him inhale sharply behind you. His boots scraped softly against the wooden steps, but you refused to look back.

In that moment, your heart thundered with a mix of relief and regret, your own internal monologue a chaotic tangle of “Why am I like this?” and “Good—he deserves to feel a bit of this sting.” You didn’t need validation. You just needed the truth—even if it hurt.

#pedro x reader #older boyfriend #relationship #zaddy pedro #joel miller #joel tlou #teacher #pedro pascal #slow burn #romance #daddy issues #mommy issues #joel the last of us #joel x reader #joel x y/n

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heartofbusan · 10 months ago

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My live reactions of AYS's final (for now 😌) episode 💛💜

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Jimin really had a lot of input on the itineraries and restaurants. He should get a producing credit 🤧 : 'Keeper of JK's every want, need and desire in the form of food, accommodation and more 👀': Park Jimin

OH MY BABY Like Crazyyyy!!

They really are the top singers in Korea lmao. You sometimes forget it, with how normally weird they are.

The owners of the restaurant must have been thrilled to have them. #Blessed

The boyfriend shot!?!?!? YOUR HONOR! HE DID NOT deny nor refute the outright allegation!!

Jungkook enjoys life to the fullest.

Also, Jk loves beer.

ESCUSE ME?!?!?!?

THEY GET FLIRTY WHEN DRUNK. DRUNK SHENANIGANS HAVE HAPPENED. I AM SURE OF IT.

Jungkook is such a good boy. You tell him to do something, and he does it. #obedient

JK's stomach makes all his life's decisions.

This hot tub scene is going to end me as a functioning member of society. WHAT THE HELLLLLLLLL

THIS SURE IS NICE

THIGHS. NO NOTES.

COME ON BABY?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!? WHAAST

Jimin doesn’t want to extend JKs suffering. So sweet!!

"That’s my Jungkook." Omg

"HONEY"

WTF IS HAPPENING, SHOULD I LEAVE THE ROOM

Baby reference no. 4852820 and counting.

-The more relaxed they are, the more they forget they're being filmed. The touches increase, and the fawning commences. Also, Jimin watching himself and seeing how he's presenting himself for the show is such an interesting occurrence. There's an interesting thought happening there as he becomes aware of it... Is he seeing and becoming aware of his layer of veneer as they were filming? He scaled it back for sure. He let more of his acute feelings through as the seasons progressed. I love that it became less like work for him.

-They are idiots! And I love them for it! The Jeon Park household is filled with laughter. And grunting ofc. Don't forget the copious amounts of grunting. I'm watching this at work and by God if someone walks in on me listening to this...I'll get called into HR 😃 #worthit

ONGOD JIMIN ON THE FLOOR LEGS SPREAD WHO APPROVED THIS MESSAGE?!?!

Also: Jungkook loves cooking. Whomever is making fun of him for choosing to be in the kitchen is an idiot. Please always be happy JK!

Precedent. This show is setting it. Remember it well.

You realize that they have the means to travel like this all the time?!?! But they chose to take us with them? WE ARE BLESSED.

Jimin always finds a moment to connect, physically as well as emotionally. He'll never leave his man hanging on a joke.

BUT JUNGKOOK IS RIGHT THERE WITH HIM ON THE EQ SCALE..He sees Jimin fully, and he treats him gently and with tender care. Knowing Jimin is quiet because the trip is nearing its end😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

They deserve to live their lives without serving us. Without feeling like they need to show us, just because it makes us happy to see them happy. Then again, if this is them normalizing them as a unit and seeing them together, and if it serves them just as much as it does us. Well then I hope they keep up this exceptional excuse to make content. The hate will always be there. The shippers too.

But what will never change is the commitment they have towards each other. They really do complete one another *bawling*

I loved this episode! It was so relaxed and paired back. They really are a give and take couple, giving each other space, patience or attention. Really, they should get married. It's just too perfect a union.

#jikook #are you sure #lovers in the sapporo snow #jimin #park jimin #jungkook #kookmin #peak jikook

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shunin-gumis · 1 year ago

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Nagi Hachinoya Novel

Essence of a Bouquet

Track 01 - Secret Energy that can attract Happiness

Please note that the novel contains some major spoilers in regards to Nagi's past that is revealed in L4mps main story before you read!

The dialogues do not actually state who is speaking, but I noted it anyways to make it easier to understand.

"Now, let us dive deep into the sea of memories…"

As if guided by the voice I hear from the podium, I close my eyes, and dive deep into the depths of my memories.

The earliest memory I have is that of my mother, the two of us having fun at a park.

The fresh and vibrant four-leaf clover.

The happy times, immediately followed by our separation at the laundromat.

The moment I learned that the scent of partings was the smell of fresh laundry.

'……'

I open my eyes.

'Why did you have to leave me behind…'

'I want to go back to that day, a day that should have been filled with happiness.'

In the corner of a special venue in mahorova, I look around and see the avatars all around me were in tears. I had already come to terms with what happened with my mother, so I didn't join them in their tears. But I could still understand their feelings very well.

If it were truly possible for me to return to that day, I would be willing to make any sacrifice. That's what it means to be 'sad'.

This was the orientation for beginners who want to join the "Society of Secret Energy to Attract Happiness". The gathering had around 30 members, and since everyone was in their anonymous avatars, there was no way to tell anyone's age nor gender.

The person talking at the podium was known as the Flower Princess, Master Hideko. She was the one responsible for leading this gathering. She had the avatar of an old woman in her sixties… but I had a feeling that's how she looks in real life as well.

Master Hideko looked around as everyone was crying, and with a solemn yet gentle expression on her face, she started speaking.

Hideko "Please, dry your tears. I am certain that you will all be able to return to those happy days once again. "Good fortune" is simply an energy that attracts happiness based on the principle of attunement wave function, in other words if you can access your "Secret Energy", you can-"

She was using a lot of technical terms, but it was very informative. I'm glad I attended.

After joining HAMA Tours, although I was late to the party, I started browsing videos on dazzle. Strangely enough, after a bit of searching, I found that my feed was full of videos that were related to luck.

One day, I asked Buchi-san about it while I was in the living room with him.

Nagi "Seeing all these videos on the topic of luck, I wonder if it's all the rage these days…"

He responded with-

Daniel "That's just the target algorithm doing it's job."

Nagi "Algo-huh?"

Daniel "I mean, it's because you keep watching those kinds of videos all the time- ah forget it. It's too much of a pain to explain."

Nagi "So what does it mean?"

Daniel "Yeah it's all the rage, but only in your phone."

-Is what he said.

I thought it was popular because it was effective, so I'd immediately applied to join the gathering.

I myself had a predisposition that made me attract bad luck proportional to the happiness that I receive. But rather than simply wanting to be happy for the sake of being happy, I wanted to be able to spread happiness through my flowers, which meant I had to be happy first.

Hideko "Say it together now, Secret Energy!!"

Master Hideko's voice grew louder. As if everyone was pulled by an invisible force, they all stood up together. I got up in a hurry as well.

"Secret Energy!"

"Secret Energy!!"

Before I knew it, everyone was chanting "Secret Energy" over and over while hugging the person next to them.

I see, this is the power of "Secret Energy".

Everyone was hugging the person next to them as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

In which case, the person next to me…

Black cat avatar "Secret Energy!"

When I looked over, a person with a black cat avatar was already waiting with their arms wide open.

Nagi "Secret Energy!"

That's why I returned the hug as well.

I don't think I've ever hugged anyone before, but now that I have, I could feel my heart being filled even in this virtual space.

I don't even know this person, and even if it's just through virtual avatars, this is not something that I'd experience normally. Is this one of the secrets to happiness?

As a matter of fact, the avatar in front of me seemed quite happy. There was something about it that made you feel a connection, beyond age, gender or even words.

Once again, Master Hideko's voice full of love washed over us.

Hideko "The next gathering will be for the intermediate level, so make sure you all do your assignments before you attend!"

Nagi "Phew… that was quite the passionate session."

I got a glimpse into ways of increasing happiness from a perspective that's different from mine. As I thought, it was good thing that I participated today.

Just as I was about to log out, I felt a tap on my shoulder-

Black cat avatar "Hello again! I just wanted to say, it was a really fulfilling time despite being a beginner's session."

It was the person with the black cat avatar.

Nagi "I agree. I'm looking forward to the next session."

Black cat avatar "Right!"

Since I felt like I shared in some happiness with this person, I couldn't help talk with them at that moment.

Apparently, he was a 35 year old male. Although I was one generation younger than him, he didn't mind at all and was very frank, all smiles.

Black cat avatar "I'm glad I got to meet someone I can get along with! Feel free to talk to me the next time you see me!"

Nagi "Yes, I will."

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 /Part 5

#hachinoya nagi #18trip #18trip translation #18TLip #Nagi Novel #my boy about to be dragged into a cult

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 1 year ago

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Granted, tumblr’s search function may broken but I can’t find a post on your blog centered on Alya’s writing. As a person constantly on the look out for critical examination of Alya’s role in the narrative and the compromises on her principles, relationships and competences made to artificially engineer the episode’s story, I’d be very interested to see your thoughts

I use Alya's writing as an example of a character done dirty all the time, but I don't think I've ever done a sugar post focused on her and I totally should. Before we get into it, I will openly admit that her bad writing bothers me more than Marinette's or Adrien's because she is best girl and we stan her. What can I say, I'm a writer whose best friend is an artist with a diagnosed anxiety disorder. I like characters who are writers and with artsy, anxiety-ridden best friends. They are my people and that gives us a great starting point for this post.

Marinette is the unambiguous main character of the show, so it makes sense to design both her hero partner and her best friend around balancing her out, giving them strengths to fill out the spots where she is weak. It's how you make a strong cast. When Alya is allowed the shine, she fills that balance role wonderfully and I love it! Some of my favorite moments are when Marinette goes on one of her rants and cool-headed Alya drags her back down to Earth:

Marinette: We're gonna stroll over there real cool as if we just happened to be passing by. Alya: Then what? Marinette: Then? I'll invite him out for a fruit smoothie at the end of the photo shoot! Then, we'll get married! Live happily ever after in a beautiful house and have two kids? No, three. And a dog! Maybe a cat? Nah, forget the cat. A hamster! I love hamsters! Alya: Let's just start with just happen to be passing by and see if we can get to that smoothie.

This banter from Stormy Weather is fantastic. It's exactly the type of thing I want to see from these two as it gives Alya a very different flavor of supporting role from Adrien. While Alya and Adrien are both card holding members of the Marinette hype squad, Alya is more of a voice of reason while Adrien is there to validate Marinette and follow her crazy schemes without question.

This brings us to the first issue with Alya's writing: when the plot demands it, they make her a gullible tabloid journalist even though it goes against everything her character should stand for. The reasons I'm comfortable saying this are many. The first one is that Alya is very clearly supposed to be seen as a serious journalist. That's why you get scenes like this one from Feast:

Alya: Now you know back in the day sculptures were painted, right? Most of the paint vanished over time, but tiny microscopic pigments still remain. Thanks to this special app, witness how it originally looked. But here's the big thing. All these works of art have something in common. It's the same symbol! Look, everywhere. It's like some kind of secret society emblem. As if a kind of Order of the Guardians has been watching over the superheroes since the beginning of time!

This scene would not exist if Alya was supposed to be the kind of person who only cared about getting blog hits because this type of content isn't where the money is. But money and clout aren't what Alya cares about. She's just a passionate reporter (or fan girl) who wants to know everything she can and who is having fun sharing her obsession with the world. This is an extremely important aspect of her character because it brings us to reason two that she clearly wasn't meant to be a clout chaser: if she was a tabloid journalist who only cared about hits, then she should have never been given a miraculous.

I could go on a rant her about how poorly Alya's blog is used after she becomes Rena Rouge, but I'll spare you the word count and just say that, as soon as she joined the team, she should have stopped sharing secrets on the blog. It makes sense that a blog would initially fill her need to share the fine details of her obsession, but once she's on the team, the blog should have been replaced by her teammates. She could still have the blog, but it shouldn't have things like the freaking guide to how the miraculous work that we see in the season four episode Gabriel Agreste:

Alya: The Miraculous are magical jewels that give powers to superheroes, like Ladybug's earrings and Cat Noir's ring. But supervillain Shadow Moth also has two Miraculousbrooches in his possession, and they will give him his powers. We can figure out from this that the Miraculous can either make a superhero or a supervillain. It's all riding on who wears it, which is why these jewels can't fall into just anybody's hands.

Alya, you are supposed to be Marinette's sole confidante at this point. Why are you giving the world this information? The writers are doing you dirty, my dear, and I'm so sorry. The best I can do is to promise to never treat you like this in my stuff.

Now, to be fair, there is some nuance to this. Alya is a human being. She's allowed to have flaws, so I can absolutely forgive her for getting caught up in the moment and posting scoops to her blog without thinking (see: Oblivio). That's honestly a great weakness for her character to have as it makes perfect sense for a fan girl to fan girl. At the same time, if you want to have a fan girl character who becomes part of the things she's a fan of, then you usually need to give that character something that will tone them down and make full fan girl mode something other than the standard setting.

Making your fan girl a serious reporter is a great way to do that! It allows you to have that initial bust of fan girl hype that quickly switches into serious get-the-details mode. Without that kind of complexity, Alya would just be another Wayhem and one Wayhem is already one too many.

While I will give Alya some grace on this topic and even call it a good thing for her character, the same cannot be said for her writing because the writers fail to embrace her hype as an in-the-moment weakness and it ruins her character. To put it another way, a lapse in judgement about posting a photo is excusable as a photo is quickly acquired and posted. A lapse in judgement about a full interview with a total rando who is claiming to be Ladybug's best friend is not excusable (see: Volpina). It's a completely different flavor of poor judgement as - at a minimum - it requires Alya to stand there talking to a person for several minutes and never once question what that person is saying. Those are not the behaviors of a good journalist.

Of course, this brings us to the most glaring example of Alya's character assassination: the Lila thing. Almost everything about this arc paints Alya as a terrible friend, which is a massive missed opportunity as Lila is the perfect antagonist for Alya! Who better to take down a liar than a truth seeker? It's such an easy way to give Alya her own mission to focus on, especially if you make Lila more subtle. You don't even need to have Alya believe Marinette without question. Just have her be an investigative journalist who is like, "You know what, this new girl clearly bothers Marinette and I know Marinette can get caught up in her own head, but it doesn't usually last this long. I think something is up, so I'm going to use my skills to see if Lila is telling the truth that way I know if I'm supporting the right person here." Don't have your character claim that she checks her sources and does research if you're going to turn around and have her believe whatever she hears without checking any of it!

Even outside of the Lila thing, I wish we saw more of Alya's research skills! They were such a good thing to give Marinette's best friend as Marinette is great at focusing on a clear task, but research is the kind of thing that would overwhelm her, so it makes perfect sense to make her best friend a researcher as that lets the team have someone to help track down whatever Gabriel is calling himself this week. The writers even understood this to some extent as we saw in Mr. Pigeon 72:

Alya: Marinette, how long have you been working on this? Ladybug: I dunno, six-seven days, maybe ten. Now that we're on spring break, I finally have time to put my whole heart into it! Alya: When was the last time you worked on one of your own designs? Ladybug: I do loads of designing! Look! (pointing to the contraption at her door) I designed a security system so that nobody can enter my room when I'm not in it. And if I put on this hat (puts on modified hat) I hear everything that's going on in here, even when I'm out of the room. Alya: I'm gonna have to break it to you because I'm the only one who can. THIS IS TOTALLY INSANE! Girl, trust your BFF. When I'm researching something obsessively and I can't think of anything else, that's when my mind can get really blocked. You know what you need most right now? A break! Ladybug: No way! No breaks until I find out how to keep Shadow Moth from reakumatizing people!

Remember who ultimately figures out how to keep Shadow Moth from reakumatizing people in this episode? Alya! Because her creative style is all about researching and looking at the evidence. You know, the classic skill set of a reporter?

I really do mean it when I say that the show has a fantastic setup for telling a good story. Alya's character should have been a perfect addition to Marinette's team. My favorite lineup is the line up from season two with Kagami and Luka in non-love-interest bonus roles that I won't get into here since it's a little too deviant from canon to make sense without explanation. Instead, I'll just give you the clear roles they perfectly set up and then squandered for the original miraculous five:

Ladybug: Battlefield commander

Rena Rouge: Big Picture Strategist (basically Marinette excels at reactive thinking/leading during a battle while Alya excels more at proactive thinking/long-term tactics)

Chat Noir: Peacekeeper/Heart/Hype Man

Carapace: Protector/Stop Button (much like Alya and Marinette, Nino and Adrien should have been two sides of the same coin with Adrien being focused on making everyone happy while Nino focuses on keeping everyone safe)

Queen Bee: Wild Card/Chaos Element (I love a good chaos element who is there to suggest the options that won't occur to people who have been raised to follow the rules.)

I'll also point out that this lineup would show that the characters weren't interchangeable and make the two main couples feel more unique and meant for each other. For example, Nino's tendency to encourage others to stay safe would pair terribly with Marinette's need to not get too caught up in her own thoughts. The second Nino second guesses one of her plans she'd fall apart, so she needs Adrien to be her Chat Noir. Similarly, Alya's impulsivity weakness would make her a terrible match for go, go, go Hype Noir! She needs a partner who makes her take two seconds to second guess herself. There was so much potential here you guys! So much potential! It could have been beautiful! Instead, we got canon...

There you go, my broad love letter to Alya. I could keep going, but you didn't request a specific topic, so I'm just going to end it there. Feel free to ask for more, but please do it in another ask as this is already super long and - out of kindness to my followers- I try to avoid essay after essay on the same post unless they really need to be connected.

#Alya deserves better #ml writing critical #ml writing salt #Alya defense squad

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the-algebra-thing · 3 months ago

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ok listen this rfk shit pissing me off bc the backlash and the backlash for the backlash is like. let's just all think about this for a moment. rfk jr made a generalization about autistic people. he implied that all autistic people have very involved support needs. he implied that they are not functioning or contributing members of society on the whole. he called the growing asd diagnosis rates an epidemic. he also pledged to find the cause of autism. there is SO much to unpack here.

the original backlash that he got for this statement was obvious to me: autistic people that don't have as involved support needs as he was describing started pushing back, saying that autistic people CAN do the things rfk jr was describing them being incapable of. this is true—a TON of autistic people can function and contribute in society, and they can enjoy it and be proud of it, rightfully so. our country isn't built for them, so it's insulting to minimalize or outright deny the hard work they put in to do the things that people that aren't autistic often find come naturally to them.

the response to this backlash was a bunch of caretakers coming in and saying hey wait he's not completely wrong. some autistic people ARE like this, and I spend my life caring for them. perhaps most of these people are not autistic themselves, and a lot of them are coming in with the idea that rfk jr SHOULD be allowed to "find the cause" of autism, saying that any research that's being funded is a win. and because the majority of these people are not autistic, and because of the rhetoric that rfk jr has employed in his announcement, autistic people are rightfully extremely wary of all this—they do not trust a politician who has come in really hot with extreme generalizations and disparagement to set up research that will actually benefit autistic people, rather than you know. being a eugenics initiative.

but what a lot of people seem to be forgetting, and what I forgot before a local autistic activist I know mentioned it, is that autistic people with these highly individualized, involved support needs DO exist. and they deserve support—the individualized support they need, as well as community support and research on how we can better serve their needs. while caretakers are out talking about how autism has ruined their son's life, and autistic people are making memes about how rfk jr says they don't have to pay taxes, there ARE autistic people, the ones that the government is actively disparaging, that deserve all the dignity and research and love that we can provide, and are being left behind right now because they don't have the capability or the tools to engage in the conversation.

and I know that this is likely already in the back of many of our minds as it was in mine before I saw maddie's post, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say it should be in the front. rfk jr's words bring attention to these people, but they do not show an intent to help them. they show an intent to hide and eliminate them. we don't need to "find the cause" of autism; we already know it's genetic as fuck. but people with complex support needs DO need our attention and support, and it's really easy right now to get caught up in feeling insulted for whatever reason instead of remembering this.

as a final addendum, I'd love to draw attention to a concept I saw a post about sometime soon after the inauguration—it was about those ads that are looking for participation in studies about lgbtq+ youth, and the post said stay. the fuck. away. now is NOT the time. do not give out your information do not let them take it from you. and this was the first thought I had about this whole catastrophe—in the midst of these horrifying threats on due process is THE most terrifying time for the US government to pledge to "find the cause" of autism. so. remember complex support needs do not make an autistic person less, and remember to keep your information to yourself and stay safe.

#who are you speaking to #god. fuck. christ in heaven #i don't know of any specific resources about what we can do to help with this but #if i tell myself i have to find some and include them in this post i will lose momentum.#and id rather just get this part out there cause even if i never come back and add on at least this much will be out

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quoigenic-anon · 1 month ago

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"Don't do Trauma Olympics, don't compare trauma: trauma is trauma."

Then why being high-functioning makes me feel lowkey guilty?

Um, trauma discussion/dumping ahead?? A lot of types of trauma mentioned, press "read more" with caution and tell me if I need to put a certain tag, I'll add it ASAP.

TLDR: My life isn't perfect, but it's not that bad, it could be worse! And that's why I don't feel like I belong in spaces for traumatized people. But I'm not a mentally healthy person too. In the end, there's no "traumatized enough" condition that makes your trauma valid. It's just being traumatized, that's all. And healing doesn't make you less traumatized, I guess.

That's quite a nonsensical rant...

I have academic trauma. Long story short, high expectations make a girl hate herself for not being perfect anymore. And my parents weren't much helpful, so I had to get out of this deep dark hole and recover all by myself. Sometimes, when they pressure me about being lazy and nonchalant, I start spiralling and it hurts again, but crying helps to relieve the stress and keep working.

So, trauma responses are here, right?

... Why do I feel so uncomfortable when talking to traumatized people? Is it... That I'm not broken enough to truly understand them?

My parents are not perfect, but I still love them. They care about me. Maybe a little bit too much. But it's normal for parents, right? Right? It would be so much worse if I was neglected or abused, so I guess I should be grateful they love me.

Even if they hurt me to the point I want to move out as soon as possible so I don't feel like a helpless child anymore.

My school is not perfect, but there was no bullying. I was respected, even though I didn't make many friends and I'd like to forget the damage some teachers did to me. It could be a nightmare, but it was balanced good and bad! I should be grateful for all these opportunities!

But I don't feel like I'll miss school. I feel apathetic... And this apathy feels wrong. As if I should feel more, but if I try to do so, I'll uncover something bad and it will hurt me.

... People go through worse. Fear paralyzes them, they forget their trauma so it doesn't hurt that much. A lot of people have it worse.

"I shouldn't speak over "truly traumatized" people," I think while my healed mental scars itch and don't let me forget about them.

I'm really not a mentally healthy person. My environment was damaging, and I had to solve a lot of internal problems alone when relatives or teachers or friends weren't helpful. Even my plurality is a reflection of my need to be cared after.

But I function. I can be considered a normal person, a worthy member of society. I can even believe I'll become a good professional in programming.

But seeing disabled, dysfunctioning people sharing their struggles on the Internet, I can only question myself:

Why do I feel guilty for having opportunities? Am I... Privileged?

Can I even talk about my experiences, about my own pain and struggles without being inherently... Invalidating? For having it easier?

But no matter how much I care and worry, I can't be a good person for everyone anyways.

There's no "traumatized enough" condition. Just traumatized.

Healing and recovery don't erase damage.

#syscourse #sysconversation #tw vent #does it even count as trauma dumping.......#no idea why i made this post #needed to get it out

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valeria-garza-enjoyer · 11 months ago

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Mx. Sinister

Valeria Garza x Fem!Reader

omg my first cod fanfic guys can i be apart of the club pretty pls :3

Oh you never seem to notice… When I follow you home

She was a normal, functioning member of society, she just did what was best for Las Almas in an… alternative way.

What can I say, drugs bring in a lot of money. A lot a lot.

Too much, she’s decided. She needs someone to spend it on, someone to spoil. It’s been nagging at her for quite some time, to find some dainty little bachelorette in her town and make them hers, to lavish her in the most delicate gold jewelry and finest silks. To make a pretty young thing her hermosa perra. Her vida, her amor, her florecita. Her florecita, who she’ll open up and make bloom, whether on her own or otherwise.

In the dark of your apartment… When you think you're alone

Finding her florecita was easy enough, she has ties all over the world. She could, quite literally, get anyone she wanted with enough phone calls and deals made. No, she wants someone local, someone she’s seen when she goes for her morning coffee. And she has the perfect idea of who to take when she overhears some phone calls she definitely should not have heard.

You.

Apparently, money is tight in the family, something something a family member is genuinely thinking of selling their girls into sex slavery or at the least pulling them out of school to work, something something more and she finds out you’re about to be kicked out of your apartment.

So she swoops in, slowly, like a leaf falling from the highest branch of a tree with no breeze to carry it.

What will it take? What else should I do?

She buys you your morning coffee and breakfast, making small talk. She thinks you’re absolutely beautiful, absolutely and positively hers. Her hands linger as she hands you your coffee and puff pastry, her cold and nimble fingers somehow comforting.

“Well, mi florecita, I heard there’s more openings in my cartel if it helps. I can make some special exceptions for you and your family, keep you out of the front lines. How does medical, or maybe logistics, sound, querido?”

You blush at the kindness of what is at least a stranger and at most distant friend, turning down the offer. Of course you turn down the offer, ever the sweet and caring soul. Too scared to “take advantage” of someone’s kindness.

How far must I go to prove… That I love you?

So Valeria doubles down, walking her to work after her morning coffee, making sure not a single mutt in Las Almas soils her florecita. Her closest men track and follow you like shadows and bloodhounds on a scent trail, learning your every move and routine.

So she just so happens to be shopping at the same time as you, talking about what would make a good dinner.

“Oh, well I haven’t had sushi in a while, but the one sushi restaurant is far too expensive to justify right now.”

Valeria’s eyes light up, and she smiles softly, grabbing the bag of onions for you.

“Sushi? I was going to go there tonight, why don’t you join me, mi florecita? On me, don’t worry about a single thing. You’ve been working harder than a mule, you deserve to take a break. What do you say, sweetheart?”

“I- well I… I mean I guess I can pay you back later…”

“Nonsense, there is no “paying me back later” chica. We both want sushi and you need a break. I'm offering, why don’t you just come with me?”

“Fine, fine Valeria! When do you want me to be there?”

“How about seven fifteen, seven thirty, hm? Does that work for you?”

“Seven thirty works for me, see you then, Valeria!”

“Of course, chica. See you then.”

And I'll get you yet…

Money shows up randomly in your purse, starting off small until you notice a few extra twenties padding your wallet. You think nothing of it, maybe you really are forgetting all the money that was in there.

But the extra padding in your savings account doesn’t go unnoticed. You had almost nothing in there to keep up with bills that you couldn’t pay from your checking, and now every time you check it goes up in almost indiscernible increments. You can’t tell anyone, it’ll sound like fraud or insanity.

But Valeria knows. She sees it in how you carry yourself now. You’re not on the brink of starvation or homelessness anymore, you order an extra large instead of a large coffee. You look in shops as you two walk, wondering if you should actually get that dress.

“That’s a pretty dress, no?” Valeria comments, noticing your gaze drifting towards the display. You nod a little, eyes drawn to the light sage green silk dress, stopping just above the ankles. Flowy like a river, form fitting and revealing in just the right places. You simply can’t take your eyes off of it until they wander to the price tag.

Oh. Even with the new padding your wallet and savings have, it’ll hurt. You smile and look away, continuing to walk with Valeria.

“It is, but I gotta save for it. It’s just a little out of my price range right now.” You reply dismissively, looking in other windows, noticing every stunning dress is just out of your price range.

Just know I'm not the sinister type…

So what else does Valeria do? She calls in an order for the dress with your exact measurements, tailored to every curve and inch of your body.

You see it in the corner of your eye when you come home from work one day, stopping dead in your tracks.

I never bought that dress… It was too expensive, it was way out of my budget! What the hell?

You look for a receipt, a tag, anything to prove you bought it. Nothing. Just the most eye catching and stunning dress you’ve seen in ages, sitting in your closet like the cardigans you wear every day.

You try it on. It fits like a glove, to your horror. Or excitement, you can't really tell. All you know is that the dress alone makes you feel like a doll, porcelain and precious. The silk hugs your curves, accentuating each dip in your skin and every soft crevice. You look at yourself in the full length mirror and blush, twirling around to watch the skirt of the dress twist and turn with you, buttery smooth and effortlessly elegant.

But I'll get you yet…

Valeria comes over some time later and smiles as she peaks into your room, seeing the silk dress in the closet.

“So you bought that stunning dress and just didn’t show me, let alone tell me? Aye, mi florecita, I must see you in that silk.” She chides softly, a little teasing.

But she’s got to see you in that dress. The dress she bought for you. The dress she broke into your apartment to put in your closet while you were away. The dress she thought of as your dress, no other person in the world could ever wear that dress. It belonged to you, was meant to be on you. She couldn’t have it any other way.

She’s not sinister. She’s desperate at this point. Her actions are not only motivated by lust, no, she just wants to see her florecita flourish.

“I… okay, just give me a minute, Val.” You mumble, pushing her out of your room and changing into the silk dress quickly. You smoothen out the bodice area, looking at your slightly protruding tummy. You’ve never worn this out in public, in front of anyone but the mirror. What will Valeria think? Will she think it’s ugly? Will she laugh at yo-

“Santa María, madre de dios, mi florecita…” She murmurs as she opens the door, her dark brown eyes boring into you. You look…

“You’re lucky I’d rather not crumple that silk, chica, or else I’d be ruining you for the world to see.” She whispers as she comes close, her rough hands landing on your love handles and squeezing them, rubbing small circles into the silk covering your midsection. “You look like the statues in Greece, mi alma.”

You look up at her and blush. She’s never been this… blunt… before. Never been this handsy or possessive.

But the facade is back up after she leaves. She simply let her mask slip when she finally saw you, dolled up and delicate in that silk. She couldn’t stop herself, she just had to touch what was hers.

She bought you the dress. And you wore it, for her and only her. You’re hers, she’s decided. No one else will have you. Never.

I've got to make you mine…

But her world crumbles a little and she sees red when she finds you flirting with a man, a man under her command of all things. She keeps cool, smiling and laughing, gossiping about him like you’re two school girls.

“Well, he seems nice enough, mi florecita. Just be careful, yes? Men are dogs, no matter how sweet they seem. They all have teeth and they have bitten before.”

“I will, Valeria. You know I will. I trust you with this kinda stuff.”

She smiles, coy and conniving, and squeezes your hand.

“Good.”

Just know I'm not the sinister type.

So she tracks this maldito cabrón down in the middle of the night.

He’s rather low in rank in her cartel, she’s pretty sure she’s never even seen or heard this pigs name until her florecita muttered it.

She really wants to take it slow and be the non-sinister woman you know her as, but when she sees him screaming at a woman in his house, she loses it.

She slips in the back window and sits in the corner of his room, pitch black and unseen. She makes sure her knife is unclasped and ready to draw, her handheld locked and loaded.

“Luis Sánchez.” She calls out, cold and annoyed. “What are your intentions with the girl?”

He sputters, looking for any weapon in his vicinity. Valeria laughs.

“I see why you haven’t ranked up a single spot in my cartel, Luis. After all these years you’re still stupid enough to leave without a weapon.” She gets up, stalking towards him.

He tries to punch her, but Valeria dodges. She kicks him, sending him to the floor. She puts her boot over his neck, pressing on his windpipe.

“Luis Armando Sánchez, born March 16th, 1992. Mother, Camila Araceli Sánchez, deceased. Father, Diego Manuel Sánchez, imprisoned for life, charged with first degree murder of Camila Araceli Sánchez. Imprisoned from 2008 to 2010, 2011 to 2014, and 2015 to 2016, all for battery and assault, third degree murder, and drug use. What are your intentions with the girl?”

He looks as white as a ghost, or all the crack he’s stolen from the cartel while working under her.

“If you don’t start talking in ten seconds you will find yourself in so much pain you will never be able to walk again. Speak, chucho.”

He blabbers some half-assed lie about his love for her florecita, his love for her personality over her looks. She grabs him by the collar and drags him into the street, kicking him in the ribs to shut him up. He can’t yell if he’s gasping for breath with punctured lungs from broken ribs.

“Don’t you ever lay a hand on mi florecita, do you understand me, cabrón?”

He nods his head quickly and panicked, terrified for the first time in his life. His jaw is forced open with her boot and he's positioned on the curb, teeth digging into the cement. He whimpers, saying a mumbled Hail Mary.

“Our lady of Guadalupe will not save such filth. Tienes cuerpo de cerdo, Luis.”

And then he screams, his jaw cracking as Valeria stomps his head into the curb. Teeth break and his jaw cracks, blood pouring from every pore on his face it seems. He cries out for his mother, the mother he didn’t even cry for at her funeral.

She stabs into his achilles tendons, severing them. Then she strips him, leaving him bare like the animal he is for some poor soul to find in the morning.

Maybe she is the sinister type, especially as she carves “cerdo” and “chucho” all over his body. He deserved it, really, for trying to soil her precious florecita.

Oh you never seem to notice… That my heart beats for you…

You come to her a few days later, sniffling. Luis broke up with you, how shocking.

“Oh, mi preciosa florecita, he broke up with you? I’m so sorry, chica.” She coos quietly, rubbing your back as you sit next to her on her velvet couches. You don’t even think to connect the dots that maybe she had a hand in his brutal assault.

“He was so nice! And then he says this isn’t working out and he won’t even let me come by to get my things! What did I do wrong, Valeria? I was kind, patient, accepting, I made time for him, I cooked for him, what did I do wrong? We both wanted to wait, I don’t understand…”

“Oh, mi rosa, no no no… you did nothing wrong. He was just a wolf in sheep’s clothing, obviously wanting more than you agreed to. I know it hurts, cariño, but it’s for the better. You’re so sweet, so beautiful, he doesn’t know what he’s lost out on.”

“You… you mean it, Valeria?”

“What do I gain in lying to you, pequeña paloma? I speak nothing but the truth, he didn’t deserve you and you deserve much better. Don’t settle for him just because he threw some pretty words at you and promised to pay for the first date.”

“Thank you, Valeria. You’ve got no idea how much that means to me right now.”

She smiles, soft and genuine. She lives to see you smile. Her heart beats for you and only you.

“It’s nothing, love. Just maybe come to me about a future partner next time before you say yes, okay? We can’t have you sobbing every month because another man decided you weren’t worthy of his time.”

“Oh hush!”

Your soft giggles fill the room and you slap her arm, rolling your eyes. She’s whipped for you and everything you do. She has got to have you.

So I'll open you up… And make yours beat for me too…

After your breakup with Luis, the gifts and money start up again. More twenties and fifties, even a hundred or two, line your wallet. Your savings is alarmingly large, it wasn’t even this big before your family fell into trouble. You don’t question it anymore. If someone wants to help you pay your bills, by all means, go ahead!

Large bouquets of your favorite flowers show up at your desk and front door, notes mostly blank besides the occasional “Love you”, “♡︎”, or “Flowers for the beautiful flower”. The last note should alarm you, make you realize that this is Valeria slowly circling in on you, her prey, but you can’t help but blush and ignore the warning bells when you feel so happy and sweet with every bouquet.

But the icing on the cake is when you go walking with Valeria again. The dresses catch your eyes once more, and one makes you stop and stare. A midi dress this time, a soft white with pastel pink apple blossoms on it, spaghetti straps with a bow on the back. You simply can’t tear your eyes away until you note the price tag, hissing silently. Sure, you may have the money for it, but it’ll be tight for a while if you actually bought it.

It’s in your closet two weeks later. You didn’t buy it, you didn’t even make a comment on it to Valeria, but she knew. She knew it was just like that sage green silk dress she bought months ago, that you could and would find a million different little reasons to not buy it.

“I haven’t seen that dress before, chica. Did you buy it recently?”

“Oh… u-uh, yes, yes I did, why? You like it?”

“I sure do, mi preciosa, but I think it’d look better on you and not on a clothes hanger. Try it on for me, won’t you?”

And how can you deny her?

You walk out of your room a few minutes later in the fluffy, flowy dress, soft white heels to match and a necklace you found in your jewelry box that Valeria definitely didn’t have a hand in getting. Pink diamonds weren’t cheap, but to see a chain of soft pink diamonds around your neck?

“Aye, mi florecita, just as beautiful as last time…” She groans quietly, gripping your love handles and drawing you close, burying her head in your neck and inhaling deep. That Miss Dior Eau de Parfum she got you doesn’t do any favors, only making you more…

Feminine. Floral. Precious.

She has to physically pull away from you, rubbing gentle, possessive circles on your soft hips to stop herself from marking your neck up and letting every single soul in Las Almas, no, all of Mexico, know you’re hers.

“Thank you, Valeria… you’re too kind.”

“I only speak the truth for mi narciso” She purrs, cupping your cheek and rubbing the fullness with her thumb. “You are truly more beautiful than life itself in this dress, florecita.”

And I'll get you yet… I've got to make you mine… Just know I'm not the sinister type…

She circles you like this for months, getting closer and closer, cutting out all the possible love interests in your life.

Then she has to cut out your family. Easy.

She gives each member of your family thousands of pesos to cut contact, to leave you isolated. She’s got the money, it’s no problem for her. Any rat in your family that demands more once she’s given them their share is simply… handled.

Valeria holds you in her arms as you sob, wondering why your family, your flesh and blood, cut you off so suddenly. You’ve been thicker than thieves with your family since the family business went belly up, giving almost every single cent to your siblings and parents to keep them afloat, even as you drowned.

And this is how they repay you? By simply texting you “do not reach out. We do not want a relationship with you anymore.” and blocking you? You’re not an angry person, you’re too sweet for that.

So you sob like a little girl who fell off her bike for the first time, wailing into Valeria’s shoulder, wetting her shirt with tears and snot. She’s all you have at this point, besides your job.

Until your boss calls you in.

Only days after your entire family cut you off, no more than a week. He tells you you’re no longer a viable employee at the company. They have to cut corners, and compared to the others, you’re just not worth saving.

So she’s once again sobbing in Valeria’s arms that life isn’t going her way. She feels like a spoiled brat, sobbing and wailing in her only friend's arms. She’s got expensive dresses, costly jewelry, and large, extravagant bouquets in her house, and yet she’s sobbing about how she has nothing now.

She feels like she’s wilting. She was given too much water all at once and now her petals droop, once tight and sealing her soft and sensitive core away, now peeling back to expose it to the mastermind of her suffering.

And I'll get you yet… I've got to make you mine… Just know I'm not the sinister type…

“Oh, mi florecita, mi dedalera, you’re far too beautiful to cry like this.” Valeria hushes your sobs, pulling you into her lap and rubbing your back. She places a delicate kiss to your forehead, as if she uses anymore force you’ll simply crumple into dust.

“You look like you’re wilting, preciosa. Too much stress.” She muses, combing her other hand through your hair.

“Just let go, mi alma… let me take care of you. You could move in with me while you get back up on your feet, hm? Free of charge, no strings attached. You just move into my place and relax, yes?”

You whimper, burying your head into her chest. It’s too good to be true, you know it. Nothing good has happened in the last week, why will this be good?

“Shhhh, mi florecita… when I say something I mean it, don’t I? I know what’s going through that poor head of yours, I know you too well. Come live with me, I’ll help you get back on your feet.”

So you move in with Valeria.

And I'll get you yet… I've got to make you mine… Just know I'm not the sinister type…

And she spoils the ever living shit out of you.

Soft pastels and pink everything. Flower decor and patterns, floral and fruit scented everything. She holds you close every night in the living room, petting you like you’re her treasured pet. To her, you are.

She’s won.

She’s got the prettiest woman in Las Almas in her lap every night, making her whimper and blush at the soft touches and praise she lavishes her in. She’s got her dainty little bachelorette to spoil rotten.

Valeria takes you shopping every weekend, buying you the frilly dresses you want right there and then, an arm wrapped around your waist possessively in every store. She watches your eyes dance across the mannequins, stopping at the one to the left.

She knows that look. She leads you to the mannequin, rubbing the fabric of the dress in her fingers, bringing it up to you.

“Is this one calling you, mi florecita? I can see why, it’s calling me, too. I think you’d look good in all three colors, but the pink and cream one just…” She squeezes your waist, sighing.

A beautiful evening gown, floral print. Slit up the thigh, fluffy layers, Sweetheart neckline, puffy short sleeves. Oh, it would go so well with the lingerie she just bought you in the previous shop, pastel pink lace with a few small bows.

“I like the pink and cream, too, Val…” You mumble into her side, shy and quiet. The thought of being so… dolled up, after losing everything, is still weird to you. But the dress and the lingerie, the new perfumes and necklaces with matching bracelets and rings she showers you in make it hard to decline.

Valeria smiles down at you, kissing your forehead and caressing your hip. She custom orders the dress in shop, knowing your measurements by heart. You wonder when she learned your sizes…

And I'll get you… I'll get you yet…

“Come on, mi peonía, let's get home before the rain starts. I would hate to see my little flower so cold and pouty” She croons over you, guiding you out of the shop. You didn’t even get a chance to look at the price tag of the dress, she just bought it without blinking.

At home, you curl up in her lap, sighing softly as rain pelts the roof. She pets over your entire body, starting at your hair, going down your spine, and going back up to start again.

She was never sinister. She just wanted her precious florecita. And she has that now.

“Mmm… mi alma, you look so beautiful like this, all curled up in my lap. Like you belonged here all along…”

She rubs your hip, kissing your forehead as she does so. So affectionate, so soft. Your mind is constantly fuzzy and slow from the amount of praise she lavishes you in, unable to question any of her words or actions.

“I'm so happy you came to me so willingly, let me in so easily. You’re far too trusting, mi narciso. And that’s what I love and hate about you. It scares me how easily you trusted what’s his name… but you trusted me so easily, and look where we are. Is it really such a bad thing?”

I've got to make you mine… Just know I'm not the sinister type.

I do plan on making a part two (smutty) but idk when :3 posted to ao3 first

have fun !!

#monster fuxker marya #call of duty x reader #call of duty #valeria garza #valeria cod #valeria x reader #valeria x you #wlw post #lesbian #stalking fantasy #i love valeria garza #Spotify

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bloodypixels · 5 months ago

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my thoughts on every Milgram character T3 (Very simplified)

haruka - buddy :( you’re not dead are you? No. You can’t be. Wake up Haruka!!! Wake up!!!!!!!!! WAKE UPPPPPPPP WAKE UPPPPPPP

yuno - we love her chat!!! Tho I still don’t completely believe in her getting an abortion (stares at the stairs that are so prominent throughout umbilical and her shot in undercover) I’m still definitely voting her innocent because she’s probably the most normal person in there and also she can survive as a functioning member of society if we put her back in (if. Milgram isn’t some purgatory but that’s too complicated)

Fuuta - yikes. Um… bro… you’re gonna have one wild story to tell you your siblings (Ena and Akito) when you get out…. First you cyberbully a middle schooler to suicide (or maybe not if you consider the arson theory but whatevs) then you got stuck in a magical music prison where you got indoctrinated into a cult by a 12 year old… that’s some wild lore there!!!! i really wonder how its going to affect your MV and interrogation though, it’ll be interesting to watch

Muu - unlike everyone else, i still love her! Honestly I don’t know why you guys hate her so badly, like come on, how is she worse that shidou, who stole organs from countless people? How was she worse than haruka, who killed for attention? How was she worse than mahiru, who does not express any guilt? As a firm believer in the “she was threatening suicide in front of rei but accidentally stabbed rei instead” theory, i really don’t think she did anything wrong. She got the taste of her own medicine, what more do you guys want? You guys are also blaming harukas death on her BUT COME ON. BOTH OF THEM STATED IT SO CLEARLY. Also I don’t think muu is intentionally manipulative, and doesn’t know what she’s doing is bad, but she does it anyways because its what got her friends in her school (I’m going to make another post for her on some point because oh god…)

Shidou - RIP old guy. That’s all I’m going to say.

Mahiru - NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO :( ig yuno wasn’t enough to save you…. Also, exposing myself for a moment, I’m a mahiru guilty voter. The only reason why she even got inno in T2 was because she was injured by kotoko. Yet, she never regrets her crime, not even one bit, and that’s what makes her unforgivable for me. At least muu expresses some minor guilt and doubt in her songs, mahiru literally said that SHE WOULD RATHER DIE THAN STOP “LOVING” still love her tho!!!!

kazui - another character thats getting blamed for the deaths…. Sighs…. I don’t get why people put so much on you. First of all, kazui is one single person. If you consider the fact that amane might have had help from fuuta to kill shidou, there was no way he stood a chance, even if the two are weaker than him. Plus, if he’s to blame, then every one else who was alive is to blame too. Can’t wait to see how the guilt affects you!!!

amane - slay bestie!!! (Literally) ok on a more serious note how are you guys surprised. Shidou is WEAK to children and amane literally beat her mother to death with a fucking UMBRELLA. Take that in for a sec. An UMBRELLA. A SMALL one too, because she’s short. You guys underestimated her, and now you deal with the consequences.

mikoto - he’s in my absolutely innocent bingo with yuno!!! However, based on the recent lines, is john fronting or mikoto? Could be either Ngl… either way, unless mikoto himself actually killed someone, absolutely innocent for me. No questions, next!

kotoko - I’m so biased towards manipulators so she’s a immediate guilty from me. I’m sorry, i understand her character, but even if she has good intentions, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy it and doesn’t use twisted methods to get what she wants. DIDYOU GUYS FORGET HOW SHE MANIPULATED ES??? Feel like she’s gonna say “i told you so” in this trial though, and yap about how she should have been innocent to protect people and how it was our fault blah blah blah

es - my baby. My poor baby. Don’t die ok? Please live. You don’t deserve this. You’re innocent. Absolutely in every way. HWO DECIDED TO PUT THIS 15 YEAR OLD TO MANAGE A FUCKING PRISON??? AND WITH AMNESIA SO THAT THEY CAN BE EVEN MORE EASY TO INFLUENCE??? WHAT THE HELL MILGRAM???? If we ever vote for them its an absolute innocent GET THEM OUT OF HERE

jackalope - *drops him into a stew and watches him boil alive*

#♡ connection unstable ♡#Milgram #milgram T3

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gabriel-xander · 5 months ago

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Don't Forget

[Sans x Female!Reader]

42: All the Goons are Gooning-Gooning

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day!

♪────✿⁠(⁠✧◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕✧⁠)✿⁠────♪

You had a very funny dream when you took that nap with Sans.

You were some teen boy in the kitchen, doom-scrolling on a social media app. You were getting up to go to your room to sleep, but then your dad stopped you.

“Son,” he said, “before you go to bed…”

You replied, “Yes, dad?”

“Change the coffee filter.”

*Vine Boom Sound*

“Okay.”

And then you woke up.

Dang, you didn’t get to change the coffee filter before you woke up…

You’re a terrible son.

Hm, wait. You’re sure you went to bed Big Spooning Sans, but he’s not here now.

How strange that he woke up before you did. How late is it? You couldn’t have slept for more than an hour or two, right? You checked the time before sleeping, it was barely noon when you got back.

You sit up on the bed, stretching lazily as you are in no hurry to become a functioning member of society.

Damn, you’re still sad you never got to change the coffee filter…

You get up and slip on Sans’ pink slippers because you don’t feel like finding your own. They’re really comfortable, too. It’s a little chilly, so you grab your jacket that you left on the dresser. After that, you dig out the box that was still hiding in there.

You don’t know where to really put it… Maybe you can ask Sans for a place to keep it or something. For now, you’ll leave it on the dresser. You’re not trying to hide things from Sans, and he’ll end up finding it eventually anyway.

Leaving the room, you already hear the speaking voices of Sans and Papyrus downstairs. You try keeping yourself quiet, listening in to their conversation.

“-ood as it could’ve been. we met another version of you, too.”

“WOWIE, REALLY? WAS HE COOLER THAN ME?”

“it’ll be a warm day in snowdin before anyone becomes cooler than you, bro.”

“AS PER USUAL, THAT IS TO BE EXPECTED. AND WHAT OF YOUR MISSION? DID YOU AND [Y/N] FIND WHAT YOU WERE LOOKING FOR?”

“yup. it was a little rocky at first, but we managed to get the job done,” You hear the cheekiness in his tone, “[y/n] made sure we all put our back-bone into it.”

“UGH, I’M GLAD I DIDN'T GO.” Papyrus huffs and crosses his arms, “IF THERE WAS ANOTHER VERSION OF YOU, THAT MEANS ONLY DOUBLE THE TERRIBLE JOKES.”

“speakin’ of, this wasn’t the only time we’re gonna do this. [y/n] and i might go on another trip in a month or so.”

“IS THAT SO? SO, YOU TWO WILL BE DISAPPEARING AGAIN SOON… HM?”

You lock eyes with Papyrus on your way down the stairs. Man, you were trying to sneak up on Sans but there was no helping it the taller one was facing your direction.

Papyrus beams like a thousand Suns, getting those sparkly anime eyes that he does sometimes. He runs to you with his arms spread; you feel so fucking loved.

“[Y/NNNN]!!”

“PAPYRUSSSS!!”

Papyrus lifts you into a hug, arms tight around you while you reciprocate the gesture.

You’re starting to get used to the slight weight on your soul that is Blue Magic. Papyrus will often use it on you whenever he lifts you up to make sure he never drops you. You never realized how subtle it's always been, but it’s obvious now due to experiencing it from the others.

Baby boy baby.

“I’VE MISSED YOU DEARLY SO, [Y/N]!!” Papyrus tells you with love, “IT WAS SO INCREDIBLY LONELY WITHOUT YOU!”

Sans puts his hands on his hip bones, “uh, what about me?”

“…”

“I GUESS I MISSED YOU, TOO.”

Brotherly love at its finest.

Papyrus sets you on your feet, making sure you’re stable before releasing the slight hold on your soul. He puts his hands on his sassy hips, smiling at you wholesomely.

“SINCE THE HOUSE WAS UNBEARABLY QUIET, I’VE SPENT MOST OF MY TIME WITH UNDYNE. IN FACT, I JUST RETURNED HOME TODAY SINCE YOU BOTH HAVE LEFT.”

☹️ Baby…

You purse your lips with pity, “Awe, I’m sorry, Papyrus. But how are you feeling now? You said this is the first time you’ve been back?”

“OH, I’VE BEEN FINE OTHERWISE,” As he talks, Sans walks over to regroup with you both, “I MORE OR LESS HAVE BEEN SLEEPING OVER WITH UNDYNE. TRAINING, JUST HANGING OUT, HAVING COOKING LESSONS. SHE HAS BEEN TIRED ALL DAY FOR SOME REASON, SO I THOUGHT I SHOULD COME BACK TO LET HER REST.”

Sans snorts, “bet you tired her out being over there all the time.”

You laugh too, “That’s true. You have a lot of energy that is hard to keep up with. Not in a bad way! You know I love your energy so much, Papyrus.”

“OH, I KNOW, I KNOW. UNDYNE IS MY BEST FRIEND, TRUE, BUT YOU ALWAYS SEEM TO MATCH MY ENERGY THE MOST, [Y/N],” Papyrus poses dramatically, “IF ONLY HER OPINION ON HUMANS WEREN’T SO… MURDERY. I BET YOU TWO WOULD GET ALONG GREAT!”

…Yeahhh. Sure. You love Undyne’s character in the game, but if you met her in reality…

Oof, you fear your personalities would clash too much. Especially your ideals…

“Maybe one day, but for now, ‘tis only a distant dream,” You put a hand to your chin in thought, “You know what, though? It has me thinking…”

“about what?”

“Sans, you told him that we’ll be doing this again, right?” At his nodding, you continue, “I don’t feel good leaving Papyrus here all alone. That means we should get a pet! Something to keep us all in company for these reasons!”

“uh…” Sans rubs the back of his skull, “we’re all out of the house now-a-days, though. then we’d have to get two pets to make sure they’ll always have company. but even then, we wouldn’t be able to take care of dogs with how sparse our time is.”

Papyrus scrunches up his face, “I MUST, UNFORTUNATELY, AGREE WITH SANS HERE. (“unfortunately?”) HE CAN BARELY KEEP HIS PET ROCK FED. WHAT HOPE WILL WE HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF A COUPLE OF DOGS?”

“I love dogs, don’t get me wrong. I had a big puppy back at my parents home, but that’s not what I meant.”

“??? huh?” You grin, “I was thinking of something more– independent.”

“???”

“Cats!”

──

Papyrus had rushed to his room to change into something that is “fit to find some kitties.” You and Sans are waiting for him in the living room, sitting on the couch together.

“Hey,” You tap his arm, “why didn’t you wake me?”

“you looked too peaceful, i couldn’t bring myself to do it. ‘sides, i did try waking you, but you were dead asleep,” Sans chuckles, “it was pretty impressive ‘cause that’s usually my job. still, i figured that if you were out cold, that just meant you needed it.”

You check the clock on the far wall, wincing at the time. It’s fucking passed 5 pm, you napped for 5 fucking hours. Damn, you were a lot more exhausted than you originally thought. Or maybe the magic of the DJ machine had affected you more than you thought. You should tell Sans about that, but not now.

“Hm, we should go out to eat with Papyrus for dinner,” You look over at the skeleton, “I don’t really feel like cooking today.”

“that’s a good idea. anything in mind?”

“As long as it’s a place that won’t give a fuck about me looking human, I’m fine with anything. Other than Grillby’s, of course. Your bro isn’t a fan of that place.”

“i think i know a place in the capital. wanna get dressed before we go?”

You smile at him, teasing him and poking his arm, “You saying I look too homeless to go out?”

“no way, hot stuff. ‘m asking just in case since we’re going out for dinner.” Sans bone brows twitch, “uh, crap. i-i didn’t mean it like that, swear. i was just-”

“-I know, I know. You were just being considerate,” You look down at the slippers you stole from Sans, “Do you need these?”

Sans looks down at his own shoes: blue and white with untied laces. He doesn’t wear shoes over his slippers often, but that spontaneous change worked out for you.

The only reason he switched it up now was because your slippers were still packed away in his Void, and he didn’t want you walking around with no shoes.

“nah, they look better on you, anyway.”

You shrug, “Then nah, I don’t need to… change…”

Sans raises a brow, looking over to where your eyes had suddenly moved to. In doing so, he felt a strange dread settling in his metaphorical gut. Your shoulders are shaking from trying to contain your laughter.

How could you be laughing in a time like this?!?!

Papyrus is jumping down the stairs with a new shirt over his battle body. It’s a black shirt with a white print that says “BOY”. Written on top with white marker was the word “CAT” in a classic Papyrus font. It looks really recent.

CAT BOY…

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying so fucking hard not to laugh because poor Sans looks mortified. You lean over to whisper in his acoustic meatus. (A/N: Yes, I had to look that up. Don't expect me to use that ever again, that name is so unserious)

“The internet would have a field day seeing him like that,” You snicker.

“don’t you–” Sans light heartedly pushes you away, “shut!”

“I’M SO EXCITED!” Papyrus bounces in place, “I HAVEN’T SEEN ANY CATS HERE IN SNOWDIN, BUT I HAVE DEFINITELY SEEN ONE OR TWO IN THE WATERFALLS.”

“actually, paps. before that,” Sans pats your leg and stands up, “wanna head to the capital to get something to eat?”

The younger monster tilts his head, “GO OUT TO EAT? I COULD ALWAYS COOK SOMETHING UP FOR THE THREE OF US! I HAVE NOTICED THAT [Y/N] HAS BEEN THE ONE MAKING US FOOD SINCE SHE MOVED IN. I THINK IT’S TIME I HELP OUT AS WELL.”

Hell fucking no. You’re not about to do all that. There has been an obvious reason you’ve been the cook and you’re not letting that change.

Fuck, you really need to find a day soon to tell Papyrus the truth.

“Nope, sorry,” You firmly shake your head, “I don’t wanna clean today or tomorrow. Honestly, I just want to eat out today.”

“UH… OKAY…?”

Papyrus just shrugs it off because he’s a fucking Giga Chad like. Papyrus fucking strikes a pose suddenly, one hand on the hip and the other pointing in the air. Then he twirls really fast, and suddenly the shirt is nowhere to be seen.

“That was really impressive,” You say honestly, your expression mirroring your feelings, “How’d you do that? Magic?”

“LIKE I NEED MAGIC FOR SOMETHING LIKE THAT,” Papyrus rolls his eyes… somehow, “I CAN MANAGE THAT WITH MY SHEER WILLPOWER ALONE.” You legitimately believe that. Like actually from the depths of your soul.

“are you ready then?” Sans asks.

“YEP!”

“cool beans. then we gotta take a lil’ shortcut. we gotta hide [y/n], remember?”

“I SUPPOSE SO. BUT UNDYNE IS MOST LIKELY SPENDING THE REST OF TODAY IN HER HOME.”

“still…” Sans eyes flash with something like concern when his gaze casts to you, “you don’t know who would recognize [y/n] as a human and spread the word. we’re lucky enough no one in snowdin is saying anything, but we can’t be too careful.”

Wait, that just reminded you of something. The fucking cameras. There are cameras all over the Underground, isn’t there? Sans must know about them as well, there’s no way he doesn't. Maybe he’s forgotten about them after all this time (you certainly have).

But if that’s the case, surely Alphys should already know about you by now. So why hasn’t she said anything to anyone? Or maybe she told Asgore, but even then, why hasn’t it been brought up? Unless Alphys is rooting for you the way she roots for Frisk.

Another thing you need to discuss with Sans.

Man, there is a lot you need to talk about with this guy.

Still, you’re not bringing this up since you don’t want to ruin the vibes. This isn’t something anyone needs to worry about right now.

Papyrus’s voice brings you out of your thoughts. “GOOD POINT, BROTHER. IN THAT CASE, SURE, WE CAN USE YOUR FUNKY LITTLE SHORTCUTS.”

“now, i wouldn’t say little.”

“YOU SHOULD KNOW SIZE DOES NOT MATTER, SANS.”

“…wait, what?” Sans narrows his eye sockets, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“YOUR HEIGHT IS SHORTER THAN THE AVERAGE IN SOCIETAL STANDARDS.”

“…”

You tuck in your lips to hide your smile. Sans gives you an unimpressed look, the expression awkward since he’s still keeping up his smile.

The Comic huffs and crosses his arms, “are we going now, or what?”

“Yeah, yeah. Lead the way, bone boy.”

“READY WHEN YOU ARE, BROTHER.”

──

Sans ends up taking you both to a hole in the wall in the Capital, a small pizza establishment by a huge yellow, triangular monster. His head was a triangle and so was his body.

He called himself Top Chef and said shit like: “Mama Miba!”

Hell yeah.

You three were getting weird looks admittedly, but that was only because you all were playing with your food. The cheese was so cheesy and you managed to pull the cheese at a long distance before it finally snapped!

None of you gave a shit though, you were all having fun with each other. It was only a few days, but you did miss your Papyrus.

After you all had your fill, you’ve boxed the remaining pizza to take it to go. You paid for it since you’re fortunate enough to have your own Gold now without needing to rely on someone else.

Ah, that reminds you that you need to talk to Sans about paying rent again. You don’t think he’ll be open to it anymore since you’re his girlfriend now, but you need to find a compromise anyway.

Anyway, after the pizza dinner, Papyrus gives Sans some directions to a place in Waterfalls. When he short-cuts you all to the location, it looks unfamiliar to you.

It’s quieter yet you can see more houses along the road in the middle path. There’s a hill to the left that curves upward and to the right, leading somewhere else. There is a right path that leads to fewer houses, and the middle path seems to head towards a very quiet neighborhood. The glow stones here are smaller and more sparse as well, giving it an abandoned feeling.

“i haven’t been here in a while,” Sans whistles lowly, looking around with you.

“THIS IS A LOWER PART OF WATERFALLS, AND RATHER ANTISOCIAL, TOO. THE MONSTERS IN THIS AREA TEND TO KEEP TO THEMSELVES. IT IS NOT VERY LIVELY DESPITE BEING POPULATED, SO REALLY, UNDYNE WILL HAVE NO REASON TO BE HERE FOR WHATEVER REASON,” Papyrus poses with a firm nod of his head, “IN FACT, MOST MONSTERS HERE AVOID HER BECAUSE THEY’RE INTIMIDATED BY HER BOISTEROUSNESS.”

What the hell is that word? Is it even a real word?

“OUT OF RESPECT, UNDYNE AVOIDS THIS PLACE TOO AS LONG AS THEY DON’T ACT OUT OR CAUSE REASON FOR HER APPEARANCE.”

Huh. That’s neat to learn about the world. This is obviously another inaccessible part of the game that you can walk around freely now.

Undyne is such a hero for these monsters, huh? Even if she’s rude, she does everything for their sake and respects them deeply. Even if they’re scared of her, the monsters respect her as well.

It would be really cool if it wasn’t so dangerous and hypocritical towards you.

You grin appreciatively, “You really put a lot of thought into this, huh? I don’t give you enough credit, Papyrus. But your consideration and thinking ahead like this is really admirable.”

“wow, yeah…” Sans blinks in realization, smiling widely, “you really thought this out. even though the surprised adoption hunting was out of the blue, you thought it out while we were out.”

Papyrus, though he tries to play it cool, blushes red. He clears his throat and looks ahead, posing dramatically as his cape flows in the wind.

“HMPH! WHAT, LIKE IT’S HARD?” Papyrus isn’t bothering hiding his self-satisfied grin, “DON’T UNDERESTIMATE THE GREAT PAPYRUS!”

What a cool guy!

Papyrus does his cool anime-girl transformation twirl, his Cat Boy shirt appearing once again.

“I’M SURE I’VE SEEN AN ORANGE CAT, AND A BLACK CAT. THEY NEVER STAY TOO LONG IN ONE PLACE BECAUSE OF THIS LITTLE WHITE DOG THAT COMES BY OFTEN,” Papyrus looks back at the hill that leads up, “IT WILL BE BETTER IF WE SPLIT UP.”

Sans grimaces, “uhh…”

You shrug, “It’ll be fine, Sans. If anything happens, I’ll scream bloody murder. You’ll be able to get to me and find me with your cool shortcut bullshit.”

Hesitation is clear on his face. Looking between you and his brother, he sighs and sags his shoulders.

“alright, alright. if we find anything, let’s meet back up here,” Sans gestures to the area, “cool?”

“RIGHT-O!”

“You got it, boss!” You point to the right path, “I’ll head this way.”

Papyrus points up, “I WILL SEARCH THE AREA ABOVE.”

Sans jerks his thumb to the middle path, “guess i’ll go this way.”

“Alright!” You clap your hands, “Let’s move out, team!”

Papyrus gives you an enthusiastic cheer while Sans only weakly pumps his fist in the air. You three split up from there and begin your separate search.

Just to be on the safer side, you made sure to stick to the shadows and cave walls. There were only two other houses down this way, then it starts to branch out into a wider path.

You do, in fact, make sure to pluck a few glow stones from the walls. Not many, only two but those were pretty big, Hopefully it will be enough for the skin products, you can have Sans and/or Papyrus try them out with you!

Eventually, you reach a deadend. It’s a large field of Echo Flowers that surrounds a pond of the pretty cyan water. There are lily pads and Water Sausages in the pond, but not many.

You love the marsh, the Waterfalls are so nice.

There isn’t anything here though, you should head back and find Sans or Papyrus...

“It is peaceful here, is it not?”

“WAH!!”

You look around but immediately realize that it was literally in your head. Moreso, you recognize the voice and the laughter that is now following it.

Oh, brother! This guy STINKS!

“Sorry, I did not mean to startle you. I suppose I hadn’t made my presence known before I spoke.”

You sigh, “Geez, man. I was this close to tweaking out…!”

“…Tweak out?”

You snort, “Anyway. Yeah, this is–The Waterfalls were always my favorite.”

“Mine as well. Whenever I needed a place to think, or work something out on my own, I would venture deep in Waterfalls. There is an abandoned, lonely dock not too far from here. I would stand there, and stare into the nothingness. It was… It was always humbling.”

An abandoned, lonely dock, huh? It reminds you of Goner Kid…

“How are you talking to me like this?” You ask Gaster, “I don't even have the fragment with me.”

“I suppose it is enough already that you have found it and brought it back here to our original universe where the other piece of me is. It won’t be for long, unfortunately. I suspect after this talk, I would have exhausted too much energy. I won’t be able to communicate with you for another while.”

“So then. Will you finally tell me how this is at all possible?”

You hear some hesitation in his tone. “Alright, but you can’t get mad at me.”

Bruh. Be so fucking for real. He's such a child.

“I am not in your head, not necessarily. Well, I AM, that is how you can hear me, after all. But that is not WHERE I am. More precisely, I am with your Soul.”

…What?

Gaster must sense your anxiety as he immediately follows up with a more in depth explanation.

“I am not possessing your Soul, nor am I IN your Soul. Instead, think of it as… I am riding atop it. Simply latching on for the ride, but never in control.”

You scoff, “And you expect me to accept that explanation? How do I know that’s true?”

For a moment, you feel cold. A stark chillness that overtakes your entire body and soul. Your legs are moving–that’s not you, you’re not doing that. Your body is walking against your will, all on its own. Your body stops near the pond, sitting itself down by the cyan water.

Then, that feeling is gone. Your entire body shudders and you’re in control again.

“That,” Gaster says, though you feel some guilt that you know is not yours. That guilt you’re feeling, it belongs to Gaster. “That was me possessing your Soul and controlling it. Have you felt that at all before just this moment?”

“No… No, not once…”

“Exactly. If I were to ever take control in any way, you will know it. But I do not desire that. In truth, it is the fact that your Soul is so strong in the way that it needs to be, that I was able to hold onto it at all in the first place.”

“I… I can’t lie and say I’m not nervous about you just casually with my Soul, but…” You scrunch up your nose, putting a hand on your chest to will your heart to stop fucking racing, “I guess if you wanted to, you would’ve done something already.”

“If you want, I can share MY Soul with you so you can feel my true intentions. That way, you will know I am not lying.”

“You know what?” You throw your hands up, “Fuck it. Yeah, lemme see that shit.”

Gaster laughs and it bounces (pleasantly) in your head. Next, you feel a heavy warmth that hugs your soul in your chest.

Sincerity. Openness. Honestly. There is no desire to hurt. No desire to deceive. There is confidence and perhaps some loneliness.

Something flashes before your eyes. Your eyes are still open and yet you can see blurry, vague images before you. It’s transparent as if there is a shitty projector right before you.

Blurry figures of a short and tall figure. They seem familiar.

Another image, the same figures. They feel like Sans and Papyrus despite only being unclear silhouettes. There comes a third figure. This one is completely shrouded in smoke and glitches, but it’s pulling the two skeleton brothers into an embrace.

Then it’s gone.

You feel Gaster separate his Soul from yours. Even so, you can still feel lingering emotions.

Embarrassment, sadness, shame, longing, and a yearning to reunite.

The feelings are so strong, you feel yourself involuntarily tearing up. And these feelings are not yours.

It’s quiet.

You were… You were not supposed to see that. Gaster was so willing to be honest with you to reassure you, but he accidentally shared his deep desires, right? Somehow, you just know that’s right.

“My apologies. I hadn’t meant for that to happen.”

Before, you could only hear his voice, and feel a small pressure in the back of your head. But now, you can feel these underlying emotions that don’t belong to you. Because of that, you know of what he just said–he is being sincere.

“What just happened?” You whisper.

“As I am not at my most complete, I don’t have the strongest control of my own Soul’s happenings. Your Soul is still kept to yourself, but I believe I have shared a connection of myself to you.”

He is being truthful.

“So, it's a one-way thing?”

“Essentially, yes.” Gaster sighs, voice tinged with embarrassment, “I guess it’s for the best. I don’t have anything to hide from you, and at least this way you will know I am being truthful. After all, the Soul cannot lie.”

Again, he’s being honest.

You rub at your temples, “Ugh, this is a lot… Is this how I was able to see your fragment, by the way? When the others couldn’t? It’s because you were legit with me?”

“Not ALL of me, of course, but yes. A small, minuscule piece of myself is now with you. With your SOUL.”

“Gotta be real with you, Gaster, I like my privacy.”

“It is not as if I spy on you. Only when I sense you thinking of me, or when I sense you to be alone, do I bother with ‘entering.”

“…Like a Pokemon…”

Gaster sighs, “Yes, [Y/n]. Like a Pokemon.”

Kekeke.

You wonder… “Can you hear my thoughts?”

“Only if you want me to.”

Hmm…

‘I want to French kiss your son.’

…

You try again, but this time you want him to hear. ‘I want to hold hands with your son.’

“Uhm… Okay? Go for it, I guess…?”

Yeah, it’s true. You felt as much when he said it to begin with, but you wanted to make sure.

“It kind of feels unfair,” You admit to him, “That this emotional connection is only one-way, it feels unfair to you.”

“Do not worry. I truly have nothing to hide, and I am not interested in invading your privacy. If there is something you need for me to know, I will trust that you will tell me yourself.”

“So…” You purse your lips, staring out to the calm waters, “Is there any particular reason you showed up?”

“No, no reason at all. Answering your questions wasn't an issue, but really, I suppose I just wanted to say hello.”

He says that, but you felt that loneliness from earlier. And now too, you can still feel it.

Talking to you now has eased some restlessness within him. Even when you don’t reply and let the silence settle, Gaster feels better. Gaster feels at peace.

Being scattered across space and time, only have that 1 in a 1,000 chance to come across anyone, that must be lonely for anyone. And now that he’s with you…

You think if you were in his shoes, you wouldn’t want to let go. Even if it meant you couldn’t stay around as much as you wanted, you’d take any chance.

And now here you are, teaming up with his son just for the chance to put him back together. To bring him back “to life” and be known again. To be whole again, and to no longer just exist as a concept.

And here you are to give Gaster another chance to come back and to finally be with his creations turned children. Those two skeleton monsters who were originally created to be his assistance in his studies, but he couldn’t help but raise them with genuine love. With your help, he’ll finally get to be with them again.

It’s so hopeful and wonderful-

Ah, these aren’t your feelings. These are Gaster’s.

You don't think he's aware you can feel this. No need to tell him, you suppose.

You stay there for a few more minutes, basking in this moment. Unfortunately, you really do have to get going…

“Alright,” You speak softly under your breath, “I have to find a cat somewhere else. I wasted too much time sitting out in the open.”

As you stand up and dust yourself off, Gaster starts speaking.

“There are not many, perhaps only one or two. The cats are monsters, much like the dogs. However, they are far more domesticated than the dogs, and are willing to be taken in a home.”

“Oh, that’s perfect! I’ve had cats too growing up, so I know how to handle them.”

“You might have some luck near that guard’s house, Undyne. Since, you know,” You hear the cheekiness in his voice, “cats love fish.”

“Ughhh, okay. I guess I’ll check it out. Oh, hey!” You snap your fingers, “Can you be, like, a detector for me and tell me if she’s on the move?”

Gaster replies with confusion, “No…?”

“But you did that for me with Temmie back in UnderSwap!”

“That is only because they had my fragment, [Y/n]. And not to mention, I barely had the strength to control your Soul as a demonstration. What makes you think I can do anything else?”

You smack your lips, “Man, whatever.”

“You can simply regroup with them and tell them to find the cats for you. No need to pout.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it, I got it.”

“I… I must go now…”

No, he doesn’t. In reality, he can spare the energy to stay around for a while longer. But he doesn’t need to say it to you.

You can feel his real reason why.

Gaster will be too sad to see Sans and Papyrus and not even talk to them. He refuses to control your body for any selfish reasons, but he is not strong enough to face them just yet.

That is why he only communicates with you. Even though Sans knows Gaster is around now, it’s just a step too far for Gaster to really interact with Sans in any way.

“That’s okay,” You whisper gently, “I’ll talk to you next time, then.”

“I–… Yes, Until next time, [Y/n].”

It’s quiet. That small pressure in the back of your head is gone now. You feel it in your Soul that the remnant of Gaster is still with you, but he’s intending to be dormant for the time being unless it’s necessary.

You… get the feeling you should wait to tell Sans. At least until the day he said he wanted to talk about everything in general. Again, assuming Gaster knows your grip about not wanting to hide things from Sans, he must be okay with you sharing this interaction.

Fuck, you should probably write down ALL the bullshit you need to talk to him about at this point.

You walk down the path to return from where you started from. To your surprise, you can already see Sans and Papyrus back at the meeting point. Sans seems to be carrying a super fluffy black cat. One of his hands is holding the cat by the scruff, and the other is holding the cat’s butt for support.

Do not let bro hold cats, what is he doing…

The kitty (it looks like a full grown cat) has warm brown eyes, though as you get closer, they appear more gold. The pupils are thin and it has airplane ears, the fluffy tail is curled up between its legs.

Poor baby. It’s not escaping Sans, though.

Sans smiles in relief when he finally notices you coming over. Ah, you see faint scratch marks on his skull.

“KITTYYYY!!” Life imitates art CaseOh, “You guys found one already!”

You hold your hand out to the cat, letting it sniff your hand first. Its ears perk towards you and start squirming in Sans’ hold. You hold both hands out, taking the kitty from your bone friend.

“this one was a pain,” Sans gladly hands off the cat to you, “it was friendly at first, but after i picked it up and walked away, it started getting angry.”

“Awe, but it’s just a babyyy!” You coo at the baby, cradling it in your arms. “Hi, babbyyy!!”

The cat meows, letting itself be held. You can feel it purring.

Papyrus huffs, “THAT IS ONE DOWN, JUST ONE MORE TO GO.”

“It might be good to check around Undyne’s area,” You hum, giving your attention to the cat, “Obviously I’m not talking about me. You two can look around.”

Sans might be jealous of the cat. “uh, why?”

“Fish.”

“…”

Papyrus shrugs, “IT CAN’T HURT TO TRY. LET’S GET GOING.”

With that out of the way, Sans escorts you to outside the Waterfalls that leads to Snowdin. And by escort, it was just a shortcut. Your home is down on your right, but you’ll be waiting right out here for the skeletons.

The black cat is by your feet, playing with the random stick you found and is waving around. It’s so cute and fluffy. Miraculously, the snow isn’t sticking to its fur. Maybe it's a cat monster thing.

“Hey, kitty. I’m going to take you home with me, okay?”

The cat meows, suddenly stopping to groom its fur.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

When the cat starts grooming further down, you have enough courtesy to look away. Unfortunately you did catch sight of a small lipstick, you didn’t look away fast enough.

Whelp…

At least you know he’s a boy.

You toss the stick in the snow, waiting idling for who knows how fucking long. Eventually, the cat moves and sits on your feet to escape the cold snow. He’s surprisingly light, and his little toe beans and body have a light brown tone.

So demure.

“wahh.”

…?? You look down at the cat at your feet, thinking it was him. But one, that didn’t sound like him, and two, he’s looking to the left with alert ears. You follow the cat's gaze and smile at the arriving Papyrus and Sans.

Woah, their clothes are fucking torn up. Is Sans limping?? Hello????

Papyrus is holding an orange and white cat with very short hair, dangling the poor cat and the cat is just letting it happen. The cat has a white belly, snout, socks, and a striped tail. You think you see pink toe beans. It also has airplane ears, the tail lowered as it flickers and puffy with irritation.

You can tell this one is a boy too, though most orange tabbies usually are.

You snort, “What the hell happened? Did the cat win?”

“YES.”

“yes.”

The orange cat meows again, but it sounds more like a “wahh” than a meow. The orange kitty squirms out of Papyrus’ hands until he manages to jump down. He starts trotting towards you–Actually, he’s coming towards the black kitty who is waiting patiently.

“wahh.”

The cats begin rubbing against each other, and you can feel them purr against your legs. Ugh, your cuteness aggression is rising!

“Aww, I think they were mad that we were kidnapping them from each other,” You state the obvious, watching them with awe, “It’s a good thing they’re reunited now. They’ll definitely stay with us willingly as long as we keep them together.”

The ginger kitty looks up at you with his round blue eyes, pupils dilated and his tail raised high.

“wahh.”

You obviously need to name the ginger cat Childe, there’s no other option.

You could be funny and name the other one Zhongli or something, or maybe not. You’ll think of something. Or, you can let the skele-bro’s pick a name.

“Come on, kitties,” You gently step away, walking towards the house, “You’re living with us now.”

The black cat follows you first, which prompts the ginger to follow. You’re almost positive the ginger cat could care less about following you, he’s just here for his cat companion.

You unlock the door and hold it open, watching the cats readily go inside. They’re probably going to love having a proper home to live in–a warm home to live in. Hm, you should give them baths and/or check for bugs and fleas.

Bathing cats is basically a death sentence, but you’re willing to do it for their sake. They’re so cute it’s definitely going to be worth it!

…

Meanwhile, Sans and Papyrus stay rooted to where they were, watching with defeat and amazement. The cats clearly favored you immediately, while they fucking nearly died just trying to get them to begin with.

Maybe cats just don’t like bones?

But little do they know that you’re just a natural pussy magnet.

Tags:

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@fetusbaconegg

@fluffyart5000

#fanfiction #reader insert #female reader #don't forget fanfiction #sans x reader #undertale #sans undertale #sans #gaster #papyrus

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