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jaysbaefie · 12 days ago

Text

slide into me | pjs

synopsis: in which your night shift ends in the backrooms and the only way out is through him.

genre: backrooms au

pairing: entity!jay x afab reader

warnings: dubcon, very weird descriptions of places, descriptions of flesh, mean dom!jay, gaslighter!jay, mocking, teasing, invisible binding, oral (f. rec), fingering, clit slapping, spitting, manhandling, overstimulating, dirty talk, degrading, dacryphilia, unprotected p in v, jay has a demon dick!!!! lowkey a breeding kink sprinkled in there, creampie, i think that’s it..

wc: 9.1k

a/n: look who’s back…anyways i felt inspired after reading @gyuuberryy ‘s fic ‘don’t look back’ so i decided to write one w a bit of my own twist. this is such a fun concept of writing i feel like i should write more horror esk concepts even though this is very tame. anyways..enjoy. comments,reblogs and notes are always appreciated!

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you took the job because it was supposed to be easy.

midnight shifts, half-asleep mall rats, and a paycheck big enough to cover your rent and leave you just enough for junk food and gas. it was supposed to be quiet. boring, even. which it was—until tonight.

the mall had always been unsettling after hours. too quiet. too still. the overhead fluorescents hummed above you like a dying animal, and the janitor's closet on the second floor always reeked of bleach and something else you couldn't place. but still, nothing that screamed danger. nothing you couldn't handle with a flashlight and a firm tone.

until tonight.

it starts with a sound. soft and distant. like the scuff of a shoe on the squeaky floor tiles of the place.

you pause by the entrance of the food court, your flashlight flicking over darkened storefronts and plastic chairs stacked like bones. the noise comes again, this time sharper—like fingers dragging across metal.

your stomach tightens.

you pull your walkie to your mouth, whispering a check-in to your partner on the other end. but no response comes back, just static.

okay, you tell yourself. don't be dumb. don't go towards it. you're not in a horror movie.

you step back. your sneakers squeak on the floor, loud in the quiet. you turn on your heel and start walking the other way, fast. maybe it's a rat. maybe it's some idiot hiding in the dark and doing one of those '24 hours in the mall challenge' from 2016, or maybe it's nothing.

whatever it is, you just want to get to the office, call it in, and get the hell out.

but the air shifts.

it feels... wrong. heavy. thick, like walking through water. the hum of the lights grows louder, buzzing at a pitch that makes your jaw ache. something flickers in your peripheral. you spin, flashlight jerking toward it—nothing.

your knees suddenly give out.

no warning. no pain. just a dizzy, stomach-dropping sensation like the floor disappeared beneath you—and then black.

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

when you wake, everything is yellow.

the world smells like mold. not fresh mold—old, dead mold. the kind that's lived too long in dark spaces and grown stale with time.

you're lying on cold carpet, face pressed into a nauseating mix of damp fibers and dust. fluorescent lights above you stutter and blink, buzzing in intervals that sound almost... rhythmic.

you sit up fast, heart slamming in your chest as your eyes struggle to adjust to the stale brightness of the unknown place.

this isn't the mall.

you're in a hallway. no windows, no doors. just endless, repeating yellow wallpaper—peeling in places, patterned with some ugly 90s texture—and identical hallways stretching on in every direction.

you push yourself to your feet, head spinning.

"hello?" you call out, voice cracking. nothing. just the hum. you turn a corner. then another. and another.

it feels like walking in circles, except every hallway is just different enough to make you doubt it. a different stain, a different pattern in the ceiling tiles. but always the same walls. the same lights. the same sickly yellow glow that makes your skin look waxy.

where the fuck are you?

you start to run. but the halls go on. and on. and on.

and somewhere behind you, a shadow moves. you've been walking for what feels like hours.

your legs ache. your throat is dry. and the lights—god, the lights—never stop humming. they flicker sometimes, almost rhythmically, as if reacting to your breathing.

you gave up calling out 20 minutes ago. the silence that followed every "hello?" was worse than nothing. it felt... intentional. like something was listening. choosing not to respond.

you stop to rest against a wall. the wallpaper peels beneath your touch, crumbling like dried-out skin. the carpet squelches faintly underfoot. it's damp now. damper than before. it didn't start out that way—you're sure of it.

you close your eyes. just for a second. then you hear it.

click.

a tiny, impossible sound. like a nail tapping on glass. you spin around fast—nothing behind you. just more yellow, more humming.

you swallow hard and start walking again, faster this time.

the whisper comes a few minutes later.

faint. garbled. like a voice behind a wall.

you stop cold, "...can you hear me?"

you whip around—heart hammering, chest heaving—but the hallway is empty. it sounded so close. like someone just on the other side of the wallpaper, lips pressed to the wall, whispering into your ear.

"don't run."

your breath catches and you take a step back. then another.

a low, almost inaudible rustle drifts from behind you, like fabric dragging along the floor. you don't look back this time, you run.

you sprint down the endless corridors, turns blurring together. every wall looks the same. every shadow stretches too long. the humming of the lights becomes deafening, almost sentient—rising and falling in sync with your panic.

and then—a corner.

you turn it too fast, shoulder slamming the wall. and there he is.

a boy.

he's standing halfway down the corridor, backlit by the same yellow haze, dressed in black and hunched slightly, like he's been walking for days. he looks up, his eyes hollow and lifeless.

you freeze.

he looks just as scared as you. "wait—" he says, breathless. "you're real?"

your heart nearly caves in your chest.

finally—finally—someone else.

you don't know that he's been waiting here for you. you don't know that the whispers were his. you don't know that he's the reason you're here at all.

you only know relief and that's exactly what he wants.

he's standing in the middle of the corridor like he's been waiting there forever. just... still. as if he knew you were coming.

your feet skid to a stop, sneakers dragging against the damp carpet, chest heaving from your sprint. his head lifts slowly. your eyes meet.

he's beautiful.

not the kind of beautiful you expect in a place like this—no, he looks too clean, too human, too painfully real. black hair falls across his forehead, his eyes wide and startled, like he hadn't seen another living thing in years. his frame is lean, shoulders hunched slightly with tension, a black jacket clinging to him like a second skin. he looks tired.

his mouth parts, stunned. "you're... real?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you don't answer at first. you're still frozen. still trying to figure out if this is a hallucination. if the place has finally cracked your mind open and spilled delusions into your skull. but he takes a hesitant step forward, hands raised as if to show he means no harm.

"i—i heard someone running. i didn't think... i thought i was alone."

you nod, slowly. your throat is too dry to speak. he sees it in your face, that fractured look of someone at the edge—and his features soften.

"hey, it's okay. i'm not gonna hurt you," he says gently. "you've been here long?"

your voice finally stirs. "i don't know. not long. maybe an hour?"

he winces. "i've been here days," he says, lowering his gaze. "maybe weeks. it's hard to tell."

you want to ask where is this and how do we get out, but the words collapse in your mouth. he seems just as lost. just as scared. and if there's one thing you know about surviving fucked-up situations, it's that panic spreads like a disease. and right now, he's the only person tethering you to something human.

"what's your name?" you ask, voice hoarse.

he smiles faintly, "jay." you give yours in return. and somehow, it feels sacred. the first time you've said it aloud since waking up here. it tastes real again.

you walk together.

not aimlessly—jay says he's mapped a bit of the place out. that some corridors loop, some don't. he tells you he's found areas with flickering lights and strange noises. some that smell like burnt plastic. some that feel colder than others, like they're not finished forming.

"sometimes i hear things," he says, tone hushed. "but i try not to listen."

"you hear them too?" you ask, something cold settling in your bones.

he glances at you. then gives the smallest nod. "they whisper your name, don't they?"

you don't answer, but your stomach twists.

you keep walking. you try not to notice the way the lights don't flicker around him like they do when you're alone. how his shadow always falls in the right direction, no matter where you turn. how his footsteps are too quiet—too synchronized with yours.

you try not to notice how his eyes flick toward your throat when you speak. how he never really seems out of breath. how the carpet never squelches beneath his feet the way it does yours.

he keeps asking you things.

where you're from. how you got here. what you remember.

and every time you answer, he watches you like he's cataloging each word. storing it. savoring it. but his smile is kind. his laugh—quiet, sweet, disarming. it feels like warmth in this place where nothing is warm.

hours pass. well, you think.

the corridors have started to change. the wallpaper grows darker the deeper you go, browner. as if stained by time or something else entirely. the lights flicker longer now and shadows linger too long at the edges of your vision.

you want to stop walking, but jay touches your arm—gentle, reassuring—and murmurs, "we're close. i think i found something a while ago. it might be a way out."

your chest stutters with cautious hope.

"really?"

he nods. "i didn't go alone. i was scared. but with you—" he breaks off. his voice turns soft, "—i feel safer with you here."

you look at him. he seems so genuine. eyes big, expression honest. he says it like it's a confession. like he needs you. you nod. "okay. lead the way."

and so you do. deeper.until the lights above flicker one final time—and die.

time doesn't pass here the way it should.

you think it's been days. maybe a week. maybe more. but there's no sunrise, no clocks, no hunger cues to guide you. only the flickering lights and the ever-stretching corridors—yellow fading into brown, into olive, into something sickly gray.

but you stop counting the days. because now, you have jay.

he stays close. always at your side, quiet but attentive. sometimes he hums under his breath—soft, tuneless notes that lull your nerves. sometimes he tells stories about his old life: a little apartment with too-thin walls. a sister he hasn't seen in years. a favorite café with mismatched mugs. things that feel so vividly real you almost forget where you are.

you learn his quirks. how he hates the buzzing lights more than the silence. how he taps his fingers on his thigh when he's thinking. how he always walks slightly ahead of you, like he's trying to shield you from whatever comes next.

"you know," you say one 'day' as you walk together through a hallway tinged orange by dying fluorescents, "if you weren't here, i think i'd have lost my mind already."

he glances back at you, lips quirking into a small smile. "same."

"really? you seem like you've got it together."

"nah," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "i'm just good at pretending."

you don't think about it much. but the next time the lights go dark for a stretch of corridor, it's his hand that finds yours. warm. solid. grounding.

and you don't pull away.

you have moments like that now. tiny, precious ones that feel stolen from reality.

he finds a corridor with walls covered in strange drawings—childlike scribbles in charcoal, some of them humanoid, some not. you sit with your backs to the wall and pretend you're at a museum, whispering critiques and giving the "artists" fake names.

you laugh together. it's a rusty sound at first—too loud in the quiet—but jay laughs too, soft and real.

sometimes, when it gets too quiet, he'll ask about you.

your job. your family. the place you grew up. and he listens—really listens—with his whole body, eyes fixed on you like you're telling him the most important story in the world. when you falter, he encourages you. when your voice cracks, he gently changes the subject.

and when you dream—because you do, sometimes, in flickers and fits—he's always in them. guiding you through endless rooms. catching your hand. pulling you close before you fall.

you wake up and he's right there, watching you with a worried expression like he's been guarding your sleep.

"you talk in your sleep," he says once, voice quiet.

"oh god," you groan, rubbing your eyes. "what'd i say?"

he pauses. smiles faintly.

"you called my name."

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

somewhere around day fourteen—or what you think is day fourteen—you stop hoping for a way out.

not because you've given up, but because this, whatever this is, doesn't feel unbearable anymore. you eat the ration bars from your security belt. you sleep curled near jay in corners that feel less watched. you follow his lead because he always seems to know where to go, which halls to avoid, when to turn around.

you stop asking questions.

and you start looking at him longer. watching the way his profile softens when he's not speaking. how his hair falls into his eyes. how he always reaches for you first when the shadows flicker too close.

he never tries anything. never crosses a line. he treats you like something breakable.

so you start crossing those lines yourself. a teasing shoulder bump when he's zoning out. lingering touches when you pass him supplies. once, you fall asleep with your head on his thigh. when you wake, he hasn't moved an inch.

"you could've shifted me off," you mumble groggily.

"i didn't want to."

but still... there are moments. strange ones.

times when the lights flicker a little longer when he walks through. when the hum syncs to his steps. when he looks ahead into the darkness a beat too long, his expression unreadable. once, you see something in the wall—a smear of something dark, a shadow stretching toward you—but jay turns his head at the exact moment and it disappears.

you blink. it's gone.

and he's already holding his hand out to you again, voice soft. "this way."

you take it. you always take it.

"i think we're close." jay's voice is quiet, but it cuts through the murky silence like a flare.

you blink up at him, wiping the sleep from your eyes. your back aches from the floor. the light above your heads flickers with that same electric buzz, only softer now—like it's struggling. failing.

"close to what?" you murmur, throat dry.

he glances down the corridor ahead. you follow his gaze.

it's different here. the walls have changed again—duller, the yellow wallpaper turning jaundiced and blistered, warped like water damage has soaked through the structure itself. the ceiling is lower, and the light is dimmer. there's a smell now. faint. metallic. wrong.

"a way out," he says softly. "or... something. i don't know. i didn't go in before. i found it a while back, but i was alone."

"but you didn't try?"

he shakes his head. "i was scared." his voice wavers, just a little. you look at him closer, and it feels like the most human you've ever seen him—shoulders slightly hunched, jaw tight, eyes dark with something you can't place.

"but i'm not now. not with you."

you believe him. how could you not? after everything, all the ways he's kept you calm, grounded—safe.

so you follow.

the deeper you go, the more the backrooms begin to rot.

the wallpaper falls away in strips, revealing a glistening material beneath—like old flesh or wet clay. pipes jut from the walls now. some of them drip. the air is heavy, saturated with warmth, as if something is breathing in these corridors right along with you.

"do you hear that?" you ask quietly.

jay tilts his head.

there's a sound behind the walls. a low thrum. a rhythmic thud-thud-thud—like a heartbeat. like footsteps. but not yours.

you grip his sleeve.

"don't worry," he says. "just a little farther."

the hallway finally ends in a door.

not a real one—just an opening. the trim is darker here, almost black. the light inside pulses faintly, like it's trying to lure you in. and the smell intensifies.

when you step through, you find yourself in a new chamber.

this one is wide, circular. walls curved and smooth, lit by a single humming bulb that swings slightly above your head. in the middle of the room are three slides—long, slick, and strangely out of place, like they were built into the floor of a decaying playground.

one is white, polished like marble. one is red, chipped at the edges, with a faint dark smear down the middle. one is black, dull and velvety, almost absorbing the light around it.

you stare at them. "what... is this?"

jay exhales next to you. "i don't know. i found this place once before. didn't stay long enough to figure it out."

"you said it could be a way out."

"i think it is. maybe."

his voice is unreadable.

you turn to him. "do you know where they lead?"

he shakes his head slowly. "no. but we have to choose. eventually."

you look back at the slides. something deep in your stomach curls. they feel alive somehow. waiting. "what if it's a trap?"

he doesn't answer right away. then softly says, "then we face it together."

you look at him. he looks calm, soft-eyed—safe. just pick one, you think. you're not alone. he's here.

your eyes fall to the slides again. white. red. black.

your fingers twitch toward the black one. the surface almost shimmers. you step toward it.

and jay smiles. not sweet. not warm. sharp.

but you don't see it, not yet. the moment your foot touches the black slide, it shudders beneath you.

not visibly. not violently. but it reacts—subtle, like something flexing beneath its skin. the surface isn't hard plastic like you expected. it's soft. pliable. warm. like flesh left out too long.

but jay is right behind you. watching. and something in your chest tells you to keep going.

so you sit and push off.

the slide isn't straight. it twists. drops. swells and curves like a throat swallowing you whole. the walls are too close—pressing in—and the material isn't smooth. it pulses. you think you feel something breathe against your shoulder.

your hands sink slightly as you try to brace yourself. a slick, wet sound echoes all around you. like something digesting. and then—black.

pure, absolute black. no light. no air. no sound but your own blood roaring in your ears.

you try to scream—but nothing comes out.

you fall forever.

and then—you land.

hard.

but not on carpet, on something alive.

it shifts beneath you, twitching like muscle memory. the ground is slick and damp, lit by dim red bioluminescence leaking from the walls like infected wounds. it smells like copper. salt. something rotten and sweet.

you stumble to your feet. the slide behind you is gone. there's no way back.

you're alone. or—you think you are. until you hear his voice. "you chose it, you know."

your head snaps toward it.

jay.

but he's standing different now—spine straight, head tilted at an unnatural angle, like his neck is made of wire instead of bone. he's watching you. not with the wide, soft gaze you've grown used to.

with something else. something ancient.

"you could've picked any of them," he says quietly, stepping forward. "safety. death. or this."

you shake your head, backing away. "what are you talking about?"

"you picked me." his voice is still warm. still familiar. but too steady. too calm.

"i don't—this isn't—what the fuck is this place?"

"it's mine," he says simply. "or, more accurately... i am of it."

your stomach turns, "i don't understand—" he smiles. soft. so soft. but something ripples beneath his skin, like muscle twitching beneath stretched fabric.

"i made it easy for you," he murmurs. "you wouldn't have followed me if i wasn't kind. if i wasn't... safe."

your knees nearly buckle, "you're lying."

"no. i've never lied to you. not once." he pauses, his mouth curling into a cruel smile, he steps closer. "you just never asked the right questions."

your heart is in your throat now. the walls pulse with it—thump-thump-thump—like they're echoing your fear.

"this isn't real."

"it's more real than where you came from," jay says, almost tender. "you just don't want to admit it."

"what are you?" you whisper.

his smile widens, just slightly. his teeth look too white. too straight. too perfect.

"hungry."

you've never felt cold in the backrooms. until now.

the air is still warm—wet and clinging to your skin—but your body is shaking. not from temperature. from something else entirely. from the kind of fear that curdles in your gut and hollows you out.

you stagger back, but the ground beneath your feet pulses with every movement. it's not carpet. not even earth. it's... him. it's part of him. you don't know how you know that, but you do.

jay stands in front of you, his expression peaceful. soft. like this isn't a reveal—like it's a gift.

"you were always going to end up here," he says gently. "i just helped you make peace with it."

you shake your head slowly, the world pitching around you. everything's wrong. everything's been wrong.

his kindness. his patience. his restraint.

"you lied to me."

"i didn't," he replies, stepping closer. "you just believed what was convenient." and that, that—breaks something open inside of you.

because he's right. you never questioned him. not once. not when he always walked ahead of you, somehow always knowing where to go. not when his eyes flicked toward the shadows before you noticed them. not even when he told you "i feel safer with you here" and never let you see him afraid.

you wanted to trust him. you needed to.

and now you realize: you told him everything. your childhood, your family, your fears, the dreams that had started to fray in the real world. every scar. every vulnerability. you poured yourself out like an offering because he listened. because he looked at you like you mattered.

but what did he tell you?

his name. that he had a sister. a favorite café.

things you can't prove.

"i asked you what you did before this," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. "you said it didn't matter anymore." you could feel a stream of tears begin to pour down your face like a facet, and you could only imagine how ridiculous you looked right now.

"because it didn't."

"you said you couldn't remember how you got here."

"i didn't lie."

you can't breathe.

you remember how he always turned questions around on you, how he always made you feel like the one in control. and you fell for it. every time. he played the perfect companion, the kind stranger, the fragile survivor. but he was leading you. grooming your trust. guiding your hand to this exact moment.

and you never saw it.

"you were watching me this whole time."

his smile doesn't change. "since before you fell. you were marked the second you stepped out of your world."

you try to move, to turn, to run—but the room itself responds. the walls bulge inward, not closing, just guiding you back toward him. toward the center.

and now, behind jay, the ground shifts, ripples, and 3 new openings emerge from the flesh-like floor. 3 more slides, each one glistening in the low red light.

white. red. black. again.

but this time, they're not clean. they're not innocent. they're organic—like veins, like tongues, like they've grown from the very bones of this place.

"you made me choose," you whisper. "back then."

"i had to. i needed your consent. your fear. your longing." you flinch at his words, your body twitching with fear.

"you could've picked safety," he continues, voice low. "you could've chosen death."

"but you picked me."

you can't speak. you can barely stand. the pressure in the room is like a hand on your throat.

"and now," he says, walking toward you slowly, reverently, "i'm giving you a second chance."

he gestures to the slides behind him, and you realized what each colour had represented.

white is safety. "you'll wake up in your home. you'll think that this is all a dream and if you tell anyone they'll never believe you."

red is death. "not metaphorical. not symbolic. ending. i promise it will be quick."

black is to stay. "with me. not just in this place. part of it. bound. fed. worshiped."

your knees nearly give out, "why me?"

he stops. looks at you—really looks at you.

"because you were lonely," he says softly. "you needed to be wanted. i felt it when you fell in. all that ache, all that heat under your skin, how badly you needed something to hold you down, claim you, keep you."

he tilts his head.

"i just answered the call."

you want to scream. you want to cry. but deep down, under the panic, under the betrayal, under the spiraling horror— a part of you remembers how safe he made you feel.

how warm his presence was. how seen you felt when he looked at you. and that part of you doesn't want to leave.

jay sees it. he senses it.

he steps closer, close enough for you to see the subtle shifts in his face—something beneath his skin twitching, pulsing, like he's holding back something monstrous, waiting to be chosen.

"i'll let you go," he whispers, "if that's what you really want."

you stare at the slides.

white. red. black.

you step toward one of them and your fingers brush the edge. behind you, jay's breath hitches. soft. hopeful. and you fall forward—into white.

you don't land. you arrive.

the slide disappears beneath you the moment your body releases into it—no momentum, no tumbling drop. just a blink—

and then you're standing, a chamber breathes around you.

walls of dark, glistening flesh, lit by a muted, red glow that pulses like a living heartbeat. the air hums. it tastes of copper and warmth. there's no door. no light above. no escape.

you turn in a slow, stunned circle.

what is this? where is he?

and then you hear, "you picked well." jay's voice cuts through the silence like silk dragging across bone.

you whip around. he's behind you. standing too close.

his features are familiar, still mostly human, but they don't move like they used to. his limbs are too fluid. his eyes glow faintly with something primal and ancient. there's no tension in his body now, no hesitation—just the unshakable stillness of a predator who has already won.

your chest tightens. "what is this place?"

he just smiles. not cruel. not mocking. patient. "home."

you stare at him, heart thudding, breath shallow. your mind races back to the moment at the slide. how he'd waited. watched. how he hadn't even followed. he knew.

"you said... you said it was a choice."

"and you made one."

"but the others—" your voice cracks. "white was supposed to be safety. red was death."

his expression softens ever so slightly in faux sympathy, "white was suppose to be home, this is home."

you step back like you've been struck, "you said—"

"i never said which realm," he interrupts gently. "i just said they were options."

you feel like you're floating—adrift in something sick and sweet. "then why—why offer a choice at all?"

he tilts his head, gaze tracking you as you retreat another step. the chamber pulses around you, sensing your panic. the walls twitch with each heartbeat. the floor beneath your feet trembles in response to your breath.

you are not in control.

"because you would've run, if i hadn't made you feel like you had a say." his voice is calm. steady. "but this way—" he closes the distance in a single, quiet step, "it's consensual, isn't it?"

your breath stutters. "you tricked me—"

"no. i led you. there's a difference." he begins to circle you.

his movements are slow. languid. like he's savoring your fear. not in a sadistic way—but with intimacy. like he's memorizing every tremble, every shake of your breath.

"i listened to you. i protected you. i let you tell me every little thing that made you feel small. and when it was time to choose... you chose me."

the walls around you shiver. something stirs beneath the floor.

"there was no way out," you whisper, horrified.

"no," he confirms. "but if i told you that from the beginning, you wouldn't have been ready for me."

"you used me."

"i wanted you," he corrects softly. "and i waited until you wanted me back."

he's right in front of you now. you want to scream, but it catches in your throat. not because of fear.

because somewhere, deep down—beneath the betrayal, beneath the horror—you still remember how it felt to be seen by him. how safe you felt when he looked at you like you were worth something.

"you never had a choice, little one," he murmurs. "but the moment you believed you did... you became mine."

you don't run. you can't. your feet won't move, no matter how loud your brain is screaming. because it's not just fear anymore.

it's confusion. it's betrayal. it's the bitter taste of something that once felt safe now turning rotten in your mouth.

your breath stutters, but jay doesn't move. he stands there, gaze quiet, composed—like he's waiting for you to catch up. like he wants you to take your time. let it all sink in.

and oh god, it does.

your thoughts tumble out in a frantic stream:

he never told you anything real. he always let you talk first. he dodged questions with smiles. he cried once, remember? but his face never wrinkled. not really. he held your hand when you were scared, but his skin never sweated. never shook. he never ate. he never slept. but you trusted him anyway.

you think of the stories he told—the apartment, the sister, the café with mismatched mugs—and how vivid they seemed at the time.

but now?

you realize... none of them had names. not the street. not the city. not the sister. just placeholders. just enough to fill the silence you gave him.

you built him. you projected goodness onto something hollow.

and he let you.

"i thought you cared about me." your voice is hoarse, barely audible.

"i do," he says.

and it sounds real. but so did everything else.

you stagger back a step, and the floor beneath your feet shivers—soft, slick, and alive. you suck in a breath, but the air's too thick, syrupy and humid. every inhale feels like it costs you something.

your body is overheating.

you can feel your heartbeat pounding behind your eyes. your chest. between your legs. like the atmosphere itself is stroking your nerves raw.

"why does this feel like—"

you cut yourself off, horrified. because it feels good.

your body—traitorous, stupid—responds to his closeness. the heat, the scent of him. the pull. and it disgusts you. it shames you. but it also excites something low in your gut that you can't name.

jay sees it.

of course he does.

"the backrooms don't just shift for anyone," he murmurs. "they respond to what you feel. what you want."

you shake your head, frantic. "no. i didn't want this. i didn't want—"

"didn't you?" he steps forward again, slow, like he's taming a wounded animal.

"you followed me. you chose me. you let me in."

your vision sways. your breath shortens. because some part of you is still clinging to the way he held you when you were scared. the way his voice calmed you. the way he never pushed. never demanded. he earned your trust and now he's twisting it in his palm like a flower's stem, bending until it snaps.

you sink to your knees, shaking.

you can feel the pulse of the room rising—thump-thump-thump—the walls breathing with you, the floor cradling your body like it wants to hold you. trap you. keep you soft and helpless and pliant.

jay crouches in front of you.

he doesn't touch you, not yet.

his voice is quiet.

"you can cry. you can scream. but it doesn't change anything." he continues, "you're here now. with me. where you were always meant to be."

your vision swims. the fear twists into something else. something hotter.

is it adrenaline? arousal? both?

you hate it but you want more. and that, more than anything else, breaks you.

because now you're not scared of jay. you're scared of yourself.

"you can't move, can you?" jay's voice is soft. breathy. too close.

your limbs won't respond—your legs twitch, your fingers curl—but you're locked in place. not harshly. not like restraints.

like... longing.

your thighs ache to part. your back arches just slightly. it's like your body is moving on instinct, reacting to him.

he circles you slowly, steps silent. the walls pulse with a deep, ambient thrum, responding to the rise in your breathing.

"look at you," he murmurs from behind, his palm dragging down your spine. "so sensitive. like your skin's just waiting to be touched."

you shudder under his hand, eyes fluttering closed. you want to deny it, you should—but all you can do is feel.

heat. tension. craving. your own body is betraying you.

"you think it's just arousal, don't you?"

he appears in front of you, crouching. his eyes glow faintly in the red light. there's something predatory in the way he watches you—like he's savoring a secret.

"you think it's just the moment. adrenaline. fear. me." his hand slides beneath your chin, tilts your face up."it's not."

he smiles, slow and indulgent. "you're already bound to me. you just haven't noticed yet."

your breath catches. "what are you—"

but you stop because you feel it now—subtle threads under your skin, like the gravity in the room is focused only on you. like something invisible is holding your wrists, your thighs, your breath, and telling it to stay. to obey.

"you gave yourself to me the second you believed in me," he whispers. "and now you'll let me take everything."

his hand falls between your thighs, and your knees instinctively try to close—but they don't. you're wide open. exposed. desperate.

he chuckles low in his throat. "see? not even trying anymore. your body knows who it belongs to."

you gasp as his fingers stroke the inside of your thigh, slow and torturously light. he leans in, pressing his mouth to the shell of your ear. "you don't want gentle, do you?"

his other hand rises. fingers grab your jaw—firm, but not painful. he turns your face toward him. you meet his eyes and almost flinch. they're burning.

"you want filthy. you want my hands on you. my spit in your mouth and my cum slipping out of your cunt. you want to be ruined by something that doesn't even pretend to be human anymore."

you whimper, but your hips rock forward—helpless, aching. he grins. a flash of something sharp behind his lips. "good girl."

then—he spits. right between your parted lips.

you choke on your breath, stunned, but you don't pull away. you can't. you swallow without thinking, dazed, flushed from the heat crawling across your skin.

"that's it," he breathes. "so easy now. so eager."

he pushes you down, palms skimming your thighs as you sink. you don't even realize you've dropped to your knees until you're looking up at him, blinking like you've come undone.

the floor pulses under your skin. the room is watching.

his hand cups your cheek, thumb rubbing gently at your lip like he's wiping you clean—but you both know better.

"no one's ever gonna take you like this. no one else could," he murmurs. "you were made for this. for me."

his voice is velvet-wrapped venom. his gaze pins you in place.

and you? you're no longer sure if you want to be free.

"that's what i thought."

jay sinks down in front of you—slow, deliberate, like he's descending into worship or war. his knees press into the pulsing floor, and your breath catches the moment he pushes you back and his hands come to your thighs.

his eyes trail down. he grabs the waistband of your pants—your last piece of dignity—and pauses just long enough for the panic to rise in your chest. then he rips them down, dragging your underwear with them in one fluid movement.

you gasp, hands moving to cover yourself—but something catches your wrists and forces them above your head, pressing them down into the floor.

the bindings return. invisible, pulsing. your arms are trapped, held still by nothing you can see — just the air around his body thick with power, with control, with him.

"still crying a few minutes ago, weren't you?" he murmurs, voice low and cruel. "sobbing about trust and betrayal and 'how could you do this to me, jay?'" he mimics your tone mockingly, a smirk curling his lips.

you turn your face, burning. but he grabs your chin—firm, sharp fingers tilting your gaze back to his. "look at me when i speak to you."

your breath stutters. his hands slide downward again, slow over your thighs. your skin trembles beneath him. and when his fingers graze over the soaked heat between your legs, he lets out a laugh—soft, delighted, mean.

"oh, sweetheart..."

he drags two fingers slowly through your slick, watching the way your hips twitch, how your mouth parts on instinct.

"you really let me break you that fast?"

you squirm, but the invisible binding tightens. you're not moving unless he allows it.

"so wet for the monster who lied to you," he taunts. "the same one who's been watching you, stalking you, baiting you since the moment you stepped through that yellow door."

he presses his fingers against your clit—just enough pressure to make you gasp. "and now look at you."

he leans in, lips brushing your cheek. "so needy. so fucking ruined."

his free hand grabs your thigh and pulls you open wider, like he's claiming more of you by the second.

"don't you dare pretend you don't like this. your body's too honest, baby."

he spits again but this time low, messy, right where you're dripping—then drags his fingers through it and back onto you, rubbing it in like something unholy.

"i should keep you like this," he whispers. "on your knees. dripping. trembling. always ready for me." your head drops back, a moan torn from your throat.

"that's it. make those pretty little sounds—show me what a filthy thing you are now."

his mouth replaces his hand and he devours you. he licks a thick strip up your slit, enjoying the way your body twitches when he slides over your clit. he ditches the teasing fairly quickly, his mouth engulfing you whole.

not gently. not lovingly. like he's starving and this is what he's been made to eat. his tongue drags through every inch of you, relentless and skilled, and you can feel his power tightening around your limbs every time you twitch or buck.

he's not holding you down with strength. he's holding you down with want. and you can't fight it anymore, you don't want to.

not when he pulls back and looks up at you, mouth wet, eyes gleaming with something dark and endless.

"say it." his voice drops to a growl. "say you want to be mine."

your lips tremble, your chest heaves, and all that comes out is a whimper—but you say it.

"yours."

his smile is all teeth, "that's my girl."

"pathetic little thing." jay's voice is rich with amusement, a low rumble in the thick air around you. he's still crouched between your thighs, fingers gliding lazily through your slick heat, but he's not focused on pleasuring you—he's toying.

his hand moves away. you gasp at the loss, but he's already reaching higher.

"take this off."

you blink through the haze. "what?"

he leans in. slow. terrifying. "your shirt. now."

your hands move on instinct. you tug it up, trembling, but your fingers fumble and you wince when the fabric catches. your eyes blur with tears —again.

jay clicks his tongue. "unbelievable." in one swift motion, his hands are on you, tearing.

the sound of fabric splitting echoes like a scream in the pulsing room. your shirt is gone in seconds, shredded, forgotten and he tosses it aside like trash.

"you can't even get undressed without crying?" he laughs, shoving you back. the warm, fleshy floor catches you like a cradle. "were you always this helpless, or do i just bring it out of you?"

his hand grabs your jaw. not hard enough to bruise, not yet—but enough to make your breath hitch. "you were so loud before. crying about betrayal. sniffling like i ruined your life." he leans in. voice dropping. "but your nipples are hard and you're soaking through your panties. want to explain that to me, baby?"

you turn your face, humiliated. his grip tightens, "look. at. me." you do. your eyes sting. your bottom lip trembles. you hate this. you love it.

he sees everything, "you don't get to hide anymore."

he leans back on his heels, gaze raking over your fully bare body, and groans like he's witnessing something sacred.

"fuck, look at you. trembling. dripping. thighs shaking like you've been begging for this since the day you met me."

your face burns. you try to squeeze your legs together but he slaps your inner thigh.

not hard. not painful. but enough to sting. to make your hips jolt. "spread. them."

you don't obey fast enough so he grabs your knees and forces them open. "you want to cry again? go ahead. i like the way your tears look when they roll into your mouth."

you let out a shaky sob, frustration and arousal eating you alive, but jay just leans down and licks the tear from your cheek.

"sweet little mess," he breathes, lips ghosting over your skin. "this is what you were made for."

he kisses down your neck. your chest. your stomach. his teeth graze your hip. "tell me you want it, or i'll stop."

you squirm, humiliated, raw, "say it."

"i want it," you whisper.

"say it louder."

"i want it."

he smiles. mean. sharp. perfect, "good girl."

he presses his mouth to your heat again. tongue flat, slow, claiming. and this time, he doesn't stop. his tongue slides over your center like he's savoring something expensive.

slow. wide. cruel.

you arch under him with a soft cry, body already raw from how he's stripped you down—not just physically, but completely. nerves exposed. pride shattered. his now, and he knows it.

"mm," jay hums against your core, licking you again, slow and deliberate. "sweet little thing... this what betrayal tastes like?"

your thighs twitch. his grip tightens.

"thought you hated me just ten minutes ago. now you're dripping like you've been waiting your whole life for my mouth."

you whimper, hips twitching. he doesn't give you relief—just more pressure. too slow. too controlled. like he's building something just to tear it down.

he pulls back, licking his lips lazily. his mouth shines.

"you gonna cry again? huh?" he coos, one brow raised. "go ahead. doesn't matter how much you sob, this pretty cunt's still begging me to fill it."

you suck in a breath as his fingers trail back down between your legs. he teases you—barely brushing the slick entrance with two fingers, then pulling away.

again. and again. you try to buck your hips and move your arms but the invisible bindings at your wrists tighten.

"stay still." his voice darkens. and something shifts in the air.

he presses two fingers in—finally—but only halfway.

your eyes roll. your mouth drops open. he watches you, eyes filled with amusement. "that desperate for my fingers? not even halfway in and you're already squeezing like a whore."

you squirm as he thrusts them deeper. the stretch is overwhelming, so sudden after being teased for so long, and the heel of his palm grinds down against your clit until your vision blurs.

"feel that?" his voice is right in your ear now—he's everywhere. "that's your body saying yes while your head's still pretending to be innocent."

he curls his fingers just right and you scream. he grins like the devil himself, "there she is."

he thrusts faster now, fingers soaked, the sound of it filthy in the quiet, pulsing space. his palm slaps against your clit with every movement. your thighs shake, your hips jerk—but you're bound. you're stuck.

"how long do you think you'll last?" he murmurs. "how many times can i make you cum before you forget your own name?"

you whimper, breath hitched. "please, i—"

"please what?" he slows. again.

you almost sob.

"please let you come? please wreck you harder? or maybe you just want to be filled up like a good little toy."

you moan, body straining. the bindings tighten again—not painfully, but enough to remind you that you're completely his.

he leans in, fingers still deep, curling slow and mean. "you're not cumming until you admit it."

"admit what—?"

"that you like this."

you freeze. breathless.

"say it. say you like being used. being ruined. say you like being owned by the thing you were so scared of."

you hesitate, so he stops. fingers still buried inside you, but unmoving. "say it or i leave you here. trembling. soaked. aching."

you bite your lip. humiliated. soaked. desperate. and then you whisper it, "i like it."

"louder."

"i like it. i like being ruined. i like you owning me."

he smiles and fucks you hard with his fingers, curling, thrusting, his mouth back on your clit as he laps at you hungrily. you feel a foreign feeling build in the pit of your stomach, your body shaking and twitching.

you cum fast. loud. messy. completely undone. your body shakes, back arching, a loud sob tearing from your throat as he holds you through it—mouth locked to you, tongue relentless, fingers fucking you through the aftershocks.

and when you collapse?

he doesn't stop, "you thought i was done with you?"

jay's voice is thick with amusement, warm breath fanning over your thighs as he stays buried between them. his fingers don't stop moving. his tongue is still licking.

slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

you're shaking. sobbing. your thighs twitch with every tiny stroke to your clit, and your hips jerk helplessly, but you still can't move—not from exhaustion, not from the invisible force that keeps your wrists pinned above your head.

"don't squirm," he mutters, licking a long stripe up your oversensitive center. "you said you liked being ruined. so now i'm going to ruin you right."

you choke on a moan, head thrashing. "too much—"

he laughs. "too bad." his fingers thrust again—deeper, meaner now. the squelch of your slick, the wet drag of his knuckles, the obscene slap of his palm against your clit—it's all loud now. deliberate. degrading.

"listen to that," he sneers. "your messy little cunt can't even pretend to fight me anymore. soaked. swollen. like it's been waiting for me for years."

you gasp, mouth open in a silent cry as he flattens his tongue against your clit again. but this time, it's not slow. this time, he devours you—relentless, tongue dragging tight circles, fingers curling into that sweet, ruined spot that makes your whole body seize.

"you're gonna cum again," he growls into you, voice muffled by your skin. "don't care if you're ready. don't care if you're crying. this little pussy's mine now, and i decide when it stops."

your eyes roll back and you can feel it—already. your legs shake violently, breath catching in short, high-pitched gasps as you spiral toward a second orgasm.

"that's it. you're close, aren't you? fuck, look at you—" he slaps your clit once, sharp, just to watch you jolt. "—so easy now. so fucking weak for me."

you scream. you thrash. but the bindings hold.

"you gonna cum again, baby? gonna soak my hand like the needy little hole you are?"

your voice breaks, "jay—please—"

"beg louder."

"please! please, i—" but you never finish.

he fucks his fingers into you deeper, thumb circling your clit, tongue flicking across your folds like he's marking you with every stroke—and it tips you over.

the second orgasm crashes into you like a wave of white heat. you scream—louder than before—head thrown back, thighs quivering, tears spilling freely as your body locks and trembles and pulses around his fingers.

and he doesn't stop.

"yeah, that's it," he growls, watching the way you break apart beneath him. "fucking cum for me again. make a mess. cry about it. you're not leaving this floor until i'm finished with you."

your chest heaves, mind blank.

and jay? he's just getting started.

"look at you." jay's voice is velvet-coated filth. he's above you now, body heavy between your thighs, pinning you to the pulsing floor with casual, crushing dominance.

you can barely see him through the blur of tears. your face is hot, your lips swollen, your chest heaving with hiccuped sobs—and he's smiling. like your wreckage is beautiful. like your suffering is his reward.

"crying again, angel? didn't i just give you everything you begged for?" he reaches down—grips himself—and your breath stops.

because that's not human. not anymore.

you hadn't realized when he got the chance to slip off his pants, your eyes immediately zeroing in on what was clenches between his fist. his cock is thick. veiny. too hot. it pulses in his hand like it has a heartbeat of its own, the head flushed darker than the rest, slightly curved, the base wrapped in ridged muscle you've never seen on anyone living. it looks designed—to stretch, to bruise, to own.

"don't pretend you're scared now," he huffs, pressing the thick head against your drenched entrance. "you begged for this. cried for it. soaked my face like a desperate little whore."

you whimper as he shoves in the tip.

your back arches, and your mouth drops down to an 'o'. "too big?" he mocks. "what a shame." his hand clamps down on your waist. you try to pull away—reflex—but he drags you back down like your body belongs to him. because it does.

"this body's not made for anything soft anymore." he pushes deeper and you scream. it burns. it stretches. he's so much, and you're still raw, still trembling from the last orgasm—and he knows it.

"so fucking tight," he grits. "like you were waiting to be split open."

he bottoms out and you sob again and jay laughs. "god, you're crying again. what's wrong, baby? can't handle being filled by what you gave yourself to?"

your fingers claw the air, wrists still bound, whole body shaking as his hips start to move—slow at first, dragging every ridge and vein against your walls, pulling back just enough to make you feel the loss before slamming back in deep.

"this pussy's mine now." he pounds into you again, "say it."

"j—jay—"

he grabs your jaw, forces your mouth open. "say it or i'll cum inside you and keep you full forever."

your cunt clamps down on him tight and he groans, low and dangerous. "fuck. you liked that, didn't you? thought you'd hate being ruined, but now you want it dripping down your thighs."

you choke. your legs are shaking again. your mind is gone. he keeps fucking into you—hard, brutal, possessive.

"i'm gonna fuck you until you forget you ever had a name. until the only word you know is mine."

your body convulses and another orgasm hits you, this one violent and sharp—rips through you as his cock drags over every spot that shouldn't exist inside you. it's like he's built to keep you on edge, to ruin you forever.

and when you cum, crying, broken, babbling nonsense—he smiles. "good girl."

he thrusts once. twice. and then he growls, a sound inhuman and deep, filling you with a rush of heat so intense your whole body trembles.

his cock pulses. deep inside. and he doesn't pull out. you could feel yourself dripping with him, your cunt clenching pathetically around him like a vice.

"mine now," he whispers into your ear, licking the sweat from your temple. "forever."

you don't respond. you can't.

and jay? jay just watches you twitch beneath him, a satisfied god feasting on the wreckage he made.

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

no one finds her.

not the mall staff. not the cops who skim the grainy security footage with bored eyes. not her family, who post missing posters no one reads.

there's no door. no sound. no sign.

just static on the feed where her flashlight dropped. just silence in the halls where she vanished.

but sometimes—if you're unlucky— if you wander too far past where the lights flicker and the walls feel too soft you might hear something.

a voice.

a moan.

a laugh, low and sweet and wrong.

or maybe you'll see something flash by—dark hair, bare feet, eyes too wide, a figure slumped against yellow walls with something crawling beneath her skin.

you won't know if she's alive.

you won't know if she's alone.

and the worst part? she might smile at you.

soft. slow. dreamy.

like she's waiting. like you're next.

because the backrooms keep what they're given. and they remember every sob, every scream, every second of surrender.

and somewhere inside them, in the red-lit heart of something ancient and hungry—he's still fucking her open. still whispering in her ear.

still asking the same question, over and over again: "do you want to be mine?"

and maybe—just maybe..

she said yes.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

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xenineshroom · 2 months ago

Text

It is so frustrating to know what it's like to pass as a cis man in a male-dominated field, and see all these experiences of highly privileged trans men in these same fields propped up as the standard.

There is this odd phenomenon where being a transmasculinized individual one is faced with an array of exceptional examples of those like us, while being told these examples actually represent all of us. These examples are supposed to be saying something important about all of us.

Every narrative I was fed as a baby trans, was of exceptional trans men who could only talk about how much better people treated them. Being cis passing and indistinguishable from a cis man was the standard back then in 2016 when I originally came out, and remains as such today. It is disheartening to see that people have no issue with enforcing that expectation, even if "gender liberation" is supposedly important to them.

So to be a boyfaliure, a faggot, someone who faces open discrimination and gender questioning even when I can pass as being plausibly cis, someone who is talked over even when I am seen to be a man with expertise in my field... suddenly Devon Price is the standard I've simply failed to live up to. Even worse for non-white trans men who're made to feel they failed to live up to this white ideal of transmasculinity. When normative and gender conforming trans men write articles about their improved lives, better wages, endless opportunities, they receive an outpouring of support from those who wish to stroke a cisnormative image of transgender existence.

The stories from people like me, they don't feel good to read, they don't let the reader sit back and pat themselves on the back for seeing trans men as "real men" without any challenge to their preconceived notions of manhood (in this case, being a "real man" is being privileged, cis passing, and often stealth with a successful career).

For a reader who feels too challenged, these things are easy to dismiss. Perhaps the transmasc in question is simply "early in transition." If we aren't, then maybe he's just not trying hard enough. Even if "trying hard enough" is a transmedicalist and cisnormative standard which is unfair to apply to trans people, the speaker is simply lying. If they're not they're an outlier- and if they're not, then they are still somehow unimportant. It has to be okay to write transmasculine oppression off as a phase, (or as not having ever existed at all) otherwise it would mean accepting that manhood can't save one from discrimination. It would mean that trans gender doesn't map onto cis gender cleanly and neatly, that old models cannot be recycled to include all of us.

It is very easy to accept that a transmasculine transition ends in privilege and opportunity, after all, the only reason a woman would ever want to be a man is to gain privilege... right? The only trustworthy trans men, well they will tell you stories of their vast wealth of privilege after all.

By these mechanisms, erasure by exceptionalism is reinforced.

#transmasculine erasure #erasure #transandrophobia #exorsexism #transandromisia #anti transmasculinity #transgender #discourse #transmasculine exceptionalism

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charmedreincarnation · 11 days ago

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My success story (fucking finally)

I’ve been using your lucid dreaming challenge, and couple of days ago, I had another lucid dream. I used both the MOAB and SSILD methods you provided, and I also created my own subliminal using CapCut AI and YouTube modifier.

In the dream, I was being chased by a killer. That’s usual tbh, my dreams are usually nightmares. In the dream I was climbing buildings, even though I’m terrified of heights and not a climber at all. So I became lucid. I realized the whole thing was just a dream because I can’t climb lol and in that moment I had that awareness, I slipped and began to fall. Out of nowhere, this bird thing appeared. It caught me mid-air and saved me. I remember spinning in circles quickly on purpose, to stabilize myself so I wouldn’t wake up like you said. As I was spinning, I looked at the creature thing and said pls, take me to my guardian angel and it did.

It brought me to a woman who had long blonde hair, wings, and a godly presence. She was beautiful. Her name was Helena. I don’t know if she’s really my guardian angel or if I created her in the dream, but either way idgaf but she felt familiar. She told me she’s been watching over me. I asked her to make the dream more beautiful, and instantly, the entire scene changed. She created colors I’ve never seen before shades that don’t even exist in waking life. It looked like a rainbow field, but more cosmic and way more surreal.

Then I asked her to Please, help stop my suffering. Even if I don’t shift right now, please wake me up in a reality where I don’t feel this way anymore, so I can finally focus on my journey She said okay and right after that, I fell off the bird and woke up.

Then i had another false awakening. I knew immediately that I was still dreaming. It was a false awakening, and I could tell unlike the first few times this happened to me. In this dream version of my room, my mom had a lottery ticket. It was dated March 2025. In the dream, it was the winning ticket and then I remembered Neville Goddard’s story about dramatizing the wish fulfilled in a lucid dream and waking up holding the physical item from your dream. So in my false awakening, I decided to do the same. I held onto the ticket tightly and laid back down in the dream bed still holding it as if I were going to sleep with it in my hand so I could wake up with it in real life.

I still can’t believe it actually worked. I woke up with the lottery ticket in real fucking life. It was a real, physical ticket and not just any ticket, but one dated from March like in the dream. I showed it to my mom, and told her it was one of her old ones I forgot to check and she told me to go ahead and check it, just in case. Honestly, I didn’t think anything would come of it. It felt too wild to be real. But it was the winning ticket.

It was a large amount. I won’t say the exact number because I know you can trace things like that online, but just know it’s enough that I don’t have to work. At all. My parents even texted me that morning telling me to just go get my master’s degree, which is literally all I wanted. I didn’t want luxury or fame or anything wildI just wanted time. I wanted freedom. I wanted to not suffer and stress about surviving while trying to shift. the craziest part is that same night, I went to bed and woke up in my dream life. I didn’t even use a method. Just knowing I had money now was enough to trigger the shift I had been chasing for years. And when I say years, I mean it. I’ve been trying to shift since 2016, even before I knew what shifting actually was. I didn’t have the language back then, hut I knew I wanted to explore realities and be apart fk books and movies I’ve been watching and reading. I’ve been consciously trying since probably since 2022 and now, it finally happened.

I had a detailed list of everything I ever wanted down to the tiniest details and I’m still in shock because it all manifested and even more than I asked for. I revised my family dynamic, I revised my appearance, my mental state, my location, my lifestyle, my confidence, and my bank account. I copied Jay @heliosoll and I created my own WR to be my “home reality”and now it’s where I spawn anytime I die in places I will shift to. I manifested everything I wanted. It’s actually overwhelming in the best way. I’m not even going to list it all because it would take forever, but I no longer have anxiety. I no longer struggle with depression. My parents, who used to be strict, emotionally distant, and dismissive like a lot of traditional African parents are now revised to be loving, emotionally present, supportive, and woke. I’m so gorgeous now. And I have real friends and so many of the when before, I was just mid (and very insecure) and surrounded by fake people who only kept me around to feel better about themselves. They just wanted someone to compare themselves to, someone to use for easy validation.

Now I have hobbies, passions, and interests that actually make me happy. Before, my only “hobby” was honestly just surviving my depression. Now I will read, l paint, cook, Work out, journal, write, and travel. My house is clean, spacious, and beautiful. Before it was small, cluttered, and dark. honestly, I used to think it was haunted. I have pets now, even though I used to be allergic. I have so much money like real, life-changing money. Generational wealth level even more than the lottery and I’m already thinking of what kind of business I want to start. I’m leaning toward something luxurious maybe creating my own high-end purse line or maybe something more scalable and simple like e-commerce. I don’t know yet, but I finally have the time, resources, and peace of mind to explore it. Right now, I don’t want a boyfriend But when I am ready, I’ll be manifesting someone tall, rich, attractive, and deeply in love with me. A respectful simp with range, loyalty, and no ego issues. Someone emotionally intelligent and obsessed with me, in the healthiest way.

I even left a few things open-ended, just to let the universe surprise me. For example, I didn’t script a specific car model I just asked for something beautiful and rare. I ended up with a matte black Bentley Bentayga, fully wrapped in metallic lavender detailing with a custom interior from Mansory. It literally looks like a concept car. We also have a yatch and it’s a Sunseeker 100 Yacht I didn’t even know what that was 2 days ago!

But yea….First of all, I want to thank myself, you, and @gorgeouslypink even though, at one point, I genuinely thought you two were the same person. Sorry about that. And also, thank you to @sugarcoatedcherry . You guys really helped me stay focused and hopeful.

I wasn’t even going to post this because im not gonna lie I hate this app sometimes. The drama, the performative advice, the endless paragraphs of recycled nonsense… it made me want to log off for good. But I promised a few friends I’d share what actually worked for me, especially on here and Tumblr, because there were some genuinely helpful people who kept it real.

So here’s what I did one last timefor the girls and gays:

1. I made my own subliminal.

I used CapCut and layered my affirmations over this sound:

https://youtu.be/60o-pNwOmCE?si=KmE52FM6eb_hziL3

To create the affirmations, I took all my doubts and anxieties and put them into AI and asked it to reframe those fears into positive, subconscious-language affirmations. Then, I recorded them in my own voice, because your subconscious responds more deeply to your own tone and rhythm.

2. I used the MOAB sub in the morning and then I listened to my subliminal all day and night

3. I ordered galantamine.

It was supposed to arrive that day, but clearly… I didn’t even need it, LOL. That said, I did research it, and I’ve heard great things especially for lucid dream induction. It just takes forever to ship.

4. I went to bed with a clear intention and naturally woke up around 4 a.m. and did SSILD, super lazily.

5. I read @charmedreincarnation post about dream character control.

This was a game-changer for me. One of my biggest struggles used to be chaos in my dreams characters acting wild, not listening, or turning on me. That post explained how to keep dream characters in line and reminded me that it’s my reality. My rules. Keeping things emotionally stable in the dream really helped me shift with clarity.

Thats it, either way, I’m free. And so are you. I won’t be answering DMs. I’m not even planning to post on my account anymore. I’m choosing to finally leave and live my life now. I really believe that using my own voice for my subliminal was the key that changed everything for me.

My only advice is this a lot of people on here are stuck. They argue over methods, obsess over drama, and waste time fighting on Tumblr instead of actually shifting. Stay far away from that energy. Focus on your life lol. Focus on your self. And don’t fear the world. With shifting, you’re no longer bound by it. When your consciousness is aligned, nothing outside of you can control your experience. That’s the real freedom.

Hey sorry I just saw this but idk if it will post bc the format is too long but that dream sounds wild, and now I’m seriously intrigued by the Neville Goddard lucid dreaming method. I’ve never tried it before, but I’m definitely interested now. I’ve also used the Hemi-Sync theta waves and I 100% recommend it. It works incredibly . I’m so happy the lottery win ended up being a gateway to something even bigger: stepping into your dream life.

I’m so happy for you!!!you truly deserve all your success. The commitment and patience you showed throughout the process is such great part of every success story. It’s always inspiring to see someone stay dedicated and trust the timing. Wishing this and so much more to everyone on their own journey. Thank you for sharing all the details it was inspiring to say the least and I’m going to try some of these techniques myself!

#lucid dreaming #sucess story #manifesation

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potofsoup · 1 year ago

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i love your fourth of july comics every year but this years feels extremely optimistic about biden’s abilities in the face of him letting roe get overturned and funding a gen*cide at worst or letting it happen at best by taking the bare minimum of regulatory action… i mean can he really be trusted at all anymore to do the right thing or act in line with the people’s demands? and how do we know the people behind project 2025 won’t just rig the election again to get in under false pretenses?

Hihi! Thank you for reading and enjoying my July 4th comics every year! I am in a non-US airport en route to a month-long trip in a place with sketchy internet, so sorry in advance for sloppiness in my response (and potentially going radio silent).

But:

I don't think he "let" Roe get overturned, since that was the Supreme Court's overwhelming conservative majority, which really started with Mitch McConnell refusing to approve Obama's appointee and forcing it into a 2016 election issue. The fact that Trump got to appoint 3 Supreme Court Justices is what got us here.

Re: Biden and the Israel/Hamas war ... on the one hand, there's definitely more that he could have done, but on the other hand, they are a whole other country over there. It's Hamas that initiated the Oct 7 attacks and took the hostages. It's Netanyahu and his right-wing government who decided to retaliate to such extreme extent. Biden can talk about how he would really like Netanyahu to stop fighting and step down, but at the end of the day that's not his call, any more than he can stop the Sudan fighting that is near-genocidal either.

So, to come to your question #1: "Can he really be trusted at all anymore to do the right thing or act in line with the people’s demands"?

For me, it's a resounding YES. Guyz, he has passed so much good domestic policies. My spouse works in green energy and the passing of the Inflation Reduction Act halved his anxiety and gave him legitimate hope. The tumblr post I linked to in my comic has links to many of the other great things that Biden has done. Tbh I voted for him in 2020 because "a moldy onion is still better than Trump", and I've been pleasantly surprised. Like how he tried to cancel student loans, the Supreme Court overturned it, and then he came back 6 months later with a different way to do it that didn't lead to a court challenge.

Is he perfect? Hell no. There's tons of stuff that I wish he did more about, or he went further on, but also he's just one guy heading one branch of government who is heading into an election year. (Just like FDR promising not joining WWII, while behind the scenes doing all the Lend-Lease Act stuff). And "the people" have lots of demands, many of them conflicting.

I'd also like to push at the unspoken part of your question... "Can he really be trusted to do the right thing..." compared to whom? Because right now the answer is "compared to Trump." And compared to Trump... I don't even trust Trump to respect the results of a legitimate election. Heck, he might just take his favorite state secrets, sell them to the highest bidder (or just show them off to someone for funzies), and then claim Presidential immunity. A decent Democrat who got stuff done vs someone who probably wants to pardon himself and all his friends and do Project 2025 stuff is not even on the same level. (Do I wish that there was a viable Democratic alternative to Biden? Sure! But who?) Heck, at this point -- imagine if it's Kamala Harris vs. Trump. Who would you vote for?

As for your question #2: "How do we know the people behind project 2025 won’t just rig the election again to get in under false pretenses?"

We don't. But also what can we do besides showing up to vote?

Actually, I need bullet points for this:

The 2022 midterm elections brought in fewer-than-expected election-deniers into crucial electoral offices at the state level, which means that hopefully most state electoral boards will continue to have integrity

Yes, voting is harder but at least we can still vote. So it's about getting out there and getting your vote counted. For some states, it involves waiting in 8 hour lines. For some states, it involves bringing 2 forms of ID. Document. Track. Make sure it's dropped off in a real ballot box and not a fake one. Don't believe messaging that the voting is happening on a different day or location, etc.

A 50.1% majority is easily challenged. A 55% majority, less so. Which means getting people out to vote.

The more people know about and think about the reality of a second Trump term (versus being disappointed by a Biden term), the more they will be motivated to vote against Trump.

Finally, let's be real here: I'm braced for a 2nd Trump term. That said:

I'm still going to go and vote for Biden, because the only way to prevent a 2nd Trump term is to vote.

A Trump term where either the House or Senate is controlled by the Democrats will be *very* different from a clean Republican sweep.

Even with a clean Republican sweep on the federal level, States have so much more power now, and voting the state level stuff will help shore up Democratic goals for the future. States get to draw voting districts however they want. States get to decide on abortion policies. If you live in a deep Red state, there still might be things to vote for that make it easier to live in now, and turn it purple a few elections down the line.

So at the end of the day, it's "Vote AND". Vote and keep living your best life. Vote and tell others about Project 2025. Vote and have hope. Even if Trump wins, at least you'll have voted against him. Vote and stay to build up a progressive wave for the next election.

#long ranty reply oops #fun fact: my congressional district had a tied vote during the primaries... so literally every vote counted #and then was recounted and one person pulled ahead by <25 votes i think

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nan-not-found · 1 month ago

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MHA Boys and the Cars They'd Drive

I wanted to put together a list of the MHA boys (Class 1A) and what vehicles I think they'd drive/own!

List includes - Katsuki Bakugou, Izuku Midoriya, Shoto Todoroki, Tenya Iida, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Hanta Sero, Fumikage Tokoyami, Mashirao Ojiro, Rikido Sato, Mezo Shoji, Koji Koda, and yes, even Minoru Mineta.

Some of these were kinda hard cause I could see a few choices they'd all drive XD

Let's get started! ⤵️

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💥 Katsuki Bakugou 💥

Matte Black Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat – Loud, aggressive, fast as hell, and constantly threatening to violate noise ordinances. – Bakugou lives for the guttural engine growl. He is that guy revving it just to piss off people. 💬 "If it ain't screamin', it's dead."

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🥦 Izuku Midoriya 🥦

Used but obsessively-maintained 2012 Subaru Forester – Practical. Safe. Reliable. Not cool. But he loves it. – Covered in All Might-themed keychains and a bobblehead on the dash. – He drives like a grandpa with both hands on the wheel and narrates traffic rules to himself. 💬 “I read online that this model has a 5-star safety rating in rear collisions!”

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🔥 Shoto Todoroki ❄️

2024 Lexus RX Hybrid in Pearl White – Sleek, quiet, expensive. – His dad probably bought it for him, but Shoto refuses to let anyone else drive it. – Has heated and cooled seats. He doesn't even use the radio. Just drives in thoughtful silence. 💬 "I don't mind driving. The quiet is nice."

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🏃 Tenya Iida 💨

A pristine, navy blue Volvo XC90 – Safety. Functionality. Responsible adult-core. – He reads the entire owner's manual before even turning the engine on. – Polishes it every Sunday. Turns on the turn signal three blocks before the intersection. 💬 “It’s imperative to maintain regular oil changes! Neglect is the enemy of efficiency!”

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💪 Eijiro Kirishima 💪

Cherry Red 2016 Toyota Tacoma TRD Off-Road – Pickup truck energy but make it manly and reliable. – Covered in rock band stickers and definitely has jumper cables and emergency snacks in the back. – Offers to help everyone move. 💬 “C’mon, hop in! The passenger seat rattles a bit but it builds character!”

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⚡️ Denki Kaminari ⚡️

2020 Dodge Challenger in Neon Yellow with Black Racing Stripes – He got it purely because it looked cool. The gas mileage? Don’t ask. – Drives with sunglasses on at night. Plays EDM at ear-rupturing volume. – Once tried to drift in a parking lot and nearly hit a cart return. 💬 “Bro, hear that purr?? That’s 400 horses in stereo, baby!”

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🖤 Hanta Sero 🖤

Matte Black 1994 Nissan Silvia S14 (Drift Spec) – It’s a sleek little menace. Low to the ground, loud, slightly scuffed from past stunts. – Drifts into parking spots and acts like it's no big deal. – His steering wheel has a little tape decal. 💬 “Don’t worry, I’ve done this a million times—probably.”

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🥀 Fumikage Tokoyami 🥀

1971 Dodge Challenger R/T – Jet Black

– A sleek, muscle-bound beast with soul. – Roars like thunder but drives smooth and calculated. – He doesn’t speed—he cruises like he’s narrating a tragic sonnet. – Interior has red accents, a raven feather hanging from the rearview mirror, and the glovebox? Stacked with philosophical books and hero gear. 💬 “My ride, like my soul… is forged in darkness.”

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🥋 Mashirao Ojiro 🥋

Toyota Land Cruiser Prado

– Clean, efficient, and dependable. – Perfect for weekend drives. – Always has a towel, water bottle, and first aid kit in the back. Maybe even a bokken. 💬 “I just like something that gets me where I need to go."

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🍬 Rikido Sato 🍬

Chevy Silverado (Full-Size Pickup Truck)

– Big, dependable, and straightforward — just like Sato. – Perfect for hauling snacks, moving gear, or just cruising comfortably with his buddies. – He’d have a sweet little sticker on the back, maybe something like “Sugar King” or a cute cupcake decal. 💬 “Ready for anything."

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🤏 Mezo Shoji 🤏

Honda Odyssey

– Surprisingly cool minivan vibes. – Lots of room for the whole squad, gear, and maybe even a few snacks. – Shoji drives it with calm confidence and treats it like a mobile base of operations. 💬 “Comfort and safety first — no one’s getting left behind.”

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🐰 Koji Koda 🐰

Volkswagen Beetle

– A sweet, approachable car with a vintage vibe — reflects Koji’s kind and humble nature. – Not flashy, but instantly lovable and easy to drive around town. – Maybe painted a soft green or earthy brown, matching his love for nature. 💬 “It’s small, but it gets me where I need to go.”

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🍇 Minoru Mineta 🍇

Let's be honest, he ain't driving anything XD but if I had to give him something, I'd say an electric scooter.

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gabrielleragusi · 10 months ago

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For Artists: My Experience with Commission Platforms and Illustration Agencies

Hi there! I’ve been wanting to compile a list of commission platforms that I’ve personally used for the longest time, and I finally did it! I’ve highlighted the still-active commission platforms in bold and struck those that don't exist anymore so you can jump to the sections that interest you without needing to read my entire story.

Let me start by briefly introducing myself.

I’m Gabrielle, a fantasy illustrator. Since 2014, I’ve been working on book covers and illustrations for publishers, authors, and book subscription boxes. Early on, work wasn’t as frequent as it is now. I had to search for opportunities myself, and even small private commissions were important for building my portfolio and earning some money, which I’d spend on materials, books, and online courses. Like many other artists, I started out by trying my luck with the biggest art community available at the time.

DeviantArt

2009-2018

Once upon a time, there was a virtual haven called DeviantArt. To my teenage self, it was a magical place. I signed up in 2009 and thought I’d never leave!

At first, I created an account just to share my work and learn. I didn’t even think about commissions for four or five years. But when that first inquiry finally landed in my inbox, things took off! My mum swears she remembers my excitement when I got my first commission, but for some reason, I’ve completely forgotten about it. I can't remember what it was or how much it paid. It might have been a portrait of a fantasy character.

Commissions on DeviantArt were fairly frequent, especially considering my cheap prices at the time. I used to offer discounts and post my rates in my DeviantArt journal, or in Commission groups that featured artists either monthly or weekly. After checking out my profile, a client could simply send me a private message and from there, we’d discuss payment, deadlines, and other details, and the platform didn’t take any fees, much like how ArtStation works today. Everything happened through private messages or email, with direct contact between artist and client.

The downside of this process was that there was no dispute resolution system on the platform. I had to handle all issues myself, and unfortunately, problems did arise sometimes: there were clients changing their minds about commissions, asking for refunds after work was delivered, refusing to pay, or just ghosting me. These issues didn’t happen because clients were evil, but rather because I was inexperienced and allowed some to take advantage of my naivety.

However, all that frustration helped me develop my commission process through trial and error (mostly error). And despite the challenges, I can say with satisfaction that most of the commissions I received through my DeviantArt profile were positive experiences.

DeviantArt eventually introduced a commission feature for Core (Premium) users, which came with a platform fee, but I didn’t use it much, and I’m not sure if it still exists.

The real beauty of dA, though, was the connections I made. I was able to meet people, both artists and clients, that I’m still in contact with today, and some of whom I still collaborate with.

I closed my account in 2018 or 2019, but by that time, I hadn’t really used it for a couple of years. The new user interface was a bit of a turn-off for me. I had always loved the geeky, and dare I say cozy, look of the old green and grey aesthetic, with its customisable panels that you could move around and personalise with HTML code... But I digress.

Artists and Clients

2013-2016

While taking small commissions on DeviantArt, I discovered Artists & Clients. It was a nice platform for clients to get things like their D&D characters or groups illustrated for relatively cheap. I think my highest price was $50 for a single character portrait, with the platform taking a 15% cut. I used it for about two or three years before the platform started to change.

As more artists with hentai art styles flooded in, the homepage shifted, and so did the clientele. There’s nothing wrong with drawing naked anime girls, of course, but you can understand that if a client is looking for a fantasy, semi-realistic painting of their female orc character, or a realistic portrait of their spouse, it's more than likely that they won't bother sifting through a sea of anime girls to find the style they want, imagining it isn't here. Let's just say that, at the time, the website took a definite direction that wasn't in line with my genre, but this direction didn't make the different, more realistic art styles stand out either.

Soon, commissions slowed down for me, so I closed my account, but by then I was already working elsewhere.

That said, this platform could still be a useful tool if you’re looking to take on smaller commissions.

DreamUp

2014-2015

DreamUp wasn’t an AI generator back then. It was actually a subsidiary of DeviantArt, where clients could post projects and artists could apply. It was a competitive platform that offered well-paid work–very well-paid. I remember seeing jobs posted that ranged from $300 to $1,200. DreamUp was a very professional platform for clients with a mid to high budget.

I believe I landed my very first book cover commission through this website when I was in my last year of high school. I remember getting the job and going to school the next morning, excited to share the news with my classmates. Everyone was super thrilled for me (we were a really close-knit class!), and I felt like I was walking on air.

Unfortunately, as far as I know, that book was never released, but it didn’t matter because I was moving forward, and fast.

I’m not sure when DreamUp was shut down, but I do know that DeviantArt held onto the copyrighted name, assigning it to something so anti-old DreamUp that it still boggles my mind.

ArtCorgi

Now Artistree

2014-2019

When I received an invitation to join ArtCorgi from its founder, I already had a somewhat consistent portfolio. I was painting portraits and fantasy illustrations, and the clients on this platform were looking for both–your typical wedding and pet portraits, as well as book covers, which were what really interested me. To get to the latter, I had to do the former. Over the years, I’ve painted so many realistic portraits that now I have a strict rule for my own sanity not to do them any more. I have great respect for portrait artists, but it’s just not me.

When I first submitted my prices to the person I was in contact with, she kindly suggested that I raise them... a lot. That was a major step forward in my professional career. I went from charging $50 to $100/$200 overnight. And to my surprise, people actually wanted to commission me at those prices!

From 2014 to 2019, I took nearly every commission that came my way. I never spoke directly with the clients; all instructions and feedback went through my point of contact, which helped maintain a level of professionalism, although now that I’m used to working directly with clients, I’m not sure I’d want to go back to having an intermediary.

Sadly, as with all good things, this chapter came to an end. My point of contact eventually left communication in the hands of someone else, and shortly after, the commission fee changed to, I believe, 30%.

Simply put, 30% is an unrealistic cut for a website like this. For an agent that gets you all kinds of big work in the publishing industry, sure, but since this was not the case I had to stop taking commissions. Despite that, my overall experience with ArtCorgi was very positive.

Today, ArtCorgi joined another platform, Artistree. As far as I can tell, Artistree doesn’t take any fees from artists, with clients covering a small cost instead.

Sketchmob (?)

2016-2020

This was probably the platform I used the most. I’ve lost count of how many commissions I received through Sketchmob. Many. Enough to generate a steady income at the time. With reasonable fees and a variety of art styles available, clients contacted me almost daily. Communication was direct between artists and clients, and payments could be split. The review system also worked very well… for a while.

Once I raised my prices, requests became fewer and farther apart. But by then, I was already working with my own clients.

Is this platform still active? Who knows. The website is still up and the chat feature works, but I’ve seen users complain that money available for withdrawal never arrived via PayPal (the only payment method the platform accepted, if I remember correctly). Personally, I wouldn’t risk completing a job through Sketchmob right now, at least not until they release an update.

If you’ve used the platform recently and successfully received payment within the last six months, please let me know, and I’d be happy to update this section!

Upwork

2017-2019

In 2017, I was determined to break into the book publishing industry. After trying out Fiverr and Freelancer.com with no success (the competition was too fierce for someone just starting out), I decided to give Upwork a shot. The platform looked very professional, and while the process sounded a bit complicated, I wanted to land the interesting projects I saw featured in my category. I really wanted to work with a big client… but big clients didn’t seem to want me, despite having the Rising Talent badge.

In two years of bidding for jobs and submitting proposals, I only landed two projects: a small commission from a private client who actually reached out to me, and another project that I bid on.

Don’t get me wrong, I was ecstatic at the time and truly appreciated every opportunity that came my way. But looking back, I can see why Upwork didn’t work out for me. The platform just wasn’t the right fit for my style and niche, which is fantasy illustration. Graphic design, however, was (and still is) in much higher demand.

The commission process on Upwork wasn’t as simple as on other platforms. For instance, at the time, costs were calculated hourly, which was a challenge for someone like me who prefers working with flat fees (having already calculated my average hours spent on an illustration). From what I’ve seen, this has since changed.

One positive aspect of Upwork is its current 10% cut on what artists earn. I don’t recall if this has changed over the years, but 10% is quite reasonable in my experience. Of course, 0% would be even better, but for a platform as large as Upwork, 10% is fair.

Illustration Agency

2019-2021

By 2019, I had built a solid, consistent portfolio thanks to my personal work and commissions. I had a simple website in place, my Instagram following was growing… I was steadily working toward my goal of illustrating covers for big publishers (which didn't happen until two years ago).

So, when an illustration agency reached out to me one day, I was over the moon. I had always heard that artists were the ones who had to approach agencies, not the other way around.

Well, that should have been my first red flag.

I won’t name this agency because, unfortunately, I have nothing positive to say about it. In fact, the word “nothing” perfectly describes my involvement with them. Nothing came of this barely there experience.

The agency invited me to sign up, not on an exclusive basis, but they assured me they’d get me work. That work never came. Once in a while, I’d receive messages saying they were trying to pitch my portfolio to a French publisher or another client, but... nothing.

Please understand that meanwhile I was already working directly with shops and authors, so I don’t believe my portfolio was the problem. The real issue was something I didn’t realise at the time: some agencies do this. They feature talented artists in their catalogue without having actual clients lined up, just to appear more professional and credible to potential clients. Did this strategy work for them? Maybe. I’ll never know.

In 2021, I politely asked them to remove my portfolio from their website, and that was the end of it.

After that, I never actively sought out an agent again. By the time my portfolio was strong enough to approach a serious agency, I just didn’t need representation anymore.

Hireillo

2019-2022

My experience with Hire an Illustrator, or Hireillo, is mixed. At the time, Hireillo was a platform that hosted artists' portfolios, featured artist-submitted news, provided useful articles, resources, and directories of artists and agents. I joined the site hoping to catch the eye of publishers, but I was mostly contacted by authors and one fellow artist for a graphic novel.

Unfortunately, most inquiries didn’t go beyond the first couple of messages due to budget constraints. I did, however, have fun sharing news about my painting process and projects I landed on my own, which were often featured by the website. Additionally, if I had questions about 'complicated' things like copyright, or just needed advice, I could ask the website’s owner and that was incredibly helpful.

Despite these benefits, I didn’t see any real results, which was a little disappointing. The subscription fee was also... odd, for lack of a better word. $5 per week. In the end I just couldn’t justify the cost, so I stopped using the website altogether.

Reedsy

2019-2022

Finally, we come to the turning point.

I remember stumbling upon Reedsy randomly. It wasn’t very well known at the time, and I think it still isn’t. I was nervous when I submitted my portfolio because their catalogue features the best of the best: designers who’ve created covers for bestsellers, THE bestsellers, people who’ve worked on Stephen King covers, or George R.R. Martin's. Designers, editors, and marketers who are veterans. I didn’t have high hopes for my application. So, I was in shock when it got accepted.

I had an introductory Skype call with a representative from Reedsy, who explained how everything worked. Before the call ended, I remember asking if there was a good chance I’d get work through the platform. The rep laughed and said, “Yes.”

A few weeks in, I understood that laugh.

Reedsy has an overwhelming demand for book covers and commercial projects. For every designer there are many more clients. In peak seasons, I was getting requests almost every day. I’m not exaggerating.

Reedsy transformed my portfolio and my pricing structure. Thanks to the income I earned through the platform, I was finally able not to take everything that came my way but be selective and choose only the projects that really interested me.

The commission process is simple: artists pretty much decide how to split payments, what to include in agreements, and the best part, the most beautiful and helpful feature of all, they can request and adjust deadlines. For someone like me who's terrible with deadlines, this feature was a lifesaver. The admins are also very kind and responsive, available via email or chat.

Unfortunately (this is my last 'unfortunately', I promise), my time on Reedsy came to an end for personal reasons. I’ll explain since it’s no secret.

All my images on Reedsy were watermarked with my signature (my full name), which apparently violated the platform’s rules. Why? Because if a client saw my last name, they could contact me directly and bypass Reedsy, which meant the platform lost potential fees. I’ll admit this did happen a few times, but I had the good sense to redirect the client back to Reedsy.

After three years, an admin finally noticed and asked me to remove my full name from the watermark and any text on my profile. It was a simple and reasonable request, but here’s where the problem started. Profiles on Reedsy are public, and images appear in search engines like Google Images, meaning anyone could download my work and use it without permission. Sure, watermarks can be removed, but uploading my work without one in the first place felt like a bad idea. Btw, not only do I use watermarks, but I also use Glaze to protect my illustrations before sharing them online.

Anyway, for this reason, and also because I couldn’t get over the fact that full names were public at the time, something I won’t get into because, believe me, I tried over email, and my reasons went into the void (now, last names are just initialised, like Gabrielle R. Okay. Sure.), I had to close my account–they would have done it anyway because it was already 'flagged'.

Overall, if you’re willing to overlook the last name conundrum, I can’t recommend Reedsy enough. If you have a killer, solid portfolio and a love for books and editorial projects, go for it!

--------------------------------------------

I hope you'll find this useful! If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask (: Oh, and here's an old article I wrote in 2020, titled:

Tips to freelance illustrators to avoid being screwed over

Who knows, maybe I'll write another 'article' post in four years!

Instagram - ArtStation - Website - Inprnt - Etsy - TikTok

#art #artists on tumblr #Article #For Artists: My Experience with Commission Platforms and Illustration Agencies #Commissions #Illustration #Design #freelancer #gabrielle ragusi

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literaryvein-reblogs · 8 months ago

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Writing Notes: Emotions

“Emotion” is a term that came into use in the English language in the 17th and 18th centuries as a translation of the French term “émotion” but did not designate “a category of mental states that might be systematically studied” until the mid-19th century (Dixon 2012: 338; see also Dixon 2003; Solomon 2008).

Many of the things we call emotions today have been the object of theoretical analysis since Ancient Greece, under a variety of language-specific labels such as passion, sentiment, affection, affect, disturbance, movement, perturbation, upheaval, or appetite.

This makes for a long and complicated history, which has progressively led to the development of a variety of shared insights about the nature and function of emotions, but no consensual definition of what emotions are, either in philosophy or in affective science.

3 Traditions in the Study of Emotions

Emotions as: Feelings, Evaluations, and Motivations

Although emotion theories differ on multiple dimensions, they can be usefully sorted into three broad traditions:

The Feeling Tradition - takes the way emotions feel to be their most essential characteristic, and defines emotions as distinctive conscious experiences.

The Evaluative Tradition - regards the way emotions construe the world as primary, and defines emotions as being (or involving) distinctive evaluations of the eliciting circumstances.

The Motivational Tradition - defines emotions as distinctive motivational states.

(Scarantino, 2016)

Each tradition faces the task of articulating a prescriptive definition of emotions that is theoretically fruitful and compatible at least to some degree with ordinary linguistic usage.

And although there are discipline-specific theoretical objectives, there also is a core set of explanatory challenges that tends to be shared across disciplines:

Differentiation: How are emotions different from one another, and from things that are not emotions?

Motivation: Do emotions motivate behavior, and if so, how?

Intentionality: Do emotions have object-directedness, and if so, can they be appropriate or inappropriate to their objects?

Phenomenology: Do emotions always involve subjective experiences, and if so of what kind?

Emotions as Constructions

Constructionists are convinced that emotions are put together on the fly and in flexible ways using building blocks that are not specific to emotions, roughly in the way cooked foods are constructed from ingredients that are not specific to them and could be used according to alternative recipes.

One of the ingredients out of which emotions are built is said to be core affect, which is a:

neurophysiological state that is consciously accessible as a simple, nonreflective feeling that is an integral blend of hedonic (pleasure–displeasure) and arousal (sleepy–activated) values. (Russell 2003: 147)

Psychological constructionists emphasize that we are always in some state of core affect, which is a sort of barometer that informs us of our “relationship” to the flow of events.

The readings of the barometer are feelings, understood as blends of pleasure-displeasure and activation-deactivation.

These readings can be represented as points along a “circumplex structure”, with the vertical axis representing the degree of activation-deactivation and the horizontal axis representing the degree of pleasure-displeasure (Russell 1980).

Despite the great diversity of views on the nature and function of emotions, a broad consensus has emerged on a number of topics. Here is a tentative list of what a plurality of emotion theorists agree about, with brief mention of where the disagreements begin:

ONE. Emotion episodes involve, at least in prototypical cases, a set of evaluative, physiological, phenomenological, expressive, behavioral, and mental components that are diagnostic of emotions and are to some degree correlated with one another.

The degree to which these correlations are instantiated continues to be a central topic of theoretical debate: latent variable models assume that emotions cause the changes in components and expect to find strong correlations, whereas emergent variable models assume that emotions emerge from changes in components caused by something other than emotions and expect to find weak correlations.

TWO. Token episodes of the same folk emotion type (e.g., anger, fear, shame) manifest a great deal of variability with respect to expressive, behavioral, physiological and phenomenological features, as well as intensity, duration, valence, arousal, type and range of intentional objects.

Researchers disagree on whether underlying all this variability there exist measurable bodily patterns of some kind that are still distinctive of different emotions.

THREE. Emotions have intentionality or the ability to represent.

Researchers disagree on whether emotions represent descriptively or imperatively or both, on what exact contents they represent, and on what grounds the emotion-world representation relation. A small minority of researchers, hailing mostly from the enactivist movement, have argued that emotions lack representational qualities.

FOUR. The physical seat of emotions is the brain, but there are no neural circuits that correspond one-to-one with any folk emotion type, and brains are embodied and embedded in environments that are essential to their proper functioning.

Researchers disagree on how exactly the brain implements tokens of different emotion types, and whether emotional phenomena are best understood in terms of emotion-specific or emotion-unspecific neural mechanisms.

FIVE. Emotions typically involve conscious experiences, but such experiences are not strictly necessary for an emotion to be instantiated, in part because some emotion terms refer to dispositions and in part because most theorists consider feelings conceptually distinct from non-dispositional emotions.

A handful of influential researchers such as LeDoux (2017) and Barrett (2017) continue to identify emotions with conscious experiences.

SIX. Evolutionary and socio-cultural considerations must both contribute to our understanding of a great many emotions’ functions. These are both intra-personal functions —e.g., helping organisms coordinate organismic resources to deal with urgent demands—and interpersonal functions —e.g., communicating information useful for the negotiation of social transactions.

Researchers continue to debate whether there is sufficient empirical evidence for basic emotions and other special-purpose emotion mechanisms. Some see the role of evolution as limited to the shaping of general-purpose adaptations, such as core affect and the ability to categorize, which jointly lead to the emergence of emotions.

SEVEN. Emotions are no longer considered structurally opposed to reason.

Researchers continue to debate the circumstances in which emotions manifest various kinds of cognitive and strategic irrationality.

EIGHT. Emotions can be appropriate or inappropriate with respect to their intentional objects.

Researchers debate the grounds of, and distinctions between, different forms of appropriateness (e.g., fittingness, moral appropriateness).

NINE. Emotions typically involve appraisals of the significance of the stimulus situation, ranging between primitive and sophisticated forms of information processing.

Researchers debate what the structure of appraisals is, and whether appraisals cause or constitute emotions or both.

TEN. Emotions typically correlate with changes in motivation to do things.

Some researchers think emotions cause or consist in such changes in motivation, whereas others think that changes in motivation have other causes, or are too unspecific to ground a theory of what emotions are.

The exploration of these insights and the resolution of the disagreements around them is a thriving interdisciplinary project in contemporary emotion theory.

Philosophers and affective scientists will continue to engage in it for years to come, putting their distinctive theoretical skills at the service of projects of common interest.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References Word Lists: Uncommon Emotions ⚜ Other Words to Use ⚜ Positive Feelings

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roublardise · 6 months ago

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Hello sapphicnatural cule!! after some vibe checking, I thought we ought to celebrate Femslash February together ✨

This time, I'm proposing an event centered around fanfics, in order to celebrate all that's been written so far.

Instead of settling on one common reading challenge, I suggest we each pick our own reading challenge. That way, we'll all have our own goal and reading list, depending on our individual tastes in fics and how much we'd like to step out of our comfort zone. To add more fun and some group activities, the event will kick off by sharing rec lists (≠ from the reading lists), and end up with taking inspiration from one (or more) of these fanfics to create!!

TLDR: #Sapphicnaturalreads is an event in three parts, taking place through the month of February:

week one - REC-ING

we post rec lists of femslash fics

writers are welcome to share their own works

we set up our own reading challenge & to-read list

weeks two & three - READING

WE READ!!

we live-read, we post quick reviews after finishing each fic, we discuss, we expand, we dig up old fanarts, ...

we don't forget to comment on ao3

week four - CREATING

we take inspiration from one (or more) fics we've read! you can go wherever your heart takes you:

make an edit about a fic you've read

draw a ship from a fic you've read

make an amv for a ship you've read

write a poem about a theme present in a fic you've read

write a one-shot about a fic you've discovered

...

I will try to rb everyone's lists and posts but can't assure I'll get them all. So please tag your posts with #SapphicnaturalReads so we can all find them and find each others! 💕

To help get started, here's some examples of challenges:

reading a fic a day

reading fics of a same pairing (a ship you've never read about / your favorite / ...)

reading fics with a tagged trope you like (sharing a bed / fake dating / enemies to lovers / ...)

reading ficlets of less than 1k

or longer fics, of more than 10k

reading fics from the so-called golden era (let's say, pre-2016)

or on the contrary, focusing on fics posted post-2020

only reading rarepairs

handpicking specific fics you've been wanting to read for a long time - their time is now!

...

You can find femslash fics in the different ao3 collections: Sapphicnatural - Sapphicnatural Rare Pairs - Sapphicnatural One Hit Wonders - Sapphicnatural Poly Ships - Sapphicnatural Solo Works

or in the #fic tag of @sapphicnaturalrights for some tumblr-onlies made during the Sapphicnatural Weeks

my asks & dms are opened for any question!

✨📚 SEE YOU SOON 📚✨

#spn events #sapphicnatural #sapphicnaturalreads #spn femslash #women of spn #spn ladies #supernatural #spn #spn.txt #a chill low pressure event i hooope you all are into it <3

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ridethecyanide · 4 months ago

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March 15, 2025 - RSL Meeting Recap

This will be a long post so if you’re interested in my lovely encounter with Robert Sean Leonard, keep reading 🙂

I want to start by saying this: Before the evening took place, I mentioned to @slowburningechoes that this day was going to feel different than my other brief encounters with Robert, that is if it was actually going to happen. It’s never a guarantee that the actors will come out after a show but we were cautiously optimistic! Previously, I was so afraid of sounding like a jackass and embarrass myself that I mumbled a few words to him (the 1st time I barely said anything, the 2nd time I said a little more) and got out as quick as possible, never giving myself the chance to properly engage him. But this time, after reading people’s encounters with him during the run of Betrayal, he seemed very open (not that he wasn’t before, I didn’t give him the chance to engage) so I decided that I was going to roll with whatever was going to happen.

Okay..here we go!

- @slowburningechoes @occultbooks and I were the first people he saw (there were a few others waiting too) so he greeted us with an enthusiastic “Hello” It was @slowburningechoes and mines goal to be the first near the desk.

- I started with the usual, “the show was great, you were great”, etc. and I told him I found Betrayal to be an extraordinary play and was totally hooked and he says “I don’t like Harold Pinter plays but I did it because I love Helen and when she called to say she wanted to do this with me..” and he paused so then I interjected and said “well then you gotta go do it!” And he said “Exactly!” I love how he does not GAF and is honest about how he feels.

- When I met him a 2nd time on March 20, 2016, I briefly mentioned how I skipped my high school senior prom to see him on Broadway (it was 15 years ago then, it’s 24 years ago now!). He gave me a sweet smile at the time. I decided I was going to tell him again because it was long ago when I said it and I highly doubt he remembers. So I tell him and he says “wow, you’re a rare bird for skipping your senior prom for a Tom Stoppard play.” So I said “Oh no, I skipped my senior prom for YOU!” (giving him a famous RSL point 👉🏻) He was taken aback, blushed! and then said “I didn’t go to my senior prom because I dropped out!” And when he said “dropped out”, he moved up close to my face like he was telling me a secret 😆 He briefly talked about how The Invention of Love was a challenging play to get into and how Richard Easton mentored him throughout the run of the show and I said “…and then you went on to win the highest honor in theater!” and he said rather sheepishly and slightly shaking his head, “Yes, that was unexpected and (he paused) wonderful.” 😌

- Then I said, I brought something with me that I would love for you to sign and I told him I’ve been holding on to it for 27 years; I pulled out the VHS Emmy screener for In The Gloaming. So he takes it and inspects it (like you would inspect a new book 😆) and I tell him it’s an Emmy screener and he goes “oh my goodness, yes it is!” So to keep the conversation going, I asked if he had fond memories of working on the movie (he did, we knew that because he’s talked about it before but I wanted to hear it for myself and keep him talking) and he said “oh very much so. We shot it in westchester county which was close to home and working with Chris Reeves was so great”. I got a bit personal and told him that this movie hits close because we had a family member pass away from AIDS and it happened around the same time the movie was released. He offered his condolences on that and said “it was a wonderfully important film and I was happy to be a part of it.”

- So at this point, I felt like I’ve taken up so much of his time (although, I’m pretty sure he would have kept going. Yapper Bob was activated!) so I asked if we can take a photo together and he says “yes of course”. Now, he didn’t realize my Mom was with me (she was standing off to the side documenting this encounter) so we shuffled around a bit to get into better lighting and he went into Dad Mode and asked someone, who turned out to be @slowburningechoes , if she can take our photo and I said “My Mom is right there ready to take it” and I point her out and he says “Hi Mom!” Lol. He pulls me in tight and if you look at the photo, I’m just going with it and leaning into him. I was so close to putting my head on his shoulder but I stopped myself 😆 I thanked him again and he thanks me again for coming and for “sticking by me for so long”. From our chat, he recognized that I was a long time fan (almost 32 years!) so that comment made me 🥹. I believe he was genuinely sincere when he said that.

My Mom happened to take a photo of him leaning on his coffee cup, listening to me speak and it’s my favorite photo. I asked her why she took that photo and she said “you probably weren’t noticing it but when you were speaking to him, I could see his expression appear to soften and was really interested in what you were saying to him. I wanted you to see how the moment looked from my POV”. The cynic in me can say he’s a great actor and he’s just acting interested but after this experience and seeing (and reading) how he’s been interacting with others during the run of this show, he is 100% genuine in his approach to people.

- I hung back to watch @slowburningechoes have her moment with Robert and it was so wonderful to see. I know what that first meeting feels like and to witness it happen to someone as cool as her, it was just fantastic. I was so happy to see Robert appreciate the amazing artwork she gave him and in return @slowburningechoes receiving that amazing hug from our guy!

- I did say Hello to Ian Barford as he was leaving. We crossed paths so I put my hand out, shook hands with him and said the usual pleasantries toward an actor you know nothing about 😆 He thanked me a couple of times and that was it.

The whole moment with Robert lasted about 5 minutes or so. It was more than I could have asked for. It’s the dream scenario encounter that people wish to have with their favorite actor/actress/musician, etc. I will say it again, Robert is the absolute fucking best and the sweetest man. He needs to be protected at all costs. It was an unforgettable evening and a moment in time that I’ll cherish forever ♥️

I wish my Dad were still alive, he used to goof on me so hard about my crush on Robert. He would have gotten a kick out of this encounter.

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systeminquiry · 6 months ago

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Endogenic "Systems" and the Trauma- v.s. Fantasy-Based Models

I've been doing some research trying to figure out how people who believe you don't need trauma to be a system actually rationalize that to themselves, and I think I have a better understanding of Why people calling themselves 'endogenic' think they're actually systems.

The research papers I reference here are publicly inaccessible, so I've uploaded them to this folder if you'd like to read them for yourself.

First, I'll define the Trauma-based and Fantasy-based models that I'll be referencing and describing throughout this post. In scientific literature, the Trauma Model posits that DID is "etiologically related to chronic neglect and physical and/or sexual abuse in childhood," whereas the Fantasy Model posits that DID can be simulated and is brought together by "high suggestibility, fantasy proneness, and sociocultural influences" (Vissia et al., 2016). In the same study where these definitions are provided, these outcomes are presented:

Figure 1. A list of significant study outcomes with emphasis on how "evidence consistently supports the Trauma Model of DID and challenges the core hypothesis of the Fantasy Model" (Vissia et al., 2016).

Another study that corroborates how the Fantasy Model is unsupported by existing evidence can be found through this study (Reinders et al., 2016):

Figure 2. The abstract of a paper highlighting how new psychophysiological data supports the Trauma Model and that new brain imaging data did not support the fantasy model (Reinders et al., 2016).

A third study that evaluated existing evidence for the Trauma- and Fantasy-based Models found that empirical evidence supports that trauma causes dissociation, and that dissociation is related to trauma history when fantasy proneness is controlled (Dalenberg et al., 2012):

Figure 3. The abstract of a paper highlighting how dissociation in the study was not reliably associated with suggestibility (Dalenberg et al., 2012), a key aspect of the Fantasy-based Model.

As is evident here, current scientific data consistently supports that the Fantasy-based Model is not accurate and that DID is caused by trauma and not merely through fantasy proneness. In other words, you can't just believe that you're a system for it to actually be true.

Sources below the cut:

Dalenberg, C. J., Brand, B. L., Gleaves, D. H., Dorahy, M. J., Loewenstein, R. J., Cardeña, E., Frewen, P. A., Carlson, E. B., & Spiegel, D. (2012). Evaluation of the evidence for the trauma and fantasy models of dissociation. Psychological bulletin, 138(3), 550–588. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0027447

Reinders, A. A., Willemsen, A. T., Vissia, E. M., Vos, H. P., den Boer, J. A., & Nijenhuis, E. R. (2016). The Psychobiology of Authentic and Simulated Dissociative Personality States: The Full Monty. The Journal of nervous and mental disease, 204(6), 445–457. https://doi.org/10.1097/NMD.0000000000000522

Vissia, E. M., Giesen, M. E., Chalavi, S., Nijenhuis, E. R., Draijer, N., Brand, B. L., & Reinders, A. A. (2016). Is it Trauma- or Fantasy-based? Comparing dissociative identity disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, simulators, and controls. Acta psychiatrica Scandinavica, 134(2), 111–128. https://doi.org/10.1111/acps.12590

#system #systems #did system #systempunk #syspunk #sysblr #multiplicity #plural #plurality #traumagenic #syscourse #did osdd #did #dissociative identity disorder #actually a system #cdd system #osddid

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saywhat-politics · 4 months ago

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A federal judge on Wednesday entered an emergency order barring the Trump administration from implementing major parts of its executive order that sought to target the law firm Perkins Coie over its representation of Hillary Clinton's campaign in 2016.

District Judge Beryl Howell, ruling from the bench, found that attorneys for Perkins Coie, who filed suit earlier this week, had met the bar for her to enter a temporary restraining order -- determining they would suffer immediate and irreparable harm if provisions of the order targeting the law firm's work with government contractors as well as restrictions on their attorney's access to government buildings were implemented.

In an extraordinary hearing in which the Justice Department put forward Attorney General Pam Bondi's chief of staff, Chad Mizelle, to present its arguments, Howell repeatedly questioned the logic and legality surrounding the order -- which she said had extraordinary breadth and whose language was unlike any other order she'd ever read.

"Regardless of whether the president dislikes the firm's clients ... issuing an executive order targeting the firm based on the president's dislike of the political positions of the firm's clients, or the firm's litigation positions is retaliatory and runs head on into the wall of First Amendment protection," Howell said.

In her ruling blocking parts of the executive order she found "unlawful," Howell stated: "The President is certainly entitled to his own belief, entitled to his preferred causes and he's entitled to hold tight to his own dislikes. The Constitution protects all of us, however, from the exercise of his targeted power based on those dislikes, triggering the force of the federal government down on the lawyers representing his political opponents and challengers to his political actions, as he has done here."

#donald trump #second term #executive order

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gyummigon · 1 year ago

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like when we first met, i hate you and i love you | beomgyu

beomgyu x fem!reader | playlist

୨୧ word count: 6.8k ୨୧ genre: angst, slight smut ୨୧ warning: non-explicit sex (or so i think), unspecified mental disorders and illnesses, depressive thoughts, thoughts of death, thoughts of loneliness, verbal incitement to suicide, very mild violence (not dating violence), unstable and unhealthy relationship, emotional dependency, mild family strife, and lots and lots of anguish. i don't suggest reading to anyone under 18, in fact don't read it if you are under 18. ୨୧ a/n: writing this was a challenge, but i consider it to be one of the writings i put more of myself into. thank you in advance to the people who are encouraged to read, and i hope i will not disappoint you. my native language is not english, so i apologize for any errors or inconsistencies in the text. have a nice weekend!

It was easy for Beomgyu to feel trapped in his own mind, to mourn the days that were more than just lost; he swore that he remembered nothing of them, and yet they could bring him down at any moment.

He had spent nearly a quarter of his life living in hospital rooms, moving from one to another, but in the end remaining within the same four plain, pale walls. No matter how many times the morning came to him, or how long the night before, they meant nothing when all he could see was a ceiling that could only be distorted in the recesses of his mind.

On this particular morning, the ceiling he saw as he lay sprawled on his bed was not the usual one. The sun's rays struck him from a different direction, the comfort of the mattress was not what his body was accustomed to, and the gentle puff of your breath beside him sent his mind wandering to alternatives that would save him from his growing need to flee your uncomfortable presence.

Your situation was not entirely unfamiliar to you. You knew him too well to have any idea what was going through his mind. The guilt overflowed from the brown of his eyes and hit you almost as hard as the reality of waking up in the same situation again. As you felt the warmth of his body next to yours, you wished bitterly that he was a stranger, that way you could let him go without claiming the warmth you lost the moment nakedness stopped meaning anything.

"Beomgyu," you called him with an uncertain tone. You slid your head from the pillow to his chest and let his heartbeat against your ear flood your mind with fear. You wished you could control it and make it keep beating even if it wasn't for you. "Promise you won't let this happen again."

Beomgyu closed his eyes. The yellow color of your walls was too cheerful and always made him feel depressed.

"I'll visit you tomorrow," was his answer. He gently put your head back on the pillow and started to get up.

A lump in your throat kept you silent as the raw fragility of his nakedness escaped the sheets. Even as he finished dressing and turned to look at you, you kept your attention on the place farthest from her eyes, afraid to get too close and discover that there were demons lurking there.

You and Beomgyu met in seventh grade, in the fall of 2016, under the rays of a bright sun and the orange hue of the leaves of an old oak tree. He had just transferred to the same school as you, but with his bright and enthusiastic personality, he had no shortage of friends, attention, or the furtive glances your curiosity encouraged you to give him. The first time you spoke to each other was after an embarrassing skateboard fall at school, but a handshake and a few awkward smiles sparked a bond that made you inseparable.

Aside from similar musical tastes and an interest in hiking, you didn't have much in common and were constantly having not-so-serious discussions about your differences. It was this contrast that made Beomgyu so eager to spend time with you. You were the respite from his usual routine, the color that was missing from the memories in his mind; the shade that waited to protect him from the sun, even though you were completely unaware of his difficulties. And things should have stayed there, in an innocent and uncomplicated friendship, but your childish need for romance and his urge for compression turned you from friends to lovers in a matter of months.

It was an inevitable fact from the beginning. He was a young man full of life carrying a heavy secret, and you were a naive young woman who didn't know what she was getting into when he opened the doors of his heart and you walked right in. By now, after six years of relationship, both of your hearts were worn out and the constant barriers that Beomgyu's unstable mental health put between you widened a distance that even monotony could not close. Beomgyu felt his soul heavy and dirty even when he was near you, the color of your life itself made him feel like a gray stain, and the shadow that once comforted him now burned him every time he tried to cling to its coolness.

"If I don't come tomorrow, don't go to the hospital until you've finished your homework, okay?"

The pain hidden in your silence made Beomgyu feel miserable and almost made him give in to your earlier request. Promising you was the right thing to do, but with him being meaningless, purposeless and pretending, how could he control himself not to come back here?

"You'll be all right, won't you?" he heard you say in a weak, languid voice.

He couldn't do anything but look at your grieving body under the sheets. He felt terrible, like a piece of trash. Every time he looked at you, he realized how disgusting he was for coming here and making you do all those things. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg for your forgiveness and at the same time berate you for letting him do it, for giving him your body even though it made you both feel dirty.

"I love you."

He wasn't sure if those words came out of his mouth and reached you, maybe he had buried them, forgetting their meaning and now they were just a broken compass. What day was it, could he go on or back? Was this the end of the story or had it just begun?

He hated himself so much.

A small smile that didn't reach your eyes spread across your face, you pressed the sheet to your body and propped your knees up on the bed so you could touch him. "Will you be okay?" you repeated as you traced the softness of his cheek with your fingers.

In a losing battle against despair, Beomgyu leaned his face into your touch and closed his eyes. He could not stop pretending that you were not the vessel into which he poured his misery. Every word out of his mouth seemed to weigh tons and lying was the only way to be with you more than just physically.

"I'm trying."

"How long will you keep running away?"

Hearing you, Beomgyu opened his eyes and you sighed as the familiar feeling of fear and uncertainty washed over you as you looked into them. There was a heartbreaking fragility and desperation in them, the same one that was present every time he touched you and made love to you; the same one that remained when his lips moved slightly upward, giving you a faint glimpse of the hidden dimple on his cheek.

"I'm not running away, the hospital doors are always open."

"Beomgyu." You tried to sound stern, but the quiver in your voice at the mention of his name was noticeable.

"Don't worry," he murmured, putting his hands over yours to pull them away from his face. "You have enough burden with school, so avoid distractions and study hard, okay?"

"Then don't come back here, please."

"I'm so sorry." Beomgyu, with his eyes closed and a lump in his throat, placed a hand on your head and pulled you close to him to plant a kiss on your forehead. "Get some sleep before you go to school."

A helpless expression appeared on your face as Beomgyu gently stroked your hair before pulling away. You closed your eyes and bit your lower lip to stifle any more pathetic pleas from your mouth, listening to his every footstep taking him away from you.

An impulse made Beomgyu turn on his heels and look at you again. For some reason, when he saw the way you hugged yourself and closed your eyes tightly, a deep urge to die washed over him from head to toe. He thought he owed it to you after all he had put you through, that there was no other way to give you a chance to escape him.

With a sigh, he took one last look at you and turned his feet toward the exit of your room, offering you the only comfort of his absence and his silence.

And as every time you watched him leave, you felt that he took a piece of your soul with him.

"You have to stop for a moment." You heard Hanna say as you both walked to your next class.

Walking across campus carried a weight that felt thicker in that moment. The weight of the morning was reflected in every step you took, shuffling your feet with the characteristic reluctance of one who has crossed an already too long college day.

Your path to your next class is a routine one, but you have never been able to get used to the distance between one classroom and the next. As you made your way along the path of worn bricks and open spaces where the bustle of students mixed with the sound of car engines, you felt overwhelmed and anxious to get home as soon as possible.

"Take a break." Despite the weight of her guitar on her back and the art portfolio occupying her hands, Hanna moved forward beside you with lighter steps, keeping a calm tone in her voice. "You're starting to rub off on me with your negativity, if you're too tired to study then rest."

You sighed and looked at the time on your watch, your class had started five minutes ago and you still had a long way to go to get to the building where the class was.

"You just don't get it, I rest every day even when I shouldn't," you said as you picked up your pace and Hanna mimicked you without any difficulty.

"Procrastination is not rest, you have to really relax."

If your breathing hadn't been so fast due to the intensity of the walk, you would have sighed. From your perspective, the situation was more complicated. Your current emotional state was beginning to affect your academic performance, and you hated it. As a student of letters and a lover of reading, you had never fallen so far behind in your academic reading and homework. You were used to reading for school as much as for yourself, but in the last few weeks, it was impossible to even hold a book without being a matter of time or will. You couldn't find the concentration to be yourself anywhere, and you feared that if you didn't overcome the block and regain some focus, you would have to drop out of your classes before you failed.

The thought of doing poorly in school made you feel absolutely worthless and nervous.

"I'll try to change, just... don't tell Beomgyu. He's been a little intense lately about the idea that I'm doing well here."

"Why, is he pressuring you or something?"

You paused and thought about all the times Beomgyu told you to stay focused in school, to study hard and get the best grades. It always seemed to you that he said it in a sad rather than a demanding way.

"No, but the situation has been difficult since his relapse," you replied.

Hanna looked at you for a moment with her big, thoughtful eyes before she let out a sigh. "Y/n, since I met you your relationship has been difficult."

"As long as he was under observation he would study online, but he became an irregular student. I guess that's thwarted his plans a lot and knowing my current situation will probably make him sensitive..." you tried to explain in a hurry, but stopped yourself when you couldn't ignore the little conviction in your words. Hanna gave you a reassuring smile and maneuvered her hands to free one of her arms for a few seconds and wrap it around yours. Both your legs slowed in unison and your body relaxed as you tilted your head and rested it on her shoulder. "Do you love him?"

Her question didn't surprise you, but you let a few minutes of silence pass between you before answering. For some reason, it was always difficult to talk about your relationship with Beomgyu; either they didn't understand it at all, or they understood it too much that you started to get the pity treatment.

"Of course."

"As a boyfriend? I mean, do you love him romantically, not as a person you've known since puberty?"

You turned your head away from Hanna's shoulder and brought your gaze to an imprecise point in front of you. It wasn't always up and down with Beomgyu, the stability you both once had and kept you both so alive was as tentative as the current instability, the love manifested was as strong as the doubts. What did it matter how you loved him now, there was no way to know that it would make a difference. The two of you were bound together by more than love, you had a history with too many loose ends to tie up, words whispered in silence that needed to be heard and answered, wounds deep enough to choose to bleed without trying to close them. Yes, the distance was frightening, but you weren't defeated, you could take what you needed from each other to survive, and that wasn't necessarily wrong.

Except for the fact that neither of you were alive.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Hanna's voice broke through your thoughts and brought you back to reality. You let out a sigh, each question weighing you down with exhaustion. "I just... I want to understand you."

"Does he seem bad to you?" you replied without a hint of anger or concern.

"No, I like Beomgyu, I just... since I know him, he's kind of scary to me."

"No, gosh... He's... the nicest, most sensitive guy I've ever met."

"Not that type of scary."

When you heard these words, you felt frustrated. You didn't understand, even though you were also scared, you didn't understand what it was that Beomgyu reflected when he was with you that you couldn't see; because you were also absolutely terrified and couldn't identify the cause.

"He's fine, Hanna."

"And I'm so glad, but what about you?

You wished you could answer that question without your heart trembling with hesitation, but you were at a point where you doubted even your own words. What your mouth was saying and what Hanna could surely read in your eyes were contradictory things. If only you could have at least known which was true...

"I'm fine, okay?"

Your eyes glided over each word on the page with an almost exaggerated slowness, you had read the same paragraph over and over again in the last few minutes, your head was throbbing and fatigue irritated your eyes, but they were not the reason for your lack of concentration, at least not the main one.

Beomgyu sat a meter away from your desk, and you could feel his attention on every twitch of your facial muscles, on the movements of your hands, on the restless tapping of your foot on the floor. Those silences were the ones you hated the most to share with him, they made you insecure and any chance to approach him in a way that didn't make you feel suffocated slipped through your fingers.

You closed the book with a sigh and turned in your chair to look at him. The dark circles under his eyes hardly surprised you, they seemed as dull as the last times you saw him, barely a spark to show they were still screaming inside.

"Are you done?" he asked, slurring his words, but you were sure he already knew the answer.

"I'm tired," you replied instead as you stood up and sought a safer position on your bed, away from his eyes.

"Me too..."

You sighed as you saw him shrink back into the chair and averted your eyes to the floor. You couldn't shake the desire to be silent that came over you every time you saw him, even you couldn't describe the feeling, it made you sick, afraid to say the wrong thing, to push down the hopes he could barely hold in his hands. You were so afraid of breaking him. Despite your caution, you admitted that you were one of those guilty of endangering the stability of the thin rope he was walking, because as long as you were together, you would be the person Beomgyu held his hand and led him to discover the worst ways to sabotage him. It was as if he was testing your criminal mind and inviting you to watch from the front row as he murdered his own dreams and hopes for life.

You snapped out of your thoughts as you felt the weight of his body sink into the mattress. You turned your face in his direction, slightly dazed as you watched him kick off his shoes and curl up into a ball under your sheets. You sighed, not resisting the urge to bring a hand up to his face and caress his cheek, the way you knew he liked it.

"Lie down," he asked you in his little whisper.

There he was, like a ghost in the darkness, looking at you with a longing that made your body tremble. Though he was overflowing with an inexhaustible weariness, and his features bore the nostalgia of the stars that once shone, he was heartbreakingly beautiful. His smooth skin had the feel of a misunderstood canvas, his eyes, deep and enigmatic, carried unreadable pleas. It was sadness embodied in the skin of an ethereal being, unable to be torn away.

Your eyes closed unconsciously as Beomgyu leaned towards you after you obeyed his words, hiding his face in the curve between your neck and shoulder. The warmth of his body was always overwhelming, but his words had the power to slip between the trembling crevices of your heart and freeze its beating at will.

"I miss you..." he murmured against your skin, the roughness of his fingers clinging to your hips and his nose sliding along your collarbone, enveloping your skin with his breath and stealing layers of your scent. "I miss you so much."

How many times had he said those words to you? You wanted to scream at him that you were here, that you hadn't gone anywhere, that he had you, that nothing would tear you from his side, but even you weren't sure of that anymore.

"Me too, babe," you replied, lowering your face to his as his eyes sought yours. Damn it, you thought, it will happen again.

Within minutes, Beomgyu's lips left your neck and traced a path down your belly. Silently, you gave his hands permission to roam beneath your clothes, to trace the curves of your breasts and massage your soft flesh. More than one sigh was stolen from your mouth as his fingers slid to the pointy centre of your breasts, sending a stream of emotion through the gentle pressure. You couldn't explain the emotion that was marked by the trace of his touch on your skin, it wasn't lust, it wasn't need, it wasn't passion, but it was soft and comfortable, just enough to seem like love, just enough to reduce the agony and inappetence of longing to something subtle.

You whispered his name and cupped his face in your hands to draw him to you. Despite the suffocating emotion in the air, your bodies met in an anxious embrace, seeking solace and a cure for the raw hopelessness they could only express through gestures and silent caresses. The weight of his lips against your forehead made you close your eyes, almost begging him to never let go. Your lips ached with the need that filled them as the cold enveloped your body and replaced your clothes. But he did not kiss your lips, though they cried out in supplication, nor did you kiss his, knowing you would find the bitter taste of apology in them.

You also helped him get rid of his clothes. You imitated his lack of shame and suppressed any negative emotions that would make you believe that seeing and touching him as you did was wrong. How could it be so wrong when you had Beomgyu in your hands, gentle, vulnerable and intense? Trembling sounds escaped his throat and bound your hands, begging for more. His hands tightened around you, his fingers sliding down each side of your neck and his thumbs pressing against the softest, most vulnerable part of your shoulders. You leaned into his direction, letting his warm breath brush against your ear.

"My sweet Y/n..." Despite your skepticism that such a thing was possible, the sweetness in his voice made you believe that he really could feel the lost, that your body and voice could soothe his pain.

You kissed his hips with your fingertips, touching the roughness of his bones, holding him close as he wriggled against your touch. He responded just as sharply and slid one hand over your belly and the other between your legs where he pressed his fingers to your most sensitive spot, where pain and pleasure intertwined and sent a tightening sensation to your chest. "Beomgyu..."

"Shhh... it's okay." He took hold of your knees and, as if he had forgotten his own frailty, he exposed you and adjusted your position for him. Your eyes sought his, eager to hold on to something, to reassure you that it wasn't a stranger touching you; to remind you that all was well, that you were safe. You wanted to find security and familiarity away from this quiet, reserved, sleepy version of himself, you wanted a smile of encouragement, one that would light up the night but not set the moon on fire.

Beomgyu held your waist, preventing the involuntary, violent jerks of your pelvis. You swallowed saliva, dizzy and anticipating the raw invasion of his being inside you.

"What's wrong?" you asked as you watched him look at you motionlessly.

"You're not wet enough."

"It's okay, just do it."

Beomgyu's lips brushed your cheek, his voice a whisper in your ear as he leaned closer. "I just want you to relax," he said. "Let me take care of everything."

With a gentle tug around your waist, he sank you deeper into the bed, your head back against the softness of the pillow as he parted his body from yours to give him an open path for his hand to the shy, sensitive place between your legs. His fingers traced the inside of your thighs and slid down to the slit of your crotch, where he made circular motions with his fingertips for a few seconds before penetrating you.

You closed your eyes and gasped for air. It was as if he was lulling you and slapping you at the same time. Part of you wanted to take it with or without pain because you didn't think you could take it much longer; another part of you, the more disillusioned part of you, wished it was him who gave up and ran away. You tried, you really hoped it would work. For a while, sex had been the relief for this raw ache, but nothing really cured it. No matter how many nights you devoted your body to Beomgyu's desires, there would always be a night when you would lock yourself in your room and cry for all that he lacked, for all that you couldn't give him, for all that you didn't want to give him. And he would know, he always noticed these things, the tears burning under the flesh of your cheeks. But he would not caress your heart as you cried, nor would his hands wrap around you as your mind and soul had done a thousand times with him. For Beomgyu would still be miserable, and neither you nor he was ready for him not to drag you down with him.

Your body responded to the demands of Beomgyu's fingers and gave him what they were looking for. He clung to you as if he didn't want you to escape. You could feel his muscles tense and tremble, his breath in your ears, his heartbeat and breath on your skin. It was the only thing you could hold on to so that you wouldn't collapse right there.

Beomgyu slid back, his fingers suddenly far away from the spot between your legs. The feeling of his emptiness inside you was such a familiar pain that you almost reached out for him for a moment, but the caress of his lips on your shoulder and that voice you missed so much brought your focus back to him.

"You're not leaving, are you?" he asked as he slid slowly and carefully inside you.

You didn't answer, you both already knew the answer.

The silence in the room was overwhelming. You were lying on the bed, minutes had passed since your breathing had returned to normal, and now the only sound in the room was the pattering of the rain against the glass of your window. The sweat had dried on your skin and the sheets; your muscles, now relaxed, felt a slight sense of fatigue that made you want to stay in bed.

You looked at Beomgyu's back and traced the curve of his posture with the pad of your index finger. The delicate contours of his vertebrae were illuminated under the dim light of your desk lamp, lacking muscular strength, with a fragility palpable in every stroke your finger outlined.

"Don't come back tomorrow."

"Y/n..." he said in a vague form of protest, but you cut him off before he could say anything else. "I have an exam and I really need to study.

I'll visit you on Friday." There was a minute of silence in which you thought he would try to protest, but he just nodded.

"Well, uhm... Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"You're thinner."

"Maybe."

"Have they been feeding you well?" He gave you a sideways glance and raised his shoulders reluctantly. "It's hard, I have no appetite."

"Hospital food is terrible, isn't it?"

"I guess."

You sighed and looked at the back of his head as if you could see through it.

"It's not the kind of food we were made for," you replied, trying to lighten the mood. Beomgyu finally moved, turned around and his head landed right on your chest. You could feel his hands touching your ribs, his lips in your hair, your feet on his. "I could make you some fried rice," you continued. "So you can eat something."

"It's okay, just stay with you. I don't need any-"

Your eyebrows furrowed as he interrupted himself. He had raised his gaze and was now staring at you.

"What's wrong?"

"You look pretty."

Pretty.

The mood in the room changed when he said those words. You held your breath. Everything around you seemed weaker, as if it would fall apart at the wrong sound. You wanted to speak, but you dared not, out of weakness, your absurd cowardice, to show what you were thinking inside. You didn't feel beautiful. You didn't feel loved. Oh, what a relief it would have been to be able to express it to him at that moment, what a different and less complicated way it would have been not to wait for your surroundings to collapse in order to tell him all that you were hiding inside. Maybe if habit did not keep you silent when misery hovers around you, maybe if darkness was not the only stimulus urging you to seek the light, maybe you would have said it.

I feel lonely.

"Let's cook something, you know, like old times, but this time without burning anything. Let's make gimbap, but not just any gimbap. We can look up my grandmother's recipe, remember? I made it once for your birthday, haven't made it since, but I don't think I've lost the touch. The recipe has to be out there somewhere. My mother..."

"Okay," he interrupted, surprising you with a kiss on the cheek. "Forget the gimbap, fried rice is fine."

"Do you... do you want to join me or would you rather stay here and rest?"

"It's okay, your sister could meet me any minute."

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

With an overwhelming hope growing in your chest, you left your room and went to the kitchen. The house was plunged into a terrible silence and you had to fight the urge to return to the room, knowing that you would not find a warmer atmosphere inside. But the silence didn't last long, just as Beomgyu had predicted, Leah, your older sister, closed the front door as you finished descending the last flight of stairs. You were wearing only a plus size t-shirt and your panties, so you weren't surprised by the annoyed look she gave you.

"Looks like the rain caught up with you after work."

"He's here, isn't it?"

You weren't even surprised that she ignored your attempts to start a conversation away from Beomgyu. You rolled your eyes and headed for the kitchen without looking at her. "Oh, not again, Leah."

"That bastard," you heard her curse as she nipped at your heels. "He thinks he can do whatever he wants to you because of his illness?"

"He didn't do anything to me."

"That's the problem, y/n. In your opinion, he never does anything."

"Mind your own business, Leah." You told her as you tried your best to look busy, moving your hands around the closet, but the truth was your hands couldn't even remember what they were looking for. You opened one of the cabinets, then another. By the third, you felt a little discouraged, so you opened the fourth. Your hands began to despair, until finally a small package of rice wrapped in plastic caught your eye. You gently picked it up and placed it in your lap as you pulled a wooden stool closer to the side of the counter and sat down.

"I'm minding my own business." She replied, standing behind you for a few moments, a tense silence settling between the two of you, and you didn't dare look her in the eye. You felt a pang of embarrassment.

"Leave me alone."

Leah took one of your hands and forced you to face her. "You know I don't like to keep quiet when it comes to this, I didn't before, I won't now. Even if my words are in vain, even if I don't have the right to tell you what to do, I won't swallow my disapproval of you continuing this story in which you are clearly not a heroine. You are a fool, just like mom, don't you see? You witnessed her long years of misery for what? To repeat history? What is broken only hurts."

"Stop." You pulled her hand hard. "This is between Beomgyu and me, no one else has any part in this. How many times do I have to explain myself to you?

Leah let out a frustrated sigh, she seemed to be debating your words and your back stiffened as you waited for her next attack, but the tension in your body turned to surprise when you felt her hand tugging at the collar of your shirt.

"Leah!" you screamed, but your attempts to push her away faltered as you became aware of what she was looking at with such displeasure. You didn't even remember the purple marks on your collarbone, they were old and therefore barely noticeable, but her sharp eyes hadn't missed them and her expression made it clear that he knew who the culprit was; which was just one more reason to increase her displeasure.

"I'm going to... God, that idiot..." After a few seconds of silence, you heard her sigh and turn away. You felt your stomach sink. "Is he upstairs?"

"Leah, don't..."

Your reflexes were fast, but not fast enough to catch her before she came out of the kitchen. Less than a meter from the stairs, your fingers clutched at her clothes, perhaps too tightly, perhaps so desperately that it left your sister and you in disbelief.

You thought of Beomgyu waiting for you in your room, vulnerable and feeble with his own thoughts. Maybe he agreed to let you cook for him because he wanted to be alone, maybe he called you pretty because it was easier than saying anything else. Maybe you loved him and it wasn't right. Maybe you hated him and he knew it. Maybe you took his sadness for granted, or maybe you should have understood that he wasn't worth it. But there was more, something darker than all possible answers, something you suspected but were afraid to admit to yourself, afraid to face it.

Beomgyu didn't need you, it was you who needed him.

Your hand loosened its grip on Leah's clothes and you stepped back. A tremor went through your body as you looked down at your hands, suddenly afraid of yourself, your own demons. "I'm sorry, just... leave him alone."

For a few seconds you thought she would say something, argue, scream, or just try to move on as if she didn't hear you. She did none of these things, instead she turned back to the stairs and said those words that hit every sensitive nerve in your body.

"If your disease doesn't kill you soon, you should kill yourself."

At first, her words were like an attack that you couldn't digest for the first few seconds. They hurt, they stole your breath, and you heard the crackling of something weak, something sensitive breaking; but it was only when you saw where the attack was directed that fear and a searing anxiety invaded your body and made your knees fight against a wrenching weakness.

"Leah!" the scream tore at your throat.

Beomgyu was standing on the stairs when he met your sister's gaze. His jaw was clenched, but his tired expression made him look almost expressionless. But he wasn't. He was shaking, more than you. He was suffering, more than you. He had never looked so small, so fragile, so far away. And you had never felt so helpless, so frightened, so unaware of your impulses.

"How... how can you say such a thing?" Your palms slapped Leah's back, once, twice, three times, as if to force her to spit out an answer. You were distraught, desperate, about to burst into tears. "How can you be a human being and say such a thing? How can you be my sister and..."

"'Whoa, whoa, take it easy... Just calm down..." Beomgyu's arms, who seemed to have rushed down the stairs at full speed at the first of your attacks, wrapped around your waist and pulled you back. You tried to pull him away, even though you had no intention of returning to your sister, but he clung to you tightly. "Come on, outside."

You didn't resist as he led you outside your house. His hands released you only when he closed the door behind him and you turned to him with a pleading expression. Beomgyu said nothing but shook his head in a gesture you could not decipher and the fear that shook every part of your body could not have been worse.

Silence.

You parted your lips, desperately wanting to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Beomgyu gave you a dejected smile and shrugged his shoulders, a gesture he always made when he wanted to play things down and cheer you up. You had to look away to keep from collapsing.

The raindrops on the pavement were bright white under the streetlights. The streets were empty, the only sounds being your accelerated breathing, the pattering of the rain, and the rustle of the trees in the wind. The air was tinged with damp bark and earthy moss, a smell that for the first time you found more devastating than comforting.

"I'm going home, back inside."

Your breath caught in your lungs and you made an incredible effort to get the words out of your mouth. 'If your disease doesn't kill you soon, you should kill yourself'. These words kept going over and over and over in your mind. How could your sister tell him that, how could she even think about it? Beomgyu, who had lived in a body full of anxiety, instability, impulsiveness, confusion, and paranoia since he was sixteen. Beomgyu, who had to live with an incurable diagnosis and inexhaustible medication. Beomgyu, in whose confused mind, behind a thick layer of emotions, there was only a genuine desire to be loved, accepted and valued by himself and others. Beomgyu, insecure, bright, dull, happy, depressed, who started a new war against himself every day. If your sister had known all this, would she have said those cruel words? If your sister had seen the sharp, cutting impact that melted into Beomgyu like a heavy anchor that prevented any hope from floating, would she really have stayed at home so calmly?

"She doesn't know what she said," you whispered, lifting your gaze from the floor to look deep into his eyes. "She's... selfish, arrogant, completely irrational. She thinks she knows you. They think they know you. But they don't know anything about you! They don't know you like I do, no one...no one..."

"It's okay."

"Nobody does."

"I know." Beomgyu took your face in his hands, his intense eyes never leaving yours. "You know me better than anyone."

"Stay."

Beomgyu shook his head sadly.

"No, I..."

"I love you."

Your interruption seemed to shake the ground beneath Beomgyu's feet. The boy sighed shakily and leaned his forehead against yours. His eyes, now wet and shiny like the concrete of the long avenue, were hidden under his eyelids and closed with the force of something burning to be seen.

"Do you sometimes... do you sometimes not have the urge to die together? To throw us in a lake and drown? Something like that?"

A sob escaped your throat and your hands cupped his cheeks, almost as if you were holding his heavy soul with the edge of your fingernails to keep him from slipping from your grasp. Nothing was ever more frustrating. "No, God, of course not, how can you say such a thing? I want nothing more than to live by your side, to synchronize your heart with mine, to hear you breathe, to see you smile... I want to calm you down and for you to calm me down. I want to survive with you.

Beomgyu let out a soft snort that resembled an attempt at laughter. "Always giving me the cold shoulder. Go back inside, you'll catch a cold."

Your hands grabbed his clothes. You didn't want to let go, your whole being told you not to, not to let him go, not like that, not with those words still echoing in his head. Beomgyu gently pushed your hands away and you trembled. You were afraid for everything, for him, for yourself, for the future. You feared his departure and that he would become unreachable. For the first time, you feared that you didn't love him.

Beomgyu's breathing was steady now, only the faint, clear outline of his body pressed against your chest told you that he was still there, still present. "I'm scared," you whispered.

"Me too."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Friday, I'll see you Friday."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Finally, you stepped back, still wanting to say many things, but lacking the right repository of words to get them out. Beomgyu hesitated for a moment, his mouth opened slightly as if he wanted to speak. But he didn't. You took a deep breath and stepped back again, your face blank and your hands hanging limply at your sides. Your lips trembled, but then, almost out of nowhere, you smiled. It wasn't a happy smile, nothing like that, given the situation. It was desperation eating away at your life, the wind hitting your body and telling you how empty your hands were now. It was Beomgyu, tired and in pain, making his way into the distance.

You smiled even more when the sky began to rain.

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