#I feel like this is a good example of how it isn’t about doing something that’s OOC

[cartoonguy08]

Howdee, Mr. Cool Art Guy, do you have any Hot-Off-The-Press art tips and tricks for us beginners?? Doesn't have to be like, an entire essay, just some pointers for development or ways that YOU improved.

Thank you in advance

Sincerely, Anon #73758858

I feel like I’m bad at giving advice so imma try the best I can to answer this my dude, first of all thank you for wanting to ask me! I’d say my art style is very simple in terms with how other artists (especially tf2 artists) draw characters.

If I had to say anything about improving and tips to improve, I’d give an example on how I did so myself.

When I was just starting out to draw I had a habit of looking at other artists work, tv shows, comics, movies, promotional art? You name it. I was always looking. I examined and tried my best to replicate it with a character. Once I watched a YouTube video of someone’s dubbed comic and thought “wow they have a nice style! I like the way they draw noses :D” so then I started drawing noses like that. If I saw someone draw eyes a certain way I’d try to replicate it as well. This was way before I used digital so you could say my work wasn’t the best, and I was like 7 maybe? The more I got older the more I tried replicating stuff and taking things I thought looked nice and tried to do the same in my art.

Mouths from Ed, Edd, n Eddy were my favorite!!

They look so funky (Eddy’s still my favorite lol)

I did this for a couple years. A problem I kinda suffered from though was when I fixated on a character, I also tried drawing the character the EXACT same way they were from the show or movie or game. It frustrated me when they didn’t look the same.

It kinda helped that I drew said characters over and over and over again but I wasn’t very satisfied with it. I wanna make it a lesson that not everything’s perfect, and I obviously didn’t know that since I was never happy with my artstyle to begin with. I’m still not. But that’s okay, every artist suffers through that, so don’t beat yourself up over if your art style isn’t considered “perfect” to your eyes.

When I started getting into Tf2 (and I mean REALLY get into it. I never tried drawing the characters till last year) I did the same thing of trying to draw them, like on model. Which turns out to be very difficult when you aren’t as confident in anatomy like I was 😀

I was ready to give up on trying to draw em until I ran into animated videos of tf2 characters. And really took into perspective that a lot of other creators used THEIR style to draw them. A favorite of mine being “AlbinoBlackSheep”, the guy that made the “Spy and Sentry” and “Spy x Pyro” animation.

I was mainly drawing Pyro first cuz I found Pyro would be easier. When I saw the way Pyro was drawn in the animations I loved it! And took some inspiration for how to draw him myself. I ended up with something I liked, which was this:

I learned that I didn’t necessarily HAVE to draw them on model. Which I, once again, had a bad habit of doing. I could draw them with how *I* felt comfortable to. And for me, it was cartoons :] I’m a big lover of anything cartoon so that’s what I set my art style on. So drawing the other mercs was really fun!! Especially Pyro, Pyro’s a positive abomination lmao.

The other mercs I did one by one and tried thinking, “how could I simplify these designs?” Which I once again looked for inspiration in other tf2 artists. I found what I liked about the art style and used it myself, with a bit of tweaking. Spy was majorly inspired by “The Silly Spy” animation. I LOVED how they drew his nose. So that’s what I did

(I also drew parts and shapes how I felt would look nice, to clear it up a bit.)

You can say that my main source of upbringing for my art style was inspiration. Small tiny things I liked about others I implemented into my work, and rolled from there.

Taking inspiration is always a good tip for beginners in my opinion, or just in general if you wanna get better with your art style. Inspiration is everywhere, don’t be afraid to take it.

[gardenschedule]

Get Back rewatch & musings - day 9 & 10

previous

Day 9 - 14/01/1969

Paul has this twink in his THRALL. Or is he simply being held hostage by the celebrity boss he must be polite to, who knows

Look at Ringo go on the piano! That little duet came more easily to them than I'd think, maybe they rehearsed it before. Love his claw of dedication

Backseat of my car makes an appearance, I've always thought it was illogical when haters act like Paul suddenly stopped writing good songs after the breakup - he wrote a bunch of his early solo songs during the Beatles! And they slap

Paul being like "we could make a film you know", he is dumb yet brave wanting to make another poorly thought out film that soon after MMT

Michael then points out that there are some girls around that they could use for sex interest, and Ringo jokingly points out that there are some boys around who are interested in the same thing. MLH cannot catch a break from the homophobia.... coming from the guy with half his band in love with each other, ok Ringo. Unless he did mean them, in which case it's fine.

Mal needs to go get some play equipment STAT

Paul wanted John to play with him aww! Paul invites John to have a go at climbing the chains. John agrees, but quickly abandons his effort and explains that he’s too old.

Peter Sellers can't handle the bantz. Or is it another example of John being weird around celebrities he likes and wants to impress? Such as: being rude to Carole King, farting at poor Little Richard, fumbling Bridgitte Bardot, whatever awkwardness went on at Elvis' house.

It seems like he kind of protected his feelings by making them dislike him on purpose, because that's better than being disliked for other reasons. He explained himself to Carole like this: So I broached the subject. "John, do you remember meeting me at the Warwick Hotel?" [laughter] And he says, "Remind me." So I'm thinking he must not remember, he's met how many people? I said, "Well, you were very rude to me and I was just wondering, I mean, I was just curious, why? What was going on?" And he says, "Do you really want to know?" So I'm thinking, he does remember. He says, "You and Gerry were such great songwriters. I was intimidated." [laughter/applause] So I say, "Oh, don't worry about it. It's all right, it's all right."

Oh wait I was wrong, Peter Sellers can indeed handle the bantz: Peter once again prepares to leave, but is stopped by John who jokes about giving him marijuana in Piccadilly. Of course, John isn’t serious, and only aims to make Peter, who’s already fidgety, even more uncomfortable. What he doesn’t realize is that he’s dealing with someone whose mind wanders similar uncharted paths, and Peter gleefully plays along, turning the tables by apologizing to John for arriving without drugs because he knows how fond John is of them. Got him!!

The dialogue here is just crazy. John quoting their own lyrics rather pointedly, Paul ignoring him and soldiering on about schedules but also using some very poetic turns of phrase. "To wander aimlessly is very un-swinging." like damn

"I want to touch you touching you makes me happy I can't hide it I love y----" "but the SCHEDULE" poor John oml

Ok, someone please tell me I'm not insane. I got my blog url from this part of Get Back. Paul says "what you need is a schedule", and John replies "A garden schedule". But now I realize that line wasn't in Get Back, the TMBP blog or Sulpy's book. Where tf did I get it? I didn't make that up, I can't come up with Lennon-esque puns that easily. In fact I can hear him saying it in my head. You know what, I must have heard the audio on a podcast or youtube video.

Paul being passive aggressive about John not bringing in songs: Peter and Denis ask John if he’d like to contribute a minute and a half sound collage to “The Magic Christian” (something along the lines of “Revolution 9” which had appeared on the previous year’s double album). John is willing, if the price is right, but Paul bitterly reminds them that John isn’t too good about coming through on his promises to write new material.

I previously mentioned that I was going to talk about Yoko's sense of humour more in depth and here we go. I need to disclaim that I do get there is wit and humour in her art. But I also need to talk about the fact that I don't think she vibes with John's sense of humour AT ALL, and this scene shows it.

John does his hilarious boy scout masturbation monologue, he says the punchline: But I can tell you, you don't go blind but very shortsighted. Everyone laughs at the joke, and then you hear Yoko: Are you talking from experience then, John? Like that wasn't LITERALLY THE PUNCHLINE!! Everyone already laughed at it! Was she trying to piggy back on the joke to get a laugh for herself or did she think John left the joke incomplete?

Another example of her not getting John's jokes is when, during Anthology, she demanded that John's silly story about getting the name Beatles from a man on a flaming pie be treated like a legitimate vision (though a more cynical interpretation is that she was pretending so that he could have a magical story to match Paul's Yesterday story)

Now, Yoko is an upper class Japanese woman and speaks English as a second language. It is *completely* understandable that her sense of humour would be different from a working class Liverpudlian man's, particularly a very literary one whose jokes are largely based on wordplay and cultural references. I'm honestly not saying this to shit on her, so why am I even bringing it up?

Because, for some reason, John has always emphasized that Yoko was akin to a male friend: I just realized that [Yoko] knew everything I knew, and more, probably, and it was coming out of a woman’s head. It just sort of bowled me over, you know? And it was like finding gold or something. To find somebody that you can go and get pissed with, and have exactly the same relationship as any mate in Liverpool you’d ever had, but also you could go to bed with him, and it could stroke your head when you felt tired, or sick, or depressed. It could also be Mother. And obviously, that’s what the male-female – you know, you could take those roles with each other. It seemed very important to him that Yoko was put on equal footing with John's male friends. But I truly cannot see John and Yoko having a best friends type relationship. I can imagine them having an intense romance, I can imagine them having chemistry, I can imagine them being inspired by each other, I just can't imagine them being buddies who have a drink and a laugh together.

There are also multiple observations made about John becoming serious and losing his sense of humour around Yoko:

“When John wasn’t around Yoko, that’s when you’d get the more jovial John, the joking guy,” Gabriel says. “When Yoko showed up, he’d be more reserved, less likely to be a cut-up. I never got a good feeling off of her; I’m not sure I trusted her, and she kept her distance more from us, much more than he did.” (Elephants Memory Band guitarist) "I knew the man up until our divorce – after that I didn’t know the man, but it didn’t stop me caring about him and worrying because of the complete change that I saw in him. He’d lost his sense of humour and he got aggressive; he wasn’t for the world any more, he was just for Yoko. Before that he opened his arms and embraced the world with his wit and humour – afterwards he was a completely different kind of person.” (Cynthia) They even gave a press conference inside a bag. Funny, wacky, attention grabbing, but I couldn't get over how deathly serious they were about it. Not a glimmer of amusement, seldom a smile. What had happened to John's sense of humour? (More from Cynthia) I was entertained that John hadn’t seen that I was pulling his leg. But then, when he was around Yoko, he seemed to lose his famous Liverpool sense of humor. Yoko took the films, with one of her little mysterious smiles, and I never saw them again. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine her and John sitting up in bed watching them more than once. (Tony Bramwell)

And a bit about Yoko reacting negatively to John's sense of humour:

I was suddenly struck by the delicious absurdity of it all, and found myself laughing aloud at our predicament. This in turn triggered a chortle from John—even though not a word had passed between us—causing me, and then him, to laugh all the more, just as we always used to in our hell-raising days at Quarry Bank. "What are you laughing at, John" Yoko demanded. "Just vibes, Pete's vibes," he said. "So what were you laughing at, Pete?" When I shared my little vision with my companions, John exploded in hysterics —until Yoko cut him short. "Well, / don't think it's very funny," she snapped, effectively silencing both of us for the remainder of our long, cold vigil. (Pete Shotton) I spontaneously began serenading him with "Yoho, yoho, it's off to work we go!" (from the film Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs). Innocently attempting to include Yoko in this little joke, I proceeded to change the lyrics to "Yoko, Yoko, it's off to work we go!" John and I both fell over laughing at the silly pun—but were quickly cut short by a look of smoldering resentment from Miss Ono. (another from Pete)

The takeaway from this massive sprawling tangent is that a) I think John was exaggerating about her being 'like a mate' because of his compulsion to pit Paul and Yoko against each other and treat her as a replacement for him, b) if Yoko did have an effect on his sense of humour - whether it's because of her reactions or because he aspired to be a more serious artist type in her presence - that's very sad to me

ANYWAY back to Get Back - Madman is a banger John should've finished it. Have an obligatory absolute madman:

They May Be Parted's blog entries end here so they won't be included going forward! I highly recommend their blog.

Day 10 - 15-19/01/1969

These were actually a few short days but I'm calling it all day 10 for convenience

Paul plays Oh Darling, singing beautifully. I think he was coming in early to practice it every day, Sulpy says this of Paul's Oh Darling from a few days earlier: It’s surprising how strong a vocal performance Paul puts in every time he plays this song, even here where he hardly seems to be trying.

George drops by, slaying as usual

He and Glyn find, surprise surprise, that Magic Alex's studio is a dud and it's now George Martin's problem

[thebatmanwhoblogs]

“Someone told me.. once.. when my father went fishing.. he’d always bait.. his own line. He figured, if the worm has to die, he’d do it him.. himself. Show some respect.. some honor to the worm. You see, if y-you honor a.. a.. worm.. you.. you honor the.. world. [Batman screams as he pulls the knife out of his own abdomen].. b-b-but it seems to.. to me.. ..honor.. or no honor.. the worm’s still dead.” -Batman

Batman: The Brave and the Bold #9, "The Winning Card"

Written by: Tom King

Artist: Mitch Gerads

Letters: Clayton Cowles

[sunsetovertheocean]

Adults are so stupid

[meowdei]

the psychology of men (a guide to understanding how they work) — ft. phainon

if nice guys didn’t always screw you over, you’d have an easier time trusting that phainon isn’t the good guy full of bullshit. but he’s still nice enough to patiently wait for you to give him one chance, though

word count. ❤︎ 10.3k words — in literally one day. ONE

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; college au ; reader has a shitty ex boyfriend and trust issues — she is not perfect but she is human. be nice to her ; strangers to friends with benefits to lovers ; reader has a crush on mydei at first LOL ; mentions of alcohol and drunk sex ; phainon is a YEARNER ; resolved angst, miscommunication, and arguments ; phainon is down bad and reader is simply in denial that she is too ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read

commentary. ❤︎ i didn’t care about this dude until today. he possessed me so hard i wrote 10k words in less than 24 hours. white hair and blue eyed freaks will do that to you

LESSON ONE: MEN ARE ALWAYS PLANNING SOMETHING. THE NICER THEY SEEM, THE MORE SINISTER THE SCHEME!

You meet Phainon for the first time while you’re freshly out of a relationship, nursing a broken heart. Your ex-boyfriend pursued you like most men do. A little too strong and a little too sweet and a little too good to be true.

(It was, in fact, too good to be true. You wish you'd seen that earlier.)

You thought you’d be telling people at your wedding one day that you knew he was “the one” early on in your relationship. Instead, he dumped you as quickly as he “fell in love” with you. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said, it just isn’t fair to keep you around when I don’t feel the way I used to. He leaves you with not so much as a tear of sorrow, and you’re left with the aftermath of a devastating heartbreak. 

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“��M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

I also think writing a reader that is younger than me and navigates life and its challenges through a less mature and experienced lens was a fun project. She is not perfect but she is certainly a human who is trying her best and wants to be loved and I think that’s endearing

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

💀 Making Your Villain Make Sense (Without Making Them Right™)

("because if I see one more war criminal with a sad diary entry get a redemption arc, I’m gonna throw my laptop.")

Here’s the thing: your villain doesn’t need to be redeemable. But they do need to make sense.

And I mean sense beyond "they’re evil and they monologue about it." Or “they have a tragic past, so now they do murder <3.” Or “they were right all along, the hero just couldn’t see it 🥺.”

Let’s fix that.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 STEP ONE: BUILD A LOGIC SYSTEM THAT ISN’T OURS Your villain shouldn’t just be wrong, they should have their own internal system that works for them. Morally flawed? Absolutely. But coherent.

Ask yourself:

What do they value more than anything? (Power? Order? Loyalty? Vengeance?)

What do they believe about the world, and how did they get there?

What fear drives them? What future do they think they’re trying to prevent?

The villain doesn’t need to know they’re wrong. But you should.

Make their logic airtight. even if it’s awful. Give them cause and effect.

─────── ✦ ───────

👿 STEP TWO: STOP GIVING THEM THE BETTER IDEOLOGY Listen. I love a “morally gray” moment as much as anyone. But if your villain is making all the good points and the hero’s just like “no because that’s mean,” your arc is upside down.

If your villain is critiquing injustice, oppression, or inequality, make sure their methods are the problem, not their entire worldview.

✖︎ WRONG: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt.” Hero: “That’s not nice.”

✔︎ RIGHT: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt, so I’m burning the city and everyone in it.” Hero: “So you’re just… committing genocide now?”

Your villain can touch a real issue. Just don’t let them be the only one talking about it, or solving it with horror movie logic.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔪 STEP THREE: GIVE THEM POWER THAT COSTS THEM The best villains lose things too. They’re not just untouchable horror dolls in sexy coats. They make bad choices and pay for them. That’s where the drama lives.

Examples:

They isolate themselves.

They sacrifice people they love.

They get what they want, and it destroys them.

They know they’re the monster, and choose it anyway.

If your villain can kill a dozen people and feel nothing, that’s not scary. That’s boring. Let them bleed. Let them regret it. Let them double down anyway.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧱 STEP FOUR: MAKE THEM PART OF THE WORLD, NOT OUTSIDE IT Villains shouldn’t feel like they were patched in from another genre. They should be part of the world’s logic, culture, class system, history. They should reflect something about the setting.

Villains that slap:

The advisor who upheld the regime until they decided they deserved to rule.

The noble who’s using war to reclaim stolen legacy.

The ex-hero who thinks the system can’t be saved, only reset.

The priest who truly believes the gods demand blood.

They’re not just evil, they’re a product of the same world the hero is trying to save.

─────── ✦ ───────

👁 STEP FIVE: SHOW US THEIR SELF-JUSTIFICATION You don’t need a tragic backstory™. But you do need to show us why they think they’re right. Not just with exposition, through action.

Let us watch them:

Protect someone.

Choose their goal over safety.

Justify the unjustifiable to a character who loves them.

Refuse to change, even when given a chance.

A villain who looks into the mirror and goes “Yes. I’m correct.” is 1000x scarier than one who sobs into a journal and says “I’m so broken 🥺.”

─────── ✦ ───────

🧨 BONUS ROUND: DON’T MAKE THEM A HATRED MEGAPHONE Especially if you’re writing marginalized characters: don’t let your villain become a mouthpiece for slurs, abuse, or extremism just to make them “evil enough.” That’s lazy. And harmful.

You don’t need real-world hate speech to build a dark character. You need power, consequence, and intent.

─────── ✦ ───────

TL;DR: Good villains don’t need to be right. They need to be real. Not a vibe. Not a sad boy in a trench coat. Not a trauma monologue and then a sword fight. They need logic. They need cost. They need to scare you because you get them, and still want them to lose.

Make them dangerous. Not relatable. Make them whole. Not wholesome. Make them make sense.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // villain critic. final boss consultant. licensed chaos goblin

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class 9

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

“Do you wanna throw away your future?”

You stayed slouched in the chair, elbows resting on the armrests, eyes fixed on a thin scratch on the desk between you. It ran in a short, uneven line, probably made by a pen or a key. You wondered how long it had been there.

“Do you understand how serious this is?” she asked again.

Her voice had that careful, measured tone adults used when they wanted you to feel guilty. You didn’t.

You shifted your weight, just enough to get more comfortable. The chair squeaked.

“Your grades have been slipping too,” she went on. “Last semester, you were barely passing. This semester isn’t looking much better. You keep this up, you’ll have nothing to show for it at the end of the year. No college will want you. You’re not in a position to throw anything away.”

You nodded once, slow and noncommittal.

Her brows drew together. “Is something going on? At home, maybe? Or here in school?”

Your eyes slid to the wall behind her head, where a crooked motivational poster read ‘Your Future Starts Today!’ in big block letters. You stared at the bright blue background until the words stopped meaning anything.

“Nothing?” she pressed.

You shrugged, not looking at her.

She sighed and sat back in her chair, arms crossing loosely. “You can’t keep shutting people out. You think it doesn’t matter, but one day you’re going to look back and realize you wasted years of your life doing… this.”

You glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes had passed since you’d been called in but it felt longer.

She leaned forward again, lowering her voice. “You are smart. I know you are. You wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this… this attitude you have, it’s not going to get you anywhere.”

Her words washed over you, heavy and slow. You kept your face blank, because what else was there to do? You had heard this before. Teachers, staff, your own parents. Always the same lecture, just different mouths saying it.

She studied you for a moment, searching for something in your face. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. Her shoulders dropped slightly.

The counselor ruffled through a stack of papers on her desk, her sigh sharp and tired. “I don’t know what to do with you,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve got the potential, but you’re throwing it away…” Her voice faded as she flipped another sheet over, eyes scanning as if the solution might be scribbled somewhere in the margins.

The door clicked open.

You turned your head lazily, more out of habit than interest. Ellie stepped in, a stack of neatly stapled papers pressed to her chest. Her hair was slightly messy, like she’d been in a hurry.

“Ellie,” the counselor said, her voice brightening in a way it hadn’t for you. “You’re here to drop off the reports?”

Ellie nodded, walking forward with quiet steps. “Uh—yes.” She set the stack down gently, fingers lingering for a second before pulling away. Her eyes flicked toward you for the briefest moment before she looked back at the counselor.

You didn’t look away, even when she did.

The counselor pushed the papers aside, still in that lighter tone she reserved for good students. “Ellie’s a perfect example of what I’ve been talking about. Smart, responsible, hardworking.”

You sank deeper into the chair, rolling your eyes just enough for her to notice.

“She doesn’t get into trouble, she’s always prepared, and her grades are excellent. This is the kind of person colleges fight over. This is what you could be doing, if you actually applied yourself.”

Ellie shifted slightly, the faintest crease forming between her brows. She stayed quiet, gaze fixed on the floor.

The counselor didn’t say anything for a while, letting the words hang in the air. She reached for the report Ellie had just delivered and began flipping through it slowly, the room settling into an awkward quiet.

You stayed staring at Ellie the whole time. She didn’t meet your eyes, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. She looked like she wanted to leave.

The counselor finally set the report down and tapped her pen against the desk. “You could learn a lot from her,” she said at last. “In fact…”

You raised your eyebrows. You already knew what was coming, and you hated it.

“I think it might be a good idea for Ellie to help you with your studies. At least until your grades improve.”

You scoffed under your breath, not bothering to hide it.

“Can you do that, Ellie?”

Ellie’s head lifted, her lips parting slightly. She hesitated, her gaze flicking to you before settling back on the counselor. “…If that’s what you think will help,” she said carefully.

The counselor smiled, clearly taking that as a yes. “Good. It’s settled, then.”

You straightened a little in your chair, your voice finally cutting through. “No fucking way. I didn’t even agree to that.”

The counselor didn’t flinch. “You’re in no position to refuse,” she said, her tone flat, leaving no room for argument.

You clenched your jaw, glaring at a spot on the wall instead of her, irritated.

The bell rang, sharp and final, signaling the start of your last class of the day. You pushed yourself up from the chair, the legs scraping against the floor, and slung your bag over your shoulder without another word.

The hallway was buzzing with noise—students spilling out of classrooms, laughing, calling to each other. You ignored all of it, focusing on the path ahead.

“Hey—wait!”

You stopped just enough to glance over your shoulder. Ellie was weaving her way through the crowd toward you, her pace quick but careful, like she wasn’t sure if she should be chasing you at all.

Ellie’s voice called out again, a little louder this time, but you kept moving. The crowd thinned as you turned down the next hallway.

A light touch caught your arm.

You stopped just enough to turn your head, your gaze hard. “What?” The word came out flat and sharp, more bite than question.

Ellie blinked, her hand retreating quickly. “I just… wanted to—”

You were already shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, looking past her like you had somewhere better to be. She let out a heavy sigh, eyes tracing your face with worry in them. And something between concern and frustration.

Ellie shifted her weight, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I just… wanted to check if you were okay with what she said in there.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m not. And I don’t need your help. Or anyone’s help.”

“It’s not—” she started, but you cut her off.

“I can handle my own shit. I don’t need some perfect student babysitting me because she thinks she’s better.” Your voice was low but sharp, the words coming out more bitter than you expected.

Ellie blinked, taken aback. “That’s not what I—”

“Save it.” You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and turned away, already walking down the hall.

You didn’t look back to see if she followed. The hallway buzzed with voices and footsteps, lockers slamming shut one after another.

The classroom was halfway down, the door propped open. Inside, a few were already in their usual seats, laughing, talking too loud. You headed straight for the middle row, dropping into an empty desk without a word.

Behind you, someone snickered—one of your friends, probably catching sight of your expression. You ignored it, slumping lower in your seat and resting your arms on the desk.

The door shut with a soft click, and Ms. Alvarez strode in, a stack of papers balanced in one arm. She set them on her desk with a dull thud, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Alright, everyone. Phones away. We’re starting now,” she said, voice brisk but calm.

The low hum of chatter faded. You didn’t move to grab your notebook or a pen. Just sat there, staring at the grain of the desk’s surface while Ms. Alvarez started the discussion.

You hated sitting in any of these classes. Every second felt longer than it should, stretching until the air felt heavy in your lungs. Lately, it didn’t matter what subject it was—it all blurred together into the same dull, endless noise you were supposed to care about.

You're sitting in the middle of the classroom, surrounded by voices, yet it felt like you were the only one in the room. Like there was a glass wall between you and everyone else, their voices and chatter muffled, unreachable.

You had never felt so alone like this.

You hated that hollow feeling you always feel. You hated that in a way that it waits, lingers, and seeps. It stays in the corners where you can’t see it, quiet enough to make you almost believe it’s gone, but it’s only waiting for the moment you slow down enough to let it crawl back in.

Some days, it was just this—quiet, suffocating loneliness, wrapping itself around your ribs and making every breath feel shallow. Other days, it was pure unfiltered madness. A twisting, hot frustration that made your hands itch, that made you want to throw something, break something, scream until your voice gave out.

And sometimes, all of it tangled together at night, until you could barely tell one feeling from the other.

You just… wanted to tell someone.

To spill it all out in one frantic, breathless rush—the fear, the anger, the aching emptiness. To run to them, to feel arms wrap around you and not let go. To tell them how small you felt, how the world pressed in on you until it was hard to breathe. To tell them how much it hurts, and have them take it away, even just for a little while.

But no one was there.

Your gaze dropped, the familiar ache pressing against your chest.

Your eyes lifted again just enough to catch Ms. Alvarez talking about the book project. Your classmates shuffled toward their partners, chattering and laughing.

When you looked around, you saw Ellie sitting up front at her desk. You made your way over and dropped down beside her, letting your bag slump onto the floor.

“Why am I always the one who has to come here?” you muttered, tilting your head back slightly, not meeting her eyes.

Ellie blinked, looking up at you. “What…”

“Nothing,” you said, shrugging, letting your gaze drift to the desk in front of you.

Ellie set her things aside, pulling out her laptop and opening it with careful precision. She started tapping at the keys, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You leaned back on your seat, barely glancing at her screen. “We could just… end it at the fight scene,” you said, voice flat. “After Jace leaves. No one’s gonna care about the rest.”

Ellie glanced at you, a frown tugging at her lips. “That’s just it?”

You shrugged, not bothering to look at her. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Or whatever. I don’t really care what happens to them,” you added, voice flat.

Ellie blinked at you, frowning. “You know… this is our project. We’re supposed to figure it out together.”

You shrugged again, lazily. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Ellie let out a quiet sigh, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard. “I just… I want it to make sense. Not like we’re just throwing it away.”

“Does it matter? It’s just a stupid book project. No one’s gonna remember it.”

Her frown deepened, and she leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes flicking to you again. “I don’t know… I guess I just think about how it could be better. Even if no one else notices, I want it to feel right.”

You made a face, looking away. “It feels fine. Why overthink it?”

Ellie’s fingers hovered over the keys, tapping lightly but not typing. “Because… it’s not just about finishing it. It’s about doing it well.”

You let out a quiet laugh, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah… well, that’s your problem, not mine.”

Ellie shook her head, fingers finally finding the keys. The soft clack filled the quiet space between you, a fragile bridge over the distance you’d built. She didn’t push back and didn’t argue, and you weren’t sure if she actually cared about what you said—or if she could just do whatever she wanted regardless. You stared into nothing, the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on you.

The days after that had all blurred together. You showed up when it was time, slid into the seat beside her, and did nothing. Not a word, not a note, not a single thought contributed to the project. As soon as Ms. Alvarez left the class to work, you were gone—bag slung over your shoulder, already moving to leave.

Earlier in the week, she’d asked if you could meet her in the library after school, said she just needed your opinion on the resolution. You’d said yes without thinking — and never showed. Ellie could take the whole thing in whatever direction she wanted without you dropping in with… ideas she probably wouldn’t even use. In a way, she should be thankful.

Whether you skipped out entirely or sat beside her doing nothing at all, Ellie never called you out on it. She didn’t comment, didn’t ask, didn’t push. She stayed behind at her desk, tapping at her laptop, organizing papers, typing up ideas, her brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

But sometimes, when you rested your arms on the desk and lifted your head for a fraction of a second, you caught her staring. Her eyes flicked away the moment they met yours, like she didn’t want you to see that she was watching at all.

Other times, she’d glance up while adjusting her notebook or flipping through pages, her gaze lingering just long enough for you to feel it before she returned to her work, pretending nothing had happened.

One afternoon, you arrived late and slid into your chair, pretending to be absorbed in your phone. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed her head tilt slightly as she followed your movements, her fingers pausing mid-type. When you finally looked up, she was quickly back to her screen, but the faint crease of her brow betrayed her attention.

Even in group work sessions, when others whispered and laughed around you, Ellie’s focus never wavered. Yet, from time to time, you’d catch her eyes flicking toward you, subtle and fleeting, a quiet witness to your detachment.

Another day, you found yourself at your locker, shoving in things you didn’t need. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Ellie standing at her own locker, angled slightly in your direction. Her gaze lingered toward you, and for a moment, you frowned at her because she hadn’t realized you were looking at her—or maybe she didn’t care.

You slammed your locker shut, the sharp sound breaking through whatever trance she was in. Her head snapped up, and she blinked a couple of times, suddenly aware of your presence. You walked past her, casting a pointed glare meant to tell her to quit staring. She didn’t say anything, she just gave the faintest tilt of her head before moving on, as if caught between noticing you and pretending she hadn’t been.

By the end of each class, as you slung your bag over your shoulder and moved toward the door, you caught her glance one last time. You weren’t sure what it meant. Whether she cared, whether she was frustrated, or whether she could just do whatever she wanted—it left a quiet weight behind you, a tether you didn’t quite know how to reach for.

And yet, she never stopped. Her eyes would find you in those in-between moments — not long enough to start a conversation, just long enough to make you notice. It was the kind of looking that felt less like curiosity and more like she was searching for something she’d already lost.

You kept your eyes on the hardcover spines lining the tall shelves, letting the blur of titles keep your gaze steady. The wall was cold against your back, your weight sinking into it like you’d been sitting there on the floor longer than you meant to.

You bit your lip, holding back the shaky breath threatening to slip out.

You missed her… so much.

For almost three months, you’ve tried to distract yourself from the fact that she left you.

But no matter what’s happening around you, or where you are, you only ever think about her.

You think about her in everything you do — in your walking hours, in the middle of a conversation, even in the smallest, stupidest things. A faint whiff of the air freshener in the car can stop you cold, your chest tightening before you even understand why. And then it’s there — that same, familiar ache rising up from nowhere, sharp enough to steal your breath, because somehow even that smell remembers her.

Before you go to bed at night — she’s there in your thoughts, in the space beside you that’s always empty now. And somehow, it’s even worse when you wake up. For a split second, your mind forgets. For a split second, it’s as if she’s still here, like the past three months never happened.

And then it hits — sudden, sharp, and merciless. The kind of sinking that feels like the floor’s been pulled out from under you. Your chest hollows, your stomach twists, and you remember.

Oh.

She left.

You can’t be anywhere without thinking about her. You can’t even remember what your room was before her; it feels like every memory you have of it is tied to her.

That room had witnessed almost everything you shared with her — late-night conversations, her tired voice on the other line. How you’d fall asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear just to hear her breathing. How you’d trace circles on your sheets when she laughed, smiling into the dark like it was enough to keep you warm.

When it gets so cold at night, your heart would physically ache it makes you sick. You’d drag yourself to the shower, hoping the heat might wash it away. But it never really works. So you just go to bed after and cry yourself to sleep.

Now, the same walls feel colder. Even your bed feels like it’s waiting for something that won’t come back.

You hate her for what she did.

But at the end of the day, when you’re alone with your thoughts, sitting with the ache you can’t keep pretending isn’t there, when all of the resentment wears off, you know you miss her just as badly.

And sometimes, in the quiet after midnight, you let yourself wonder if she ever thinks about you too — if somewhere, in some small and fleeting way, her chest aches the way yours still does.

But you never let yourself stay with that thought for long. Because if she does, then she’s choosing not to come back. And if she doesn’t… then you were always easier to leave than you wanted to believe.

Either way, the hurt is the same — it still ends with her gone, and you here, trying to make sense of a choice that wasn’t yours to make.

Always, huh?

Your eyes stung, tears pooling at the corners. You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, willing it away, because you knew if you let it start, you wouldn’t be able to stop. So before the ache could spill over, you pushed yourself up from the floor, your knees stiff from sitting too long.

You hadn’t meant to stay late at the library that day. It was already dark outside. Your little corner behind the aisle in the library had been quiet, a place you could disappear into until it was time to go.

You slipped your bag over your shoulder and began walking between the shelves, the muted sound of your footsteps swallowed by the carpet.

Then you saw her.

Ellie, sitting a few rows away, glasses perched on her nose, hair falling slightly in front of her face, typing away on her laptop. It wasn’t the first time you’d caught her here after hours. She somehow lingered here often, finishing work, organizing papers, quietly existing in her own world. Your steps slowed, blinking your tears away.

“What are you still doing here?” you asked, your voice low.

Ellie looked up, startled, eyes widening when she saw you. She hesitated, then adjusted her glasses she's wearing. “I… can’t concentrate at home,” she said after a beat, as if that explained everything. “It’s… quieter here.”

You stared at her, and she stared back for a moment, until you looked away, realizing she might have noticed your bloodshot eyes.

You didn’t say anything else and walked past her table, glancing once more at the girl who had been silently carving a place in your days, wondering why it surprised you so much to see her here. Something in her focus, her persistence, made you want to pause in your steps and look back to see how she stayed late, working, just… being.

You stepped outside to the side of the library, where the light was dim and shadows pooled in the corners. Leaning against the brick wall, you lit a cigarette, letting the smoke curl up into the cool evening air. The quiet pressed in around you, broken only by the distant hum of streetlights and the faint rustle of leaves.

You tried not to let your mind wander, forcing yourself to focus on the smoke, the chill in the air, anything—just to keep the silence from pulling you too far into thought.

You sighed, the smoke curling in the air. Your eyes then dropped, following the faint trail of cigarette burns on your wrist, when you heard the library door open.

Ellie barged out of the library door, her bag slung over one shoulder. She glanced around quickly, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers tightening around the strap as if deciding whether to take another step—or turn back. She stayed under the light. She exhaled softly after a long beat, gave a small shake of her head, and started down the empty sidewalk. The soft crunch of her shoes echoed in the night, leaving the space between you heavy and quiet.

You watched her go, a small, uneasy feeling twisting somewhere you couldn’t quite place. You’d been taking her presence for granted all this time—sitting beside her in class, doing nothing, leaving as soon as Ms. Alvarez stepped out—and she still stayed, worked and showed up.

The next Friday morning, that little knot of guilt lingered longer than usual. When Ms. Alvarez announced the project time, you surprised even yourself by suggesting, casually, almost too nonchalantly, “Why don’t we… just do the project at my place this weekend?”

Ellie looked up at you, eyes wide. She opened her mouth, then froze, a small stack of papers slipping from her hands and fluttering to the floor. “…Uh… sure,” she said, her voice trembling, careful, still weighing your words.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii @angelsglitch @vanpalmertruther @mikellie @re1daway @irysque @notkyleelol @the-sick-habit @autisticratbagtm @elliepoems @fragilevampirr @crucifiedfem @abbyandcaitlover @lovewitchss @soltwent @punchandjudy @yuripilledfemme @shadowybasementmiracle

[yanderedrabbles]

𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 — 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝟏

Tags: male yandere x fem reader, noncon, implied older man/younger reader, 580 words

I just love the leader with a dark secret trope. There’s something so inherently menacing about it. The fact that someone you ought to trust — your pastor, your boss, the sheriff of your small town — has this deep, terrible darkness hiding in the pith of them. 

I think it's especially terrible if you're the one to bring it out without ever meaning to. Maybe you're too sweet for your own good, or too bratty to be left unbroken. Hell, maybe you just have a habit of sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Either way, you end up discovering something you really shouldn't have. And that stern but kind authority figure suddenly isn't as nice as he's been all your life. 

I like to think they’re sweetly condescending about it. That reassuring, paternal drawl thick in your ear as they threaten to ruin your life, your reputation, your livelihood if you ever tell anyone what you know. Thick cock down your throat as they silence you in more ways than one. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Isn’t it better this way?”

“You don’t want to shake things up around here, do you?”

“At the end of the day, you brought this on yourself. Now just hold still and take your punishment like a good girl.”

Whatever secret you find festers like a living wound between the two of you. You can never look at him the same, can never sit down in church or attend the Sheriff's barbecue without remembering his touch, or the feel of his cock bullying its way inside you. You can’t stand the sight of his picture-perfect pretending once you realise what he’s really like.

Maybe fucking you into silence still isn’t enough for him. Maybe that trusted figure in the community decides that having you on the loose is just too great a liability. He’s spent so long fighting his way to the top. Some nosy little girl is not going to be his downfall. 

And so he lies. 

He tells your parents how worried he is about your behaviour — you’ve been speeding, you’ve been missing at Sunday service, you’ve been slacking off at work — and when he sees that awful disappointment on their faces, he’s quick to step up and offer to take you under his wing. 

How wonderful that is. To everyone around you — hell, to the community at large — it’s yet another example of him being such a great guy. They see him with his arm around your shoulders, or watching over you, and to them it’s just one of the pillars of the community setting you on the straight and narrow. They don’t see the way his arm drops to your waist when he’s alone with you. They don’t see the way he skims his lips up the back of your neck. And not a single soul sees the evil rotting away in his core.

Thinking about the kind of manipulative, twisted leader who keeps you all to himself no matter what. The kind who grabs your hair in a fist when he sinks balls deep into your cunt, who drags his teeth across your shoulder and nips at your jugular. 

The kind of man who has the whole world fooled.

It doesn’t matter what you know, it doesn’t matter what happens to you when you’re in his office after dark. Because at the end of the day, he’s such a good guy. 

And no one will ever believe otherwise

[beauchied]

thanos headcanons (n)sfw ۶ৎ

warnings: smut, jealousy, sensory deprivation, bdsm mention (they don’t actually perform anything of the sort), fingering, oral (f receiving), public fingering lol, tease, edging, overstimulation, manhandling aaanndd thats all!

𖦹 really unpopular opinion (or so bc i’ve never seen anyone really talk about it) but i feel like he’d be really protective 😭 for example; if you two were on a date, rather than sitting across from you, he’d be next to you so it’s more obvious you two are together etc.

—

𖦹 in the games, he’s very silly and childish and that doesn’t change with you at all. he’s the same goofy person you know, but he will always make sure he gets babied by you lol it’s like healing his inner child.

—

𖦹 will absolutely spoil you if ever he finally voted x (which he would never do but its a headcanon) he’d buy you luxury bags, limited edition jewelry… literally everything you’d look absolutely gorgeous in.

“baby what about this one? this looks cute on you!”

“subong-ah.. that’s $350.?”

—

𖦹 never lets his friends near you lmao 😭😭 nam-gyu would just be talking to you for help with something and he’d butt in and give him advice instead LOOL

“hey, so i was thinking maybe this color would look nicer—”

“looks like shit. absolutely not. go away.”

—

𖦹 definitely the “i know you can, but let me” kind of guy. you could be baking a cake for se-mi’s birthday and then suddenly you look beside you and thanos is putting on a purple apron and cracking eggs for him to whisk up afterward.

“thanos, i can do it myself—”

“i know, but i want to do it with you. so teach me how to do this so next time i can help you better.”

—

𖦹 okay so he’s a very unserious person, but if you were in a vulnerable state, he will always be there to embrace you. he’d rock you in his arms and let you get his shirt all wet bc he loves you and he can’t stand seeing you cry ☹️

“shh, it’s okay. i’m here. i’ll always be here for you.”

—

𖦹 an absolute sweetheart to you in public, fucks you like you’re his slut in private. the things he would do to you oh my goodness 😭 definitely the type to manhandle you, esp when ure being bratty

—

𖦹 loves to edge & overstimulate you lmfao he thinks you squriming and moaning for him is absolutely theatrical 😭

“fuck. subong—”

“what’s wrong baby? need to cum that bad?”

—

𖦹 isn’t the biggest fan of bdsm bc you’re his princess and he’d never want you to feel otherwise BUT this man would def be into sensory deprivation 😭 if you’re asking to be fucked HARD, he won’t hold back and will make sure a blindfold is on and your hands are tied to the bed frame so you can’t touch him at all

“you’re so pretty like this, baby. i could listen to your moans all night. yeah? you want that? want me to fuck your cute pussy until morning? hmm?”

—

𖦹 thanos can be both a soft dom or a hard dom. it just really depends on his mood. if you managed to piss him off by flirting with other guys to pique his jealousy? you won’t be seeing the light of day. if you’re both exhausted and in need of relief? he’ll take care of you so well.

—

𖦹 the absolute MASTER of fingering & eating u out. you are an independent, iconic woman and yet you become the biggest pillow princess around that man. if you were at a restaurant? best believe his hands are on your thigh, slowly hiking up towards your core until he slips in a few fingers into your hole.

“they’re going to hear you, love. wouldn’t want that do we? or do you want them to know how i’m making you feel so good?”

—

𖦹 if you and thanos were living with nam-gyu, min-su, se-mi, gyeong-su … etc they will absolutely tease the both of you bc of how loud you guys are during sex 😭 it’s so bad that they would probably have to move out bc u keep disturbing them at night LOOOLL

“subong-ssi was not holding back last night, huh?”

“se-mi! what the fuck??”

[mainstreamangel]

Could you write a smut fic where a is about to go on a date with someone else but p stops her due to her feelings towards a :)

TREAT YOU BETTER, DATE YOU BETTER, LOVE YOU BETTER.

summary: your friend convinces you to go on a blind date, but paige—your roommate is tired of loving you while you’re blind.

warning(s): uconn!paige x fem!reader, smut—minors dni.

masterlist / dallas locker room

“no, i’m not going.” you shook your head as you pack up your belongings.

“why not?” your friend whines. “it’ll be good for you, you know have a life outside of basketball and introvertness… and paige.” they hesitated.

they knew you had a crush on your roommate, paige bueckers; though you complained about not having a shot with her with your “status”. you always thought she was this star athlete who was just out of reach.

you had become good friends with her through the close proximity and learned a lot about basketball from her. even though she tries not talking about it too much off the court, it still lingers for a bit in every conversation.

“come on you said it yourself, paige isn’t gonna go for a commoner.” your friend states.

“why would you say that? thanks for believing in me.” you scoff.

“one date.”

“no.”

“please? i promise if it doesn’t work out you can go back to moping about paige.”

“i’m not moping and i’m NOT going on that date.”

“i’ll give you 100 dollars if it doesn’t work out.”

“what day?”

your friend smiles and shoves their hands in their pockets. “friday, 7 pm.”

you shake your head and feel your phone buzz.

lil paigey

hi u still up 4 movie on fri

you

ya tot what time

lil paigey

practice ends at 6 so i was thinking 7

you sigh, you would rather spend your friday with paige, cracking jokes and talking about everything under the sun.

but you wanted to look more into the future. i mean this could be the one. someone you can focus more than rotting with paige when she gets home from her busy life.

but what if paige is the one? i mean, who knows how long you have with paige before her career really takes off professionally.

you

oh shoot sorry cant do fri

what abt sat

lil paigey

oh? but we always watch movies on fridays

you

ya sry smth came up can u do sat or ill b home real late too and if ur still up we can watch it then

lil paigey

what u got going on

you

going on a date

you were hesitant on being honest but, you thought it wouldn’t matter because your feelings were unreciprocated.

paige was kind to everybody and surely if she was into girls she would be flirting with someone of her status. one of her teammate for example. you weren't jealous of her teammates, no. you had something special with paige, whether she realised it or not.

paige stopped responding after that. you just assumed she was busy doing something since she didn't have practice that day.

"look i gotta go." you said, pocketing your phone.

your friend nodded their head. "yeah same. catch you later? i'll text you the details of the date." they smiled.

you bid your farewells and walked off towards your place.

once you got to your place, you toss your belongings by the door and place your keys in the little dish on the ledge. you and paige had found that dish while casually shopping for your new wardrobe.

you brought her along because you admired her style, but also because you just wanted to spend time with her. at first you were too shy to ask her, but when paige asked where you were headed, you told her—asked if she wanted to come along, and that was that.

you saw paige's keys in the dish, now alongside yours. you furrowed your brows and looked out to the main area. it was empty.

"paige?" you called.

nothing.

you start to walk towards her door, it's creeked slightly open. you push it gently and reveal paige laying in bed... on that damn ipad.

"hey, you okay?" you ask, cautiously.

"yeah." she responds dryly. she flips on her side like a rotisserie chicken, her back facing towards you. you furrow your brows and walk over, you sit on the edge of her small bed and lay a hand gently on her side.

"rough day?" you try and strike up small talk. you never had to start small talk with paige, it just came naturally. so you knew something was up. she just hums and continues roughly tapping on her ipad.

"paige." you call softly.

"what?" she snaps, letting her ipad fall onto her bed, turning to look at you.

you remove your hand and distance yourself a bit. "what's going on with you? you're so…off."

"god nothing, just go have fun on your little date." she turns again and lays her head on her hands.

you quirk a brow and place your hand back on her hip. "my date? the one for friday? is that why you're upset? because i'm missing ONE friday movie night? grow up paige." you snap.

"grow up? sorry i'm not holding you hostage on movie nights. you're free to go." she sits up to face you.

"why do you care if i go on a date? it's not like you like me or anything."

"but i do." she yells. the room goes silent.

"what..?" you mumble.

"i'm in love with you. i have since we started rooming together. ok? i was just too pussy about it to confess." she pouts, crossing her arms like a child throwing a tantrum.

you let out a breath and push back a strand of hair behind her ear, admiring her face. before you can stop yourself, you lean in and capture her lips. you give her a chance to back out but she only presses further.

"i've been waiting for this moment, i always dreamed of it... i didn't think it would come true." you confess, unlatching your lips from hers.

"please don't go on that date." she begs.

you push her back down against her pillow. "i won't." you straddle her waist and lean in to capture her lips again. you deepen the kiss as paige's hands start to get handsy.

“i always thought i wasn’t good enough for you. that my status wasn’t good enough.” you confess, leaving a trail of kisses down her neck.

she sits up and lays against the wall, shifting you to straddle her core.

“fuck, it’s always been you—i’ve always just wanted you and nobody else.” paige lets out a shaky breath.

you tug at her shirt—silently asking for permission in which paige removed her shirt, leaving her in a sports bra.

you smile and take in the sight. “thinking about all the times i dreamt of having you like this and it’s actually happening.” you laugh nervously, looking down.

paige gently lifts your chin with two fingers, the sight of you looking up at her for mercy causing her arousal.

“it’ll only happen if you want to. i need your consent.” paige says, just above a whisper.

you swallow hard and nod. “i do.”

paige lets go of your face and brings you back up for a couple more sloppy kisses. she helps you remove your clothes and she removes the rest of hers.

you take a moment before kissing paige again. “god you look so perfect.” she moans against your lips.

“you were carved by God.” you mumble, squeezinf her bicep for a moment.

“oh these?” paige smirks she takes her arms and flexes.

you roll your eyes with a smile. “you’re killing the mood.”

“oh yeah? let me show what kind of mood i can be in.” paige says, flipping you.

she lays you down and starts kissing down your bare skin. she stops—paying extra attention to your breasts. “let me show you what loving someone in secret does to one.”

she wraps her lips around one your left nipple—sucking gently.

you let out a soft moan, letting your head gently stroke her hair. paige lets go for a moment before taking the hair tie on her wrist and tying her hair up in her signature messy bun.

she return to your hot skin, going lower and lower until she gently spreads your legs wider. she looks at you with a loving look. “is this okay?” she asks.

you nod and paige wastes no time in kissing your clit before gently sucking on it. she shifts her hand so she can spread your slick around your folds.

you feel her actions starting to cloud your mind as you let out soft sounds. her name falling upon your lips and praises sounding like music to paige’s ears.

paige licks a stripe, basking in your taste before going head on and flicking and flattening her tongue against your cunt.

your pleas and moans getting louder.

at some point you started whimpering, begging her to push you over the edge.

after a while you grip her hair. “fuck i’m close. paige don’t stop. fuck don’t.” you try and close your legs around her head but she roughly pushes them back open.

you let out harsh breathes as paige shifts her actions to bring you the best and fastest pleasure. with a soft moan you let go, waves of pleasure jerking through your body.

paige helps you ride out your high and when you feel finished, she doesn’t stop.

“paige stop-“ you try flinching away but she holds you down.

“hold on baby, it’ll be alright.” she coos.

before you know it you’re riding another high, a knot snapped in your core as you shout out paige’s name once again.

paige climbs back up towards you and watches as you watch her lick your cum from her fingers. she leans i. and gives you a long kiss as you taste yourself on her lips.

“still going on that date?” she asks.

“not a chance.”

@spideygoop @numberonepartyanth3m @phoenix32711 @we2222 @sevikasleftbicep @em-nems @addymmt @swiftie4evr @fandoms-bythedozen @pathecat14 @victoria149796 @fiction67 @ctkvi @toad-stool

[lovewitchivy]

How I abandoned the state of scarcity in money and love for good

This is one of those posts where I really go deep, so grab your coffee or tea and settle in.

I wasn’t born into luxury. For a few years (before I ran away from home), I lived a pretty normal life. nothing was missing, but there was nothing extra either. Luckily, my paternal grandmother always had a great mindset when it came to money. From a young age, I was taught to always choose the best, even if it took longer. I learned about good foods, etiquette, clothing brands, etc. That shaped how I started to think even with small things. For example: if I’m buying body soap and there’s a better brand that costs 25 cents more, I’m choosing the better one. If I have $100 to spend on food, I’m not going to save it, I’m going to eat the best I can with those $100. If I can manifest my SP writing out a full love declaration, I’m not going to settle for a “hey.”

For me, the scarcity state was when I lived in a mindset of “safety.” I wouldn’t show love to my SP because I was scared it would seem like “too much” (which, by the way, is exactly why I lost him before I manifested him back). It was when I would choose what to manifest based on what felt smaller, even when I wanted the bigger one. It was when I dreamed small instead of going after what I actually wanted. “But Ivy, how do I know if I’m in a scarcity state?” Just ask yourself: are you manifesting what you actually want, or what you think is “more possible”even if it’s less than what you desire? If you can have anything with the law and nothing has weight, because this isn’t physics then why are you choosing the smaller option? Is it because you don’t feel capable? Or worthy?

I am God. You are God. Do you think God would settle for half of what He wants? Do you think God would pick a house or an SP that’s “just okay” because God Himself doesn’t feel worthy of something better? No. Like I’m pagan. I don’t buy cheap champagne for an offering, I buy the best champagne and put it on my altar. My altar is secret, no one sees it, it’s not about ego. God doesn’t need champagne or offerings, but that’s how I show gratitude. That’s how I show that even in the smallest details, I choose the best. And “the best” isn’t just about money it’s the best self-concept, the best care, the best bath, the best night’s sleep. When you become used to being the best within yourself, you won’t accept anything less because you’re not worthy of anything less. I’m not saying this is some technique. It’s not. This is a reflection, one that, if it lands, might change something in you forever. Something that never goes back to the way it was.

[leislibrary]

[skz] how they quietly show their love

genre: fluff, hyunjin's has an nsfw moment pairing: ot8 x reader lei's library masterlist!

The different ways in which they show up for you every day - this isn’t grand gestures of love, it’s the reliable comforts that build lasting relationships. 

Chan notices every little thing - whether it’s a new accessory you’re wearing, a change in your drink order, or a difference in your body language. Sometimes he knows what you need before you even do. He might not comment on it, but he’s always watching, always mentally cataloging ways he can love you better. Chan prides himself on taking care of you. For example, he keeps duplicates of your skincare and multiple of your outfits at his house, so you never have to worry about forgetting anything. His house is open to you any time, you don’t even need to let him know you’re coming over. He prefers it when you don’t tell him, actually. It makes him feel like you already live there. Even if he’s busy working, you can always rely on his unwavering stability.

Minho buys everything you need. He doesn’t consider it “spoiling,” per se. “Spoiling” is the lavish gifts he showers you in. This is just providing for you, as any good boyfriend should. When you began dating, you insisted that you had your own money and could pay for yourself. Each time, it was met with a variation of “That’s nice,” and Minho handing over his card. Now, you might as well not even bring your wallet when you go out - it’s not like you’ll use it. At some point, you notice a copy of his card has found its way into your wallet. Minho pretends he has no idea how that happened - “but now that it’s there, you should use it. All the time.” 

Changbin tells everybody that he’s yours. He’ll show you off to anybody listening. He keeps a folder on his phone of his favorite pictures of you. He’ll stare at the pictures when nobody’s around. It’s not his fault he’s so obsessed with you, he just keeps finding new things to brag about. His members almost know more about you than they do about him, with how often he’s talking about you. You’re his favorite subject. When he does actually talk to you instead of about you, he wants to hear everything - your little annoyances throughout the day, your thoughts on the new cafe you tried, and how badly you missed him. He could spend eternity listening to you and never run out of questions. 

Hyunjin says “I love you” like the words give him air. He’ll scream it from the rooftops, sure, but more often than not, you’ll randomly get texts saying I love you. He sends them when he misses you - which is every moment he’s away. He’ll whisper it against your skin. He’ll moan it when he slides in (what who said that). Of course, you return his affection. “I love you” becomes the most common phrase between you. “See you later my love, I love you” / “I’ll pick you up at 8, I love you” / “I love you. I had the worst day.”. Hell will freeze over before he lets you doubt his love. 

Han is never satisfied with just seeing you in person. He has to FaceTime you at least once a day or he might die. Especially if he doesn’t have anything specific to say. He just carries on with his routines, with the added benefit of having you with him. His heart warms from your company. Minho walks by the camera, aware he’s interrupting something, reaches around Han, and ends the call. Just to cause chaos. You’ll get multiple texts immediately after - one from Minho with an evil emoji, mostly from Han apologizing and promising to end Minho. 

Felix constantly needs to be touching you. You’re standing beside him? His arm is draped over your shoulders. Walking somewhere? He’s holding your hand. Sitting by him at a restaurant? His leg is brushing yours. And that’s just in public. In private, he’s casually laying his head on your lap. He’s hugging you from behind as you cook. You do the same when he bakes. His smile lights up the room when he feels your arms around his waist and your head lean against his back. You’re his sunshine, and he always needs to feel his sun’s warmth. 

Seungmin does not treat you differently than his members, on the surface. However, his love for you is obvious to anyone watching your dynamic. He will go out of his way to rile you up. His eyes always flit to you to check if you laugh at his comments. There’s always affection behind his teases, and he’s always smiling when you return it back. Others believe he’s not a fan of PDA, but that’s not necessarily true. He loves affection. He just prefers to keep your more intimate moments for his eyes only. In public, his hand will still find yours. He’ll state compliments like they are universally recognized facts - “Your hair is beautiful today. Is anyone else hungry?” Once one knows how to look, Seungmin’s actions loudly declare his love. 

I.N lets you cuddle against him. Actually, he pouts if he goes too long without it. The definition of “too long” changes all the time, but it’s always seeming to get shorter and shorter. He will purposefully sit near-touching-you-but-not-quite, just to feel you lean into his chest. Once you initiate, like clockwork, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in tighter. Everybody watching was shocked at first. However, as time went on, his behavior became the new normal. Hyunjin forms an “alliance” to let him cuddle the youngest at the same time - he knows I.N would never move away from him if you were there too. 

[swanpyart]

Honestly, there’s a lot of instances of the game where Jimmy’s intense rewriting of history really shows how delusional he is. And I don’t think these manifest from guilt, but from a victim-martyr complex: a lot of these are used to make himself look good to the audience, but the utter dissonance between these visions and reality make it terrifying instead.

1. The Birthday Party scene

It seems like something obviously scary, but it’s actually what Jimmy thinks his crew should do. He wants to be celebrated, wants to be admired, and up until he dies is still convinced he was just a well meaning guy who did his best. The party was not a guilt and fear ridden hallucination, but Jimmy deluding himself into thinking he’s the hero. His team should be thanking him and throwing him a party, even when they’re all dead by his own actions. In reality: there probably isn’t even any balloons or confetti, and all Curly sees is Jimmy and the rest of the corpses of the crew sitting at an empty table in a dark room.

2. Curly in the Chair attached to Wheels

The scene where Curly is attached to wheels that must be turned for his organs to sit right so you can feed him his leg is also a good example. This isn’t how bodies work, and Curly is a burn victim, so his internal organs being rearranged makes no actual sense; all of his health issues are external. No, this is what Jimmy thinks must happen; that Curly simply can’t keep down his food, and that all Jimmy needs to do is try harder to get him to eat it. Jimmy, in reality is probably just forcibly feeding Curly his own puked up leg chunk over and over again until Curly grows too tired to fight. And isn’t it like Jimmy to shove a square peg in a round hole and insist it’s the hole’s fault? Jimmy already has shown he’s perfectly fine with force feeding Curly already and is not afraid to get violent when doing so. The reality of that situation is that Curly was probably resisting as much as he physically could, but eventually grows too tired of the abuse and just gives in.

3. Swansea with an axe

And with Swansea, the entire sequence of Swansea chasing him around with an axe may be partially true, but a lot less even-sided in reality. Swansea was shown to have a temper, but killing Daisuke was horribly difficult and emotionally crushing, even if he wouldn’t admit it outright. Jimmy on the other hand clearly views Swansea as an axe wielding maniac who kills without remorse and wants to hoard the cryotank all to himself. I think Jimmy was hallucinating Swansea chasing him around, because I think it would be in character for Jimmy to witness Daisuke’s death at Swansea’s hands and, rather than think over his actions, instead become paranoid and fearful that Swansea would target him, too.

Cus think about it: while Swansea is bigger, he’s also a drunken old man whose grieving the loss of a kid he viewed like his own, while Jimmy is a comparar healthy younger man with a gun. Jimmy already has a track record for picking on those he sees as vulnerable (Anya being the only woman with her room not having a lock, Daisuke being the youngest and easy to influence, and Curly being physically disabled and unable to fight back). What’s more likely: that Swansea suddenly goes from sullen and mournful to an axe wielding maniac gunning for Jimmy’s blood, or that Jimmy is paranoid about an older grieving man and holds him at gunpoint to tie him to the chair?

Feel free to add more examples, this is fascinating

[borderlinereminders]

Apologizing when you’ve messed up without spiralling is so important for your relationships.

Messing up doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you human. And learning how to apologize with care, without guilt-tripping or panicking, is one of the best things you can do for yourself and your relationships.

Here’s some ideas of how to do this.

Pause and take a breath.

Before you rush in with “I’m sorry, I’m the worst, please don’t leave,” take a breath. Remind yourself that you’re not bad. You’re learning. You can handle this. And if needed, try a skill to prevent any urges.

Genuinely apologize with the intent to validate and show remorse, not to get reassurance.

A good apology isn’t about begging for reassurance. It’s about acknowledging your impact.

“I’m really sorry for what I said. I see now that it hurt you, and that wasn’t okay.” This is a great way to apologize instead of something like “I’m sorry I’m such a horrible person and you probably hate me now.”

The difference between these two is the second one makes it about you, and puts pressure on the other person to reassure you instead of sorting through their own feelings.

Apologies should be about acknowledging the other person and how you’ve messed up and not done just because you’re afraid someone will leave you.

Try not to be defensive.

Even if you didn’t mean to hurt them, what matters is that they were hurt. We often want to defend ourselves because we want the other person to know our intentions but sometimes this can come off as invalidating. The example I’m going to share below is a way to apologize to someone while still getting to share your intentions because while the apology is about the other person, sometimes we need to do this for our own peace of mind. This way of wording should still allow the other person to feel heard and validated while honouring your feelings.

“I didn’t intend to make you feel that way, but I understand that I did, and I’m sorry.”

Don’t make assumptions. Ask questions.

Instead of scrambling to fix everything or smother them with affection, try finding out what they need.

“Is there something I can do to make this right?”

“Do you need some space or want to talk it through more?”

Be patient.

You can apologize perfectly and still need to wait for the other person to feel ready to reconnect. That doesn’t mean you failed at your apology. It just means they need time and you’re strong enough to give it to them. And if they cannot forgive you, know that while they’re allowed to feel that way, it doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to forgive yourself.

You deserve to be heard too

Sometimes, we need to apologize for lashing out. And we’ve lashed out because we’re upset with the other person. While it isn’t okay to lash out, your feelings are valid.

It might be useful to use something like DEAR MAN to talk about an issue you might be having. And while this should be done after the other person is ready and has accepted the apology, it isn’t okay for them to keep throwing it in your face to avoid their own part in things.

You should apologize for your actions but you should not apologize for having feelings. Sometimes that can get confused. You might apologize for how you acted when you were upset, but you don’t owe an apology for being upset in the first place.

[honeytonedhottie]

shopping tips from a professional shopaholic⋆.ೃ࿔*:･👛💕

in this post im going to give you the rundown of my all-time FAVORITE activity… shopping! and i must say im quite the professional. i’ll be talking about navigating sales, identifying deals, and finding the CUTEST stuff that’s worth ur buck…💬🎀

GOOD DEAL VS. BAD DEAL ;

let’s imagine there’s a big sale going on. $5 for 10 basic tank tops that are so cute! but the quality isn’t very good. but it doesn’t matter cuz there r 10 different tops right? WRONG. quality > price ALWAYS, sometimes cheap isn’t a good deal if it won’t last. if it’s a reasonable price for good quality than it’s a good deal, but if u have to pay a pretty penny for good quality products it’ll be worth it in the long run.

when shopping for clothes think of investing in pieces that will actually get used. imagine ur looking at two super cute hand bags, one is $50 that you’ll prob wear like twice and that you don’t anticipate will last very long and the other is $150, it’s designer and it’s high quality and goes with more outfits.

the $50 bag worn twice = $25 per wear. not worth it.

the $200 bag worn 100+ times = $2 per wear. way more value for your money.

now THATS girl math. investing in well made pieces actually saves you money in the grand scheme of things. you’ll have go to pieces, so make sure ur thinking about you’ll be wearing the piece ur about to buy.

FINDING THE GOOD STUFF ;

when shopping i love to go to the mall or online shop but ultimately THRIFTING has my heart. i’ll find these super cute pieces or pieces with loads of potential that i have a vision for, and i’ll DIY it until it’s exactly what i want. that way i have original pieces in my wardrobe that no one else does. it makes me feel like a custom barbie doll 🎀

when shopping i gravitate towards clothes within my color palette (pinks, black, browns, creams). because i know my colors and my palette so well it’s easy for me to mix and match pieces and thinks blend easier. next i check the fabric bcuz even if a piece is cute, if it won’t last i don’t bother wasting my money.

another thing i always make sure to do is try on the piece before purchasing it because the fit is also important. i want the piece to flatter my proportions. another thing i take note of is unique details that elevate that the piece already has or that i can add. some examples include…

faux furs

rhinestones

cute ruffles

always browse beyond the mannequin displays. oftentimes the best pieces are hidden in the back of the rack or in sections you wouldn’t normally check. also, don’t sleep on the kids’ or men’s sections, they have good stuff there too!

NAVIGATING SALES LIKE A PRO ;

sales are such a blessing when u know how to navigate them correctly. when theres a sale make sure to ask yourself if you'd buy that same item at full price. if not, PUT IT DOWNNN. a discount literally means shit if the item is just gonna collect dust in ur closet.

also, know what a real sale is as opposed to a fake one, some stores mark up prices just to mark them down again. do ur research and compare prices to different shops to see if you’re actually getting a deal.

PRO TIP : holiday sales and end-of-season clearances usually have the best markdowns, so that’s when i go all out and stock up...👛💕

ONLINE VS OFFLINE SHOPPING ;

the perks of online shopping include :

better for finding exclusive pieces

online only discounts and promo codes

make sure to check the reviews for something before buying anything!

the perks of offline shopping include :

you can actually try on the pieces

you see the item in person, feel the fabric, its much more intimate and personal

impulse buys are typically less tempting

to get the best from both worlds i'll do some research before shopping in person to check the quality. if I love it, i buy it right then and there. iff it’s cheaper online, i'll order it online.

REWARD SYSTEMS AND MEMBERSHIPS ;

if ur a shopaholic TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MEMBERSHIPS AND REWARD SYSTEMS, especially from shops and boutiques that u frequent.

🎀 keep track of birthday and anniversary sales

🎀 subscribe to emails

🎀 sign up for store memberships

SOME OF MY FAVORITE ONLINE SHOPS ;

🛍️ i.am.gia

🛍️ shou shou cherry

🛍️ princess polly

🛍️ prty grl beauty

🛍️ depop

🛍️ poshmark

🛍️ pieces of porcelain

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

blessings

old man!Joel Miller x reader | wc 1.1 k | fluff mdni | ao3

summary: Joel's body is aching and so is his soul, but you make it all better or a domestic moment with Joel and you.

warnings: fluff without plot, no y/n, established relationship, unspecified agegap (think reader being around 30), Joel having bad joints but hey, he is 62 and alive, kisses, Joel being a cute grump, so many feelings, so much love, petnames (baby, darlin', angel)

notes: this is my attempt of making us all feel better. Joel will outlive me, thank you very much. a big kiss and thank you to my partner in crime fluff @guiltyasdave for writing with me today and beta'ing and being the best person 💛💛💛

The damp cold has been hard on him. Joel won't say a single word about it, he won't complain. But his face will twist when he moves, he will huff when the pain shoots through him, he will rub his knees and wrists and fingers without even noticing it. He'll seek the warmth a little more, when he can. Because the days on the construction sites are long, even longer when he only sits crouched over his desk. The wintery cold crawls closer every minute he broods over sketches or some tiny, tricky apparatus he wants to repair but can't, because his fingers are stiff and cold and he isn’t 40 anymore.

His whole body aches when he finally gets home. And all Joel wants now is a warm shower, a warm meal and your warm body against his. He feels like a burden, these days more than usual. This isn’t like it was supposed to be, he thinks when he hears you humming in the living room, some tune from 2003, a tune he was too old for even then. You are too young. Too kind.

“Hi baby,” you whisper into his good ear and wrap your arms around him. He grunts, frowning, a fake offended expression pronouncing some wrinkles on his face and smoothing others out. Baby. He likes that, likes being called that, likes being loved. A late blessing in his life.

“Don’t…” he mumbles when you hug him tight and burrow your nose deep into the collar of his flannel. He smells like fresh cut wood, dust, sweat, home. You inhale him deeply, sighing happily against his skin before you kiss him there. “I need a shower. Get off of me, nasty thing.”

Yet Joel stays put, his big paws and your arms make sure you keep on holding him a little longer. A week or a year, a decade if he dares to dream really big. He'd die a happy man today if the Lord decided that his time has come. But that doesn’t mean he wants to go. But if he had to, he’d know that he had another big love in his life. Lucky, that's what he is.

“Take a shower, then. And eat, there's soup.” You nuzzle a trail up his neck until you reach the grey scruff adorning his jaw and cheeks. It’s scratchy but soft, grey but virile, just like Joel himself. You kiss his cheek and hold your lips there until he groans again. It’s all part of the game, a game called Joel is grumpy, no really, he is when he is nothing but a loving man.

“Yes, ma'am,” he grumbles but there is a smile painting his timbre. “Thank you, darlin’,” he adds and gratefulness joins the smiley tone of his voice.

You sit with him, watch him eat because you already ate with Ellie. You serve him a side of the latest gossip, some youngins fooling around, breaking up in the middle of the street. He laughs and shakes his head, says something about how young love makes you do crazy things and when he looks at you – with your chin propped up on your folded hands, smiling at him – he is reminded that you are the same age as these young fools. You are more than grown up and an adult, you are a whole woman, have a whole story and lived a life before Jackson, but still, there are decades between you.

Young love really makes you do crazy things, loving an old man like him for example.

His stiff muscles and cold bones got a little better in the hot shower, and when he joins you on the edge of the bed he can feel the siren call of your warmth.

You can tell that he hurts. He never says a single word about it. But he hisses and grunts when he thinks you don't hear him. He curses his old bones and you spend your days lifting those curses, one by one, with kisses and caresses. You take the towel from him and continue drying his grey curls, knowing each one of them by name. You move behind him and dab his back dry, taking an inventory of his scars and spots and blemishes. Constellations, you think, and draw an invisible line to mark the Big Dipper he carries below his right shoulder blade.

Joel groans and shifts, both impatient for you to stop and not wanting you to ever stop. He shivers, the cold crawls over the hardwood floor and nips on his ankles.

“Need to lay down now, ‘m cold.” He tugs at the covers and you move to lift them for you and him. With a sigh he leans back, slowly – because his back is protesting – until he feels the mattress beneath welcoming him. The dips his body has carved into the worn material are hugging him but there is no warmth, just the promise of simple and plain sleep. But when your arms loop around him and your hands skim across his chest and arms? There is warmth. And he knows he will rest and recharge and recover.

His feet sneak closer to yours and his hands slip between your legs. You muffle your yelp against his shoulder and Joel sighs contently when the soft heat of your thighs starts seeping into his aching joints. When spring comes around, he'll be able to use his fingers on you again, differently, like he knows you're aching for. For now all he can do is soak up your care and love for him.

“You deserve better, darlin’,” he whispers between placing kisses on your temple, “Deserve someone your age, who can make ya happy and–”

“--still has a life to live and who can give me what I need,” you finish his sentence for him. “I know, I know. Ever considered that you are who I need? And want?”

Joel scoffs but he's smiling. Blessed, that’s what he is.

“Stubborn thing.”

“Just matching your energy, Miller.”

Another scoff and he's pulling one of your legs between his. Tangled, intertwined, not planning on letting you go, as long as he can manage to hold you by his side.

With your head tucked under his chin and your hand slowly rubbing his back, right where a scar sits and always makes his muscles knot, you close your eyes. He still smells like wood and musk, like what you've searched for for so long and found in his arms.

“Love you,” you murmur, tongue already heavy from the looming sleep.

“Love you the most, angel,” Joel answers and nuzzles the top of your head. Counting his blessings before he falls asleep. His daughters, his nephew. His brother and Maria. The people he loved along the way and still loves. And with you on his mind, as his last blessing, he drifts off.

I hope this could make you feel a little better on this Monday, please let me know know your thoughts, comments and especially reblogs are welcome! 🫶

general masterlist here

dividers: @/diviniyae