#hate it. and say mean things. i would cry?

[a-casxandra]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃

zayne x non-mc

Sypnosis : At Akso Hospital, love is tested beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and the weight of unspoken words. You and Zayne, a brilliant but distant surgeon, have spent three years together—balancing careers, love, and sacrifice. But when his childhood friend is admitted as a critical patient, lines begin to blur, and hearts begin to break.

In a world where timing is cruel and silence speaks louder than truth, one choice will change everything.

You and Zayne had been together for almost three years. Three years of shared dreams, late-night shifts, fleeting kisses between surgeries, and quiet mornings when neither of you had the energy to speak. Everything was good—or at least, that’s what you believed.

Both of you were surgeons at Akso Hospital, living under the same fluorescent lights and constant beeping monitors. The job was demanding. But love... you always believed love found time, no matter how busy.

Zayne Li—the top surgeon in the hospital. Ebony hair, hazel green eyes, and a presence so composed it unnerved others. Starcatcher Awardee. Unshakable. Cold, some would say. But not to you. You knew him differently. Knew the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly after losing a patient, or how he watched the sunrise like it was the only soft thing left in this world.

But lately, that softness was no longer yours.

It shifted.

To her.

To MC.

She was young. Sweet. Talkative. Friendly. His childhood friend. And now—a patient. When she arrived with a heart condition, Zayne took it upon himself to be her personal doctor. No one questioned it. Of course he would.

And you didn’t either. Not at first.

“You should eat more vegetables,” Zayne said, setting down a tray of food beside MC’s bed.

“Says the doctor who hates carrots.” She laughed, pointing at him with her fork. “And don't think I forgot you hoarded all the sugar packets in the lounge.”

You stood in the hallway watching them—his smile. The way he leaned a little closer. The way her fingers touched his wrist casually, familiarly.

Yvonne, manning the front desk, turned to you with furrowed brows. “Don’t you think they’re… too close?” she asked quietly.

You forced a smile. “That’s nonsense. They’re just friends…”

But the words felt like ash on your tongue.

One night, you walked into MC’s room with a folder in hand.

“Zayne, can I—”

You stopped.

Your world stopped.

His lips were on hers.

He pulled away instantly when he saw you. “This—this isn’t what it looks like.”

You stared blankly. Cold rushed to your limbs. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” you whispered, then turned away.

Zayne followed you into the quiet hallway. Midnight. Only a few nurses on night shift, none paying attention.

“[reader], wait, please—let me explain.”

“What is there to explain!?” you snapped.

“MC and I are just friends—” “It sure doesn’t look like that.” Your voice broke. “Do our three years together mean nothing to you?”

“No! Of course they do. I just—Please… don’t make me choose between you.”

That silenced everything.

You looked at him, tears trembling in your lashes. “Why? Because you’d choose her?”

And he said nothing.

MC’s condition worsened. The waiting list for a heart donor was long. Too long.

You saw her cry. You saw Zayne hold her, tell her he’d find a way.

And so, you made the decision for him.

“I have everything, don’t I?” you told Yvonne quietly, days later as you stood in the prep room. “I achieved my dream. I became a surgeon. I saved lives…”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe saving hers will be the last thing I do right.”

Yvonne choked back tears. So did Dr. Greyson. The nurses. All of them. Because they knew. They all knew what you were about to give up.

Six hours.

The operation was successful.

MC’s vitals were stable.

Applause echoed softly in the room—relieved sighs from nurses, notes scribbled into charts, another life saved. Zayne, still in his surgical scrubs, removed his gloves, sanitized, and walked out.

The first thing he asked was:

“Where’s [reader]?”

No one answered.

His eyes narrowed. He asked again. More firmly.

Greyson finally stepped forward.

“…zayne.. maybe you shouls follow me.."

Zayne was led into another room. The air felt wrong. Heavy. And then—he saw the surgical table. A body, still, beneath a white sheet.

And when the blanket was pulled away—

It was you.

It had always been you.

The donor.

The girlfriend he could never bring himself to choose.

Now gone.

Forever.

Zayne’s knees gave out beneath him. For once, the cold and stoic surgeon—broke.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗱

𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴.

Author's note : zayne's pov was already written in my draft actually hehehe. also, i'm still in the process of writing sylus's story. penny for your thoughts, regarding this story?

[bucketgetter535]

This is not a cry for help (but it might be) PART SIX

WC: 3k CW: Drinking ish? Notes: LOL what is up everyone. Plz send live reacts cause they're always so funny for this fic. Anywayssss enjoy. progress but slow. P is me.

Paige didn’t even mean to wake up early.

Actually, she was planning to sleep in. Like, full on cocoon in the blankets, hide-from-life, pretend-last-night-wasn’t-real kind of sleep. That was the dream. That was the move.

But of course her body was like nope! You’re a fun little ball of stress so enjoy waking up at 7:12 AM on a summer morning like a psychopath.

So now she’s awake.

And Azzi’s still asleep, which is probably a sign that the universe hates her. Because Paige is lying there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about how close Azzi’s face is and how her hand is still sort of half on Paige’s waist like it lives there now.

She carefully (very carefully) gets out of bed.

Azzi shifts a little, but doesn’t wake up, which honestly feels unfair. Paige’s heart is still going dumb in her chest. Like she didn’t just wake up from the most ridiculous, intense fever dream ever. Like she didn’t fall asleep feeling… whatever that was.

Anyway.

Downstairs.

Katie is already there. Already dressed, already moving around the kitchen like a sitcom mom, flipping bacon and humming something that sounds suspiciously like one of those country songs Paife doesn’t really like.

“Morning,” she says, all bright-eyed and unbothered. Like it’s normal to have this much energy before 8 a.m.

“Morning,” Paige croaks, voice hoarse and slightly guilty sounding.

Katie smiles. “Hungry?”

Paige scratches her head. She’s still in her Azzi’s T shirt and whatever shorts she pulled on before leaving the room. Her hair’s a mess. She’s blinking like a mole seeing daylight.

“I mean… I guess,” she says. “Like… I could be?.”

Katie raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like a ‘no, but I know I should say yes so you’ll stop asking’ kind of answer.”

Paige flops into a kitchen chair. “Wow, you’re good.”

“I’m all knowing,” Katie says. “It’s a skill set.”

Paige rests her forehead against the table dramatically. “Can I get a pass for today? I had a long night.”

Katie snorts. “You’re fifteen. Your definition of ‘long night’ is probably giggling under the covers and watching TikToks.”

“Yup,” Paige says, because absolutely not. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”

Katie plates eggs and bacon like she’s feeding an army. Or a teen athlete. Which… yeah, okay.

She sets it in front of Paige and pours a glass of orange juice like the food police.

Paige stares at the plate. It smells good. It’s too good. “I usually skip breakfast,” she says, almost apologetic.

Katie’s already flipping the next round of eggs. “Not in this house.”

“That’s aggressive.”

Katie points a spatula at her without even turning. “So is hypoglycemia.”

Paige raises her hands. “Okay, okay. Geez. It’s like I’m in detention.”

“You’re in a kitchen.”

“Same thing,” Paige mutters, stabbing at an egg. “One just has better lighting.”

Katie smiles at her over her shoulder. “Eat, Paige.”

So she eats.

She eats because saying no would feel rude, and because it actually tastes kind of amazing, and because even though she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s starving.

They sit in this quiet kitchen rhythm for a while. The house is still. The sun’s barely up. There’s birds outside and whatever else people say when they’re in the woods and pretending life’s not complicated.

Paige kind of likes it.

Which is annoying.

Katie glances over at her as she refills the coffee pot. “You sleep okay?”

Paige shrugs, chewing bacon. “Define okay.”

Katie doesn’t push it. She just hums and hands her another slice of toast like Paige is a project she’s already committed to finishing.

Paige eats that too. Because whatever. She’s here now.

“You’re wild,” Paige says eventually, gesturing with her fork.

Katie gives her a look. “Because I fed you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess that’s ok.”

Paige hides her smirk behind her juice glass.

She doesn’t say thanks.

But she eats every bite.

–

Okay. Here’s the thing.

Paige Bueckers has a long-standing, private, and very justified vendetta against swimming.

It’s not that she can’t swim. She can. She learned when she was five, thank you very much, in a chlorinated YMCA pool that reeked of bleach and childhood trauma. But she just doesn’t like it. Never has.

Maybe it’s the way her hair sticks to her neck. Maybe it’s the stupid way swimsuits always feel too tight or too loose, but never actually right. Maybe it’s the water. Or the sun. Or the entire concept of recreational wetness.

Point is—Paige is not a swimmer. She’s a hooper. She belongs on the court, not floating around like a dumb leaf in a lake full of fish poop.

But here she is.

In a lake.

With Azzi.

And Azzi’s brothers, who have been cannonballing off the dock for the last twenty minutes like they’re trying to flood the whole state.

And Azzi. Let’s talk about Azzi for a second.

Because Azzi is in a bikini. A purple one.

And it should be illegal.

Like genuinely, someone should call the authorities. Because Paige is trying her best to survive this absolutely blinding amount of hotness while treading water and pretending she’s not seconds away from drowning in feelings.

Azzi’s laughing and splashing her brothers and then wiping water off her face like she’s in a slow-mo summer movie scene, and Paige has never felt more like a soggy rat in comparison.

Her sunblock is already failing. Her legs are too pale. Her hair feels gross. And she’s fairly certain there’s a piece of seaweed stuck to her ankle.

“Why are you standing like that?” Azzi calls, chest-deep in the water, grinning like a demon.

“Standing like what?” Paige shouts back.

“Like you hate this!”

“I do hate this!”

Azzi just laughs. Tosses her hair back and floats on her back like the most graceful human to ever exist.

“Come here,” she says.

“No.”

“Come here,” Azzi says again, voice playful but threatening.

Paige swims over like a loser.

They float near each other, and Azzi bumps her foot against Paige’s under the water, which is so casual and also not casual at all.

Azzi’s brothers are still yelling about something. Probably who cheated in their splash war or who’s banned from holding the pool noodle. Paige has tuned them out.

Azzi leans in a little. “I’m hungry.”

Paige squints. “We literally ate like two hours ago.”

“I know,” Azzi says, dead serious. “But I’m still hungry.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Come get snacks with me.”

“No,” Paige says immediately. “We’re wet."

Azzi tilts her head. “So?”

“So the inside is are dry and I’m not about to walk inside like a wet sandwich.”

Azzi raises her eyebrows. “Wow. You’re dramatic.”

“I’m realistic,” Paige says, treading water like she’s on trial. “Also this lake is cursed. My foot touched something and I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Azzi is so not listening. She’s already swimming toward the ladder. She glances over her shoulder and calls out, “Paige.”

“What.”

“Come get snacks with me.”

And Paige groans because she can’t say no. She literally cannot. Even if Azzi didn’t just do the over-the-shoulder look like she was in a Disney Channel original movie, Paige would’ve followed her anyway.

“Fine,” she says, dragging herself out of the lake like a half-drowned cat.

Her swimsuit sticks in all the wrong places. Her hair drips straight down her back. Her foot crunches on the gravel and she knows her face is red from sun or blushing or both.

Azzi waits for her with a towel and that face. The one that says I know you’re annoyed and I’m enjoying every second of it.

Paige grabs the towel. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate swimming.”

“Fair.”

“I hate wet clothes.”

“Understandable.”

“I guess the snacks are alright though.”

Azzi grins. “Mhm. THat’s what I thought.”

They walk inside dripping water everywhere. Paige leaves footprints on the hardwood. Azzi heads straight for the kitchen, opens the fridge like she lives there (she does), and tosses Paige a juice pouch.

Paige catches it. “Are we five?”

“Yes,” Azzi says. “Now drink it.”

Paige does. Because it’s cold and fruity and actually slaps. She leans against the counter in her wet swimsuit, juice in hand, and side-eyes Azzi.

“You in that bikini is actually a hate crime.”

Azzi looks over her shoulder, deadpan. “File a report.”

Paige takes another sip. She’s not even sure if her heart rate is from swimming or Azzi anymore.

Probably Azzi.

Definitely Azzi.

–

The thing about sunburns is that they don’t hit all at once.

No, they sneak up on you. They let you float around in your false sense of “maybe I actually tan now” security. Let you feel like maybe this time will be different.

And then they burn you alive.

Paige feels it first when she’s drying off after her shower. That tight, itchy stretch across her shoulders. Her arms feel like they’ve been microwaved. Her nose is pink. Her neck’s mad at her. Her face is just straight-up betrayal.

Honestly, it’s deserved. Paige vs. The Sun has been an ugly rivalry since birth.

Azzi had already passed out the second they got back from the lake, full-on snuggled into her pillow like she didn’t just look illegal in a bikini all day. Paige wanted to say something dumb to her before crashing, but it didn’t happen. Azzi was too cozy, too asleep. So Paige just showered, changed into her comfiest oversized tee, and tiptoed her way downstairs in search of cold water and peace.

She’s halfway through grabbing a glass when Katie rounds the corner like she’s been waiting.

“Oh honey,” she says.

Paige freezes. “What?”

Katie points at her shoulder. “You’re toasted.”

“I’m fine.”

Katie gives her a look that says absolutely not, try again.

Paige sighs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Paige. You’re medium-well at least. Come sit.”

Paige shifts uncomfortably. She tugs her shirt down like that’ll help.

Katie already has the aloe out. Like she was born with it in her pocket or summoned it from the mom void. Paige considers arguing again, but honestly she hurts and standing sucks and she’s tired.

So she sighs and sits.

“I’m not taking off my whole shirt,” she says quickly.

Katie sits beside her with the aloe. “You’ve got a bra on, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then it’s fine. I saw you in a swimsuit three hours ago. I just want to put some aloe on it, okay?”

That somehow doesn’t make Paige feel better, but she pulls off her shirt anyway, wincing as the fabric tugs against her shoulder blades. She keeps her arms tight to her sides. Feels very aware of everything.

Katie is gentle. Like annoyingly so.

The aloe is cold, but it’s a relief. And Katie doesn’t say anything at first—just rubs the gel in careful, slow circles over the worst spots. It stings a little, but Paige isn’t gonna whine about it. She already feels weird enough.

She stares at the kitchen tile and pretends it’s not vulnerable or whatever.

She’s mid-thought when her phone buzzes on the counter.

It’s her dad.

Of course it is.

Paige flinches without meaning to. Her whole body goes still.

Katie pauses. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Paige says automatically, grabbing her phone. “I’ll—uh—I’m just gonna take this outside.”

Katie nods once, already back to capping the aloe. Paige pulls her shirt back on, not meeting her eyes, and practically escapes to the porch like the house is gonna explode.

The swing creaks when she sits.

“Hey,” she says into the phone.

“Paigeeeyyy,” her dad says.

And that’s… not great.

He’s slurring a little. Talking fast and slow at the same time. His words loop, like maybe he’s trying to sound casual but forgot what sentence he started three words ago.

She knows this version of him.

It’s not even the worst one. Just the one that makes her stomach twist.

“You home yet?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, looking at the trees. “Been home. Then came up here. Remember?”

“I miss you.”

That makes her blink. “Okay.”

“Tell Drew I love him,” he adds suddenly, like it popped into his brain mid-rant.

“You could tell him yourself,” Paige says. “He’s with you.”

But her dad’s already moved on. He’s rambling about the lake cabin they used to rent when she was little. About her mom, randomly. About how this whole thing with “her”, which means his wife, or ex-wife, or enemy number one, or whatever, “isn’t fair.”

Paige goes quiet.

She just sits there, half-listening, half-fading out, watching the trees move in the breeze. They’re green and soft and kind of blurry. It should be nice.

It’s not.

Eventually her dad says, “Alright. I’m gonna go, kid. Love you.”

Paige doesn’t answer right away.

“Paige?”

“Yeah. Love you too,” she says, and it sounds fake even to her.

He hangs up.

She sits still for a while. The porch swing creaks again. Her chest feels too full. Her throat feels too tight. She doesn’t cry, but it’s close.

Then the door creaks open and Katie steps out.

She’s got a glass of water and that look. The one that says I’m not gonna make you talk, but I’m here if you want to.

Paige wipes at her nose even though it didn’t run. Just to feel something.

Katie hands her the glass.

“Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Paige snaps.

Katie just sits next to her. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lecture.

They sit in silence for a bit. Paige sips her water. The woods are still moving.

She says it before she even decides to say it.

“My dad’s not doing great.”

Katie glances over.

“And I mean like, not great. Like spiraling and weird phone calls and barely holding it together and I think maybe drinking again but I’m not sure and I don’t wanna accuse him of stuff but also I’m not a little kid.”

Katie doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react.

“And it’s been loud at home. Like… bad loud. And I know I’m lucky to not be there but my little brother is there, and I don’t know how to help. And I feel bad being here. But also I don’t want to be there. Like, at all. So I feel double bad. And also I think I might like girls. Which is… not related but still a problem. I guess. I don’t know.”

She laughs, short and sharp and hollow.

Katie just hums. “That’s a lot, kiddo.”

Paige leans back against the swing. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

Paige shrugs. “You kinda Jedi mind-tricked me into it.”

Katie smiles. “I have secret mind control powers. It’s a thing.”

Paige looks at her. “I thought Azzi made that up.”

Katie shrugs. “She did. But I like it.”

They sit there until Paige finishes her water. The sun’s going down now.

Katie stands up eventually and ruffles Paige’s hair before she heads back inside.

Paige leans back, watching the trees some more.

And for once, everything’s kind of quiet.

–

The room is quiet when she comes back upstairs.

Azzi’s still in bed, curled toward the window, blanket all bunched up under her chin like she didn’t just spend the afternoon being hot and chaotic and bikini-evil. Paige stands there for a second in the dark, watching her breathe, trying not to think about the porch swing or the phone call or how her whole body feels like it’s made of too much.

Her sunburn still stings. Her throat’s tight again, which is fantastic. She’s tired but not tired. You know?

She climbs into bed gently. Like quietly-lower-yourself-gently, blanket-tug-silent-exhale kind of gentle.

Azzi stirs the second the mattress shifts.

Like of course she does.

Paige freezes. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

But Azzi already reaches out, eyes still half closed. “You’re back,” she murmurs, and she’s already moving closer, sliding an arm around Paige like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Paige flinches. Just barely. But it’s enough.

Azzi’s hand brushes her shoulder and Paige hisses.

“Ow—sorry—”

Azzi pulls back immediately, blinking awake now. “Shit—sorry babe—”

Babe.

Babe?

And then she kisses Paige’s shoulder. The unburnt part. Soft. Just once.

And Paige’s whole brain short circuits.

Because what the hell. Who does that? Who says that? Who kisses people so gently they actually feel like crying?

It’s not like a big kiss. It’s not flirty. It’s not anything but real.

And Paige is… she doesn’t do that. She’s sarcastic and annoying and full of noise. She doesn’t just…get touched like this.

“You alright?” Azzi whispers.

And it’s a real question. Not one of the dumb ones like everyone keeps asking. It’s not like you okay? like a formality. It’s soft. It’s asking in a different way. Like Azzi can feel something on her.

Paige blinks up at the ceiling and does not cry. She doesn’t. But her eyes sting a little, and she breathes weird for a second.

“I’m fine,” she says.

Azzi doesn’t believe her. Obviously.

“Your back’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

Azzi hums. Her hands trail lightly across Paige’s back, carefully avoiding every place that might sting. She doesn’t press. Just lets her fingers move slow and steady, like she’s tracing Paige’s heartbeat through her spine.

Paige exhales into the pillow. Her whole body starts to un-tense. Not all the way. But some.

She doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t say anything at all for a while.

Azzi just holds her.

One hand on Paige’s waist. One hand moving in lazy shapes on her back. Her forehead pressed against Paige’s shoulder like she belongs there.

And Paige? Paige stays really still. Because if she moves, she might cry. Or scream. Or say something stupid like I needed this more than oxygen tonight.

And like, she knows it’s dumb. It’s just Azzi. She’s just being nice. But it feels like something more. It feels like..

Like like? 

Being in-like?

Paige’s chest doesn’t hurt as much now. And her skin still burns, but a different kind of burn, the kind that’s actually kind of okay.

[nofilterwaterfilter]

also on the voice thing, we all know kris is one of the most autism coded characters to ever exist, but i really do love everything that both routes of chapter four when taken in conjunction told us about kris, being nonverbal, and how that's not painted as a bad thing?

it's pretty common i've seen for silent protagonists to be headcanoned as nonverbal autistic, but i think this is the first time i've seen it be explicitly canon, and also have it be pretty intrinsic to the narrative?

and like no, kris isn't entirely nonverbal, they do speak occasionally. but deltarune in general, and particularly ch4, paints a very strong picture of someone who (at least when they have control over their own voice) does not use words as their primary method of communication

like you can start with quiet people piss me off, or the fact that music is such an important avenue of self expression for them (made all the worse when they're not in control). noelle in ch1 asks if kris is okay when the player asks her the same background/lore questions we can ask everyone, because kris talking this much pings immediately as wrong to her. then there's everything we know about kris as a kid, and how yeah they had a bit of a mean sense of humor, but also pranks and fucking with people was a very good way for them to get attention without having to talk at all

noelle's story of the ferris wheel if you listen to all her and susie's dialogue in dess' room sticks out to me for this, and i really do love that anecdote. noelle mentions she and kris were pushed into riding the ferris wheel together as kids, she didn't really want to be there. and kris didn't say anything the whole time, for the first half they were just looking out the window. but then they decided to jump up and down and shake the entire capsule, and that's when they turned to noelle and smiled. susie goes "is that good or bad?" in response to that story and noelle says she doesn't know, but it's one of the things that gets kris' attention! and whether you believe that they were doing it to freak noelle out or because they also thought this was dumb and wanted to make it more fun for both of them (noelle isn't sure which it was either), that is how they communicate!

and when they do use words. this is the bit that makes me most emotional - noelle in weird route describes kris' voice as deadpan and mumbly. they don't like being loud, they don't talk very often, and they really struggle with inflection. all things that are normally criticisms when directed at autistic people, they're stuff autism moms use to justify their "i know my real child is in there somewhere" bullshit. but when noelle hears it again from soulless kris for the first time since the soul stuff started, she starts crying over how much she's missed hearing them talk. the soul (as we know from a variety of susie and noelle conversations) is louder, more charismatic, more confident and articulate, and it's not kris. so all those traits that are normally things autistic people get told to be more, are explicitly condemned by the narrative

and that's what makes kris being largely nonverbal such an excellent additional dimension to their story. because everything the soul does, at least in the normal routes, pretty much aligns with how people are expected to behave? kris under our control has a great social life, has friends, is likeable, isn't weird and hard to understand. and a crueler person, the kind autistic people have to deal with far too often, would say "well it's good we gave them a voice, they're not using theirs anyway"

but that's what makes it evil! it doesn't matter if kris is the kind of autistic that everyone hates, if there are things about them that don't fit in with society but that they either can't or don't want to change. their life and their voice, as infrequently heard as it is, is still theirs. and they deserve the freedom to use it however they want to

[rainrot4me]

i love your stuff so, so much! i always forget that creepypasta is a dead fandom so going to look for content on it is a literal fight

with that said, everyone always forgets about clockwork being an artist... do you have anything on her being an artist? i don't even care what at this point

AHHHHAHHAAH YES. These are copied straight my my headcannons doc I’ve had open on Nat, forgive if there are typos.

── .✦

Mixed media queen. Clockwork isn’t loyal to just one art form. She has a sketchbook filled with everything—graphite sketches, inky anatomy diagrams, charcoal-streaked pages, bits of pressed flowers taped next to journal entries. She’ll get fixated on embroidery one week and blood-red watercolor the next.

Uses art to process. She doesn’t talk much about what she went through—being tortured, changed, reborn into violence—but you can see it in her work. Shaky hands rendered in ink. A self-portrait where one eye is normal and the other is an open wound with gears blooming out of it. A girl floating underwater, peaceful, and alone.

Paints on her walls. Her room in the Mansion isn’t cutesy or edgy—it’s hauntingly beautiful. Splashes of oil paint across the wall. Tall figures with blurred-out faces. A whole corner is filled with clocks she’s half-painted and never finished, like time is melting there.

Surprisingly delicate with fine detail. Her hands may be stained with violence, but she’s so careful with a brush it’s almost reverent. Fine linework. Gentle shading. She loses herself in the tiny motions. You’d never think the same fingers that can crush a windpipe could also thread a needle or paint eyelashes.

Art is her version of crying. Nat doesn’t break down or rant or scream when things get bad. She sits down, turns off the world, and draws something with shaking fingers until it hurts less. Headphones turned all the way up, too.

Tried realism, hated it. She doesn’t want things to look “real.” She wants them to feel true. That means strange perspectives, dreamy colors, disjointed anatomy, like how memories look when they’ve been replayed too many times. The realest her art gets is in sketches of scenery or random anatomy studies she does of Toby. She has dozens of blurry, smudged sketches of Toby aiming her shotgun or asleep in the back of her truck.

Embroidery on leather jackets. Sometimes she gets hyperfixated on textiles. She’ll sew into the sleeves of her clothes: anatomical hearts, broken hourglasses, hands reaching toward each other but never touching. The texture calms her, the needle in and out. A rhythm she can control. Any excuse to patch up the tears in her jeans with pretty colors.

Art with violence woven into it. Not in a creepy edge-lord way, but in the way that says: I have seen pain. I am made of it. Let me show you, safely, on paper. There’s a sacred honesty to her darkest pieces. They say what she can’t.

Would 1000% give a handmade sketchbook as a gift. She binds it herself. Stitches the spine. Maybe even adds little doodles or notes in the margins:

“Sketched some while I was away. You can look if you want.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[demothers-empty-blog]

Du bist Perfekt

I recently got this ask stating they’ve been feeling quite insecure about their body as of late. That’s okay. We all have off days, we are our harshest judges. The best thing we can do when the going gets tough is reach out and try to see things from a different perspective. Hopefully, this way, you might see yourself in a better light.

I love you, and you are loved.

The dress you’ve been eyeing doesn’t fit again. God, what would it take for you to gain a little bit of weight? Not much, just enough for the fabric to stop hanging off your shoulders, maybe give it something to cling on.

You hate this sticky feeling in your chest. Staring in the mirror provided in the stall, you try to make it work. Maybe if you pin this here… no, no, that won’t do. Maybe like this? Or like that?

You pinch the ends of the dress, making it tighter around your waist and chest area, but you’re left unsatisfied with the outcome.

A sigh leaves your lips, frustration is such an ugly feeling. You don’t want to cry but it’s coming, those burning tears. It doesn’t stem from sadness, doesn’t feel as relieving. It’s blunt, you feel stuck, like nothing’s changing.

You yearn for natural curves, something to add to your figure, maybe you wouldn’t feel as invisible.

Envy is an evil little worm, the thought that pops in your head is an unwelcome guest.

“Intrusive thoughts are not you,” you affirm, quickly wiping away the few tears that managed to slip halfway down your cheeks.

You’re tired of baggy hoodies and jeans that need belts or else you’ll be flashing every passing soul on the street with your pants around your ankles.

“Schatz?” You hear a voice calling from beyond the stall.

You must’ve taken too long. König’s sense of timing is, well, jarring sometimes.

You swing the dress over the door, “It doesn’t fit…” you mutter, voice almost undetectable. König doesn’t miss the disappointment in your lowered tone.

Your pain is his, he’s disappointed with you and it chips away at his heart. König wants you to shine like he knows you can.

Today was an unsuccessful trip for clothes but your boyfriend did not allow the day to end with a frown on your face. He guides you out of the store and to your surprise, he actually managed to find his way past the many stores scattered throughout the mall.

And found the ice cream place.

A little treat wouldn’t hurt. He presses a kiss to your cheek and your lips automatically curl up into a smile. “There’s my girl,” he says with a pleasant rumble in his chest.

Once home, König lets you settle yourself on his lap while he lets some show drone on in the background. Neither of you are really listening.

“I really liked that dress…” you finally say, not realizing you’d voiced your thoughts out loud until König responded.

“Couldn’t get it?” He asks, cautious. You give a shake of your head.

“…didn’t fit.”

König laughs and you shoot him a mean glare. His eyes widen exactly like he does when there’s been a misunderstanding.

“Nein—Nein, my love. I am not making fun,” he’s quick to say, hastily pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I am simply… erm, was ist das Wort? Relating.”

You feel him shift awkwardly on the couch and you fall further into his lap. König rests his head over yours, wrapping his arms around you tight. It’s lovely, this warm feeling. He engulfs you in this hug and you’ve never felt safer.

He just wishes he can protect you from your mind too, because who better to relate than the anxious king himself?

“Don’t overthink,” you hear him say from above. “We can struggle to find clothes together.”

There is a brief pause in the conversation, both of you needing time to gather your thoughts.

“…do you like you?” He asks.

“I like me.” You answer, “I just… wish I was a bit different is all.”

It was his turn to let out a sigh. It’s another beat of silence before he speaks again. “I suppose, it depends on how you feel, mein Schatz. Do you want to bulk, we can start a meal plan?”

The thought of eating more than you should makes you a smidge nauseous. You want to enjoy your meals, not eat as a chore.

“Burgh… no thank you.”

The conversation fizzles out and you two end up watching a bit of the show. It was okay, it’d be better if you didn’t hear commentary from yours truly every five minutes.

It’s a damn lie that König doesn’t like to yap or keep things short, that man is passionate about his rambling.

When he opens his mouth again, you cringe internally and brace yourself for another rant but instead, König was still thinking about your earlier conversation.

“You know that I love you?” He starts, making sure you’re listening carefully by tilting your head up to meet his face full of concern and a deep love words fail to describe.

“Ich liebe dich. Doesn’t matter when, or what size you come in. Won’t change the fact that I love you. I don’t want you being uncomfortable with yourself. I want you to thrive. The way I see it… you have to lean into your strengths. You are nimble, elusive… graceful. I can never be able to disappear into a crowd or squeeze myself in and out of tight spots.”

He almost seemed like he longed to be like you, be invisible for once. For him, it was a good thing. No attention, no eyes on him, no judgment.

But comparison is the thief of joy.

König is glad you are different. The world would be quite dull if we were all the same.

“Be you, Schatz. It’s who I fell for.”

[paperstorm]

thanks for the tags @henrygrass @pimento-playing-hopscotch and @annoyingcloudearthquake!

“Baby, what are you doing?” TK’s voice asks, soft and concerned.

Carlos shakes his head. He can’t explain it, but he’s also not sure he can get up from the floor. He tries, but the signals from his brain misfire and his limbs stay motionless and heavy. Without looking up, he asks, “Just give me a minute, okay?”

He prays TK will listen. Ideally, TK would just nod and agree and walk away, go have a quick shower or unpack his work bag or something and leave Carlos to wallow in misery unwitnessed for a few minutes so that by the time he comes back Carlos will have managed to pack all this back up and they can just pretend it never happened.

It’s a silly thing to hope for, Carlos knows that. If there’s one thing he knows – and ultimately, loves – about TK Strand, it’s that he rarely does what people want him to do.

“Carlos,” he says again, voice a little closer. “Why are you …”

He trails off, and even though Carlos is neither touching him or looking at him, he can feel the moment when TK gets it.

“Oh,” he whispers, and Carlos clenches his jaw and wants to cry.

“Just give me a minute,” he says again, this time through gritted teeth. Maybe TK will listen if he understands how much Carlos needs it.

Slowly, TK steps toward him. Out of the corner of his eye Carlos can see TK’s jeans moving as his legs bend and he lowers himself down, crossing his legs once he’s on the floor and leaning back against the kitchen cabinets with Carlos.

“I’ll give you as long as you need,” TK murmurs, reaching out to take Carlos’s hand and thread their fingers together. “But not alone. You’re not alone.”

Carlos shudders through an exhale. As always, it’s sympathy that threatens to break him more than anything else. Suddenly it’s as if that music is playing here in their home, a lively beat and jazzy trumpets blaring. The sweet smell of cookies is in his nose, his head throbs as if the wound is still fresh and oozing. It’s only for a moment and then it’s gone, but it’s enough to make Carlos want to curl in on himself and sob until his throat is raw.

“I’m having …” he begins, but the words get caught in his throat.

TK waits, patient and sweet beside him, stroking his forearm. He’s so steady, so kind and understanding and wonderful, and it puts a pit in Carlos’s stomach. He doesn’t want to need so much understanding.

He swallows, trying again despite everything inside him screaming at him to shove it all down and lock it all away and never admit it even to himself.

In a miserably shaky voice, Carlos closes his eyes and whispers, “I’m having trouble not seeing the inside of that kitchen. When I close my eyes.”

“Baby,” TK whispers back, fingers curling into Carlos’s long-sleeved shirt.

“I thought …” Carlos sniffs and chokes again, for a moment, on words he wishes he never has to say, “I thought maybe if I just sat here for a bit, against the cupboards like where she had me tied up, it might force me to face it, and then it might go away.”

TK exhales slowly. “And?”

Carlos shakes his head, screwing his eyes up and fighting back tears. “I can still smell her perfume.”

TK shuffles in closer, gripping Carlos’s hand tight enough to bruise and resting his head on Carlos’s shoulder.

“It’ll stop, I know it will,” Carlos says, assuring himself as much as TK. “I just need to keep trying.”

“You don’t need to do anything. Except let me sit here with you.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I told you. We’re getting married. That means you never have to be alone.”

Carlos sniffs and lets his head lilt to the side, temple resting against TK’s soft hair.

“You haven’t been cooking,” TK says softly.

Gritting his teeth, Carlos feels his whole body tense. He hates that it’s true. He hates that TK noticed. “I thought maybe I was playing it off.”

“You love cooking for me. Of course I picked up on it.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to – ”

“Baby,” TK interrupts gently. “I’m not asking you to start. Not if it’s bringing back bad memories. I just don’t want you to hide from me.”

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @hereghostslive @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @whatsintheboxmh

@afiendishthingynisba @chicgeekgirl89 @carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday

@rangersoup @ambernotember

@certifiedflower

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[femmesport]

Almost Something - Chapter Two

warnings: none besides language i suppose?? an: this is a bit jumpy, but i am just trying to set the pacing and build up the characters and friendships a bit. i have really appreciated all the love y'all have been showing this fic!! also, i literally needed amari to be in this fic so thanks for allowing me that 😭 wc: 3k

Merely a drink. That was all Paige had last night, and yet she woke up feeling like she had been hit by a freight train or two. Her head was pounding and her eyes were red rimmed with a disgusting dryness. A heavy nausea lingered in the back of her throat.

Paige was wholly and unequivocally fucked. Like harboring potential feelings for the one person she shouldn’t level of fucked.

Paige sighed and pushed herself out of bed as if her body weighed a ton. She barely was able to push her glasses up her face and winced as she truly was able to take a look around her mess of a room.

Walking out into the living room, Paige heard muffled conversations around the table. Upon her emergence, her friends stopped talking and their eyes settled on her in the sympathetic way that made her skin crawl.

“Good morning,” Paige headed to the cabinet grabbing cereal, “what time are you guys heading to practice?”

“P,” Caroline started and Paige couldn’t have that.

“I was thinking of heading out right after breakfast,” Paige hurried through pouring her cereal and adding milk.

“P,” this time it was Aubrey and far more firm, “sit down.”

Aubrey’s eyes point to the chair sitting across from them.

Paige sighed and brought her things to the seat slouching down and hoping for the floor to swallow her whole. She could do a lot of things but having her friends stare at her as if she were a fragile thing was not on that list.

“Listen, you can lie to yourself, you can lie to her, but clearly things are not getting better. You need an outlet, you need to tell us what is going on” Caroline explains in a firm yet soft tone.

Paige’s eyes drop to her bowl and the tears have found their way to her eyes again.

“I don’t know when it happened” Paige whispers out and her voice is so weak that she winces at the sound.

“I don’t know when I started feeling this way, or when she started meaning that much to me” Paige put her elbows on the table and pushed the palms of her hands into her eyes trying to hide.

“P,” Amari starts softly, “is it possible that it has always been that way?” Paige winces and lets out a sound that sounded an awful lot like a sob.

“I don’t know.. I don’t know” Paige whispers her voice laced thickly with raw wet emotion.

“I feel like the world’s worst friend, I am sitting here crying and hurt because my best friend is going out and trying things to experience happiness” Paige voices her feelings and Aubrey sighs at that.

“P, you know it is not like that. You are okay with her finding happiness but you can also want your own” Caroline offers gently.

The pity and gentleness of their tones rattles Paige to her core. Her stone walls are quickly falling apart.

“Listen, I just don’t want anyone to look at me differently or treat me like I am some delicate thing on the verge of breaking” Paige lifts her head and her eyes are red rimmed and filled with a bone deep exhaustion.

“You’re not different or on the verge of breaking” Caroline replies, “we’re just worried.”

“I know and it is unfair of me to hate that when I would be doing the exact same, but damn” Paige’s eyes attempt to convey the feelings that she can’t say.

The room is silent and her friends search her face for any kind of a sign that there was more that she would say. When they came across nothing, they did what they did best. They did normal.

“I have classes until noon,” Amari says, looking down at her watch.

Caroline nods and then directs her attention back to her breakfast. “We can leave for practice in thirty minutes, Aubrey and I were going to walk together. Want to join?” Paige nods and lets the world continue on around her.

Her morning remained relatively silent. The kind of silence that is heavy and loaded, but the silence no one is addressing. 

By the time they left for practice, the trio had only managed a few words and acknowledgements.

The silence around her was far more soothing than her brain which seemed to get louder and more unbearable by the time they walked into the locker rooms. The silence around her was shattered by the boisterous laughter and chatter that was filled by her teammates.

Paige tried to join in. She tried laughing with her teammates and joining in on meaningless conversations. She wanted so badly for everything to be and feel normal.

And, to her credit, it did work for a bit. That was all shattered as Azzi, her best friend, entered the locker room.

Paige had made eye contact and Azzi simply smiled before heading in her direction. Normal was only so possible when forced proximity was the reality. 

Paige had shot up from her seat at her locker. She tried to be normal when muttering something about stretches and shooting practice, but her voice sounded off to her ears and her teammates' eyes lingered a moment too long.

Azzi frowned but nodded while the rest of their teammates continued on.

Paige joined a few of the underclassmen on the court for their stretches before grabbing a ball. The ball felt like lead in her hands and her body felt disoriented. Paige had been known for her ball control and having a strong shot. Today, she noted, this would not be the case. Every touch on the ball was off, her hands lingered in the wrong spots, her feet would land off and a moment late.

More teammates were joining the court and Paige’s frustration was growing. Not doing well was one thing. Not doing well and letting everyone see it, well that was an entirely different beast.

Paige tried one more shot that simply hit the rim and rode around before falling to the side. She sighed and stepped off the court and towards her water bottle.

“My shot is shit today” she groans and she slouches into the chair beside KK.

“P Boogers has an off day,” KK smirks looking in Paige’s direction, “who knew it was possible?”

Paige huffs a laugh and looks up seeing Azzi across the court. Her shots were beautiful. The way she handled the ball and the grace she held was much like watching a performance. She was graceful and appeared weightless on her feet.

Azzi looked over after making a shot and just smiled brightly at Paige. Paige tried to smile in return, but her breath had caught and she is sure she looked more pained than anything else.

The moment is short lived before the team is being called over in groups to split off and run through drills. The intensity that comes with practice allowed Paige to breathe without the insistent hum of her brian working over time. 

The first drill allowed Paige to take a step back. She focused on her mindset and getting better footwork to make up for her struggling handles. Her efforts were clean and tight. It was almost impossible to notice anything wrong. Almost.

The next drill required her and Azzi to work together. Paige was fine. Really. Well, she was fine. 

She was fine until she made eye contact with Azzi. Azzi had her normal game face that was calm, fierce, and wholly unpredictable. Paige tried feeding the ball up to her, but the ball landed slightly left of where she intended. 

The touch wasn’t right for the play she had intended. Azzi noticed. She smiled reassuringly at Paige and they tried running it again.

This time, the ball went too far forward, and it was quickly turned over. Paige huffed out in frustration, but still, Azzi smiled. Though this time it was slightly strained.

The third time was by far the worst. The ball landed close enough to Azzi, but not with enough space for her to have a clean shot. Azzi quickly turned to pass the ball to Paige, and Paige was able to get a hand on it and turn it over to Sarah who was able to shoot.

“Thank God” Paige groans. This drill had been messy and she was feeling the frustration of it all.

“P, you good?” Azzi stepped up to ask with a concerned expression that showed she was just as frustrated, “you normally have a pretty good read on me, but that was all over the place.”

She wasn’t exactly wrong, but the idea that she didn’t have a good read on Azzi served no purpose except further upsetting Paige. “You were never making it down far enough” Paige sighs out deflecting.

Azzi’s face fell at that. “I am not the one with consistent turn overs here, let’s clean it up.” She walked away and Paige groaned out again.

Geno had called her over and she didn’t have time to linger on what Azzi was saying.

“Paige, what the hell was that?” he grits out, hands flailing in the direction of the court, “you two have some of the best chemistry, and now you guys can’t even complete a simple pass?”

Paige felt his frustration tenfold. She kept her head down but nodded with tight features. 

She had shut down and gone cold. Sensing he was getting nowhere, Geno goes into a monologue about completing beginner level passes without heads up your asses.

The rest of practice passed in a cold blur. Her handles were inconsistent, her footwork was messy, and her passes to Azzi had lost their touch.

Paige knew everyone had noticed. She knew Coach was watching her with a hardened expression and jaw tight, certainly planning an hour long film review. She knew Azzi had noticed and was just as frustrated.

When everyone began shuffling out of practice, Paige was the first to the locker room. When she was asked about recovery, she was quick to brush it off with promises of next time. Instead, she gathered her things, shoved on headphones, and headed out.

She still had about an hour before her first class, but if she sat still she would think. Even worse, she might do. So instead, she blared music in her headphones and walked to campus to grab some shitty food to focus on instead of staying in her head.

Campus normally had shitty food, but when you were suffering at the hands of your own mind, there was nothing that would be as awful as you felt. Paige knew this all too well.

As she was eating her low-quality food and trying to think about anything else, her phone buzzed.

Azzi: Hey, are we good?

Paige pauses. Her fingers hover over her phone. For once, she has lost all words for Azzi. How would she explain this at all?

Her brain runs through a million possible responses. 

Yeah, we’re good. Why wouldn’t we be? 

It is just me.

No.

I am going through it.

Instead, Paige sighs and locks her phone. She has nothing to say that wouldn’t lead to bigger conversations that she wasn’t ready to have.

Paige shifts her focus to finishing her shitty lunch and making her way to some communications class she signed up for at Azzi’s insistence that it was the best professor ever, seriously.

Class left Paige feeling just as drained. She spent most of the time berating herself in her head for not being able to focus. Her notes were disorganized jumbles with terminology she is pretty sure Azzi used.

They had been assigned a paper and Paige missed all of the instructions. As she packed up all she could do was hope it would be sent out in an email later.

She headed out of her class and failed to consider that Azzi knew her schedule and was also likely to have classes in this building. Immediately outside of the door waiting for her was Azzi.

“P,” she says firmly as Paige steps outside of the door and sighs upon hearing her name, she pauses but doesn’t turn around. She couldn’t.

“P,” Azzi tries again, wrapping her hand around Paige’s elbow trying to capture her attention.

Paige’s whole body tenses up. She pauses for a second and takes a deep breath before turning around.

“Hey Az,” she says with a forced smile, “what’s up?” 

Azzi frowns, “you’ve been ignoring me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Paige sighs, “I’ve just been stressed with school, training, and draft prep stuff. We’re good” Paige says with as calming of a smile as she could manage. It wasn’t fooling Azzi.

“Look, you’re my best friend. I know you’re lying to me right now” Azzi sighs and Paige swears she sees her eyes gloss over, “but also, you’re my best friend. I need to trust that you will tell me if something is truly wrong.”

Paige tries to smile reassuringly at Azzi, but her heart breaks. She doesn’t mean to be pushing her away or letting her think that it’s her fault. She doesn’t mean to lie or avoid. She just cannot handle any of this right now.

“I will tell you,” Paige says softly with a smile. Azzi returns the gesture and drops her hand from Paige’s arm.

“Hey, team hangout tonight” Azzi says with a bright smile after a moment of silence and Paige cannot help but smile in return.

“You guys planning hangouts without me again?” Paige grins at Azzi who lets out a genuine low chuckle. 

Paige’s heart sputters at the noise.

“You would be included in making the plans if you would start opening upperclassmen group chat again” Azzi jokes leaning in to bump Paige’s shoulder with her own.

“Yeah, yeah” Paige laughs and then more sincerely, “I’ll be there.”

Azzi smiles at Paige so softly that she couldn’t help but melt a little bit, “see you, P.”

Azzi wraps her arms around her best friend’s middle. Paige’s heart stops for a second and she freezes with her arms laying flat at her sides. Her hands quickly catch up to the moment and wrap around Azzi’s shoulders.

In the hug, she let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Before the team hangout, Paige decided to join Jana, KK, and Ice at the library for a study session. She had been in her head for so long now, that she had been neglecting her friendships and studies.

“Well, look who decided we were lucky enough to be graced with her presence” Ice smirks, looking up from her work and KK gasps dramatically with Jana joining in.

“Yeah, yeah. Here to put the student in student athlete or whatever” Paige jokes putting her book bag around the chair and grabbing out her computer.

“You’re better than I am,” Jana groans looking at her computer.

Paige does spend some time working through an assignment. At least she tried. But her mind wouldn’t stop wandering.

She couldn’t stop thinking about dark curls, brown eyes, and a smile that made her melt. It was honestly kind of ridiculous. She couldn’t last more than a few minutes without thinking about Azzi.

Suddenly she was thinking of every quiet moment between practices, every shared hotel room and the hushed moments of the night. She couldn’t stop thinking about the girl who has occupied her every waking thought for the past few months and her sudden interest in Tyler.

Paige almost groans at that mere thought of his name. 

After a few minutes of flat faced staring at a blank document, Paige snapped out of it and looked around to her teammates. She noticed that all of them were too engrossed in their work to notice her struggle.

She flips her phone over and sees no notifications, but knows she needs a break.

“Hey, I have a missed call. I’ll be right back” she stands up and the other three vaguely acknowledge her before returning to their work.

She finds a quiet room and opens her contacts. She finds who she is looking for and clicks the call button waiting through only a few moments of ringing.

“Hey Paigey,” the soft voices flowed through the speaker on her phone, “what’s up?”

Paige hears her dad vaguely say something to a coworker and then a door shutting on the other end.

“Hey, dad. I just wanted to call and chat, miss you” Paige explains gently and she hears her dad chuckle a little bit on the other end.

“Are you going soft on your old man?” her dad jokes and Paige just laughs, “we miss you too.”

“How is your training going?” he asks and Paige shifts into a more comfortable subject. She shares the strengths of the team and excitement based on the results of their previous games.

Her dad fell into comfortable conversation. He shared some observations he saw from watching the previous game. Paige was always grateful for the feedback and support of her family.

“You know who I am really excited to see this season?” he asks suddenly with a lot of excitement. Paige just hums.

“Azzi” her heart speeds up at the girl’s name, “she has been playing really well. It’s like she has something to prove. She’s going to kick some ass this season!”

At this point, Paige begins floating away from the conversation. Her concentration shifts and she can only think about what her dad said.

It’s like she has something to prove.

Right now, the only person Azzi is trying to impress is Tyler. Paige cannot handle the fact that if Azzi is playing really well or is trying to impress someone, it is likely the very guy whose name makes Paige’s skin crawl.

Refusing to entertain that thought any longer, Paige settles back into a normal rhythm with her father. They discuss upcoming games and breaks and try to work out times to come visit.

The call ends, as it usually does, with promises to keep in touch.

The end of the call allowed Paige a few moments to try calming her heart. She missed her family and would normally turn to Azzi in times like these. She knew this wasn’t possible in her current mindset.

Instead, she took a deep breath through her nose, tried blinking away the emotions, and headed back inside to the library. She would not let this distract her from the things that mattered most.

Please repost, like, and leave your feedback! Thank you!!! <33

-- tea ★’*•.¸♡

[vera-deville]

I am here with but one simple request, jack with a non-confrontational, socially anxious reader! it’s such a contrast with his own confrontational manner and lone-wolf nature that I think would be quite interesting to explore (๑>ᴗ<๑)

love your writing, keep up the good work ^_^ ♡

Louder Than Words 05/03/2025

Pairing: Jack Howl x Reader Word Count: 1,104 Warnings: N/A Gender: GN Tags: @qaxdea, @katzline Notes: Thank you so much! I really needed to hear that, and I'm so happy you enjoy my writing! Masterlist

You had always known that group projects were simply another nook of purgatory established to make life that much more devious to get through.

The very idea of them gave your stomach leeway to twist into anxious knots, constricting like a boa until you couldn't breathe anymore. It wasn't that you didn't like people (okay, perhaps a little), but it was more so that you didn't know what to do with them. The talking. The awkward "who's doing what" conversation. The silent tug-of-war when nobody wanted to take the lead, and everyone kept glancing around, waiting for someone to volunteer. You'd rather write five essays alone in a cave than do one group project with three strangers who barely remember your name.

So when Professor Trein announced a four-person Herbology research project, you nearly curled up under your desk and died on the spot.

And of course, fate - cruel, ironic fate - put Jack Howl in your group.

Jack, with his gruff voice and stone-faced demeanor. Jack, who didn't care if someone got upset when he said what he really thought. Jack, who had no problem walking straight into confrontation like it was a warm summer breeze.

You were going to die. Or cry. Possibly (most likely) both.

The rest of your group was rounded out by a loudmouth from Savanaclaw named Yulan, who had opinions about everything, and a sleepy Octavinelle student who you were 90% sure was just in it for the grade. That left you, nervous, anxious, and wouldn't-say-boo-to-a-ghost you, trying desperately to keep things from going up in smoke.

The first meeting went about as well as expected.

"I'm just saying, if we're talking about magical soil composition, we have to include the variant growth properties from the Scarabia greenhouse. That stuff is wild."

"Yeah, but that's not what the assignment's asking for," Jack cut in, arms crossed. "It says we need to focus on herbological integration in real-world applications, not theory."

"I am talking about a real-world application!"

"Not if you can't prove it," Jack said flatly.

Yulan slammed a notebook on the table. "You wanna bet?"

You could practically feel your soul saying goodbye to your body.

"Um...maybe we can, uh, do both?" You squeaked, almost whispering.

Neither of them heard you.

"Alright, I'm done arguing," Jack growled, standing up. "If you want to waste your time, go for it. But I'm not failing because someone can't read a prompt."

Yulan bristled. "Who're you calling someone, dog boy?"

You slid a little further down in your seat.

And yet, even after the shouting and the note-slinging and the pure chaos of that first meeting, Jack stayed behind when the others left.

You hadn't said a word in the last fifteen minutes. Just scribbled things in your notebook and tried not to look like you wanted to evaporate.

Jack leaned against the table, arms crossed, looking almost...thoughtful.

"Hey," He said. "You okay?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

He nodded toward your still-white-knuckled grip on your pen. "You looked like you were about to bolt."

You flinched. "I...I don't really do well with conflict. Or people in general."

Jack's ears twitched. "I could tell."

You braced yourself for the judgement. The teasing. The "well, toughen up" speech.

But it never came.

Jack looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to snap like that. I just hate when people don't listen. It's not personal."

You blinked again. Slowly. "You...weren't mad at me?"

He snorted. "You didn't do anything."

That shouldn't have made you tear up the way it did.

"Thanks," You said softly. "I, um...I wanted to say something, but I didn't want to make it worse."

He looked down at you, golden eyes narrowing slightly. Not in judgement. In...curiosity?

"You always like this with people?" He asked.

You nodded mutely.

Jack grunted. "Then I'll talk to them."

"What?"

"I'll keep the loud ones off your back. You focus on the research stuff. You're good at that, right?"

"I-I guess so. I mean, I like organizing and writing..."

"Good," Jack said simply. "Then you do that. And if Yulan tries to start another debate, I'll shut it down."

You blinked. "Just like that?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to not help you?"

"No! I just...I'm not used to people being that direct."

"Guess that's why I'm here," Jack muttered. "Balance."

From then on, Jack didn't just participate in the project - he managed it. Not in the way most people would simply take over, but rather by smoothing out the chaos so that you never had to. If Yulan got too loud, Jack would glare at him until he quieted down. If the Octavinelle student slacked off, Jack growled until he did something useful. And whenever it came time to present your findings to the professor, Jack always, always deferred to you to start the presentation.

"You did most of the writing," He'd shrug. "It's only fair."

You couldn't remember the last time someone had made you feel...capable. Protected, even. But never belittled.

It wasn't just about the project anymore.

Jack started walking with you to class after your meetings. He'd slow his pace to match yours, quietly adjusting his long strides so you didn't feel like you were trying to keep up. When he asked you questions, he actually listened - ears twitching every so often as you spoke, tail swishing thoughtfully behind him.

"You talk quiet," He once said, "But you say smart things."

You flushed all the way to your ears.

Eventually, you even got comfortable enough to sit with him at lunch. Jack didn't talk much, but you didn't feel like you had to either. He liked the silence. He thrived in it. And now, so did you.

"Can I ask you something?" You mumbled one afternoon as you sat underneath a tree, papers spread between you.

Jack nodded.

Why do you go out of your way to help me? I mean, I'm not...strong. Or brave. Not like you."

Jack looked at you for a long moment, then snorted.

"You ever try doing something when your heart's about to leap outta your chest? Walking into a room full of people, talking even when your throat locks up?" He shook his head. "That's strength, too. Just a different kind."

You stared at him.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like I said something poetic."

You laughed. "Sorry. You just surprise me sometimes."

He shrugged. "I like people who are real. You don't put on a front. You just...are."

Your chest swelled with something warm and unsure and a little fluttery.

Maybe group projects weren't all bad.

Author's Note: I've been in a bit of a rut lately, which I was really sad about, because a couple of months ago, I had a really good streak going, and I was churning out fics at a rapid rate. Unfortunately, I just kind of fell off that streak for a while. I'm trying to get back into it, and I also plan on opening commissions soon! Please be on the lookout for more information regarding that, and I hope you enjoyed this fic!

[lush-escape]

The Vigilante's Guide to Grief

wc: 1.6k

a/n: I listened to the kpop demon hunters soundtrack while writing this. Soda Pop has me in it's CLUTCHES. Bruce is a softie in this chapter bc me and my daddy issues say so. Also Christy? She's my irl therapist and we LOVE her here okay?

prev: denial

Stage three: Anger

Jason sat on the couch, his worn journal in his hands. Despite only being written in a few times he continuously toyed with the edges of the paper - fraying them. He stares out the window, his mind a jumbled mess. He just got off the phone with Bruce and now he was in a worse mood than when he had woken up.

hi I miss you

it's the 17th. B just called. Wish you could've been here to hear it. Think he was guilt tripping me. Told me it's been almost a month since I've been to the manor. What does it even matter?

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

I can't. Feels like it gets harder every time I go over there. Yeah it's been a few months since

Between the call with Bruce and remembering your death, your funeral, the tombstone Bruce had placed for you in the family cemetery on the manor grounds Jason was at the end of his rope for the day. 

“Fuck!” 

It's loud, angry. Something that would have made you jump - he hates himself for it. His notebook flies across the room and smacks against the wall. His pen is broken in half. As he stands from the couch he pushes the coffee table out of the way with his foot, hitting the tv stand knocking over a picture frame.

The sound of broken glass makes Jason stop. It's like his heart is breaking all over again. It hurts. He feels his heart skip a painful beat, he feels his breath catch in his throat.

“Stop it!” You yell at him from the bedroom door.

It had started as such a stupid argument. So many little things during that day that resulted in heightened frustration between the two of you. 

“Don't tell me to stop. I didn't fucking do anything.” Jason snaps at you and you stare at him in disbelief for a split second before your expression turns hurt.

Jason knew he had some anger issues he needed to work on and he hated that he was taking it out on you even if it was subconscious. He hated himself for it.

“You're in here slamming stuff for no reason!” You shoot back when he tells you he hasn't done anything.

“Oh, boo-hoo.” Jason grumbles as he rolls his eyes. He can't stand the way he's treating you but he can't stop it.

“Jesus Christ, I can't have sunshine comin' outta my ass every second of the day for you. Fuck, you're so sensitive sometimes, you know that?”

You stop.

Jason stops.

Your disappointed scowl falters and your lips pull downward into a trembling frown. You've both said worse to each other before, more scathing biting insults. There was just something about this time that hurt.

Jason sees the way your eyes turn glassy with tears and the way you begin to frown. That's all it takes for all of his anger and frustration to completely melt away. He rubs his hand down his face and sighs.

“Baby, I'm sorry-”

You shake your head to stop him. You know that if you try to talk now you'll end up crying.

“No, no, please. Baby,” he takes a step forward and you take one back, making him stop in his tracks. He stares at you like you just burned him. With his mouth parted he watches as you turn and close the bedroom door behind you. It only takes him a second to register what happened.

He doesn't try to open the door knowing that if it was locked he might as well just rip his heart out of his chest and let you physically step on it in front of him. Instead he stands in front of the door with one tentative hand on the handle.

“Baby, please. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it. I'm sorry for being such an asshole.” He begs for your forgiveness through the door.

You stay silent. You know you need space, he knows you need space but he also has a codependency issue that makes it hard for him to stay away from you.

Jason's not sure if minutes or hours pass by. All he knows is his back hurts and his legs are stiff from sitting on the hardwood floor with his back to the door. Waiting silently for you to come out. Silently listening to you sniffle and cry, dying a little bit more inside knowing he can't do anything to comfort you yet.

But eventually you do. Slowly and quietly you open the door. You sniffle quietly and if you weren't still upset with a headache from crying you would've laughed at how ridiculous Jason looks as he scrambles to his feet.

“Hey,” your voice is hoarse and raspy from your much needed crying session.

“God, baby, I'm so sorry.” Jason whispers. He's on you immediately. Big strong arms wrap you in a warm hug. Jason sighs audibly in relief. He buries his face into the top of your head, eyes closing as he breathes you in. Your nose presses into his chest and you let him hug you, too tired to reciprocate just yet - wanting to soak in his warmth.

He repeats a flurry of “I'm sorry” and “I didn't mean it” against you. You can feel the way his heart thuds in his chest and you can feel your bottom lip tremble again. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“You're perfect. You're not too sensitive. I mean- okay. You are. But it's not a bad thing. I love that about you. I love you. I love you so fucking much, I'm so sorry. Please I'll do anything-” He was panicking because even though you've fought and argued before - as any couple does - he's never made you cry.

“I let my anger get the better of me, I should have never-”

“It's okay…” You interrupt him and turn your head to the side to rest your cheek against him, your ear against his heart. 

“No, it's not.” He kisses the top of your head.

You're quiet again, “Okay.. it's not… but we both weren't being the best. I'm sorry, too.”

“Don't apologize. Ever. You could shoot me and I'd never want you to apologize.”

Jason remembers how downright scared you looked that night when he slammed the kitchen drawer shut. He hates himself all over again. He walks over to the notebook and picks it up.

“Sorry…” he mutters. He's not sure if he's saying it absentmindedly to the notebook, himself, or you. Either way he exhales roughly and sits back on the couch. He looks over his journal entry and slowly gets back to it.

It's been a few months since I've been there. It's harder now with your headstone there. I wasn't at my best when Bruce had it put in. I was angry. You would have hated it. You were never afraid tho just gave me that damn disappointed look. That hurt more than anything. I <u>hated</u> that. I deserved it though I was such an asshole when I was mad

“What the fuck is that?” Jason asks as he stares out the floor to ceiling window. It's such a small thing, your tombstone being added to the family plot. But Jason notices immediately as he walks by, the way the number grew overnight.

“Hm?” Bruce hums as he positions himself near Jason.

“I said, what the fuck is that?” Jason's voice is laced with venom at this point.

Bruce finally inhales and opens his mouth to answer.

“Without my permission?” Jason asks with quiet outrage.

“I didn't know I needed your permission.” Bruce says quietly but firmly.

“Not even a warning?”

“She was part of the family-”

“Oh don't give me that shit!” Jason turns to Bruce with a look that could kill. “You didn't even ask! She didn't want to be buried, didn't want a headstone! That's why I put her in a fucking urn.”

Bruce is silent. Perhaps he was in the wrong on this one, he thought.

“What's it say, huh? Who'd you put her by?” Jason's breathing was ragged. He knew he was overreacting, deep down he knew, but with something so big to memorialize you - it made it all the more real to Jason.

“Al-” Bruce begins to answer but Jason cuts him off. He's crying. It's the first time he's cried in days but there's a small part of him that feels safe, comfortable, doing it in front of Bruce.

“Don't. Fucking don't-” Jason's voice cracks as he pushes Bruce's shoulder. “You shouldn't have-” He points a finger at Bruce. “She didn't fucking want-” Jason's crying now. Fat tears stream down his face, his eyes tired and heavy and red.

“Come here,” is all Bruce says softly, offering an open shoulder to Jason.

He stands defiantly for a second before his resolve finally crumbles. With a shaking sob he pulls Bruce into a bruising hug and cries into his shoulder.

“I'm so sorry,” Bruce murmurs as he hugs his son.

“S’not fair,” Jason cries.

Christy says I'm doing better with managing my anger. I tried so hard for you. To be better. I'm so fucking sorry I didn't do it sooner. Or try harder. I think you would be proud of me. You always said you were but this time I know you would be

Jason wipes at a tear in the corner of his eye. He mumbles a curse under his breath and grabs his phone from his pocket. He can feel his emotions beginning to overwhelm him, he sees the warning signs now and knows how to cope. 

Maybe therapy isn't as stupid as he thought, he thinks.

He sends a text to Dick asking to meet him at the gym.

taglist: @thy-crimson-king @vellichor01 @theendofthematerialgworl @tinasdcstuff @4rachn3 @cecebookworm

[sunnydbeam]

GUUHHHH thank you so much for all the kind words and encouragement! I would really love to be able to reply individually to each of you but I don't know what to say other than a BIG thank you! You guys are so sweet I'm crying ♡

I apologize for the negativity earlier, there was a lot going on, and one thing in particular triggered my anxiety and insecurities like never before; I couldn't help but suddenly be overcome with a certain jadedness about my own art and writing. God, I was spiraling so badly. Because of all this my inbox will remain closed for a while; sorry if you wanted to send any questions. Anyway, I'll answer to the ones I've already received.

I don't like to spread bad vibes anywhere. I'm aware that most of the time I choose to stay in the shadows, always running away from conflicts that only exist in my head. This is a small blog that easily goes unnoticed, but I can't for the life of me understand why there are people around here who choose to be mean for sport, not even shielded under anonymity anymore. I wish I could let it go, but this happens to me more often than I'd like to admit. And the worst part is that I don't know why. I want to believe that my blog is safe for everyone! But if at any point I've posted or said something nasty or offensive, I'm so sorry! It wasn't my intention! Ever since I started using Tumblr I've been struggling with this inherent social part of media; with every interaction the anxiety I felt was painful, but the moment I thought I was getting better at it, things would come crashing down every time.

I'm socially awkward and struggle with a non-native language, but I swear I want to be friends with all of you! I just wish I understood why some people choose to spew hate instead. What have I done, especially after creating my Gamma Code AU? It's been hell.

BUT. There are so many more of you who are the sweetest thing!! All the support and affection I feel from you melts me, I just want to hug you all against my chest so dearly. I wish I had the right words to express how much I appreciate you all! ♡♡♡♡

...

Lastly, I'd also like to draw a little line:

If you're here expecting or demanding Sun and Moon content in any way, do NOT FOLLOW ME. I love those two, but I'll draw them when I feel like it. I enjoy drawing my OCs and that makes me happy, so before you decide to throw shit at me and my blog in general, I invite you to think better of it and look elsewhere for content that better suits your tastes and needs, or create it yourself. From now on I will block anyone who comes to my blog with this kind of attitude. No "I miss when you used to draw Sun and Moon" or "For the good old days!". I will block you, no exceptions.

[soangelbaby]

Does incel/misgynsistic rafe ever call women inferior either his wife/gf or just catcalling women like that? I can see him calling his wife inferior and a set of holes lmao

A SET OF HOLES OMFGSHG i am CRYING (real tears)

absofuckinlutely nonnie

the smallest things would set him off, you telling him no to changing the tv for him or deciding to do the laundry on your time, or something stupider like putting too much mayo on his sandwich and now he’s flying off the handle. not pacing, not even boldly angry, not a real fight — no, it’s a calm ferocity, simmering just beneath the surface before he lashes out at you, before he reminds you that just because he chose you, that doesn’t make you his equal. smirking like he knows you’ll still crawl back every time and you do. because you’re trauma-bonded to hell and back and somewhere deep down you think this might be what love is supposed to feel like.

“so this is what i get huh? after all i do, after all i let you have, you can’t even make me a fucking sandwich right?”

“you do the same thing every damn day, how hard is it? you’re lucky i’m patient cause’ anyone else would’ve walked away by now”

“see, this is why you need me, because without me? you’re nothing. you’d go back to being a lonely, pathetic little slut with nobody to tell you what to do”

OH if he’s catcalling? you’re just walking past, probably in your new mini skirt, tiny top, tiny heels all the same, clicking confidently on the pavement with your lashes curled and skin glossed in heat and perfume. completely minding your business, and then you see him — his eyes drag over you, slow, not appreciative but calculating, not admiring your beauty. no, imagining what he’d do if you were his already, how he’d ruin you and break you in and he doesn’t grin, doesn’t even look excited. in fact, he looks bored, like the idea of fucking you is more interesting than you are and like you’re not a person, just a potential, just a hole walking around dressed like prey.

“oh baby, look at that fuckin’ outfit. practically asking to get dragged behind a dumpster”

“walkin’ around like that? no self-respect, no discipline. you needed a man to tame you”

“typical. thinks she’s a 10 just ‘cause three dudes barked at her, get over yourself”

he acts this way because incel!rafe is not just misogynistic and he’s not just abusive. he’s fundamentally broken, in a way that makes him both horrifying and fascinating like a car crash you can’t look away from. every word he says, every slap of degradation, every slur muttered under his breath or screamed mid-argument, it all comes from the same place : powerlessness.

he hates women because deep down, he needs them. so he resents needing them and even more than that? he hates that women can withhold from him — their approval, their affection, their attention. and somewhere along the way, that resentment turned into a philosophy, turned to a structure he built his self-worth around. rafe doesn’t believe women are inferior because it’s true, he believes it because it’s the only way he can survive being emotionally and sexually dependent on them without feeling emasculated so he tells himself things like ;

“if i’m above them, they can’t hurt me”

“if i degrade them first, they can’t reject me”

“if i strip them of worth, then mine can’t be threatened”

he catcalls not to flirt, but to punish the women who dare move freely and confidently without him. he degrades his wife/girlfriend not because he doesn’t care about her — but because he cares too much and doesn’t know how to handle it. because love, for him, has always been twisted into degradation and humiliation. so he breaks the woman he’s with into something small, pathetic, and compliant because the idea of loving an equal terrifies him because it means vulnerability, it means losing.

[chrisfawns]

𝜗ৎ benny

pairing: chris sturniolo x reader

ᯓ★ in which chris wonders if all this. . .the career, the fame, the money, is worth losing the one thing he wants the most 🌀 part of my writing marathon!

warnings: unresolved angst, arguing, angst angst angst

wc: 0.6k

chris sighed as a text from you popped up. he dreaded opening it. not because of anything you had done, but because it would be another reminder of all the pieces of your life he missed because of his career. ignoring his better judgement, he opened the phone, tears welling in his eyes as he saw it.

it was a photo of you in your cap and gown, holding your bachelor's degree that proudly said summa cum laude. you looked gorgeous. . .and he wasn't there to see it. the day their manager had given him, nick, and matt the tour dates, he had argued for hours, trying to get them changed. while you were graduating in LA, he would be on the other side of the country.

chris found himself in a sentimental landslide. he wanted to be there with you right now. to celebrate and take you out for a nice dinner before taking you home and fucking you all night long, whispering in your ear about how he was so proud of his smart girl. the more logical side of him knew you wanted chris to pursue his dreams. you'd agreed on facetiming later this evening. the less logical side of him wanted to say "fuck the tour" right now to go be with you.

he dreaded tonight after the show. he'd be alone in a dark hotel room instead of with you safely tucked under his arm. deep inside of him, chris wondered if this was even the proper choice. he loved you and you loved him, but was he hurting you becuase of his career? he didn't want to have to have an argument or say goodbye to you tonight, but at the same time, he was living on the sidelines of your life. simply a spectator. what the fuck was he supposed to do?

by the time chris had come off the stage that night, his phone was filled with texts from you, detailing everything you had done today to celebrate your graduation. sure, he was thankful for all the fans, but right now, he was kicking himself. he hated pretending that everything was okay. he was setting himself on fire to keep you warm.

"we need to talk." was the first thing he said when you picked up the phone once chris had gotten back to the hotel that night.

". . .oh?" you asked, not sure where his sudden grumpy tone had come from.

"i can't keep doing this," your boyfriend took a deep breath to steady himself. "every fuckin' time i see a picture of you, i wanna be there. i feel so goddamn guilty when i see strangers more than you."

he knew he was being too cold with you. but at the same time, chris felt you deserved better. you needed someone who could be there with you to celebrate everything you were.

"chris. . ." you said, voice wobbling. "what's going on?"

"you need someone better, baby," chris mumbled, voice softening. "someone who can be there for you."

"you are there for me!" you sniffled, not hiding the tears now.

"baby, it's killing me to pretend everything is fine."

"it is fine!" you yelled back, becoming more upset. "chris, i don't care how far apart we are. i love you. i'm willing to do distance if it means i get to be with you."

"i have to go. . ." chris whispered into the phone. "i love you."

you sobbed back a small "love you", not able to speak much else. all you had the energy to do now was stumble into your bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you sobbed. little did you know, on the other side of the country, chris was crying in his own bed, wondering what it would be like if he had never even known you so that he wouldn't hurt you.

© chrisfawns

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡: i struggled sooo bad with this fic so it became a little blurb omg 😭 sorry for this one </3 find the rest of my writing marathon here!

tags ⋆. 𐙚 ̊: @mattslilies @backwardshatnick @bernardsbendystraws @h3arts4nat @mattyblover07 @mattsstarlet @mattsprettygirly @maliaforstvrns @boiwhatdahelly

if you'd like to be added to my taglist, inbox me/dm me/comment!!

[moonlight-ba3]

Hiii can you write about being in a bad relationship and you just got broken up with and you and Macklin have been friends forever and he sees you crying and having a panic attack and he comforts you and you guys end up realizing that you two have always been in love?

Warm 

pairing:macklin celebrini x reader

summary:when you finally get out of your toxic relationship and find a better one.

a/n: fluff, angst, I tried to make this based on the songs almost is never enough and warm by ariana grande, I came up with a random game against the Blackhawks, not proofread!!

I met Jake in freshman year of high school in English class. We started dating when he asked me out for prom in sophomore year. We were great until I introduced him to Macklin, my best friend. 

He always rolled his eyes when I brung Mack up. He hated him so much he convinced me to not invite him to my 18th birthday party. 

I never realized how controlling he was of me. Finally, I brung it up and somehow all we managed to argue about was Macklin.

I just got back from work after 7 hours of staring at a screen. My eye bags are huge, I can barely walk my limbs are so tired. All I wanna do is lay down and not have to argue with my boyfriend.

‘’You look miserable’’ Is the first thing I hear when I walk in.

‘’Jake, I’m exhausted’’ I mumble, putting my stuff up, not wanting to cause anything that would probably just be fight about Macklin somehow.

He rolls his eyes, ‘’God, you’re always exhausted’’ he replies still looking at his phone, most likely looking through some girls instagram.

I take a deep breath trying to calm myself down, but he keeps talking. I finally loose it, ‘’Jake I go to work for 7 hours and all you do is sit on your ass for the whole day! I come home exhausted cause I actually do things. I don’t wanna fight tonight. I’m exhausted’’ I yell at him, my voice slightly cracking. 

‘’Thats all you say, I do things all the time but your to busy talking to your other little boy toy!’’ He yelled back

I look at him, confused. ‘’Who the hell are you talking about?’’ 

He sighs, ‘’The shitty hockey player!’’

Macklin.

The boy I’ve known since I was 5. Who would always come to me no matter what. The only hockey player I would stand up for when they scored. The guy I always tried to convince myself I wasn’t in love with. The Macklin who I did everything with. 

‘’What do you mean?’’ I ask him, unclear on why he would bring him up right now, especially since I haven’t seen him in four weeks. The last time I saw him was at his game against the Blackhawks. All I could look at was him. He scored one goal and had two assists. 

He steps closer to me. ‘’You think I don’t know. I know you’ve been sneaking around and seeing him.’’ He says in a quiet voice. 

‘’I-what?’’ 

‘’Oh my god, you’re so stupid.’’ He laughs 

I stand there, still confused, ‘’Why would you think I’m with him?’’

‘’You’re always talking about him! Macklin this, Macklin that! You never stop. I feel like a side character!’’ 

‘’A side character! I involve you in everything, even things that don’t even concern you.’’ Shocked that he would even say that. 

‘’Even then you still find a way to bring him up! Mack loves this! Me and Mack used to do this together!’’

‘’Iv’e been best friends with him since I was five!’’ I yell back at him.

He closes his eyes, rubbing his hands on his face. 

‘’You’re the most stupidest, self centered person I’ve ever met!’’ 

‘’You always accuse me of the most stupidest shit!’’ 

He looks at me like I have 5 eyeballs.

My eyes are starting to get glossy.

‘’I’m so over you, why don’t you go cry to him about this.’’ He says as he walks out the door. 

I don’t stop him. I can’t. Tears are falling down my face. My hands are shaking. My shaky hand raises to my heart as I start gasping for air. I feel like I’m underwater. The room is caving in on me. All I’m able to do is get my phone out and call him, Macklin.

After the first ring he picks up. 

‘’Hey, y/n’’ His voice calms me down, but not enough.

‘’Mack-I can’t.’’ 

‘’Im coming over. Don’t hang up.’’

He only lives 7 minutes away. I can’t focus on anything. His voice ringing in my ears. All I’m able to make out is ‘’Calm down’’ ‘’breathe’’ ‘’Im here.’’

I hear the door open and he comes running to me. He places me on the couch and kneels on his knee in front of me. 

‘’Look at me.’’ He tells me as he places my hand over his heart. 

I look at his deep green eyes, and finally for what feels like months, Im able to calm down. 

As my breathing evens out, I close my eyes and I feel him pull me in his arms, while he’s still on floor. It feels we were sitting there for hours, when his hand gently pulls my chin to make me look at him again.

My heart rate picks up, I get a giddy feeling that I never got with Jake. 

He places his forehead on mine, still no words exchanged since the call. My hands travel up his toned arms as his stay put on my waist. 

Soon we’re both leaning in. His lips feel soft against mine, the butterflies in my stomach only getting worse. I finally pull away ‘’Mack…’’ Is all I’m able to get out.

‘’I know’’

‘’I got in a fight with Jake, we broke up.’’ I tell him. ‘’Im sorry’’ he sighs.

‘’Don’t be it was toxic anyways.’’ Trying to make humor out of this. 

‘’So, I guess it wasn’t that bad of a thing I kissed you.’’ He says laughing softly.

‘’Never.’’

Finally, in months I feel like I’m breathing and not being held captive.

While we’re still sitting on the floor I tell him ‘’This is cute, but this floor is hurting my butt’’

He laughs, pulling me to stand on my feet as we both sit on the couch. Macklin puts his hand over mine, ‘’I’ll treat you better, I promise.’’ I look at him with a smile ‘’I know you will.’’ 

He pulls me in a hug. It feels real and warm.

It’s warmer in his arms.

[trueloveandyxo]

oh yeah i. dont want to post the bedusssey fic im writing on ao3 ig if anyone sees this blog/my posts about it and want to read it i can give u access to the google docs i have for it (which rn is just. the prologue through chapter two, and then a separate doc for pancho's perspective)

[liriostigre]

💌

[silusvesuius]

they have me so fucked up over the 'L brothers copium' i've been huffing lately actually about to start rocking in my chair back && forth breathing into a paper bag while drawing things that aren't even $day