#and so much bloat and disconnection

[labec99]

I just really fucking hate having to deal with corporate software.

[iwaasfairy]

┌─ “ ! „ DECAY

tw. ddlg, noncon, daddy kink, dom & sub themes, forced threesome, patronization, manipulation, objectification, size kink wordcount. 4.4k

a/n. ♡ i wish i could have done more about this idea but i gave myself a bit of a word count limit for kinktober but don't be surprised if i end up writing more for this in the future jhydgusgfy i wanted to go more extreme but i was a bit bummed by the self imposed limitations kHdyugs iT IS What it is ily thank you for reading

miya atsumu x fem!reader x miya osamu

You’re pouting somethin’ fierce, and thick crocodile tears bead your lash line like diamonds.

Osamu’s not entirely sure when it started. If it started at all. Maybe things just happened to play out this way, and it was entirely coincidental, a whisper in the grander scheme of your relationship with his brother - all too small to mention. Maybe safer to say, he’s not sure when he started noticing it— but once he began, there was nothing to keep him from seeing it too vividly in every interaction.

You’ve been with Tsumu since your last year together in high school. Stuck with him through thick and thin, every busy month, each and every match and scandal and fallout - and Osamu’s nothing but grateful for that. You make him happy, Hell, even a blind man could see how the blond blossoms open when you’re around. Becoming a more grown, dependable version of himself. Some days Osamu blinks and it’s like his mirror image has far surpassed his own grounded maturity, leaving him behind in the dust. And it’s definitely you that brings that out in him - and he’s grateful.

But — he remembers the early days. More than maybe anyone else, Osamu remembers that it wasn’t always this way. You were definitely more soft and gentle than they were as teens, but you were no shrinking violet either. A decade ago, Atsumu would’ve been caught dead underestimating ya like he does with a glitter in his eye now. Like it’s a game the two of you are clued in on. Osamu’s eyes glide over the scene painted before him, sipping his beer from the couch.

“Aw, pet, you’ve gotta watch where yer goin’. C’mere, did that hurt?” Atsumu is knelt before you, cupping your face between two rough palms, as he kisses up and down your face. Your wobbly sniffles get hidden in his chest when he pulls you in, and rubs your back like you’re a toddler with a scraped knee. Your hands fist into his shirt before you take a deep breath, going up in his warmth. And his twin beams like he’s the happiest man on the planet, before going to pick you up with a bit too much practiced ease.

Osamu’s not against the pda. You’ve always been touchy, and Tsumu’s a clingy bastard at the best of times. “‘M so sorry, baby. Daddy almost walked straight over ya.” It’s more that he has a problem with. He looks away when Atsumu’s hands slide down to grip your ass and squeeze you extra close, looking down for another kiss that you give like it’s been practiced a hundred times. He’s not sure if the slight pout you have on is truly the pain though, or more the embarrassment he can see creep up your ears and cheeks.

“I’m sorry for getting in the way,” you whisper back, and by the time Osamu looks up Atsumu has made it back to the couch with a fresh beer, with you now positioned on his lap and wrapped around him like a baby koala. You don’t look over at him though, barely acknowledging the strange situation. Almost makes him feel like he’s the one that’s out of place, even though he came over on Atsumu’s request. Even though he was invited.

Samu takes another chug of his drink, before raising his brows, leaning in with an attempt to catch your eyes. “Yer not gonna have any? ‘S yer fridge we’re looting.” You only disconnect yourself from Atsumu’s chest to look at him with heat on your cheeks, perfectly treated hair shining as it falls along your shoulders.

“No, thank you. Atsum- uhm- d-daddy doesn’t let me have any unless we’re going out. It makes me get all bloated, so ‘s better I don’t.” Your long lashes flutter, before you smile again, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Samu.” There’s a beat of silence where his twin seems to give him a look -one he can’t really make out- where Atsumu puts his own beer aside to pull you closer by your hips and wrap his arms around you like you’re best molten to his front. “Hey,” you whisper then, and Atsumu looks up, “can I move? My knees hurt a little like this.”

“‘S that right? Ya wanna turn so you can look at Samu too?” His brilliant smile is almost bright enough to make him ignore the possessive hands that travel too far down when helping you turn, or the almost-subtle groan he lets out when you wiggle back onto his lap. Osamu stares off into the kitchen instead. “You wanna sit ‘n look at someone else ‘cause I won’t do anything. Is daddy not good ‘nough? Maybe I spoil ya a lil’ too rotten.”

“‘M not rotten~, I do like sitting in your lap,” you squeak out almost sadly, starting to leave little pecks all over Atsumu’s lips as if to shut him up. That would probably be good, Osamu thinks. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility that you’re actually tempering him, but it sure does seem like it. “I’m just tired.” And though your voice drops to an almost whisper, he’s too aware of your pouted, glossy lips to not hear every word. Your hands trail through his hair, sliding down his neck with each slow breath. “Just- Daddy, don’t be upset. I’m trying my best.”

You look almost pained to say it, not that his twin cares. “Please don’t get mad.” Anything else passes over Osamu’s head. He just places the empty bottle by his feet and tries to ignore the way you’re now draped onto Atsumu’s lap like you two will start dry humping any second.

“‘M not mad, pretty girl.” The blond grabs two handfuls of ass and rocks your waist against him, making you squeak, before he runs his tongue along his teeth with a noise. “I’m just thinkin’ that I don't want Samu ta see ya like this.”

You whimper when Atsumu’s mouth glides along your jaw and throat, falling back into the couch -crown brushing Osamu’s thigh- when his twin pushes and presses a few kisses down your throat and chest. “Alright, let’s go out.” Then he pulls back flushed, and gets you up along with him. “Before daddy ends up fucking that pretty pussy with a live audience.” He ushers you towards the door with a few pats on your butt. “Go an’ get yer shoes, I’ll tie yer laces for ya, little girl.”

“I- I can really do it myself, ‘s fine.”

It only makes Atsumu puff out his chest, and stare you down with a hungry stare. “Go on, baby. Yer little enough to need my help.” You don’t say anything, but there’s a tense breath of silence that covers the room before you look away with shame written all over your expression.

Osamu’s too speechless to do much but just stare at the side of his brother’s face, who barely shows any emotion other than enjoyment at all. Seriously. It’s not like you to let someone just walk all over you. Or at least, it wasn’t like you, as far as he was concerned. Things have clearly changed. He frowns. “Do ya really have ta talk about ‘er like that when I’m around, stupid Tsumu? Keep it in yer pants, wouldya?”

Instead of the normally snappy reply that he’d expect, the blond just shrugs, tugging at his waistband like the tightness is a little uncomfortable. “Can’t help it. She’s so fuckin’ cute whinin’ and crying out for me.” Brown irises find Osamu’s, and he smiles. “You’d feel the same if ya saw what she can do.” He pats his thighs when you come back from the hall, and holds out his hands. “Come ‘ere, little princess. Daddy’ll dress ya right up.”

+

Your frilly little implication of a dress is bunched around your hips as he lets you down from another bear hug, and puts on a slight pout. “I’ll be back soon, baby. They need an emergency setter for just an hour of practice. Maybe two.”

“It’s never just one hour.”

The overly whiny request only makes Atsumu glitter more, as his eyes flick down your body and his tongue is caught between his teeth. Truly, the guy has absolutely no decency. This was supposed to be a fun weekend away from work for the three of ya. Not that Atsumu seems bothered by that. After a few seconds he kisses your forehead though, letting you lean into his arms and looking ever so teenie tiny compared to your boyfriend -they’ve both filled out in both size and muscle since high school after all- and it becomes even more apparent when Tsumu squeezes you under his chin. “If ya need anything ya’ll ask Samu, alright? Just pretend he’s me.”

You bat your lashes at him, but let your grip on him slowly be peeled off. “... Okay. Can I have dinner while you’re gone?”

“Hm, sure.” The blond runs his fingers through his hair. “Daddy’s gonna miss ya. I’m not gonna be gone fer long.” Then he eyes him with a grin that Osamu kind of wants to slap off of his cheeks. “Thanks for ‘sittin ‘er.” He doesn’t reply with a smart remark about him treating you like a dog, and just gives a vague hum instead. With that he gives the brunet a quick wave, and gathers his phone and keys on his way to the door. You linger around the entrance a bit longer, before slowly returning to the dinner table with slightly heated cheeks. You tuck your knees to your chest when you sit and reach for one of the side dishes — and he can’t help but say it when the door falls into lock.

“So, what’s all that about?”

“Hm?” Your head drops to the side slightly as you put some pickled radish in your mouth and hum. “Mm, this ‘s really good, Samu! Can I have some?”

“Help yerself,” he nods, and also slides the plates you can’t reach closer. It’s not like he doesn’t understand it at all. You’ve got that sort of puppy-eyes look down, big and round and soft wherever you look, no matter who you’re talking to. It’s the kind of gentleness that calls for protection, and he’s not even the possessive type, but despite that the feeling of being needed sits on his chest and longs to come out. But still. He can’t help but think Atsumu’s overplaying his cards. “Seriously though. You know ya can tell my shitty brother no, right? I’ll straighten ‘em out for ya.”

The words seem to process for a moment, before you load some more food onto your utensils and swallow it with a little noise of thoughtfulness. “I- I don’t know. Atsumu says he likes being the provider. At first it was just little stuff he helped with, and I thought it was nice to be cared for.” You fumble a little with the chopsticks when a piece of fish is extra slippery, and smile when he helps you out and picks it up, carrying it towards your mouth. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve fed myself instead of Tsumu doing it for me,” you softly mention. That’s weird, ain’t it? That’s definitely weird.

Still he’s carrying the food to your mouth, and be it instinct, or habit, you look too fuckin’ sweet waiting like a puppy for him to help out, big, doe-eyes and all.

You let the piece onto your tongue, before wrapping those pretty lips around and gratefully humming and — fuck. You don’t notice the way his brow ticks, but his stomach rolls with the realization. Instead of lingering too long on the implication that he might feel the same exact way as his twin, he lets you talk, after chewing for a while. “I just- I don’t like that he doesn’t ever take me seriously anymore. He thinks I can’t do anything by myself, even brushing my own teeth, or picking out clothes! It’s so- so frustrating-” you continue until you run out of air, and seem to suddenly realize who you’re talking to. “Oh, don’t tell Atsumu that. Please don’t tell him. He gets so upset and I don’t like it when he’s mad.”

Samu can’t help but just nod in agreement, not sure what else to say. He doesn’t think his brother would ever hurt ya. Then again, Samu also didn’t think his brother was much of a kink lifestyle sort of guy until the last few months— so clearly he doesn’t know everything anymore. And you seem… okay with it, right? He’s not sure, really. Would he even have the guts to tell Tsumu off if he was sure you weren’t? Instead of lingering on that uncomfortable possibility, he pivots. “Let’s watch somethin’? What do ya wanna see?”

Your eyes shimmer when they flick up, and you swallow before smiling. “Can I choose?” You wiggle in your seat. “Atsumu -w-well- daddy doesn’t let me watch scary stuff, but I’ve been dying to watch the Ring again.” You then lean into his space a little more, and he feels his heart skip a beat. “I assume I don’t have to snuggle up to you though? He did say to pretend you’re him but…” You wrap your thin sweater a little closer. “I’ll hold your hand? He can’t get mad that way.”

How can he say no when you’re staring at him with those fucken stars in your eyes? His fingers find yours on the table, and your hand feels way smaller and softer than his own work-worn ones. “Yeah, sure. But ya shouldn’t watch nothin’ ta give ya nightmares though…” The urge to pick you up and wrap you nice and safe in his embrace becomes stronger by the second, and his eyebrows furrow.

+

Atsumu is quick to descend on you in the safety of the separate room. His hands glide down your sides and hike up your shirt over your arms, before running his fingertips down the valley of your breasts. “Samu was nice to ya?”

“Mhm,” you bop your head a few times, shivering when the cooler air peaks your nipples and Tsumu brushes his thumb over them. “He was- r-really- ah daddy, that tickles.” Your voice trembles when he eyes you down, before letting his fingers trail down to your shorts instead. He motions your butt up and you lift yourself politely, letting him slide those down your legs too as he lifts one and starts placing kisses down your ankle up your leg. “You said we’d get ready for bed~”

“We are gettin’ ready,” his smile goes a little crooked when you bite your lip, “just curious ‘s all. Ya think Samu likes ya?” He lets you fall back onto the plush covers before walking into the ensuite and coming back with some skincare that he places unceremoniously onto the bedside table- and you frown. If your boyfriend asked you a few years ago, you’d assume he was just genuinely curious. About you getting along with his family, his twin, his other half. But now, there’s an agenda woven into the words. Always is.

“We get along well. Why?”

His lips jerk up, and with a simple shrug he continues. “He’s good too ya, ain’t he? An’ I’ve been thinking I want Samu to watch us some time.” You’re too shocked to say anything, but your mouth drops open. No.

No, it’s already embarrassing how he makes you whine and whimper like a pet for him when you’re alone. It’s embarrassing when he makes you call him daddy when there’s people around with no shame- like he gets off on it. But this- his hands find your face with a soaked cotton pad to start cleaning you with gentle motions, and you find your eyes starting to water. You hate that you’ve become this fragile little flower that can’t speak up when it matters. You’d like to think you’re still the same. But your lip wobbles too easily as Atsumu continues, and your voice cracks.

The mortification is too much to bear, it swallows you up whole. He couldn’t possibly make you. “I don’t want that.”

“What’s that?” he coos, eyelids hooded. He leans down to you more.

You push his hand away from your face and frown, but tears still spill over. You fucking hate being such a crybaby. “I don’t want Samu to watch us.” You still frown though, doing your best to blink away the waterworks. And instead of taking you seriously - of course - Tsumu tilts his head in that sort of understanding that you’re throwing a tantrum like a toddler might. But you’re serious. You mean it. His freshly washed hair falls over his brows, but his hands still find your shoulders to keep you in place below him.

“Aw, baby. Poor girl.” The soft rubbing of his thumb along your skin only makes you more shaky in that feeling, his eyes roaming your body before he pushes you back onto the bed and crawls onto it beside you, pulling you into his touch. It doesn’t escape you that you’re already naked and he’s still dressed, keeping you tight. “I didn’t mean to upset ya. Shhh, shhh, it’s okay.” You swallow, and push against his chest with a slight whimper - why can’t he take you seriously?

“I mean it, Atsumu.”

Before you can say anything else he pinches your cheek hard, and his dark brows lace together. “Don’t be rude.” The darkness fades quickly, but he still doesn’t show any intention of letting you go. In fact, because of his strength against you you’re only forced deeper into his embrace, head pressed to his warm chest. “Daddy’ll take care of you. Always do, don’t I?” You open your mouth to retort, but he interrupts again, and squishes your cheeks together before placing a few patient kisses onto your pouty lips. “Listen to daddy. It’ll be fine.”

It’s so frustrating.

You want to move. You want to remove yourself from the situation he’s putting you in, or put on some fucking clothes, and instead you’re being mocked by him. Once more you try to give him a push for some space, but because he barely feels it or pretends not to, you don’t make a dent. “Tsumu, I don’t want to have sex with your brother watching~” you end up crying out, feeling the tears well up again. “Get off of me.” You start wiggling, as his hand wraps around your wrist and forces it to wrap around his body, clamping your hands together behind his back as he rolls over and starts kissing the top of your head.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. Everything’s gonna be okay.” You want him to leave you alone. “My sweet little girl. You don’t gotta fight me, ‘m not doin’ nothing. I’m here for ya.” His heartbeat is so steady against you that it makes you want to shove him and scream in his face to fuck off, but of course you don’t. You don’t scream. You don’t push, or fight, or make yourself clear. All you can do is cry into his shirt as his smell wraps around you and you struggle to make the waterworks stop.

“Let go~” you sniffle into his shirt, and shiver when his hands start sliding down to pull you back onto him, forcing his thick, strong thigh between your legs. Your straining muscles give up after a while of pushing back, and his embrace still stays.

“Shush, little baby. I got ya, don’t worry yer pretty little head.”

“Daddy~” you whine softer this time, and don’t fight him when he nudges you face up to kiss him. He groans for a moment in what can only be satisfaction at winning the fight, before rolling over so you’re trapped under his heavy body, chest rising and falling against him. And as you try to stop crying, Atsumu has the nerve to rub your head like all of this isn’t his fault.

+

You can’t escape the heavy gaze anywhere you look. It’s suffocating. Not that you have much room to think about it between the way Tsumu’s taking up your space and forcing one of your legs over his shoulder so he can spread you open. It’s a brief reprieve from the prying eyes blocked by his broad back, but you know it will end. Because Tsumu didn’t just drag his twin here to know that someone’s watching. He wants to make a show of you. To show off the type of power he- oh. Your half-lidded eyes flutter open wider when his fingers spread open your slick and your pussy clenches around nothing.

And Atsumu grins. “Yer so quiet, baby. Are’ya shy?” You don’t answer that, instead trying to chase after his hand when he moves away, wrapping comparatively small hands around his wrist. You can feel the heat of Samu at the foot of the bed, uncomfortably perched onto it with his knee before he dips the mattress further, and your blinks get more rapid.

“Daddy… I- I don’t-”

“Hush,” he moves your other leg aside more, leaving you spread embarrassingly open before he dips his body and glides both hands under your ass, lifting you a few inches. His mouth descends without thinking, kisses and then tongue making you whimper as he eats you out. Not gently, but possessive, demanding licks that drag your split attention right back to him - only until Samu leans forward a little to get a better view. This is so fucking embarrassing. “Mh- Taste good, pretty thing.” Atsumu’s eyes have that same cocky, knowing look he always does when he gets you like this. You won’t do anything back, and he knows that. “Yer droolin’ all over my chin.”

You are. The slick’s coating his lips when he pulls back, trailing kisses up your thighs, before he slides two fingers inside your squelching pussy traitorously slow, and watches your face scrunch. He’s big. He always is, and knows it too, big hands, big thighs, chest, shoulders. Most of all, he’s fucked you enough times now to know that you can’t take him easily without prep, and even that is embarrassing. You could have gone a whole lifetime without having Osamu know that. Why did he even agree to this?

“Little brat,” Tsumu says after a few seconds, flicking your nipple painfully as he stares, clenching his jaw. “Don’t be rude. Samu came all the way out here to see ya, ‘n yer gonna lock up the whole time?” You swallow, and try to talk, but he instead curls his fingers inside your pussy and slides them deeper. Right where you can’t handle them, until you have no choice but to curl and wiggle away from him, mouth pulling open to moan.

“Ah, agh, daddy! Daddy, daddy.” Samu’s broad shouldered figure being barely dressed in a tank and boxers, along with Atsumu’s almost godly physique hanging over you is too much. You shut your eyes. “I can’t- f-focus.” You hold onto his arm as he fucks his fingers in and out of you for long enough that your entire body starts tingling, before he peels you off and turns you over. Rough hands hike you onto your knees, and your ass up in the air before his rough palm lands hard and sends a stinging heat through your legs. “Ow, ow~”

“That’s more like it. I know yer a noisy little bitch.” He rubs your lips up and down with his thumb a few more times, before you hear the sound of boxers being peeled off. “Now, what do ya say when daddy will give ya something ya want?”

He presses the hot head of his cock against you but doesn’t push in yet, and your poor pussy clenches around nothing as tears fill your eyes and you grip two fistfuls of pillow. You can’t say it. Not with Samu sitting right there, judging you both for- another sharp spank makes you shiver, and you whimper into the pillow. The sting aches until heat blooms under the damaged skin, and you unclench your teeth. “Please, daddy? Please fuck me.” You doubt you’re stretched enough to take him comfortably, even with the fingering and all the wetness coating your puffy pussy and the inside of your thighs. “Pretty please?”

There’s a few moments before his hand presses down on your back and his cock slides inside, and you do your best not to gasp too much feeling him force you open. It aches though, and you have to widen your knees to make room and— God it feels so good. You’re not sure whether to cry because of the feeling, or because you can’t stop yourself from moaning high pitched and whiny like a whore putting on her best performance. You really can’t help it. “Agh, ah- d-daddy, move, please.” The heavy weight of his cock bottoms out and he presses his heavy balls against you for a few seconds, before pulling out with a groan.

The motion pulls your entire body back, only stopped by his hand, like you’re some cocksleeve— and you cry harder. “Ah, ah, ugh— Atsumu,” you pout, and he pets your head.

“I’m right here, doll. Does that feel good?” You nod, and cling on, before opening your eyes to look at him with his thighs right next to your head and stroking his cock with an almost torturous pace. You whimper when being bottomed out into, and then your eyes shoot open. You can’t turn, but the low groan Samu lets out when you clench hard around him, says enough— and Tsumu laughs as he watches you panic and your bottom lip wobble, petting your head. Like this is all some big game, keeping you down under his hand while you shake your head.

“No, no- you said- you said he’d watch- agh, daddy! No, no no no, you promised! You promised.” You can’t stop yourself from moaning when he hits deep inside, fucking you much too well. Your mouth falls open as you try to stop the sound, but Tsumu’s touch only gets more demanding as his twin picks up the pace.

“Shhh, shhh, Samu likes ya so~ much. It’s just this one time. And then daddy’ll take good care of ya, promise.”

All Rights Reserved © IWAASFAIRY 2023. Works are exclusive to this Tumblr.

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XIV

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.280 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You don’t remember the bus ride.

You don’t remember getting off the bus, you don't remember stepping through the station doors, and you don't remember the cold blast of air conditioning hitting your skin.

You’re here.

You know you are.

But it barely feels like it.

The moment you step foot in the precinct, something else hits you, and you’re sure that this won’t go over well. There’s people all over the place, running like headless chickens under the violently bright lights, pushing past both officers and civilians, as if a tragedy had just occurred.

Your heart sinks, beating at a speed that only panic can bring it to, and you only narrowly avoid colliding with other people as your feet rapidly tread the familiar path to Sheriff Peterkin’s office.

It's only John. You tell yourself. He fucked up again, they called me over here for bail. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

But you don’t believe it. 

Within the fear you’re feeling, all your thoughts feel off, untrue, as if the words that echo in your mind are the jumbled leftovers of someone else’s internal monologue, all mismatched fears and incoherent paranoias.

There was an ambulance outside, you suddenly recall. Its doors open, a single paramedic sitting within, his legs dangling over the ground as he toyed at his phone, mumbling frantically into the speaker. You pass another on your way, this one much more composed, resolute, almost angry.

You don’t know what to think.

You don’t want to be relieved in fear that if something bad truly happened, then the disconnect between your past calm and the dread that might hit you will send you spiraling into something you won’t be able to pull yourself from again.

It’s like a deja vu.

Suddenly, it’s your seventeenth birthday again, and you’re coming into the station to ID a body they think it’s your dad’s— The paramedics sit outside, talking to each other like nothing’s happening. You’re wearing a shirt that belonged to him, and sandals you stole from his friends’ daughter, standing before Peterkin and the pity on face, as you hold your phone in your hand, praying that John won’t call to ask what you’re doing.

She puts her hands on your shoulder and guides you to a little room at the end of the hall.

The body on the table lays like a stone, the coroner standing guard over it like a sentinel, his eyes fixed on you with the coldness of glacier as he opens the bag.

Discolored skin, bloated flesh, a beard that’s only been barely cleaned of the blood spilling from the cut up mouth. A row of toothless gums gape at you, darkened, the blood dry but the lips still glazed over. “That’s not my father,” You say, and you don’t know if you’re crying from mourning or from relief. You hear the words bouncing against the walls of your skull, but when they pull the zipper closed on the body bag, it’s John’s face disappearing under the plastic.

You stumble, and your heart stops painfully before kicking right back to the break-neck speed of before.

Your hands are shaking as you clutch your bag tighter, vision fraying at the edges, and you hold onto the wall for a moment before walking again.

Peterkin’s door is only an arm’s length away when something else startles you, and your feet stumble again as you recoil. Someone’s voice cuts through the air, sharp, urgent. It takes you a moment to realize that this person shouted your name.

You flinch before you even see him, before you process the way he’s already half-risen from his seat, fighting against Pope’s grip on his arm.

JJ.

Your eyes scan over him quickly. He has a split brow, apart from the bruises that Barry left on him. His breath is frantic, but he doesn’t seem like he’s grieving. He’s not crying. And for a half a beat, your heart calms down.

– Just—Just listen to me, okay? Look— This was an accident. It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t do anything. – His voice is pleading, his face wrecked with something painful —guilt, regret, maybe worry— you can’t read him, your eyes focused on the blood of his split brow, still fresh over the settling watercolor of black and blue that paints his skin. His eyes try to find yours, glassy, desperate. – It wasn’t our fault. – He repeats, taking a step towards you, hands up like a beggar. – We didn’t do anything.

Pope pulls at him again, trying to get him to sit down. His jaw is set, he doesn’t seem hurt, but the twinge of disapproval he sends JJ gives you pause. Kie is there too, rigid, tense, arms crossed tightly over her chest, but she doesn’t look at you, she just sits there, staring at the floor.

JJ calls your name again, extends a hand, beckoning you to come over, like the needs you near. 

You don't move. Your feet are rooted on the ground and your heart is racing. Your mouth opens, but you don’t recognize the voice that comes out. – What did he do? What did you do? Where is he?

– We didn’t do anything. – He pleads.

– Didn’t do anything?! – Another voice. Louder. Angry. Your eyes dart towards the person, but you meet two. From further into the hall, Kelce and Topper are standing next to an officer, the blond boy facing the cop as Kelce stares right at JJ. – You didn’t do anything?! You could have fucking killed us! 

JJ’s eyes don’t stray from yours. – Just listen no me—

– You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me! – Kelce’s laughter is edged with contempt. – Listen to what? You psychopaths ram your piece of shit car into us for almost a mile and I’m supposed to buy that it was a mistake?

– A mile? What— JJ, what did you—

– Baby, I swear we didn’t do anything, they tried to run us off the road and we—

– We tried to run you off the road?! Are you fucking high?!

– You were screaming at us! – JJ growls, rage surging through him. Pope finally stands up, his own anger clear on his face as he tries to push JJ back to his seat, but the blonde boy only wrenches away again, looking at you. – They were trying to make us crash!

– What did you just fucking say?!

Your mind tunes out JJ’s response, spinning. They shout over one another, back and forth, words tangling together into an incomprehensible mess of rage and self-righteousness that you can’t even begin to process.

Your head is splitting.

Your breath is shallow.

And then—

A hand on your shoulder.

– Routledge. – Peterkin’s hand rests on you, that strange, almost artificial look on her face. She’s still as a statue, looking at you as if you’re a puzzle, something for her to solve. – Come on in.

You weren’t ready for the touch.

Your stomach drops before your brain catches up.

You turn. Slowly. Out of body.

And you see them.

Ward. John. Rafe.

Waiting.

She pulls you in until you move, closing the door behind you with an uncanny calm. All you hear are the muffled remnants of the chaos outside and the sound of your own pulse. 

John is there, your hands reach for him before you can stop yourself, on his shoulder, his arm, his face, as if confirming he's there. 

He's alive.

It's not a dream.

You pull away as if his touch had burned you. You’re close enough to the door that a single step back has you pressed against it.

Your hands are trembling.

– You could have told me what was happening.  

You only realized it was you who said it after Peterkin briefly pauses to look at you.

– Sorry, Routledge?

– You could have told me what was happening. – You're still shaking, but it's not from worry anymore. – Do you have any idea of what I was thinking? You call me in here, refuse to answer any of my questions, talking like the second tower is coming down and when I get here there’s a fucking ambulance parked outside!

– Don’t curse at me.

– I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD, PETERKIN! I thought my brother was dead! And that’s exactly what you wanted, too! Isn’t it?!

– Look, Routledge, I understand you’re worried but let’s calm—

– DON’T!— You cut yourself off, hands on your temples. – Don’t tell me to calm down, please.

– I’m trying to help you out here, Routledge.

– You’re trying to fuck with me, is what you’re doing. You can tell me to come ID a body over the phone, you can tell me that you need me to sign the papers for my father’s death over the phone, you can tell me, as you have done many times before, that he was detained for this or that crime. What was I supposed to think, when you refused to tell me what was going on?!

John cuts in. – You’re overreacting.

– If I need an inmate's opinion on how to properly express my feelings I'll send a letter to Timothy Leary. At least he has a degree, the only thing you have to show for is an orange jumpsuit.

– What did you just—

– You wanna talk shit? Get someone else to pay for bail every time you fuck up. In the meantime, you can sit your ass down and keep your mouth shut. 

John’s face twists, fury flashing in his eyes, but before he say anything else, Peterkin’s voice cuts through the air like a whip.

– Enough. – Her voice reaps the momentum from you. – If you two want to bicker like children, do it somewhere else. You’re in a police station.

A sharp silence follows.

John is still fuming, still gripping the arms of his chair, still seething like he might say something else.

But you don’t care.

You don’t look at him. Your anger is still focused on Peterkin, that rage that feels like an edgeless life, pointed but unthreatening, until it boils over. – Well, are you gonna tell me what happened or do you have any mind games to get out of your chest beforehand?

– Don't you talk to me like that!

– How else do you expect the girl to talk to you after you made her believe her brother was dead, Sheriff? – Your eyes flick towards Ward, the last person you would expect to back you up. His eyes move slowly, between her and you. His face taken by an expression so calm it almost feels unnatural.

Peterkin’s jaw tightens.

Her eyes flick to Ward, then back to you.

– I didn’t make her believe anything. – She says it slowly, controlled, but her fingers press just a little too hard against the desk.

– No? – Ward’s brows lift slightly, his tone light, almost teasing, and it comes so clearly to you then, because its the same face Rafe makes when he’s about to do something reckless. – Then what exactly would you call it?

Peterkin exhales, pressing her lips together before turning her gaze fully on you.

– Your brother and his friend— She glances at John, then at the door, like she can still hear JJ’s shouting. —decided to use their vehicle as a weapon. I assume you already pieced that together.

Your pulse skips.

John shifts beside you. – We were defending ourselves, – He mutters, but Peterkin doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Her focus stays on you. – That means reckless endangerment, destruction of property, possible assault charges—depending on what the Camerons want to pursue.

Your stomach turns.

You’re waiting for Ward to jump in, to press the issue, to demand the worst punishment possible.

But he doesn’t.

He leans forward, forearms resting on the table.

– I’m willing to be reasonable about this.

You blink.

Peterkin does too. 

Rafe does a double take, the first sound he makes is a sound of outrage.

– You are? – Your voice coincides with Peterkin’s, both of you unable to hide your confusion.

Ward nods, shifting slightly. He looks at you when he speaks next. – What John did was reckless, yes. But he's young. He has a younger sister to look after.

– Look after? – Rafe scoffs, a bitter noise, so similar to the one his father made earlier today, like the warning sound of a rattlesnake. – This psychopath? Oh, yeah. He’s looking after her for sure. – He reaches for your arm, tugging so suddenly you nearly double over. – Look how well he’s been taking care of her these last few days.

– Let go of her, Rafe! Get your hands off of her!

– What?! You jealous I might be bruising her instead of you? You can’t handle that, can you, you sick fuck?!

John lunges.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t stop.

His chair scrapes violently against the floor, hands already grabbing for Rafe, the heat of his rage flaring so fast, so violently, that you barely have time to process it.

But your body moves before your brain does. Your hands slam against his chest. Hard.

He stumbles back into his seat.

– Sit. Down.

His eyes widen. Not in shock. Not in fear. In something else. – He just said—

– Sit the fuck down, John B. I’m not playing with you.

The room is dead silent.

John is breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly as you step back.

Rafe is smiling. Smug. Triumphant. Like you’ve just proven his fucking point.

Your stomach twists.

Because you know exactly what he’s about to say before he even says it. – You see this shit? Can’t even talk to him wrong and he’s already jumping to fucking beat someone up!

Peterkin shoots Rafe a warning glance.

– That’s enough! – She growls. – This isn’t a boxing ring. This isn’t a school playground. You want to fight? Do it after!

But Rafe’s not done. He laughs, shaking his head, and Ward steps towards him, pulling him back onto his chair. – Would you stop acting like a child for a minute?!

His jaw tightens, his fingers drumming aggressively against his knee, eyes blazing with disbelief. – Dad, are you fucking kidding me?

– Language, Rafe! 

– No, fuck that, – Rafe snaps, his voice low, shaking with something dark. He leans forward, his knuckles pressing into the desk. – John B could’ve killed me. Killed us. Topper and Kelce too. And you’re sitting here acting like he’s some poor fucking kid just trying to take care of his baby sister when the only thing he does is fuck her up!

He laughs, sharp, bitter.

Your stomach twists violently. – Don’t do this right now, Rafe.

– Tell me I’m wrong. – He sits back, looking at you with those wide eyes, almost playing at innocence,  but the tick in his jaw is as dangerous as any car crash. 

The room stills.

You feel Ward watching you, but your eyes are locked onto Rafe.

You don’t know what to say. Because he’s right. But that doesn’t mean he should be saying it.

Ward exhales slowly, deliberate. – I get that you’re angry, son. But this isn’t about anger. It’s about fairness.

– Fairness? – Rafe’s voice practically drips with disbelief. – And what exactly is fair about him walking out of here with a slap on the wrist?

Ward tilts his head slightly, watching him, measuring him. – Be reasonable, son.

Rafe’s voice is a growl. – How the fuck am I supposed to be reasonable when this piece of shit just tried to kill me?! Look at me! – Rafe slowly, deliberately, raises his left hand. His fingers are stiff, the skin bruised and swollen, his wrist wrapped in a temporary splint. His right arm doesn’t move at all. Because it can’t. He turns to you suddenly, his eyes desperate. – Look at what he did to me! – He tilts his head slightly, watching your face, measuring your reaction. – You see this? – His voice is low, gravelly, almost affectionate. – You see what he did to me? That was supposed to be you.

The words land like a gunshot.

– You think he wouldn’t do this to you? – Rafe’s voice drops even lower, almost gentle now, almost pitying. – You think he won’t put his hands on you the second you stop being useful to him? That he’ll keep just grabbing without beating forever?

Your brother seethes. – Shut the fuck up, Rafe!

But Rafe ignores him, moving towards you. Slow. Sharp. Dangerous.

– Tell me I’m wrong. – He begs, quiet, almost frantic. – You know I'm not. You know it.

The words land like a knife between your ribs. John is breathing hard beside you, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. – I’m fucking warning you, Rafe!

But Rafe doesn’t care. He doesn’t even look at him. He’s still watching you. Still measuring you. – Baby, please. – Your stomach twists. It’s so quiet. So gentle. So sincere. But his eyes are anything but. There’s a glint to that unnatural blue, a glint that’s almost satisfied. – He’s not gonna stop. You know that. Maybe he hasn’t hit you yet, maybe he still thinks he needs you, but what happens when he doesn’t? What happens when you stop bending over backwards for him? When you stop cleaning up his messes? When you stop taking care of him?

John shoves forward again, but Ward’s hand flies out, stopping him.

– I swear to fucking God, Rafe—

– Baby, – He whispers, quiet, but the word carries an intimacy that’s almost foreign, as if he’s whispering your name, or something beyond your name, the name of an alter ego that only he sees. – He’s already using you! Why do you think he called you here?! – Rafe snaps, suddenly, the 180 degree shift from plea to violence sending you stumbling back. His injured wrist twitches. Like he’s reminding you it’s broken. Like he’s reminding you that this could be you. You feel your pulse hammering in your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes. And Rafe sees it.

He sees it, you know he does. – You’re better than this. – He’s closer now, and his voice cracks—not with anger, but with something far worse. – Better than this fucking lunatic.

John lunges.

And this time you don’t stop him.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch. You just watch.

John throws himself over Rafe, the two of them colliding violently, crashing down together.

Rafe’s back slams into the floor. His head cracks against the chair leg. A grunt—sharp, pained, breathless. John is on him in an instant. And Rafe fights back. Even with only one working hand, even with his wrist still in a splint, he still swings, claws, thrashes, snarls.

For a second you don’t think he feels the pain at all. 

You don’t think he cares.

He’s too angry. Too fucking thrilled that John finally snapped.

Peterkin stutters beside you, words caught between shock and outrage. Ward takes a step back, his fists clenching, his mouth parting—

But neither of them move.

Neither of them do anything.

Not until you do.

Not until you step forward, grab John by the hair of his nape, and yank him back.

Not until you shove him down, back into his seat, hard enough that the chair groans beneath him.

His chest is heaving, his knuckles battered, shaking, curling into fists again—

And Rafe is laughing.

He stays on the floor, head tipped back, breathing ragged, grinning through split lips and bruised skin. Like he just won.

Like this was never about the fight—

It was about getting John to throw the first punch.

You let it happen.

And you would again.

– Jesus Christ, – Peterkin breathes. She’s already moving toward them, toward you, but Ward holds a hand up.

Calm. Measured.

Like this is only a minor inconvenience.

– I believe we’ve all made our points quite clearly, Sheriff. – There’s a twinge of emotion in his voice. It slips before he can stop it. Anger. – We’re not pressing charges.

Your pulse races, you turn to him so fast you almost get whiplash, because you can hear Rafe’s rage before he even murmurs it. And his eyes are already on you. His jaw set, the amusement, the cold, the glint in his eye, all of it gone.

– You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

– Get up Rafe.

– Fuck off, dad. I’m pressing charges. I’m an adult I can—

– I’m not telling you again!

– He nearly fucking KILLED me, dad! Does that shit not matter to you?! 

Ward doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him. He just grabs Rafe’s arm and yanks him to his feet.

It’s rough. Too rough.

Rafe stumbles forward, nearly crashing into his father’s chest, and for a second he freezes.

His breath stutters.

His good hand fists at his side.

And you see it—

The barest flicker of something else. Something ugly. Something helpless. Something that only lasts a second before he swallows it down, before it calcifies back into anger.

– You’re unbelievable. – He breathes.

Ward lets go of him like it's nothing.

Like he’s nothing.

And Rafe shoves past him, shoves past you, shoves past Peterkin. The door slams behind him, hard enough that the fame shakes, and the four of you are left there, in the silence. The tense, cold, unbearable silence of whatever it was that just happened before your eyes.

– Mr. Cameron—

Peterkin starts, but she doesn’t finish. Ward raises one hand, sinking his face into the other, massaging his temples with a heavy breath. – Don’t. – Is all he says. For a moment you’re all waiting again, your hand resting still on your brother’s shoulder, frozen, as his heartbeat falls back into a normal pace. – Miss Routledge, I’ll see you again tomorrow. – He makes a move towards the door, but stops again. – If you could talk to Rafe, make him—

He trails off.

You’re not sure what exactly he wants you to do, calm him, plead with him, make him think this is somehow better than whatever else he planned to do. But you nod, and nonetheless, you tell him: – Yes, sir.

His eyes remain on yours for a moment, then he nods too, and the door closes behind him.

– I thought you were a chef, – John says, his tone as petulant as his expression. – Not a babysitter.

You don’t dignify his words with an answer.

Clutching your purse to your side, you turn your attention to Peterkin, who’s standing at the edge of her desk, still staring at the door. – What now, Sheriff? 

She takes a moment to look away from the door, but when she does, she’s scanning you. You feel her eyes linger on your arms, on John’s hand, still tight around your wrist, around your neck. – You can go, John B. I need to talk to your sister for a minute.

– Anything you’re telling her you can say to me.

She smiles, laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. – Get out of my office before I have you removed. – She warns. – This is your third strike, by the way. Next time you’re detained, she won’t be able to bail you out.

He seems shocked for a moment, his lips part, and close again, gaze drifting towards you as if he’s expecting you to say something, to have his back.

You don’t.

– Don’t make me tell you twice.

He blinks, confused, but does as he’s told. His hand brushing your arm quietly as he stands. – We'll talk outside.

Silence engulfs you once again as the door closes behind him.

– Sit.

Peterkin doesn’t look at you when she says it.

She’s still watching the door, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of her desk, lips pressed together like she’s thinking —really thinking— about something she’s not saying out loud.

– I'd rather not. But thank you, Sheriff.

She exhales slowly, finally shifting her gaze back to you, and for the first time today, you’re not sure what she’s about to say.

– Suit yourself. – There's an edge to her words. Something like amusement. Something you've come to know much better after meeting Ward Cameron. – That was quite the show, – She muses, almost idly, the tap of her fingers the only sound between you for a minute. – Do you always find yourself in the middle of the Camerons’ problems?

You stiffen, raising your eyes, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping you. – How many episodes of NYPD Blue did you have to watch to get the finger-tapping down?

– I asked you a question.

– An irrelevant question. I work for the Camerons, I'm sure you gathered that, so, what’s the problem here?

– I’m just trying to get to know you, Routledge. 

You laugh again. – If you want a date, you'll have to wait a while. I'm not of age just yet.

She smiles, ignoring your teasing. – Your brother is always around here, and you're cleaning up his messes, his friend's messes too, and that boy's, Barry, right? – She hums, sitting back on her chair. You don't answer, tilting your head. – But still, it's like I don't know you at all.

Her eyes flick over you —your bruises, the faint red mark on your wrist where John grabbed you, the wrinkles in your top from Rafe’s earlier grip.

– If you wanna get to know me so bad, maybe you should stop talking in circles.

Peterkin laughs, a soft rumble that echoes around you both as she leans back on her chair, the light of the morning just beginning to stream through the slits of her windows. 

You're not sure whether its genuine or if she's just a good actress, but you fake a smile nonetheless.

– It's funny, y'know. – She shakes her head, still laughing. – I keep forgetting you’re your mother's daughter. Even though the two of you are exactly the same.

The words sting you.

Peterkin knows they would. But the questions sit at the tip of your tongue, like they do every time someone mentions her. How was she? Are we that similar? Do we look alike?

You don't know why you want to ask.

You've never heard anyone say one good thing about her. To her face or to her back.

– She liked her boys a little bad, too. Just like you do. – The woman says, as if she could hear you thinking. – Only she wasn't the one cleaning up the messes, no. She was the one getting them into it.

– Like your daughter, then? – You ask. Peterkin's smile falters for a moment. – I know how to play dirty too, Sheriff. So if you're looking to get something out of me by talking about my mother, I suggest you rethink your approach.

She's quiet for a minute.

– I'm not trying to get anything from you, girl. We're just talking.

– So I can go then?

She's quiet again.

– It’s a free country, miss Routledge. – You step towards the door, reaching for the handle, but then, just as always, the moment you twist it open, she speaks again. – Does he always call you that? – Peterkin almost seems amused. – Does he make it a point to stretch it out every single time he says it, too? – You don't look at her, but you don't move either. – That’s what he used to call your mother too. Did you know that?

– Probably had something to do with the fact that that was her name, right? Or maybe I'm missing some vital clue here.

– He was real fond of her. Bailed her out a bunch of times. Every time she got in trouble, there was Ward to save her ass. – She pauses for longer then, and steps up, nearing you. – Like you and that boy, JJ. Does your brother know you two are so close?

– You monitoring my friends now?

She laughs again, the sound like a bullet. – Is that what you call it?

– It's what your daughter called it. They used to be real close. And then one day, they took a trip to Charlotte, stayed there a couple of hours, came back looking like they'd been to a funeral, and never spoke again. Funny that. 

You twist the handle again, but just as the door open, Peterkin slams it closed. – Don't you talk to me like that!

– Rules for me and not for thee? Thought you were better than this, Sheriff.

– I'm the one trying to help you here, Routledge! 

– How?! – Your patience is gone. Drained. And you feel a surge of rage that's all too familiar as you look her in the eye. – By blackmailing me with little fun facts about my mom? It might come off as a shock to you, Peterkin, but I don’t need to know anything else about her. I know what I need. She's gone. You know she's gone. And you know she was not a good mother. You were the one who broke the case, remember?! But you weren’t a Sheriff back then were you? No. You got that promotion right off of my broken bones. Never got the chance to congratulate you, did I? I was too busy bleeding out.

Peterkin’s face darkens.

The fake amusement, the carefully measured patience, the knowing jabs, gone. – Watch yourself. – She warns. Her voice is low. Calm. The kind of calm your mother showed you before she started up again.

Before she did what she did best —hurt you.

You don’t back down, because it's the only thing you could ever do with your mother. You meet her stare, shoulders squared, mouth set, pulse hammering, and swallow your tears.

She shakes her head, exhales sharply through her nose.

– I’ve seen girls like you before, – She says, the anger in her voice almost pitying. Almost. – Too sharp for their own good. Too mouthy. Think they’re playing the game when they don’t even know what the game is. – Her head tilts, slow, deliberate. – You think Ward Cameron is your friend? That Rafe is? You think you’re gonna play the same games you play with that poor little idiot JJ, and your friend, the drug dealer? You think he’s gonna protect you? That any of them are?

You don’t answer.

Peterkin steps closer.

– Let me tell you something, miss Routledge. – Her voice drops lower. – You know a lot of men, don't you? You've gotten around. – You laugh, bitter, but she doesn’t stop there. – You ever seen a man let go of something he thinks belongs to him?

The room is dead silent.

You swallow.

Your throat is dry.

– You think you’re free? – Peterkin whispers, almost taunting. – You ain’t even close.

She leans back, watching you.

She lets the words hang between you, stretching the silence out until it feels like a weight.

– You can go.

And this time, she doesn’t stop you.

You don’t even register the sound of the door closing behind you.

Not at first.

The moment you step outside, something cracks.

It's small. Invisible to everyone but you.

But you feel it.

You feel it in the way your breath catches, in the way your shoulders shake, in the way your hands clench and unclench uselessly at your sides, like they don’t know what to do with themselves.

It was just words.

Just words.

But they sit in your chest like a stone.

You exhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying to ground yourself, but the ground feels off. Like it’s shifting beneath you, tilting under the weight of everything you’ve been pretending isn’t there.

And then—

A voice.

A presence.

A reminder that you’re not alone.

You don’t know who sees you first.

You don’t care.

Because they’re all there.

Ward and Rafe, standing by the steps, watching.

John, JJ, Pope, Kie, Sarah—all of them in the hallway, caught mid-conversation, watching.

You know what they see.

Your face.

Your hands.

The barely-there sheen of tears in your eyes, threatening to spill before you even realize they’re there.

You move.

Quickly.

Before anyone can say anything, before anyone can step closer, before anyone can ask.

You push forward, barely thinking, barely breathing, moving down the steps so fast the station around you is a blur.

Your fingers are already reaching.

Pocket. Box. Lighter. Cigarette.

You shove it between your lips, flick the lighter open, but your hands are still shaking, and it takes you a couple tries before the flame catches, a flutter of smoke floating around you, heavy and thoughtless like the beat of your heart.

You inhale like it’ll save you.

Like it’ll fix whatever is clawing at your throat, sitting heavy in your chest, making it impossible to breathe.

But of course, it doesn’t.

Peterkin was cruel, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t right. 

All your life you’ve been hoping someone will save you, ease the burden off your shoulders, pull you out of the depths you keep being thrown back into. But not only does that person never come, the ones that do always seem to kick you back down when you’re standing.

You should have learned the lesson from your mother —Three years of age, and people already looked away from the bruises, ignored the crying, pretended not to hear the screams.

Peterkin got to you too late, when she was already leaving.

When she had no more blood to take from you.

But you didn’t learn the lesson, and it came back to bite you with your father.

Then your brother.

Then the other kids at school.

Then the ones you thought that were your friends.

And at last you were all alone, you and Barry, who bailed at every opportunity, who broke your heart again and again, and who, till this day, you could never part from.

No matter how much you thought you learned, history always repeated itself.

It was already coming back to you.

Because you hear the familiar steps before he calls your name, before he's reaching for you.

JJ moves too fast.

Drops down next to you like he’s forgotten everything. Like he’s forgotten what he did to you just days ago. Like he's forgotten that he nearly killed you. Like he's forgotten he told you he never wanted to see you again.

His hands hover—over your knee, your arm, your wrist. Hesitating. Wanting to touch. Wanting you to let him.

Like nothing’s changed.

Like he didn’t kick you out.

Like he didn’t turn his back on you.

But he catches himself.

Clears his throat.

His face is wracked with guilt, you see it from the corner of your eye as you look ahead. That same boyish, reckless thing he does when he’s trying to pretend nothing’s wrong.

When he’s trying to get back on your good side.

When he’s trying to make you forget.

– Baby, – His palm presses against your thigh, warm, grounding. Like he’s offering something. Like he’s trying to fix things with just a touch. His knuckles are bruised. His palm is calloused.

Your cigarette trembles between your fingers.

You should tell him to fuck off.

But that’s exactly what he wants. He wants you to give him something, something he can twist and turn until he's the victim, until he can get you back. So you don't say anything. You just stare at the pavement, silent.

JJ hates silence.

– You’re good, right? Peterkin didn't— I mean, you look good. Like, really good.

He’s overcompensating.

His hand squeezes your thigh, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’s just desperate to keep touching you, because it makes him feel like this isn’t nothing, that you’re doing it for him.

– You shouldn’t worry about her. Peterkin, I mean. She likes to get into people's heads. It's like, her favorite sport or something.

You exhale, the smoke billowing away from his face, still hanging between you.

– You know, I was thinking, – He says, voice light, too light, like he’s hoping you’ll play along. – Maybe we should just go home after this, right? Rest. I'm tired, really tired— I, I couldn’t sleep right, so— I could drive you. John B’s going with Sarah anyway, Kie's probably gonna drive Pope. – He's looking at you, his breathing heavy, his knee bouncing. He's getting anxious. – You should rest too, baby. – His hand drifts over your back, you have to fight the urge to recoil. – You looked so pale when you came in, so dizzy. I thought you were gonna faint. I'll take care of you, you know that, right? – His breath fans over your shoulder, eyes wandering over your face. – Do you feel any better? You— You look better.

It unnerves you.

Discomforts you.

You don’t know what to do. You should get up, leave him talking to himself, but that would give him an excuse to chase you, and you know you can't outrun him.

– They fired you, right?  – You blink. Slow. JJ’s still watching you, still too fucking close, still with his hand on your thigh, and something flickers in his face. Relief. It’s quick. Barely there. But you see it. And you know what it is. He thinks you’re done with the Camerons. He thinks that you have nowhere else to go, so he can get you to come home. – Don’t— Don't worry about that, okay? I know it seems like a lot now, but you'll get another job, just like you did before.

You don’t answer.

You don’t move.

You just breathe, the cigarette burning between your fingers, your stomach twisting tight.

Footsteps echo behind the two of you.

Sharp. Angry.

Then a voice.

– She wasn’t fired, were you Y/n? – He laughs, you can hear the rest of them coming behind him, Pope's eyes meet yours through the glass, and he lowers them immediately. Embarrassed. – No, her boyfriend made sure he had his favorite servant close at all times.

JJ tenses. He looks between you and John, hesitant. 

You look up at your brother, his hands shaking at his sides, restless. He doesn’t stop moving for a moment, looking all over, at you, at the ground, at the pavement behind you. JJ’s hand is gone. Like he already knows he has to put distance between you.

You stare at John, your cigarette burning down between your fingers, the taste of nicotine heavy on your tongue. 

You don’t say anything.

Not at first.

You just stare at him, waiting for him to dig his own grave. Because you know he will. John isn’t the type to sit in silence. He needs you to react, and when you don’t, he gets restless.

– You’re really staying, huh? – His voice is sharp, his lip curled like the words taste foul on his tongue. – Gonna keep playing house with Rafe now? You like it that much? That much that you'd leave me in the dust?

You inhale slowly. Exhale even slower.

John’s eyes flick to the cigarette in your hand, like he might slap it out of your fingers. He doesn’t.

– You’re a fucking joke, you know that, Y/n? – He scoffs, voice dripping with something that sounds like betrayal. – I mean, what, is it fun for you? Cooking for him? Cleaning for him? Fucking him?

JJ shifts beside you. Uncomfortable. And for a moment, it seems like he might step in.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows.

He knows your brother. He knows that he's not letting go until he tires himself out. So he just stands there, quiet, shifting, trying not to look at you.

– Rafe’s fucking laughing at you. – His voice is mean, cutting. – That’s all this is to him, okay? You think he gives a fuck about you? You think he looks at you and sees anything but a game? – He takes a step closer. His hands curl into fists at his sides, his voice turning softer, pleading now. – You know I’m right.

The weight in your chest tightens.

Your cigarette is all but burned down now, the smoke trailing from your fingers.

And still you don’t look at him.

You don’t move.

John exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand over his face, over his hair, back around his neck. He's shaking, all over the place, and when he speaks again, his voice is tight, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

Like he’s forcing himself not to shake you.

– You’re really just gonna sit there and ignore me?

Silence.

Your cigarette is out. Just a dead filter between your fingers. But you don’t flick it away.

You don’t move.

John scoffs. – Fine. Stay with him. Stay with them. See where it fucking gets you.

JJ shifts beside you again, but John’s already turning away. Already moving. Already shaking his head like he’s the one who should be disappointed.

He stops.

Turns back.

Because he can’t help himself.

– You like being someone’s fucking babysitter that much? That's much you need the attention? – He throws over his shoulder, voice laced with scorn. With venom. – I don’t know why I thought you were better than that. But I guess it makes sense. Your mom liked them rich too, didn't she? 

You blink.

You breathe.

You stand.

Slow. Deliberate.

John doesn’t move.

JJ does.

He tenses beside you, his hands twitching at his sides, his lips parting like he’s about to say something.

But you don’t give him the chance.

You step forward.

Closer to John.

Close enough that you can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way he braces, blinking rapidly, his breathing unsteady.

Like he knows what’s coming, like he thinks you'll beat him up.

You won't give him the satisfaction.

– You should be on your fucking knees thanking God you won't be sitting in jail cell for the rest of your life.

John blinks.

Stares.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him.

– You think I’m the fucking embarrassment? – Your voice is quiet, almost thoughtful. – You think me working a job, paying my own bills, making my own fucking way is the problem? Meanwhile, you tried to kill a guy just now?

John’s jaw tightens.

– He fucking deserved it, okay? – You scoff, and he stutters. – He did, okay?! You weren't there, you didn't hear him!

You laugh.

Short. Sharp. Bitter.

– Try saying that in court. See how it holds up.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders rise, his breathing gets heavier, and for one brief second, you think he might lunge at you like he did Rafe.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows.

He knows you won’t stop him this time.

So he just stands there.

Fuming. Silent.

– I’ll get my things out of the house. – You hum, low, calm. You see him stutter, his eyes widen, his feet shift, back and forth, like he doesn’t know what to do. – I’ll get out of your sight then. Don't worry about seeing me again.

You see him flinch before you turn, as if it was the last thing he expected to hear from your lips.

The door behind him is open, his friends standing at the door, looking at you the same way. Painfully, wretchedly, like they can’t bear to look and can’t bear to look away.

He says your name, and it lands like an afterthought. Like he’s only now realizing he should have called it sooner.

You feel your own heart beat against your ribs, against your skin, against the weight of everything you don’t let yourself acknowledge. 

John is still standing, his jaw tight, his eyes darting all over your face like he’s not sure whether to be pissed or just confused. You can see the questions on his lips, the disbelief, the hurt, the indignation—like he’s just now realizing that, for once, you’re not on his side.

– Where— Where are you going?

You don’t answer.

You don’t look at him. Because you know what he wants. He wants you to play the role you always do. He wants you to tell him you believe him, that you’ve got his back. He wants you to put everything else to the side, everything he did to you, everything he told you, every way in which he hurt you, and comfort him, be on his side, because John has never had to prove a damn thing. Because he’s never thought he had to.

JJ doesn’t let it go, though. He steps closer. Too close.

– Baby, – He whispers, close enough that only you can hear. – Don't— Don’t do this, okay? It's your house, your things. You— Why are you going?

He's already reaching.

His hand brushes your arm first, but it’s not like before. It’s not light, it’s not teasing, it’s not hungry or warm or comforting. It’s something else.

Something desperate.

Like he’s holding onto you the same way he used to, the way he used to fit into you, like he’s looking for some proof that you’re still his, that your arms still belong to him, that you’d still pull him in.

He looks like he’s on the verge of something. His fingers graze your wrist. Like he wants to hold it, like he’s about to, but he hesitates. The night before is still fresh in his mind, it’s still real in his mind, and even through his usual recklessness, through his guilt, through the desperation bleeding through his voice—he knows. He knows there are some lines he can’t cross with you anymore.

So he doesn’t.

But you feel it, anyway. – Why— Why are you leaving?

– What kind of a fucking question is that? 

– Please, don't—

– You told me to leave. You told me to get out of my own house, you told me that I was a traitor and a whore, that I didn't belong there, that you didn't need me. I'm just following orders.

John looks between JJ and you, their expressions grievous, solemn. – That's not— JJ begins, his eyes teary. – I didn't mean that. I was angry, I know that—

– John let you do it. – You look at him. – Didn’t you, John? You're fine with JJ almost killing me on that bike, you're fine with me sleeping on the street, you're fine with someone calling me a whore, you're fine with having someone else humiliate me. Right?

– I don’t— He starts, but he doesn’t finish. His voice trails off, lost in a stutter.

– I'm sure you don’t. Nothing is ever your fault, John. You want me out of your life? Fine. But you can't have it both ways. Be an adult for once in your life and fucking own it.

John remains quiet, his hands still shaking, his eyes filled with tears.

He calls your name again, but you don’t want to hear him. You don’t want him near. You turn on your heel before he can grab you, and you don’t stop walking until you’re at the bus stop again.

Peterkin was right.

You are your mother’s daughter.

Leaving like that, throwing people’s words back at their faces like a teenager, that’s exactly the thing she did best, or at least so people tell you.

The thought pierces through the haze in your head, sharp enough that it stops you in your tracks, makes you falter mid-step, the air heavy in your lungs. You sit down, sink onto the curb and pretend to just be waiting, pretend this is just a day like any other.

But you can’t.

Because you can hear Peterkin again. Her voice like the smooth click of a safety coming off, her words landing on you with perfect, practiced weight.

"He called her exactly that. He was really fond of her. Bailed her out a thousand times."

It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t have stayed with you like this. It shouldn’t have latched onto your ribs like a living thing, twisting, growing, taking up space. But it does. And you can’t help but feel like an impostor.

People always say that to you, especially when they want to hurt you. That you’re your mother’s daughter, that the two of you are one and the same. And you can’t help but wonder if you’re some second rate version of her, barely filling these shoes you don’t even know you’re standing in, the specter of her presence in everyone else’s life.

Your brother.

Your father.

The Sheriff.

And now Ward.

The thought haunts you, you think about it all the way back to the Chateau, this idea that you’ve been inadvertently living a life that once was hers, with the people that belonged to her. Because everybody did belong to her, everybody except for you.

Now you can’t catch your reflection on the window without feeling like it doesn’t belong to you either. Because she’s there, looking at you, judging you, laughing at you, even though she was never there. Will never be there. Never wanted to be there. Regardless of how desperately you’d wished for it, in the quiet of the night, when even her worse batterings seemed like a kiss in comparison to your father’s cruelty, or the cruelty of the kids in the school yard.

You get “home” with the feeling that you never belonged there in the first place.

JJ’s words ring true, at last.

The air is thick inside the Chateau. Heavy. It smells like salt and old wood, like damp laundry left out too long, like something burnt that no one bothered to clean up, because of course, John didn’t. 

Your hands are steady now.

You think that’s almost worse.

There was a time when coming home used to bring relief. But this place hasn't been yours for a long time now, has it?

Not really.

The bedroom is exactly as you left it. Clothes draped over the back of the chair, your shoes kicked under the bed, a pile of books stacked on the nightstand, an old jacket of your dad’s thrown over the desk. The posters on the walls are the same ones you’ve had since middle school, their edges curling from the humidity. Your closet barely even creaks when you pull it open.

And inside—

It’s so empty.

The realization slams into you like a physical thing.

You never had much to begin with, but it looks even worse all gathered like this: a couple of shirts folded into your duffel, a few pairs of shorts, two pair of shoes. A handful of books. Your dad’s old clothes, faded and a little too big, but they used to smell like him, so you held onto them. You don’t even think about leaving them behind. You shove them in the bag with the rest, jaw set tight.

It doesn’t take long to pack. It doesn’t take long at all. And somehow, that’s the worst part.

John doesn’t burst in after you, JJ doesn’t either. Nobody does. Maybe they don’t even realize you’re already gone. Maybe they think you’re still standing at the bus stop. 

Maybe they think you’ll come back.

You know they’re wrong, and maybe, for the first time, they do too.

You look at the duffel bag, barely filled. There’s nothing else to take, because nothing else is yours.

Everything that’s left behind is theirs. Everything you fought so hard to keep is suddenly so meaningless. The clothes, the trinkets, the bed you once thought of as yours, the walls that have never really belonged to you.

The box —The thought occurs to you like a storm.

It’s tucked away under your bed, out of sight but never quite out of mind. You drop to your knees and reach for it, fingers shaking again, breath uneven. When you pull it out, dust clings to the edges of it, the cardboard soft, the lid slightly bent from how many times you’ve opened it before, looking for something, anything, that could make you understand her.

Your mother is gone, you remind yourself. But that doesn’t mean she ever left you. 

This is how you’ve buried her, what a shame. No candles or kisses, nobody to say any words.

Your throat tightens. So does your chest.

The lid opens with barely a sound.

Faded polaroids —Her, in all of them. Her lovers, in most. The few friends she had, left with the rest. Crumpled receipts, from beauty stores and fancy labels. A necklace you’d found under your bed one day, the chain long broken, the locket empty, no picture inside. A handful of letters other people wrote for her. The gold bracelet she left on your nightstand before she left.

You don’t know why you’re crying until you feel it, the burn at the back of your throat, the sting in your eyes.

Maybe it’s the past twenty-four hours. Maybe it’s exhaustion.

Maybe it’s something else.

Maybe Peterkin was right.

Maybe you are your mother’s daughter, despite the fact she hasn't been your mother in years.

You stare down at the bracelet, the way the gold gleams in the dull light of the bedroom, like the embers of a fireplace that had long gone cold. It’s scratched, delicate and cool, not as pretty as it was one day, the same as her, and you press your lips together as you slip it onto your wrist.

Your phone buzzes again, and you wipe your tears on instinct before you pick it up, burying that box at the end of the bag, closing it, like a casket. The last true thing of a life that was never yours.

How ironic it is, that it too, belonged to your mother.

– Hey bee.

– You okay, sweetheart? It's five, right? Should I go pick you up? – His voice is warm, distant. You feel like you're watching a hearth from within a blizzard. It's a comfort, but one that's so far away you can barely imagine it. – We can go to the store right now, if you want.

– My work usually ends at eight.

– Eight PM?! – He gasps.

You could just see his expression right in front of you, the frown on his face, the way his lips hang open. You could almost smile. – Work is hell, Bee.

– Sweetheart, I know kids in sweatshops that have better hours.

You laugh, incredulous. – I left earlier today. I'm at my pl— You stop, biting your tongue. – At my brother’s. Picking up my things.

Barry's quiet for a moment, you hear the growl of a motorcycle far away from his line. His phone scrapes against his skin, as if he's tightening his grip on it. – Is he there?

– No, Bee. I don’t know where he is.

– Stay in your room. I'll be right there.

– Are you home?

There's a pause. – What?

– Are you home? 

– No.

– Go straight home then, Bee. I'm already on my way. I'll see you later.

You hang up, barely listening to the last few hushed words lost within the grumble of his voice, and you're left to watch the site of the burial: Your empty room. Your now bare bed. The posters still on the walls, watching you emptily.

It's like a haunted house.

You don’t bother to look again before you leave. You don’t need yet another living, breathing, still existing thing to haunt you. But you leave the door open, so that they'll see you're gone.

Because you are your mother's daughter.

You don’t clean anything up, but you take a couple boxes of cigarettes from the counter and shove them in your purse.

Because you’re your brother’s sister.

You close the screen door and leave the wooden one open, leaving the one pair of shoes you never use sitting there on the shoe rack, where it's been for years, because you know you won’t come back for it.

Because you’re your father’s daughter, too.

But you step out onto the grass and there's someone waiting for you. The red and yellow paint on the bike —Rafe’s bike, the one that had been with Barry, the one JJ dragged you on— the first thing you notice.

His left hand, still on the splinter, trembles. And his eyes, those radioactive blue eyes, are filled with tears that spill long before he rushes to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, before you can even say his name.

– Rafe?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire @matildalittlefreak

[asphodelles]

Hi, I found your work on Twitter last year and I really love and look up to your art. If you have the time, I wanted to as if there are there any study topics, artists or techniques that have significantly influenced you :')

I'm at a bit of a complete loss on what to study presently so I thought I'd ask my favorite artists, thank you for reading and I completely understand if this is too open ended a question

Thank you!

This isn't the first time I have been asked this question and I suspect this won't be the last so I'll just lay everything out here. Go to a cafe or get a blanket or something because this will not be a short read:

Foundational:

Anatomy: A lot of my foundational anatomy and clothing illustration knowledge was gained from taking classes and doing observational drawing. Because of this, I'm not going to have the best book recommendations but top 2 books I can recommend for getting Started started are Andrew Loomis or RockHe Kim's books on anatomy (huge asterisk here: they're good at teaching you Basics basics like muscle groups and turning forms and extremely general proportions but will not help that much with making your figure drawings less stiff or how to draw fat or especially in the latter's case how to draw women not built like stick bug anime girls but uh I heard the Morpho books are pretty good. genuinely everything I know about drawing fat is from observational drawing/studies because at some point I got sick of my school for only hiring skinny models in their 20s-30s). I have some diagrams drawn by my friend who studied the hell out of these guys below:

Clothing: I don't know any books that can really help on this front I apologize if I find any I'll update this post but pretty much all of my knowledge on drawing clothes boils down to the following rules: Where are the tension points, how stiff or soft is the textile, how is the form underneath the section of clothing behaving, and don't make even spaces between fold groups

All of this is kind of moot though if it isn't applied through study or observational drawing though

Design:

I have to be really careful here because I don't want to deal in absolutes, the only absolute I'm confident espousing is that anyone who tells you there is only a small selection of methods you should follow to execute a specific type of design are objectively incorrect and just haven't figured out alternative if not more effective design solutions to a common problem. The only real Worst Thing I think you could do as a designer is create a pinterest mannequin devoid of a story, disconnected from its context in the world, and lacking in a clear purpose/personality but this too could be easily be disputed if maximising a character’s aesthetic appeal serves a purpose in its context, and my opposition to this design approach is my personal bias as a character designer for entertainment where emphasizing a character’s function and their relationship to said function is usually the goal

I think the 5 best pieces of advice I've ever received when it comes to designing characters are the following:

Try and follow the rule of thirds/general gestalt design principles of contrast

Always consider what it is you're trying to communicate with the character

Create believable transitions and reinforcements between points of interest

(Entertainment related) KISS principle/Keep It Simple, Stupid is your friend, the way a character wears or wields what they wear or wield will communicate their role in the world (who are they?), their relationship to their role (do they like their job? are they good at it? are they a part of an organization with the means to provide them things to perform their role more effectively?) effectively enough. Excessive information that bloats and conflicts with the communication objective weakens design (example: My favourite childhood toy for years was a pokemon plushie. Would I as a stay at home digital artist be wearing it as a keychain on my crusty paint stained polyester pajama pants when I'm at my desk working my job? is wearing it relevant to my character as a person who both no longer is invested in pokemon and is in this context focused entirely on comfort and doing my job? (no)). I think Elden Ring is an excellent example of a game that has visually complex designs but pretty expedient storytelling with its characters for worldbuilding

Study things that aren't just character design, to borrow from Lynn Yaeger borrowing from Sally Singer "If you're interested in fashion learn everything except fashion... Politics, art, painting- anything except fashion". Because people in different disciplines who work with different mediums or fields of study approach problems in different angles you may not have considered which can help give new ideas + often times the stuff you like was inspired by stuff that isn't at all what you would expect or enjoy yourself (To pull from a very popular example, Arcane is a League of Legends joint which was highly influenced by Warcraft which was highly influenced by Warhammer which was basically a giant response to western pop culture of the 1960s and the history of European warfare something something coconut tree).

Character design is kind of a hard thing to Get Good at considering how much of the actual process is super psychological/not bound by a *ton* of absolutes and has to account for medium and function (you kind of just have to have The Sauce) so I don't recommend Just studying independently only (possible, just very difficult). If you can and are interested in learning more about the specifics take some classes taught by people whose styles you fw who both know what they're doing and are good at explaining their process. For design for entertainment you can always check out Concept Design Academy or The Workshop Academy and see who's teaching there

As far as artist inspirations are concerned I think looking up the artists who worked on projects you like are a good starting point to figure out how you want to stylize. Going off of that at least currently my favourite designers/illustrators for entertainment with The Sauce are probably Evening Monteiro, Sergey Kolesov, Mindy Lee, Tonci Zonjic, Sasha Tudvaseva, Claire Hummel, and Yoshitaka Amano

My favourite book currently for tackling character design at least from a narrative consideration is probably Talking Threads: Costume Design for Entertainment Art (one of the authors is my friend and an excellent teacher!) and a lot of the stuff they espouse really helps to take into consideration individual and external factors when designing a character/how they can be used as vehicles for both individual storytelling and worldbuilding, gigantic reference point for my most recent casual project

Besides that the only other way I can really recommend studying character design is to just look at art, history, architecture, nature (pretty much Everything) and think about how ideas and concepts from those things can be applied to or communicated through a design or figure out what it was about a design or designs you like made it appealing

uhh tldr this is just how i as one among millions of artists got to where i am today as of January 16th 2025 my word is not gospel the advice I espoused here may very well spell my downfall tomorrow

[writing-whump]

Part 2: The Descent

Have some super sick Isaiah and angry caretaker Seline.

As lunch approached, Isaiah felt more sluggish and tired and was glad to finally sit down and order something.

Coffee for one, cause he was dead on his feet for no good reason. And something easy, pasta with cheese.

He thought he was being careful enough. They sat right before the terrace, with the walls around them opening towards the green plateau underneath. Archers demonstrated shooting at statues.

Isaiah tried to focus on the conversation going on. Kept checking if Rip was relaxed enough, if Dylan's tone was right, if Seline's expression wasn't closed off.

No alarm there.

After a couple minuted he found himself zoning out though. He couldn't remember what they were talking about or what the question was. He nodded or hummed along in the pauses, used to reading people in crowds even if he wasn't following.

He was just tired, not about to ruin this trip.

The pasta and the coffee tasted great and he felt sated for a relieved while, while Seline showed them the map and tried to sketch a plan for where they would go next.

The map in her hand was blurry and he couldn't read single of the names she showed with her blue-punk fingernails.

Okay. That was getting a little concerning. Just a little.

Dylan was restless and Rip asked something about going to the roof and if it would be a problem, cause the place was a gold mine for parkouring.

Isaiah nodded and encouraged him and definily said the right things, cause everyone seemed happy. Muffled a sudden burp inside his mouth, with his head to the side, but no-one seems to mind. Thank god.

Once they paid, it wasn't that difficult to be taken in by the place and not to notice him. The streets were lively and twisty, each other more different than the last.

It was all uphill though. Why were they always going uphill?

Dylan disappeared into every second shop, trying out sunglasses and watched. Seline admired the dragon figurines and necklaces and some old mechanical gold plated watch and of course all these incredibly unique wooden magnets and souvenirs...

And still, they were climbing.

Isaiah couldn't catch his breath. His chest didn't hurt, but it felt tight, heart doing those little flipflops that made him dizzy. His fingertips and lips felt numb, freezing like they disconnected from him.

The walking also made him realize what a bad idea lunch was. It sat on top of his stomach like a pile of rocks. He couldn't swallow through the sludge at the back of his throat, the salty cheese taste coating his tounge. His teeth were drowning in grease pooling in his mouth.

And that was before the cramps started.

He ended up leaning against one of the hat shops from the outside, arms wrapped around himself as if it was cold, whole, waiting for Seline, debating a price for a necklace or something.

Dylan stopped by to tell him Rip was taking him to see another view and climb a tower and if Isaiah thought it would be a problem if he tried some roof climbing too.

Isaiah waved them off with a nod. It was fine. Main thing they weren't around to notice him too much.

Why was that so important, anyway? His brain was foggy, his stomach sending out pulses of pain being the only thing strong enough to wake him up from falling asleep on his feet—why was he so damn tired? It felt like being covered in a blanket and pushed towards the ground, he had to snap himself awake.

Isaiah shook off his head. The street was filling with people, laughter and chitchat. He couldn't hear through the pouding of his heart in his head. Nausea was crawling on top of his lunch and slithering up his throat.

He groaned quietly against another vicious cramp, pressing a hand to the side of his stomach. It was bloated underneath his jacket and gurgling like it has a cat stuck inside, clawing it's way out.

The remnants of his will and logic were used to messaging Sel he was going to find a toilet and then locating one (up the hill, of fucking course). It wasn't divided by gender, just two plain stalls.

Isaiah shakily locked himself in the free one, collapsing on the tails in front of the toilet. A burp rushed out and he didn't bother muffling it this time.

His stomach lurched and seized and he hunched over the bowl, but nothing happened. Just the pain and the heartbeat in his ears and the blurry fog in front of his eyes.

He suddenly just wished it could be over with.

His stomach had stopped cramping, but only in the way a sea quiets before the wave crests.

Isaiah clutched the edge of the toilet bowl, lifting the lid with trembling hands. His breath hitched in and out of his chest, every exhale shaky and sharp, jaw clenched against the pressure building behind his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Another hollow burp punched out of him. Then the wave hit.

A jolt ran through his whole body as his stomach convulsed and he finally gagged hard, once, twice—then everything came up at once. The pasta, the cheese, the coffee — the taste of it all burned back up his throat like it wanted revenge.

His body folded with the force of it, elbows slipping on the porcelain. Vomit splattered messily into the water, hot and sour, making his eyes water. He coughed, gagged again, and choked out the next heave. His ribs ached. His chest felt like it was tearing open.

It didn’t stop for a while.

He didn't even have the presence of mind to be humiliated yet — only the singular awareness of being wretchedly, violently sick, every breath caught between gags and gasps. His knees hurt on the tiles. His hands were slick and trembling, trying not to touch the messy disgusting bowl of a public bathroom. He already felt bad for his pants as it was on that smelling floor.

When the nausea finally slowed, he leaned sideways agaisnt the wall, eyes fluttering shut. His whole body buzzed with static — not pain exactly, but emptiness, like he'd been hollowed out. The pain was better, but he was dizzy, heart flipping like a bird trying to fly for the first time.

He didn't remember falling asleep. But he was jolted awake from the weird slumber state by downright aggressive knocking at the bathroom door. Couldn't they tell it was occupied? He tried to say it, but the words got stuck in his scratchy throat.

"Isaiah! I know you are in there, I can hear your phone ringing."

Isaiah blinked. Oh. "Seline?"

"No, ghost of freaking San Marino," she snapped. "Open the damn door."

He almost said no. Instinct pulled the word to his lips like a reflex. But he didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything at all, reaching over to click the lock open.

Seline whirled inside like a windstorm, shutting the door behind her.

She looked him up and down critically, but she didn't yell. Didn't tell him how stupid he was or that he didn't tell her. The world was blurry again and he leaned his head back, slumping down against the side.

He woke up again with something cold touching his cheek. Seline was crouched down right in front of him, close enough that her scent covered the one from the bathroom. She held a wet toilet paper in her hand, cleaning up his mouth from drool and vomit.

He watched her, aware enough to feel humiliated but tired enough not to know what to say. It always came in layers. How he felt, how to best apologize, how to talk to the person in front of him. Now the connections weren't working. Only thing left was the tired weakness he had come to personify.

"You are not burning up," Seline said matter-of-factly, her hand cupping his cheek, then checking his forehead.

"Hmmm."

"When did this hit? Did you feel bad from the start?"

He shook his head with a weak no. His head felt too heavy to lift, but he could roll it sideways towards his arm.

She followed his gaze to inspect his left hand, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket and then the shirt...to find the bruise under his wristwatch. It grew bigger since the morning, a deep blue blotch that was almost black.

Her breath hitched, but she didn't say anything, gently running her fingers up his forearm and to his elbow. On the inside of the elbow from the right, she found another bruise.

"That one is new," he murmured.

She nodded, like that explained everything. "Vitamin K imbalance. You are clotting wrong."

"Sorry."

She scoffed. "You'll have to be more specific, because that's not what I want an apology for."

"My fault. Should have...should have eaten-" a burp rolled out cutting him off with a hiccup at the end. "-better."

"It's not your fault. It can happen. Lots of new food, travelling, your routine is different-"

"I should have paid more attention," he gave her a lop-sided smile, then sniffeled, his throat and nose burning.

"No, I should have," she barked. "I should have known you would never learn and never tell me or ask for a break. God forbid you told me something was wrong so we could help you before it got worse."

"Not for my own-ugh-mistake-"

She shook her head. "No, my mistake. This is on me, I wasn't watching you enough, I was too distracted."

He frowned. "No."

"You are how you are; I didn't ask you to change," she said, nonchalantly. Calmly. He didn't understand her tone. "I'm supposed to watch you and only you, what was I thinking? If this is the only way for you to get attention-"

"Seline..." He wanted to say more, but couldn't.

She glared at him, her eyes bright and blue right in his face. "See? We can go like this all day. You can blame yourself for existing, I will blame myself for not noticing, then you will spiral about being alive and a burden just by feeling pain and we'll all feel terrible, cause you never rely on us and you would rather suffer in silence while letting us have a nice trip."

"Sel-"

"Cause you know, we are having so much fun when you are feeling wretched and sick and throwing up alone in a ditch." She got up from the crouched position, throwing out her hands. He couldn't remember her getting this angry often. "When will you get it? You are not helping anyone! You are making us feel worse! You think I can have fun while you are curled up here vomiting yours guts out in pain? Do you?!"

"That's not what I meant-"

"That is exactly what you meant!" She whirled around, hand raking through her blond curls in frustration. "You are so fucking selfish, you realize that?!"

"S-selfish?"

"Selfish. Selfish, egocentric fool. You feel sick, and you feel better hiding and concealing, cause that's how you were programmed or something. Like a robot. So predictable at this point." She paced a step and another, limited by the small stall. "You don't care what it does to us. How it hurts us to have you be in pain while we stay oblivious." Her eyes glittered in the artificial light. "Can't you see how you hurt me? You are hurting me right now."

He flinched away. His stomach twisted as if she had kicked him, hands curling up at the hem of his shirt.

The blonde girl brushed the tear away from her cheek, her expression stormy and furious. "Alright, I'm done. I don't care who you go to. It doesn't have to be me. But you are going to pick someone and you are going to talk. Inform them. No emotion, no fuss, if that's not what you want, but you will give an update on how you feel. Even if it's just 'I feel tired of listening to you' or 'I want to go to the museum now and not shopping'."

His fingers twitched and he curled into himself, a cramp going through his insides with a hot flash.

"Actually, we are going to do it as an exercise," she said, placing one hand on her hip while waving her other around as if she were explaining something in class. Her index finger was shaking. "You are going to give an update on how you feel every 30 minutes. If you don't do it or aren't honest, I'll put you on wires and check your vitals on my phone, capiche?"

They stared at each other in silence for a long time.

Isaiah didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Didn't know what to say. His lips parted, but no sound came out—just a tremble in his chest, and a breath that hitched like he might break into tears or be sick again.

Seline must’ve seen it. She deflated with a soft groan, pressing the heel of her hand to her eyes. Her shoulders slumped.

"I’m not mad you got sick," she said slowly, voice quiet now, like it hurt to say. "I'm mad you disappeared. I was scared. That’s all. I didn’t know where you were, what took you so long, and then I found you like this."

Isaiah gave a shaky nod.

She crouched back down, slower this time, her hand brushing lightly over the side of his face. "Do you still feel nauseous?"

"No. But I don't feel good either," he murmured, eyes half-lidded. He wasn't sure of his stomach hurt now from the food, the imbalance or the yelling.

"Good," she said. "That means you won’t argue when I drag you to a hotel room and make you lie down."

He didn’t remind her they had an apartment back at Empoli and they would waste the money here. On him. Because he couldn't drive them back.

Seline pressed her hand to his cheek, drawing little circles there. Something in her eyes told him she was reading his mind. They had that shine to them again.

The bathroom lights buzzed faintly overhead.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then she sighed, this time softer, and reached for the water bottle in her handbag. "Thirty minutes," she said. "Starting now."

Isaiah swallowed heavily. "Tired. Dizzy. Shaky. Stomach hurts real bad."

She handed him the water and kissed his forehead as his words made her proud. "Great. We’re off to a perfect start."

[ilikekidsshows]

reading the things that have been said here and by literally every ml critic about how adrien and every other victim of abuse or anything else really in this show is just ignored made me think about how people have been saying that adrien should have been the main character. and i can see where they're coming from because like marinette is so irrelevant to all the plot points that actually matter in terms of gabriel's whole thing. i really do want ml to be a girl power superhero/magical girl show where the main character is a poc female but ml is just not that show.

marinette at this point is the main character because the narrative says she is. a lot of the things that happened, even way back in s1, happened because marinette kept inserting herself into things. she got to be the one to have the final fight with hawkmoth AND have that final conversation with gabriel even when they like barely spoke to each other and there's literally nothing to their relationship besides the fact that she's dating his son and also the obligatory hero-villain connection. like she's so disconnected from the actual heart of the original plot that they had to keep forcably shoving her in there to make her relevant in her own show, which keeps making her look like an annoying, jealous stalker who doesn't care about anything but her own desires, comfort, and happiness

just like, when you have a considerable amount of fans that say not even that they want him to have a spin off series where he deals with his own shit, but that adrien should be the main character of the main series because it would make so much more sense, it doesn't matter whether they're right to want that or not, what matters is that clearly the writing got fucked up somewhere for them to even consider it seriously.

---

It's not only that Marinette isn't plot-important enough to justify her bloated protagonist status. The fact of the matter is that Marinette just doesn't have enough to contribute as a fictional person to justify her protagonist status even in the civilian plots she gets shoehorned into. Part of this is the "lesson of the day" aspect of the show, where Marinette's contributions to the plots will have her do something blatantly insensitive, selfish or downright awful to someone when she gets involved in things that are none of her business, all so that the writers can turn that into a lesson that they then don't have the decency to commit to. The writers are too busy throwing her a pity party for her little oopsies that should totally not reflect on her character even when it's the very core of the character and the way she operates.

For all Marinette is supposed to be a kind, intelligent and heroic person, we just don't see her making the lives of the people around her better the way you'd expect from someone called "everyday Ladybug" once upon a time, or even the way you'd expect any halfway decent teen hero protagonist to. Like, would it kill the writers to write more than one or two episodes where someone actually asks Marinette for help with something and then at least Marinette's well-meaning but misguided attempts to help wouldn't be so self-centered? No wait, them asking for help instead of merely receiving it at Marinette's decision would give them too much agency and we can't have that in the puppet theatre!

Basically, the Miraculous writers are so bad at their job that the series actively suffers from Marinette, as she is being written, being the protagonist. Like, one of the first things I said about 'Sublimation' was something along the lines of: “I have no faith in these writers' ability to tackle the topic of physical disability from the perspective of their coddled, able-bodied protagonist,” not because I thought able-bodied kids couldn't learn understanding alongside an able-bodied protagonist, but because I knew the writers always consider Marinette's comfort paramount. Because Marinette's comfort is paramount, abuse victims and disabled characters are expected to cater to her if they're supposed to be seen as “good”.

As it stands, Marinette is so high-maintenance that it doesn't matter what anyone else is dealing with, Marinette being uncomfortable with them having needs is more important to the writers than those needs every single time. Like, Kim Possible, twenty years ago, had an episode where Kim was uncomfortable around a kid who needed a wheelchair, and the lesson of the episode was that it wasn't about her, so she just had to get over herself. Miraculous would never, and that's the problem. That's why Marinette has such difficulty acting like the good person she theoretically is; she’ll be kind and considerate when it's convenient for her, but, the longer the show goes on, the more the writers make every single moment inconvenient for her. 

I described this issue to my brother, who said it reminded him of how one of Miraculous' pitch phases had a version of Adrien who needed to use a walking stick as a mobility aid. Astruc was told that he couldn't give such a prominent character a physical disability because they were concerned over how hard it can be to depict with sensitivity, and now he's made an episode with a character getting her prosthetic legs broken but it's only relevant because it makes the protagonist who broke them upsette. I think the executives had the right idea when they told Tommy the Clown that they didn't have faith he could depict physical disability with the required sensitivity, even as Astruc's own arrogance insisted otherwise.

[lilacmuse]

On Iran & the Scourge of Sectarianism

This week, i've been thinking about the state of the Muslim ummah, the importance of wilayah, and the need for cultivating Islamic unity as the world draws closer to an uncertain climax in the struggle between tyranny and freedom. Israel continues to brutally massacre dozens of starving Palestinians in Gaza each day, and has now murdered hundreds of innocent people in Iran. I can't even begin to fathom or comprehend such staggering numbers- so many innocent lives taken, so many families destroyed. May God grant victory to Iran, liberation to Palestine, and destruction to Israel and the entire imperial cadre facilitating these crimes against humanity. As Iran has been launching its retaliatory strikes, i've observed what i believe to be an unfortunate yet seemingly inevitable phenomenon: throughout this year, there were many prominent figures in the ummah who made it a habit to parrot certain indignities against Shi'as; insinuating that we are inherently devious or untrustworthy, claiming that Iran's enmity toward Israel was mere pageantry designed to obfuscate some nefarious ulterior agenda. 

Those of us who understand the reality of things observed these claims quietly, noticing which of our brothers and sisters in prominent positions were most privy to becoming tools of the classic imperialist agenda of divide and conquer, with its latest, most devious iteration taking the form of sectarianism. For those of you who have contributed to fueling sectarianism in any degree: congratulations on unwittingly playing the role the Zionists handcrafted for you- i hope whatever ego boost you derived from punching down on Shi'as was worth it. The most maddening part of the anti-Iran claims, in particular, is how painfully disconnected they are from the reality of how much Iran has suffered in order to maintain its opposition to Zionism and Imperialism. While the bloated Arab governments enabling Israel's atrocities have flourished, punitive Western sanctions have completely crippled the economic health of Iran. When my parents briefly visited Iran in May, they said paper money was useless because inflation had devalued the currency so badly, the cost of ordinary objects was well into the millions. 

As we mourn our fallen brothers and sisters in Iran, and continue to grieve the genocide of our brothers and sisters in Palestine, this week has brought a great deal of sadness for the Shi'a world. But it has also been a week of staggering clarity, in which Haqq has become so self-evident, even ordinary Americans have taken to openly praising Iran and Sayyid Khamenei, the very entities the Zionists and Imperialists have spent decades vilifying. And many mainstream Sunnis have been making dua for the safety of their brothers and sisters in Iran, who were once widely isolated and dehumanized. But no matter where the rest of the ummah stands, the orientation of every Shi'a will always remain with Haqq- this is the path illuminated for us by the Ahlulbayt (as); this is the path they paved and sanctified with their blood. As the voices of the Takfiris, Salafis, Madkhalis, and other agents of sectarian bigotry are finally being drowned out by the voices of sensible, God-fearing Muslims who understand the value of being an ummah truly united under the guidance and leadership of Rasulallah (pbuh), we're seeing a sharper divide than ever between those who understand Haqq and those who don't have the insight to recognize it. But in the sea of those voices, there have always been brave, thoughtful souls who went against the grain in favor of unity when it wasn't convenient. I had the pleasure of crossing paths with one such scholar last month- more on that soon, iA :)

x r

[sir-adamus]

How much you want to bet if bees didn’t happen and Blake got with Sun instead the fans pushed for a ship to happen argument wouldn’t be even uttered. Didn’t see it a lot like arko/s & renor/a gee wonder why?!

oh yeah it would never have come up - despite that exactly what they claim is happening with the Bees (that shippers 'forced' the writers to make the ship happen and the show became 'all about' shipping) would have to happen to make Blake/Sun viable because Sun is a very shallow side character with pretty much no depth to him and zero involvement in the show's main conflict, so unlike with the Bees, where the show can dedicate a bit of time every now and then to their developing relationship as part of their individual character arcs until it culminates in a moment that allows for it, the narrative would have to come to a jarring halt every time to focus on Blake's relationship with Sun because he's so disconnected from the main plot and has hardly anything characterisation-wise beyond "annoying, weirdly vengeful, invasive and dumb as a bag of hammers"

not to mention the claims of him being 'written out' to focus on the Bees is hilariously stupid because the alternative would be for him to continue to bloat the cast while contributing very little of narrative importance, and make him look like a massive asshole for continuing to abandon his team so he can be the unwanted fifth member of team rwb/y

[leanbiome-jessica]

How Healing My Gut Changed My Skin, Energy, and Confidence

For a long time, I thought gut health was just about digestion. If you weren’t doubled over in pain or running to the bathroom, you were fine… right?

But deep down, I knew something was off. I was constantly bloated. My skin would randomly flare up with redness and breakouts. My energy felt like it drained halfway through the day, no matter how "healthy" I ate.

And the worst part? I started to feel disconnected from my own body — like no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t listening.

The Turning Point

It wasn’t one big thing that made me finally take gut health seriously — it was a lot of little signs adding up.

I couldn’t button jeans that used to fit.

I needed caffeine just to feel "normal" by 2 pm.

I started avoiding mirrors because my skin looked so dull and tired.

My mood swung way more than it used to, and anxiety crept in even when life was “good.”

At first, I blamed it on stress, aging, bad luck — anything but my gut. But then I stumbled across the idea of the gut-skin connection, and it stopped me cold.

What if the bloating, the skin flare-ups, the energy crashes weren’t separate problems? What if they all came from the same root?

What I Changed (and What Actually Helped)

Healing my gut wasn’t some magical overnight thing. It was small steps, repeated consistently, that made all the difference.

Here’s what helped the most:

✅ Adding a high-quality probiotic — not just any random one off the shelf. I started using Seed’s DS-01 Daily Synbiotic because it focused on gut health and the gut-skin axis. (And yes, it made a huge difference.)

✅ Simplifying my meals — less processed stuff, more simple foods like cooked veggies, broth, smoothies, and easy-to-digest proteins.

✅ Prioritizing hydration and electrolytes — especially first thing in the morning. Lemon water, herbal teas, trace minerals… it matters.

✅ Managing stress differently — instead of ignoring it, I built in micro-moments of calm: 5 minutes of deep breathing, a short walk outside, even just setting my phone down for a while.

✅ Listening to my body — seriously, learning to trust the early signs instead of waiting until everything spiraled.

The Changes I Didn't Expect

At first, I thought I was just trying to fix my digestion. But the ripple effects were incredible:

🌿 My skin started clearing up. The redness faded. The weird hormonal breakouts calmed down. I didn’t need as much makeup just to feel good.

🌿 My energy evened out. I stopped crashing midday. I felt lighter, not just physically but mentally too.

🌿 My confidence came back. It wasn’t about weight or wrinkles — it was about feeling connected to my body again. Trusting it. Feeling strong in my own skin.

It’s amazing how much better everything feels when your gut is nourished. And the truth is — healing doesn’t have to be complicated. It’s about creating the right conditions and letting your body do what it’s naturally designed to do: thrive.

If You’re Struggling Right Now

Please know this: You’re not broken. You’re not doing everything wrong. You’re not too far gone.

Your body wants to heal. It’s trying to heal, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

Start simple. Start gentle. Start where you are.

A probiotic, a glass of water, a breath of fresh air — those small things add up. You are worth the time and care it takes to feel better.

[thehandwixard]

I wanna hear why you think kh2 hasbeen strange because as far as i know it's supposed to be the most popular one

maybe part of it has been adjusting to the new battle system when i actually really enjoyed what kh1 1.5 version brought to the table. felt streamlined and simple but not in a way that took away the punch... kh2's battle system is VERY bloated at the start and it feels much less satisfying to hack and slash so far. itll probably get better though.

i find myself less willing to sit through story scenes as well from the disney worlds. theres far too many of them for too little payoff, since the world stories are split into many parts so you can return later. in theory thats good and fun, but so many of these cutscenes are explaining minigames or the plot of the movie. mulan world is like. extremely infuriating. its a really really bad world

despite mine and EVERYONE's gripes with re:chain of memories, i can see the bones of the combat system and theyre pretty nice, and also it was doing interesting stuff from the beginning with its story in both the disney world and the overall plot, and it had reasons for these things to not be interconnected. kh2 feels disconnected and handholdy in a way it has not earned. its just been strange.

its a real shame because i, again, like everyone, ADORE where kh2 goes with its story, but i feel like kh1 overall did more with less in making the disney worlds mean something. so far at least. its just a really strange uhh... juxtaposition. between the opening and what you're dropped into. however, i have high hopes for tron world

the drive forms are fun though. kh2 is like. a very toys game... and in some ways thats pretty fun, and in other ways im like... im not really here to look at toys and look at set pieces from the movie that half the time the game isnt giving the time of day to depict in a cool way anyways. the energy is just off.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Beneath the Surface ch.1

Sunoo flashed his trademark bright smile at the camera, the soft studio lights making him appear even more radiant. His laughter, playful and infectious, echoed through the set as the other members joined in on the joke. It was a variety show they’d filmed dozens of times, and Sunoo had mastered the art of being effortlessly charming. The energy he exuded was magnetic; it was what fans loved about him.

“You’re always the sunshine of the group!” the host said, her eyes twinkling as she pointed at Sunoo. “How do you stay so positive all the time?”

Sunoo laughed again, waving his hands in mock embarrassment. “Ah, I don’t know! It’s just how I am, I guess,” he replied, his voice light and airy. “I get my energy from the members, and the fans, of course!”

The cameras ate it up. He knew what the viewers wanted to see—the cheerful boy who could lift the mood of the entire group. He was Sunshine Sunoo, after all.

But as the cameras switched off for a brief break, Sunoo’s smile faded almost instantly. His eyes darted toward the monitor, where clips of the show were being played back. He watched himself, standing next to Sunghoon and Jungwon. His stomach twisted in knots as he compared himself to them—their lean figures, their sharp jawlines. They looked so effortless, so perfect.

The heavy pit that had taken up residence in his stomach over the last few months grew heavier. The smiling, happy-go-lucky Sunoo on-screen wasn’t the same person who looked back at him in the mirror every night.

As the crew reset the stage, Sunoo shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was already mentally calculating how little he’d eaten that day. A piece of toast in the morning, a few bites of fruit at lunch, and some water. That should have been enough, right? He hadn’t touched the snacks that the staff had provided—he couldn’t. Not when he already felt like he was always on the brink of slipping.

He tugged at the oversized sweater he was wearing, a calculated choice for the shoot. It hid his midsection, which he’d become increasingly self-conscious about. No one could see how bloated he felt, how much he hated the way his body looked, and that was the goal. As long as he could keep the facade going, no one would know.

But inside, the feelings gnawed at him constantly. The urge to binge had started creeping back in, stronger than ever before. The self-control that had once seemed so solid now felt fragile, like it could shatter at any moment. Sunoo’s stomach clenched, not from hunger but from the anxiety that simmered beneath the surface.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the act.

After the show wrapped up, the members returned to the waiting room, tired but satisfied with how the recording had gone. Sunoo followed behind them, feeling a growing disconnect. The others laughed and talked about their upcoming schedules, brimming with excitement over their individual projects.

Jungwon leaned back on the couch, flipping through his phone. “I’ve got a fitting for that new clothing brand tomorrow,” he said casually. “It’s their biggest campaign yet.”

Heeseung grinned, tapping his shoulder. “Man, that’s huge! Congrats, Jungwon. You’re killing it.”

Sunghoon nodded in agreement. “That’s awesome. Jake and I are shooting a jewelry campaign next week too. Should be fun.”

Sunoo smiled along with them, but the words felt like they were getting stuck in his throat. He had nothing lined up. No big campaigns, no endorsements. The other members had photoshoots, variety show appearances, and brand deals rolling in, while he felt stuck in place, like he wasn’t good enough to be chosen for anything special.

As their success mounted, so did his feelings of inadequacy. He wasn’t doing enough. He wasn’t enough.

“Sunoo, anything coming up for you?” Jungwon asked, turning to him with a curious smile.

Sunoo blinked, snapping back to the conversation. “Ah, no, just group schedules for now,” he replied quickly, forcing another smile. “But I’m happy for you guys. Really.”

Jungwon nodded, none the wiser to the turmoil behind Sunoo’s eyes. The conversation moved on, but Sunoo’s thoughts stayed stuck on that moment. The nagging voice in his head kept repeating itself over and over: You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough.

Later that night, after the group returned to the dorms, Sunoo found himself alone in his room. The others were winding down, preparing for the next day, but Sunoo’s mind wouldn’t let him rest. He sat on his bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, hoping for some kind of distraction.

But as he flicked through his social media feed, he made the mistake of opening the comments section of their latest group post. He’d learned to avoid it on bad days, but tonight he couldn’t help himself. The first few comments were full of praise, as usual. Fans gushing over how cute he looked on the variety show, complimenting his smile.

But then he saw it.

A single comment among hundreds: “Sunoo’s looking a little heavier these days, huh?”

His chest tightened. His heart sank as he scrolled further. There were more.

“He’s not as skinny as the other members. Is he gaining weight?”

“Maybe he should stop eating so much.”

The words blurred together as his vision swam. Each comment felt like a punch to the gut. He knew he shouldn’t care. He knew he should have stopped reading. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The self-doubt that had been simmering inside him for months now boiled over.

The carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself—walls made of forced smiles and cheerful laughter—began to crack. The urge to binge, which he’d managed to suppress for weeks, came rushing back with full force.

The next morning, the dorm was quiet as usual. The members had already left for their respective schedules, but Sunoo had the day off. He sat at the kitchen table, poking at a bowl of cereal with his spoon. The previous night’s comments still swirled in his mind, clinging to him like a shadow.

He had hardly slept. The anxious energy had kept him tossing and turning in bed, his mind replaying the words over and over. When he finally did drift off, his dreams were filled with distorted images of himself—larger, unrecognizable, always being watched, always being judged.

Across the table, Sunghoon sat with his cup of coffee, watching Sunoo out of the corner of his eye. He’d noticed something was off the day before, but he hadn’t been sure what it was. Sunoo had been quieter than usual, his smiles a little more forced, his laughter a little hollow.

And now, watching him pick at his breakfast without really eating, Sunghoon felt that gnawing concern grow. He wasn’t sure what to say, or how to approach it. Sunoo was always so bright, always the one cheering others up. But there was something fragile in the way Sunoo was sitting this morning, something that made Sunghoon worry.

“Not hungry?” Sunghoon asked, keeping his tone light.

Sunoo startled slightly, as if he hadn’t realized Sunghoon was there. He glanced at the cereal, then back at Sunghoon, forcing another one of those tight smiles. “Just not in the mood, I guess,” he said, pushing the bowl away. “I’ll eat later.”

Sunghoon didn’t push, but he felt a flicker of unease settle in his chest. He wasn’t sure what was wrong, but something was off. Sunoo’s energy felt... different. Quieter. More withdrawn.

Throughout the day, Sunghoon kept an eye on Sunoo, noticing more of the small things—the way Sunoo seemed to avoid meals, the way he would linger in front of the mirror a little too long, tugging at his clothes. It wasn’t like Sunoo to be this self-conscious. Sunghoon had always admired Sunoo’s confidence, the way he carried himself with a natural ease. But lately, that ease seemed to be slipping.

In group activities, Sunoo’s usual bright persona remained, but Sunghoon could tell it was a mask. It was subtle—small, almost imperceptible shifts in behavior. But to Sunghoon, who had spent years by Sunoo’s side, it was noticeable.

And it worried him.

Days passed, and the tension inside Sunoo only grew worse. He continued to participate in group activities, putting on the same bright, cheerful act that fans expected of him. But every time he looked in the mirror, all he could see were the comments flashing before his eyes.

He looks heavier. He’s not as skinny as the others. Maybe he should stop eating so much.

Those words clung to him like a second skin, making it impossible to look at himself without feeling disgusted. He started skipping meals more frequently, telling himself it was just temporary, just until he could lose a little more weight. But the hunger gnawed at him, both physically and emotionally.

And with every passing day, the urge to binge grew stronger.

Sunoo fought it, trying to hold on to whatever self-control he had left. But it was getting harder. The more he restricted, the more his body screamed for food, for comfort. It felt like a constant battle in his mind—one he wasn’t sure he could win.

One evening, after a long day of filming, the group returned to the dorms. Everyone was exhausted, but there was a sense of satisfaction in the air. They had done well today. The atmosphere was light as the members joked and teased each other, but Sunoo could hardly focus.

He felt disconnected, like he was watching everything from a distance. His stomach churned, the hunger he’d been suppressing all day finally reaching a breaking point. He knew what was coming, could feel it creeping in. The urge to binge was back, stronger than ever.

Sunoo excused himself quietly, slipping away to his room before anyone could notice the shift in his mood. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his heart racing.

Not now. Please, not now.

He crossed the room in a daze, heading straight for the small stash of snacks he kept hidden in the back of his closet. His hands trembled as he pulled out a bag of chips, ripping it open with frantic movements. The sound of the crinkling plastic was loud in the silence of the room.

Sunoo’s mind was already shutting down, the familiar fog of compulsion settling over him. He ate quickly, mindlessly, shoving chip after chip into his mouth without tasting them. The need to fill the empty void inside him consumed him entirely, blocking out everything else.

By the time he finished the bag, his stomach felt painfully full, but the urge wasn’t gone. He grabbed another snack, and then another, eating until his hands shook and his vision blurred with tears. The shame followed quickly, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket.

His chest heaved as he looked down at the empty wrappers scattered around him. He had done it again. He had given in. The cycle was repeating itself, and he felt powerless to stop it.

A soft knock at the door startled him out of his haze.

“Sunoo?” Sunghoon’s voice was gentle, but it sent a jolt of panic through Sunoo’s body. He quickly shoved the empty wrappers under his bed, wiping at his tear-streaked face as best as he could.

“Yeah?” he called, his voice shaky, still struggling to compose himself.

“Are you okay?” Sunghoon’s concern was evident, and Sunoo hated how much it hurt to hear it. How badly he wanted to be okay, to not have to hide the mess inside him. But the thought of letting Sunghoon in, of exposing this ugly part of himself, terrified him.

“I’m fine,” Sunoo replied, forcing his voice to sound normal. “Just tired, that’s all.”

There was a pause, a long silence where Sunoo knew that Sunghoon could probably feel the lie hanging between them. But Sunghoon didn’t push. He was always careful, never one to force Sunoo into talking before he was ready.

“Alright,” Sunghoon finally said, his voice soft. “If you need anything... I’m here, okay?”

“Thanks,” Sunoo whispered, barely audible. He waited until he heard Sunghoon’s footsteps fade down the hall before allowing his shoulders to slump in relief.

But as he sat there in the silence of his room, the wrappers still stuffed under his bed, the weight of his shame and guilt felt heavier than ever. He had pushed Sunghoon away—again. And part of him knew that he couldn’t keep doing this forever. The wall he had built between himself and the others, especially Sunghoon, was starting to crack.

But tonight, he wasn’t ready to face it. Tonight, he wasn’t ready to let anyone in.

Sunoo curled up on his bed, pulling the blankets around him as if they could shield him from the thoughts swirling in his head. The hunger was gone, replaced by a sickening fullness that made his stomach ache. But the real pain was deeper than that—the kind of pain that food couldn’t fix, no matter how much he ate.

And as he lay there in the dark, Sunoo couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever be able to break free from the cycle. The thought of trying felt exhausting, overwhelming.

But as much as he wanted to push Sunghoon away, part of him couldn’t stop thinking about how Sunghoon had lingered at his door, waiting. How, even though Sunoo had lied, Sunghoon hadn’t forced him to talk. He had simply been there, offering his presence quietly, without judgment.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what Sunoo needed the most.

For now, though, he let the exhaustion take over, slipping into a restless sleep with the weight of his secret still pressing down on him. Tomorrow would come, and with it, the same battles. But for tonight, Sunoo remained in the fragile space between holding on and letting go, uncertain of which way he would fall.

cross-posted on ao3

[foxymoxynoona]

What does being pregnant feel like? Like is it like a food baby in your belly or

It changes! Right now it doesn't feel like much there, just bloated or sometimes the feeling of being too full, but everything is so small that the symptoms are all mostly disconnected from a baby belly --it's fatigue, nausea, heartburn. Because this is my third go round I definitely started showing earlier (my jeans were uncomfortable by 7 weeks 😭) but nothing yet where someone would probably notice or think anything other than that I've had a big meal or put on some weight. That full or bloated feeling --as I'm remembering it-- gets worse and worse until the uterus finally pops over the pelvis towards the end of the first trimester and then there's some more space inside (until baby and uterus grow!) so there's relief of some of those symptoms for a while but then you've got a growing belly and the physicality of it all becomes so much more real

[the-highgate-cemetery-murals]

infestation

I was not born in the filth,

Initially there was no rot.

The rot is something that grew over time.

It festered, infecting all around it,

It gained strength day by day,

Feeling for cracks and splinters,

Digging its roots into my core,

Before I knew it, the rot had become a part of me

And I had no knife to cut it out.

Decay reeks of all the opportunities lost,

All the failed projects and purges,

Renovations that never succeeded.

The body sits somewhere between self pity and self satisfaction,

In its gluttony it sits there bloated with puss,

You’ve never seen a corpse so content with itself.

The infection feeds off your emotion

and it drains you of your mothers milk.

Apathy is all that is left at the end,

So little of the living is left

that the organism disconnects from life itself.

The victim is robbed of his virility, of his passion,

he is left in a state near unconsciousness.

I’ve felt the condition envelop me,

But I took notice of it late,

and now the doctor is dismayed.

Oh but there is so much more the decay thinks it needs,

It has taken hold of more than me.

Once you let an infestation sit around for a while

Its voracious appetite seeks more to gouge itself upon.

Dead water, it weighs on my mind,

But It’s almost as if it has spilled onto my body.

My eyes seem to fade and weaken by the day,

My mouth struggles to find the words to say,

And the rest of my body seems to give up,

In black spots it creeps around

on the wood surrounding the window,

spores in the dents and the cracks

between this chamber and the outside world.

It crawls along the walls,

To the outside it calls,

Just like me, in its decay,

it seeks the light of day,

so that it too, might just gain life.

[bandofchimeras]

thinking about NPD acceptance/positivity tonight. i still feel uneasy with identifying too hard with personality disorders but here's a thought:

a road block to healing mental & emotional wounding is often inability to accept due to toxic shame, that goes to the core of a person. like a huge part of NPD and other personality disorders is believing "I am X" and "X is evil/wrong/inhuman" and the logical conclusion "I am inherently evil/wrong/inhuman." therefore overinvesting in crafting an image of the self that becomes bloated and obscures actual self awareness. maintaining this image is exhausting and often impossible. especially when it is linked to moral obsessions. nothing is more disconnecting with other human beings than having intense internal pressure to maintain a delusional image of the self as good/perfect.

some folks end up "solving" this issue by inverting it and being fully honest about their shame-based image instead. it's a kind of relief, but it doesn't actually allow you to connect with people. it's Bojack Horseman. he leads with how much of a POS he is, and guess what? self fulfilling prophecy.

he's a bit more tolerable than Mr. Peanutbutter in that show but still - both characters miss out on the full truth of their humanity. Or dog-manity? horsemanity?

The shadow side and the basic fundamentals goodness of being a Being on this Earth, in everyone. In fact life is simply complicated and good/bad a somewhat arbitrary, community defined distinction.

So what does that have to do with NPD?

Well, honesty is a good first policy. But the intense self focus of the disorder, is disabling, and can lead to hurtful actions due to lack of awareness or understanding. I don't see personality disorders as value neutral due to the fact they are disturbances in the balance of human relationship. It's not the pwNPD's fault, but the way they've learned to exist causes issues. It just does. I don't think it's positive although many narcissistic people have positive traits still. They simply tend to be incapable or struggle to do the simple relational repair work of apology, sincerity and investment in others well-being. These are skills that can be learned, as the core wound of toxic shame is also addressed. It is possible to crawl out of the prison of your own mind into the sunlight.

But it is really, really hard work. And that's where personality disorder acceptance or at least just "lots of people are fucked up and it's possible for them to still learn and grow" as a movement is important.

I believe personality disorders need the same destigmatization as, for example, meth and crack. Not because yay they're great! or because everyone will and Should recover or else be deemed Inhuman and Irrdeemable, but because everyone deserves to be seen in their full humanity, and have access to what it takes to recover, even if in the end they can't beat the habit.

Because narcissism is a deep, wormy habit. For most of us, a survival habit gone awry. And for some of us, autistic people especially, we might never be able to survive without focusing a lot on ourselves and getting called narcissistic for it.

A friend talked with me about my inability to show up for them recently. I kept coming back to my intent and they told me this was hurtful too because regardless I still impacted them. And the old habit of anger and denial and splitting came up to the surface. But under it I felt a inkling of empathy, like really being able to sit and imagine what their pain felt like. That inkling gets shoved down because it brings up pain with it - pain of toxic shame and guilt, of frustration that I feel at my absolute limit and can't live up to expectations, anger with myself, fear of those selfish parts of me that don't actually give a fuck.

It challenged me to be honest.

Addicts say you know you're in trouble when you realize you have stopped caring.

So with these personality coping traits, it is similar. I'm losing my battle when I stop caring about others. And I can't care about others without caring for myself enough to at least not be in empathy burnout.

I would really like to be a person who carries extensive knowledge of machinery or plants or languages or myths or even just my friends and community. To give myself over to that and feel how good it is to let go of self image and be in passionate mutual relationship with life. Instead of cramped anxious and stuck within myself like a tangled labyrinth. Or my only area of expertise being psychology I have learned to save myself.

However at this point in life habits are setting in. I know the old cracks and quirks of my traumagenic beliefs like "reaching out to people is a nuisance" or "if I do not pretend to be perfect some terrible thing will happen" or "being liked is more important than anything" they're very well worn. but I am not sure they can be beat until I am secure enough to let go a bit, and get into some deep therapy or creative work.

it's very annoying to be run on old programming and feel unable to do anything concrete about it yet.

So yes, personality disorder neutrality is helpful. Recovery is a life long process. It upset me a lot when I first read that in a forum somewhere. I wanted so badly to be fixed and have this horrible fear and shame in my soul removed. But it's a long dirty process that you have to learn to enjoy or at least feel deeply. just like addiction recovery. Stigma only cements people in their shame and keeps them isolated.

Those are my thoughts for now. And Yes, I've been reading Gabor Mate's In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts .

[ed-recovery-affirmations]

Hey! Uh, I've been struggling with ED since my childhood, and I think I have it somewhat under control at this point (I'm 22), but the thoughts tend to get a lot worse real fast when I notice any kind of change happening to my body and/or when I'm stressed and/or feel disconnected from my body. Either I've put on some weight lately or I'm just bloated due to being stressed to hell and back and getting very little sleep in the past week (both due to a death in the family), the reason doesn't really matter because all my brain sees is that my cheekbones aren't as prominent as usual and my body doesn't seem as petite.

I keep thinking that if I have a square figure (I don't know if it's true, but in my mind whenever I put on weight it all goes to my waist and nowhere else and makes me look like a square instead of a hour glass), I can no longer wear feminine clothes and that they will look awful on me and everyone will laugh at me.

I was also raised with the idea that my body is one of the few things I have going for me and that there is a "right" way for a body to be, and that "correct" way is 90-60-90 proportions, so when I feel like I'm getting more squarish I also start thinking "Nobody will ever love me if they see me naked like this. They will think 'Oh. That looked way more ok dressed up. I don't want a rectangle for a partner, a woman is supposed to have killer curves and a thigh gap and be skinny with a completely flat stomach. What IS that? I'm out.' and they'll leave me and they'll tell everyone and then everyone will laugh at me whenever I go outside."

I think that my problems also tend to get worse when someone shows interest in me? Last year I had to break up with a guy because I relapsed when we started dating and it got worse and worse the longer our relationship lasted. When I am alone and nobody expects to see my body and I don't have to look at my body, I think it's generally better. But I am starting to date again now and I thought it would be fine because they also struggle with ED, so I thought that I wouldn't worry as much because I'd know that they know what it's like and I wouldn't feel like I have to perform some sort of ultra-skinny ultra-hourglass standard, but I guess that is not true. Because along with everything above I very much do feel like I need to be ultra-skinny and ultra-hourglass for them and am terrified of them possibly wanting to see me naked, especially so because as I said I have noticed a minor change in my body and now I'm convinced it's a huge change and a bad one. I haven't told them about any of this tho because I know that it's a deranged thing to think.

I'm honestly not sure about what I need/want from you. I guess any kind of affirmation or advice would be nice. And I'm sorry that this got so long.

Hi, anon, that's quite a vent you have there! I can tell you've been struggling with this stuff for quite some time. While I am choosing to answer this ask, I would like to put a gentle reminder not to put specific numbers, like weights, body measurements, calorie counts etc in posts as this can sometimes be triggering to others.

So my advice to you may be hard to follow, because of course you're going to want to body-check yourself if your body size has been seen as your best accomplishment, but constant body-checking is a compulsive behavior common in restrictive EDs. I would recommend you refrain from weighing yourself, and only look in the mirror as much as you need to brush your teeth, wash your face, check hair, makeup, clothes etc. If you catch yourself scrutinizing your appearance for weight changes, try to catch yourself. Ask yourself what you need to do in order to redirect to a healthier line of thinking. You identify that you have been taught to see your greatest worth in your body. Perhaps you could take this time to affirm to yourself your worth in other areas, or engage in an activity away from mirrors that helps you connect with yourself. That way you can be reconnected with a sense of your true worth. Don't be discouraged if it's hard at first, these things take time.

You especially need to practice giving yourself grace at times like these, when you are highly stressed out. Bodies change in life and that is a natural phenomenon, not a moral failing. Bodies are especially prone to change during these times of high stress. But you are a living human being who's recently had a loss in the family. You deserve gentleness and time to grieve, not pressure to make your body stay palatable during hard times.

Maybe it could be a good idea to step back from the idea of dating for a bit of time while you reconnect with yourself and your sense of worth. It's hard, I know, but I hope that one day you are able to find someone who you trust enough that you can have honest conversations about this, ideally prior to any bedroom activities. Someone you can talk to about what you need to feel worthy and desired by them. Someone will put effort into doing what you need them to do. There are so many people with different bodies in this world, some single, some in relationships, some in queerplatonic partnerships, but so many different people are finding out ways they can be loved in their bodies, and I hope you can be one of them. It will take time and practice and setbacks, so stay patient with yourself.

I also hope that you one day are able to build such confidence and respect for yourself that you would loudly kick anyone out of your bedroom who dared to tell you they disliked something about your body.

It's true, you can't always trust the influences around you to give you a healthy perspective on your worth outside your body shape. It sounds like that's something you've experienced in your life. Not everybody is going to be a positive influence, so it's up to you to be your own primary positive influence and look within yourself for points of personal worth when you start hear people bringing up your body.

Oh, and I recommend you keep writing. Sometimes it just helps to get it all out, and even gets some stuff processed in your head!

[strobbylemonade]

explaining why this is poor design: new on left (light mode) and old on right (dark mode)

having tag thumbnails is quite ineffective when all tags have the same thumbnail

i don't know about other people but i personally prefer not to search by tag? i usually search by keyword because it gives me more varied content in my search. strange choice to prioritise tagging but lmk what other people think

"217 recent... 63K..." yeah this is sooo optimised for different browser sizes

when have follower counts for tags ever been important information that we need to know while navigating to a tag? on the website where "follower counts don't matter"??? this is useless information; i used to primarily use instagram, it was also useless there and mainly used to double check i didn't misspell anything.

the leading and vertical margins/padding are bad; not only makes the title and subtitles feel disconnected, but also makes it harder for your brain to distinguish between sections.

making everything larger makes it more cramped, and again, removes the spatial distinction between where one entry ends and the next one begins

props for making stuff more distinguishable for colourblind users and also easier to read from further away though. although uh some other website has done it better and... well... we'll get to that later

before we do, i had a search of what other people thought and stole this screenshot from @helpimstuckinafandom (ryuji image to stop the screenie from taking up too much space)

this is somehow WORSE - it's so cramped on the left side with so much empty space on the right, making it feel bloated and empty at the same time, the text in the different sections don't line up (they didn't used to either, i know), the enlarging of the icons reduces the negative space that was already lacking with my update, and somehow the bolded text of the search suggestions makes it feel even emptier compared to the cramped "tags" area. the good thing? less unnecessary information, like no tag follower counts, and no icons for recent searches.

alright. moving on, i sure do wonder where they got this idea for larger and bolder font choices from OH WAIT (roland image to stop it from being so damn large)

oh wait this actually looks pretty good though. so why does twitter's layout work? same reason why tumblr's old one was, frankly, pretty ugly but worked:

SPACING VS CLUTTER

there's no images for the tags / searches because there doesn't need to be! there's no information about follower counts because again, it's not important! notice their width is almost the same as tumblr's, but it still feels better because the content is smaller and the spacing appropriately allows your brain to digest things into smaller chunks.

it's also completely legible and comfortable to read no matter your browser size!!!!!!!!!!!! which tumblr fails to do! even when display names reach their character limits (see: PearlescentMoon) it's still completely legible and not confusing.

ok so if twitter's so good why do i hate it looking more like twitter? simple: brand identity. tumblr removing the stuff that makes it look like tumblr, is in fact, bad. having thick weighted, rounded fonts is not inherently bad. it's what twitter looks like, it's what apple looks like - they have a certain brand identity of legibility, professionalism, and cleanliness that they need to uphold. which is great. microsoft is straight edges and geometric shapes - utilitarian, functional, professional.

what i'm trying to say is this: if you want to keep branding tumblr as the stupid clown funny gay people ancient hellsite, then revel in the aesthetic. in the blatant html-ness of it all, it's unique, you can't get it anywhere else (you can but not on a site as popular). YES make it more accessible, YES make it more welcoming and easy to pick up and use for new users. you don't have to strip it of it's individuality to do so.

i was going to end it here but right before i hit post, i realised tumblr has a tumblr-looking, well spaced, organised and aesthetically pleasing suggestion-based navigation system already - right under the search bar. anyways. that's all. goodbye