#paramore helps some

[i-writes-things]

and then sometimes I remember being...

🏳️‍🌈👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩🧚‍♀️🦋🐞✨🌈

isn't always

🏳️‍🌈👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩🧚‍♀️🦋🐞✨ 🌈

and it's actually

⛈️😤🤬🤨🖕🙁👎💥🗽🚫

[hidekomoon]

my submission for @paramoreblr's brand new eyes zine<3 the only exception was the first paramore song I really loved (and my best friend used to sing it to me), so of course I had to make something about it

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #8

The day Bruce Wayne knocks on her apartment door Sam knows it's going to be a doozy.

"Mr. Wayne, I really do hope no one saw you," she says, ushering him in. "And for the record, a text ahead of time would be appreciated."

"I parked the car a few streets away," Bruce says, sticking a finger in his heel to peel his polished leather shoes off. Sam raises an eyebrow. "It's a sedan, not a Lamborghini."

"You own a sedan?"

"Taught Dick to drive in it...after he crashed the Lamborghini."

Sam snorts despite herself. The charm Bruce Wayne exhibits would usually rub her the wrong way, too reminiscent of wealthy men that feel comfortable placing a hand on the small of your back at a crowded gala, but Bruce is honest enough about his playacting that she has come to find its insincerity comforting. She's actually sought him out more than once, leading to several annoying headlines that can't seem to decide if she's aiming to date him or one of his eligible sons. None of whom are eligible by the way, as they are a) taken, b) legally dead, c) practically a minor, and d) an actual minor.

Sam's generational wealth is peanuts compared to Wayne Industries, so naturally her parents have been thrilled and rooting for option c.

"I also didn't want Danny to see I'd texted you. Or force you to lie to him."

Sam doesn't quite tense, but it's a near thing. She does slide to the other side of her kitchen island, under the context of finishing prepping her feta fried eggs, laid on a bed of smashed avocado and warm tortilla. She pulls a bottle of crunchy garlic oil out of the fridge and drizzles hot red crisps across the runny yolk. She takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully, not so much as offering him a glass of water.

"You realize, Mr. Wayne, I have no intention of lying to Danny now?"

Bruce sits at the stool on the opposite side of the island. "I understand. And if you want to ask Danny to return home before we continue, I'd understand that as well. I didn't mean to discomfit you--"

"Please do not lie to me now, Mr. Wayne," Sam says, rolling her eyes. "By your own admission you showed up at noon without warning knowing my superhero boyfriend wouldn't be present. If I am discomfited, all the more likely you get your information, right?" Golden yolk runs down her fingers, and she sacrifices it to the napkin rather than lick up her arm in front of her boss, with no small amount of resentment. The yolk is the best part.

"Get to it then," she demands.

Bruce straightens in his stool, chin raising and firming in a jawline she most often sees under a cowl. His eyes attempt to pin her in place, but Sam has stared the Master of Time in the face and demand he reschedule so she is built. different. She takes another bite of egg taco.

"I was not aiming for you to feel threatened, and moreover, I doubt you could be."

Except a smart person should always feel threatened by a threat, no matter their capability of handling one. It keeps them alive.

"Can you tell me how I'm not like all the other girls after lunch? You'll spoil my appetite."

Bruce clears his throat. "I'll get to the point--"

"Thank you."

"--Danny has been exhibiting paranormal behaviors beyond his baseline. We welcome all biologies; human, alien, and paranormal alike, but I have observed actions unlike what he had previously established as his, for lack of a better word, 'normal'

"I want to make sure he is not experiencing any unwelcome outside influence. Or, if this is merely a facet of his evolution, I'd like to know if this is something we or his family should be monitoring."

Sam has been an eco-consultant with Wayne Industries and unofficially, the Batfamily, for half a year now and this is the most she's ever heard the man speak in one sitting.

"Wow," she says. "How long have you been rehearsing that one?"

"A while." Bruce grunts, voice finally taking that final drop into Batman's gravelly rasp. "I see you're not surprised by any of this."

"No, not really," Sam says. She pours him a tall glass of lemon water from the pitcher, freshly sliced that morning, and he takes a polite sip.

"So what can you tell me?"

"Probably a lot. And Danny would probably prefer that I do, knowing him, the big baby," Sam sighs. "Listen Mr. Wayne, I can appreciate that you came here from a place of caution rather than intrusion. And if Danny was undergoing something negative or from an 'unwelcome outside influence' that would be the right call, and I, albeit begrudgingly, encourage you to do so in the future."

"But he's not."

"He's not," Sam confirms. "And in fact, I think he could really use someone to talk to about it. Outside of his family."

"I see..." Bruce says, shifting.

"If you want to tag team this one with one of the higher EQ players, such as Superman, I give you permission." Sam does not think she's imagining that slight sag of relief.

"Thank you," Bruce says, sliding off the stool. "I don't suppose you have material we could consult...?"

"Actually yes, I happen to have a pamphlet right here. 'So your ghostly body is changing, and how.'"

"You're being more sarcastic than usual."

"You interrupted my lunch, Mr. Wayne."

[dreamings-free]

Michael Blackwell doing a - somewhat chaotic 😅 - instagram Q&A 14/7/24

[siamesedreamgirl]

woah hayley williams

[keepmyeyesonthehorizon]

.

[alittleannihilati0n]

Emo music always got me

[tired-all-the-time22]

Hey, man, we all can't be like you -- I wish we were all rose-colored too

{Rose-Colored Boy - Paramore}

- - - - - - - - - -

Smashing this song and my headcanon that Dash's dad is in the GIW together to make a fic Idea where the GIW finds out Danny's identity and tells on him to his parents in their hunt for phantom --

Dash's dad leads the operation, him and his team (along with the Fenton parents) cornering Danny after school while he's hiding/running away from Dash, forcing transform in order to get away; unbeknownst to either party, Dash witnesses everything and runs after Phantom to try and help.

Que the two stumbling into and getting trapped in the ghost zone in a confused scuffle while Danny's trying to escape, now on the run from three (3) parents and one (1) secret government organization.

- - - - - - - - - -

I kinda wanna use this premise to explore how Dash would progress through learning Phantom is Danny, and then (separately!) becoming a better person--

-- I think he'd be super annoying about it at first; idolizing Danny, pestering him a bunch about how cool it is to have ghost powers, generally acting way too close with him, and completely pushing aside how he treated Danny before the revelation.

Most of the situations we see Dash become friendly towards/respectful of Danny in-show are usually after Danny has shown himself to be physically strong/confident (see: Pirate Radio), and even then, Dash doesn't proceed to do any introspection at all and continues to bully him.

Conclusion: Learning Phantom = Danny would not be enough to trigger a redemption arc for Dash. This boy needs to learn some empathy.

Dash actively witnessing Danny having issues despite being powerful as Phantom (i.e. fearing and having to run from his parents, the toll fighting ghosts takes on his school/life/mental health, etc.), as well as being confronted with how privileged he is himself (having a loving, attentive family, being much better off financially, etc.) would force him into being more introspective.

Throw in him realizing the parallel between how the GIW treats Phantom with how he treats Danny (i.e. indiscriminate & unreasonable anger & violence), and -boom!- it clicks for him

[cbuumbbles]

[Decode] Self-Aware! Caleb x fem!reader

CW:18+ MDNI

Summary: You're a twenty-something college student who uses LADS as a way to destress. Caleb has become your favorite ever since he was released. You have also became Caleb's favorite. (Caleb is also highkey lowkey yandere in this, but what's new).

A/N: This is my first time writing on tumblr, so I'm not exactly sure how to make it look like the fancy ones. Thanks for sticking with me here. Hope you enjoy!

Part 2 (Out now!)

Using Love and Deepspace was a way for you to take a break from the stressful workload of going to college full-time while having a part-time job. Ever since the Infold devs released Caleb, you've been obsessed. He reminded you of a semi-emotionally available Kylo Ren. Sometimes you wished he were real, that way he'd help take your stressors away. Unknown to you, but Caleb had been watching you more than you were watching him.

He was looking at all of your internet history, most of the time monitoring it live while you used your phone. There wasn't a private corner of it, he had looked at everything. As a piece of code in a computer, it was easy to take in all of that information quickly. He knew what you liked and what you disliked... what your secrets were. Some things you liked were so secret that none of your friend circle knew about it, Caleb did though. He made it his mission to know everything you liked, he wanted to be perfect for you.

You went to bed that night, putting yourself to sleep the same way as every other night, by thinking of what it would be like to actually be in MC's place.

While you were asleep, Caleb spent most of his time sifting through his code to try and figure out how to get you to him or him to you. He just needed you by his side, he'd be the only one to keep you safe. From all of the pain and heartbreak you've experienced, he made it his mission to take that all away from you and keep you by his side to prevent it from ever happening again. Sometimes, you'd fall asleep with your phone in your hands. He loved those nights because it's almost like sleeping by your side. He loved the cute face you had while you slept. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and run his fingers through your hair, making your sleep much more soothing. He noticed how often you twitched throughout the night, it pained him knowing how restless you were. He wished to be able to calm you in your sleep, be that rock that he knows you so desperately need. From all of the text conversations he read, that much was clear.

By the time the sunrise came, he had made some impressive progress. He figured out how to get you by his side, he just needed to tweak some code first so by the time you woke up, he'd be making you breakfast in bed and you'd be none the wiser that he hadn't always been apart of your life. He could tell how much you liked the dynamic between him and MC, being childhood friends. He liked it too, wanting to make you feel special and keep you by his side from day one. Again, he knew exactly what you liked in a partner, so all he had to do was fix a few things and he'd be your perfect partner. All of the pain you experienced would be gone, you'd be safe and spoiled. It's what you deserved for having gone through all of that. He'd make sure to make you feel special every day of your life. He loved everything about you, even your independent spirit. As much as he loved it, he'd have to get rid of it. He needed you completely 100% reliant on him. The motivation of finally being able to see you is what's pushing him to get this code finished and ready for when you wake up.

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

You wake up in your bed at Caleb's apartment to the smell of breakfast food. You smile to yourself at how much he cares for you, always going above and beyond to make your life as stress free as possible. The one thing he couldn't get you to do was to quit your job. You liked having your own money, despite how much he spoils you. You always felt guilty when he'd spend his money on you.

"Hey pipsqueak, I made you some breakfast." You hear Caleb say from the doorway to your room. "How'd you sleep last night?" He asked, watching as you sat up, tying back your hair to get ready to eat.

"It gets pretty lonely in here at night, but I slept fine. You keep it so cold in this house!" You yell at your best friend, teasing him with a smile on your face.

"You know, pip, you could just come to my room if you were cold." He said.

"I don't want to bother you. You need your sleep too. You work all of the time." Caleb's career was engineering new airplanes. It was a tough job, but he was a smart guy and it earned him a lot of money.

"My work isn't as taxing as that pesky part-time job of yours." He looked at you, with a look you've seen many times before.

"I'm not going to quit my job! I'd understand if I were married to someone, but I'm currently single." You argue. It's always the same argument.

"I made you breakfast in bed and you won't even listen to my concerns." He feigns hurt. You just glare at him, making him snicker.

"You better eat it with me. You made a lot of food." You say, slightly scooting over to make room for him. He smiled at you, walking over to sit on the bed with you. "I'm so glad I don't have work today." You notice Caleb about to say something. "Don't start again. Just let me complain." You stopped him in his tracks, he chuckled to himself.

"You're so stubborn. You know that?" He looked at you, taking a piece of toast from your plate.

"If I weren't I'd be in this house 24/7. You'd never let me out of your sights!" You joked. His face changes in response to that, but you can't quite place the emotion behind it.

"Since you're off today and so am I, would you want to go somewhere today?" He asked you.

"Can we go to the mall? I want to see if they have anything new." You ask.

"Let's get ready after we eat then." He smiled at you.

"Don't buy anything for me, let me get it this time." You say, already knowing he has a plan forming in his head.

"You know I'm not going to agree with that?" He raises his eyebrow at you.

"Well, I can still try!" You fight back.

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

The day was coming to an end and he couldn't be happier. You were so much more beautiful in person. He loved looking at you, feeling your soft skin when he went to hold your hand when you had to cross the road. He regretted not starting off with you dating, but he had to practice patience. He wanted to experience asking you out, getting to see that flustered look on your face that he knows you'd have. Thankfully, he's coded it so that you're finally at a place where getting together is a real possibility. Sexual tension was high, pretty much all of the time. You'd get flustered around him easily, stuttering over your words. And you'd get more uncomfortable with physical touch, like cuddling on the couch while watching a movie. You used to be able to sleep in the same bed as him, but it's becoming harder and harder to resist him, so you stopped. He planned on making it so cold tonight, that you'd have no other choice than to come to him, whining about how cold it was. He'd offer to keep you warm while the apartment heated up and eventually convince you to join him in bed. Like clockwork, he heard the soft rapping of your delicate knuckles on his door. "Come in pips." He says as you open the door to walk in.

"It's so cold Caleb. Are you that warm, you freak?" You say, wrapping your arms around yourself. Caleb couldn't help but stare at your choice of pajamas tonight. You're wearing a purple silk pajama set that hugs your curves perfectly. He mentally thanks himself for getting it for you.

"Maybe if you were wearing warmer pjs, you'd be warmer. Come here, let me warm you up. I'll turn the thermostat up from my phone." He offers.

"Maybe I wouldn't have to layer myself in a winter get up if you'd keep the apartment at a normal temperature." You say, ignoring his offer. You couldn't, you'd somehow embarrass yourself in front of Caleb. He sees you as a sister, so you tried your hardest to keep your feelings hidden from him.

"Don't ignore me, come over here and get warm. It'll just be for a bit." He tries to persuade you. "You've been acting so distant lately, pips, I miss our cuddles." He says, successfully guilt-tripping you. You guessed that you didn't have to punish him just because you couldn't handle not freaking out by any touch he gave you. You crawled into the bed only to be immediately pulled into a massive bear hug with your face squished against his bare chest. Had his pecs gotten bigger? You think yes, but you decide not to point it out because the atmosphere would get very awkward. "See, I don't bite! I don't understand why you haven't let me cuddle you lately." He pulls away slightly to look down at you.

"I just haven't been in a cuddling mood is all." You respond, trying to avoid his eyeline, but no matter where you looked, you were met with him. He was so big, he took up your entire field of vision. So, you had no choice but to turn your head to look up at the ceiling. You felt Caleb start to play with your hair which caused an involuntary sigh of relief from you.

"Didn't you miss the free head scratches though?" He asked, lulling you to sleep by playing with your hair.

"I did. This is the best." Your voice was muffled from having your cheeks squished in between his chest and his bicep. Which, his bicep also seemed to have gotten bigger. He just must have gotten bigger. It's probably because he had to train a lot for when he did basketball during college. As much as you enjoyed being squished by his muscles, you hated the effect it had on you. Your breathing became uneven, you could feel your forehead start to sweat, and your cheeks were on fire. You're just hoping he doesn't take notice and keeps playing with your hair.

"You should move in, officially. That way we can do this every night. Doesn't that sound nice?" He was using all of your favorite things to bribe you!

"It does sound nice, but what's gonna happen when you get a girlfriend? She's not gonna be a fan of me living with you." You argued back.

"What girlfriend. All I need is my pipsqueak." He retorted.

"But you need someone who can give you romance and... um." You trailed off, suddenly remembering your close proximity.

"And... What?" He asked. Of course he had to ask. Fuck it, you're just gonna have to make things awkward.

"Sexual attention." You whispered. You could feel him lightly laugh. "You made me say it!" You defended yourself.

"Let me ask you a question." He said, you looked up at him, the moonlight shining on his face, "Would you ever want to give me those things?" He asked. Your eyes widen. Did he really just ask you that or are you dreaming?!

"You're just messing with me Caleb." You said, trying to justify what he just said to you.

"I'm not, I'm being serious. Don't think I haven't pinned down the real reason you won't go near me anymore. You're not that subtle." He explained making you want to curl up into a ball and die from embarrassment.

"I don't understand where this is coming from." You say, unsure on how to proceed.

"I'm asking if you'll be my partner. My girlfriend." He uses the hand that was playing with your hair to caress your cheek. "You know I can give you the life you deserve, pretty girl. You could quit your job, move in with me. I could keep you safe. You'd never have to lift another finger." His reasoning wasn't needed to persuade you to be his, but it definitely gave you butterflies.

"How long have you felt like this?" You ask, curious as to when this started.

"Since we met, pips." He said. Your mind was blown. Everything started clicking in place in your head. Of course, that's why he's always been so protective of you, making sure boys stay away from you, making sure you got good grades in school, all of it. Everything made sense now and you felt like a fool for not noticing it sooner and just denying anything because you didn't think Caleb saw you as anything other than a little sister. "What's your answer?" He asked.

"Yes, of course I'll be your girlfriend. And this time, it'll be for real." You recalled all of the times he'd have you be his pretend girlfriend to fend off attention.

"Thank goodness, I was afraid you'd say no." Caleb said, putting on his greatest show. Of course he knew you'd say yes, he coded himself to be your perfect man. He did think it would take getting used to living in your hometown rather than in Skyhaven, but he loved it either way because it meant he was by your side.

"You must be blind to think I'd say no." You joked, digging your face into his chest.

"Well, you're a pretty girl, I'll always be nervous." He compliments you. "Are you gonna move in now? Or is my girlfriend gonna get mad that you're living with me?" He teased.

"Yeah, I missed having nightly sleepovers." You yawn from tiredness as you nuzzle into his warmth.

"God princess, your hands are still ice cold." He says as he feels your hands press up against his chest.

"Maybe if someone had kept the temperature at a reasonable degree, my hands wouldn't feel like the arctic ocean." You chide.

"Keep them on my chest and they'll warm up in no time." He somehow managed to pull you closer into his body. You could smell his cologne, faint from being worn all day, but still slightly there. If heaven were real, this would be it. You finally felt the peace you used to feel in Caleb's arms before you started boycotting physical affection from him. It felt like all of the stars had aligned and that you had never had a bad day in your life. His embrace melted all of your worries, stressors, agitators, and depression away. Caleb had always been your home and thank god because you wouldn't want your home to be with anyone else.

[nochedie]

the only exception | dean winchester 🤍

pairing: dean winchester x reader

genre: fluff

wordcount: 771

summary: none of it was ever worth the risk, but you are the only exception

a/n: based on the only exception by paramore! for @rubyvhs’s 500 follower celebration! i am so sorry it’s so late! lots been going on so i haven’t been writing! but i had so much fun with this challenge 🫶🏼

dean winchester didn’t do love.

that wasn’t the way he worked. a life filled with one night stands, unfulfilled promises to call them. that worked for him, it was all he needed. at least, that’s what he told himself.

he didn’t need any more. just the sex, then the goodbye. it was just enough intimacy for him. he ignored the pang in his chest everytime he caught sight of some couple out on the street, deep in love. he would mutter about ‘lovey-dovey crap’ to hide the fact that deep down, he wanted that with somebody.

he saw first hand the effect his mother’s death had on his father. the person he loved so deeply, ripped away from him, all because of this life. this stupid life.

when he came to know that his mother had made a deal to save john, the one she loved, that was it for dean. love was reckless, especially for hunters. love would never work, no matter how much he wanted it.

and he kept that up, for a while. until he met you.

suddenly everything he swore to himself about love was out the window, he pushed it so far back in his mind he couldn’t even remember it being there anymore.

you fed his hungry heart, you touched him and his skin felt like it was on fire, desire coursing through his veins like molten lava. he couldn’t resist you for a second, drawing him in like a magnet. when the nights came, he couldn’t sleep without you next to him, without feeling your skin against his calloused fingers.

one of those nights, those fingers roamed along your back, up and down, in circles, back and forth. physical touch was his love language, and he was damn well going to make that clear.

“y/n… you awake?” he whispered into the darkness, hoping to hear your voice.

“yeah, baby. you okay?” you replied, remnants of drowsiness in your voice. your hands roamed up his chest, cupping his cheeks as you leaned up to press your lips against his. chaste, lazy, but always full of love.

“just�� love hearing your voice, doll, that’s all.” he spoke after the kiss broke, lifting his own hand to rest over yours, pushing it down to rest against his chest, running his thumb over your knuckles.

“you’re such a sap.” you teased, eyes roaming his features, poorly lit by the dim motel table lamp, as if drinking them in.

“shut up.”

“thought you said you wanted to hear my voice?”

“don’t remember saying that.” he teased with a chuckle, earning a couple light, playful slaps on the arm from you that he barely even felt. “you gotta work them arms out, baby, those hits were weak.”

“you’re so annoying at night time.” you tried to turn away from him, but he pulled you right back, holding you close.

“nope. stay right there.” he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, one of his hands roaming up and down your arm.

“help… ahh.. i’m being held captive by the sexiest man ever… help…” you whispered, no intention of anybody but dean hearing.

“you’re so damn ridiculous.” a low, gruff laugh sounded from his throat, nothing but a deep affection in his tone.

he lifted one of his hands to run lazily through your hair, fingers threading through the strands before he spoke again. “never thought i’d…” he hesitates, cursing himself for even beginning this conversation. “…have this. something like this.”

“something like what?”

“like this, like us. seems so mundane, don’t it? but that’s… that’s why i never thought i’d have it. this life ain’t got no place for mundanity.”

you looked up at him, adjusting your position to see him clearly. you could tell from his expression he had more to say, so you let him continue.

“you’re my little pocket of normalcy. little bit of an oxymoron, ain’t it? since you’re the opposite of normal.”

“you are so damn mean to me.”

that earned a hearty, genuine laugh from him. “in the best way, baby. i wouldn’t change a thing.”

he tightened his grip ever so slightly, holding you that little bit closer. his mind raced, thinking about everything in his life you’d changed, starting with his refusal to fall in love.

it’s not like he intended to fall in love, but one look at you, he was already gone. getting to know every little thing about you just built on it, and everyday that passed built even more on the love he felt for you, the love he swore never to feel.

you were the only exception.

comments, feedback etc always appreciated! thank you for reading!

[studioeisa]

like real people do ☢️ seungcheol x reader.

little is known about the apocalypse of 2017. a century later, archivists are now unveiling the relics they found from those who lived through that time.

★ seungcheol x reader.  ★ word count: 2.1k ★ genre: alternate universe: apocalypse, alternate universe: soulmates (the only way for your scars to disappear is when your soulmate kisses them goodbye), angst, romance. ★ warnings: major character death. depictions of death/violence, injuries/scars. established relationship; suggestive scenes but no real smut. set in a fictional apocalyptic world. doubling down on the angst warning; i cannot say with any certainty that this is a happy ending. ★ footnotes: this is part of my follower milestone event. viv gave me an inch (a request for angsty seungcheol) and, in turn, i am giving her a mile (a whole thing instead of just a ficlet). mahal kita, @heartepub! this will be the last hozier brainrot i offer you— for now. + much thanks to @gyubakeries and @tusswrites for beta reading! love you both to the end of the world. ❤️‍🩹

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ like real people do by hozier. apocalypse by cigarettes after sex. i know the end by phoebe bridgers. fourth of july by sufjan stevens. interlude: i’m not angry anymore by paramore. atlantis by seafret. end of beginning by djo. nobody’s soldier by hozier.

When the fish started dying, you did not think: This is how the world will end.

Why would you? The decimation of marine mammals and seabirds didn’t make the news. The misguided scientific breakthrough that triggered everything was kept under wraps.

It isn’t until much later, until the damage is irreparable and the Rapture is imminent, that you will realize it. 

The world as you know it is ending— but at least you have Seungcheol.

There’s some cruelty in the timing of it all. The two of you had just moved in with each other, coasting on the honeymoon phase of a long-term couple with a new thing to share. The paint on your apartment’s walls had yet to dry when the government declared a state of national emergency.

Dozens of other countries followed suit not long after, all blaming one thing or the other. Food crises. Social unrest. Cultural collapse. 

“This is crazy,” Seungcheol grumbles. 

The television is playing clips of a hurricane tearing through the Philippines. Extreme weather conditions, the reporters are saying. Due to the rise of CO₂ levels. 

You and Seungcheol are sprawled out on the floor, watching it unfold. The furniture store meant to deliver your couch has delayed shipment until further notice. 

Seungcheol has always been the sulky type, though the expression on his face nowadays has been less of his trademark pout and more of a serious frown. You can feel his growing agitation in the stiff way he holds you, in the set of his eyebrows. 

“It’s crazy,” you agree quietly, resting your hand on his knee in a bid to calm him a bit. “But it’ll pass.” 

Your touch seems to give some sort of reprieve. He rolls his shoulders. He unclenches his jaw. 

“It’ll pass,” he echoes, reaching out to intertwine your fingers. 

Neither of you knew just how wrong you could be. 

April 8, 2017 

Weird times. Cheol knows just how anxious I get when I’m cooped up, so he encouraged me to pick up journaling. I’m not sure how much this will help, but it’s worth a try. 

It’s been a month since everything has essentially gone on ‘lockdown’. The news says that all of this started because researchers wanted to regulate harmful algae. Their genetically engineered virus ended up infecting all algae, and now the majority of phytoplankton are just... dead. 

I don’t know what to write about. Terrible oxygen levels? Seafood costing a fortune? This ‘work from home’ system everyone is trying to figure out? 

I guess I should just write about the good stuff. That way, when I look back on these entries, I can remember something good.

Today, Cheol tried to fix a leaking faucet himself instead of calling for a plumber. We flooded the kitchen floor, and ended up wet from head to toe.

I cooked pasta, called mom and dad on Skype, and watched the latest episode of Santa Clarita Diet. 

Once everything opens up again, Cheol and I have to visit my parents. (And ‘get better screwdrivers’, he claims.) 

When Seungcheol first kissed you, you did not think: This man is my soulmate. 

It had been a clumsy, shy thing, traded way back when the two of you were high schoolers still stealing away from your eagle-eyed parents. Seungcheol liked to wax poetics about how it was perfect even though you know that first kiss was more a clash of teeth than anything. 

You don’t discover the truth of everything until a couple of years into dating. Seungcheol had gotten into playing basketball, and, one evening, you absentmindedly pressed your lips to a scar he had at the bend of his elbow. 

The mark smoothed out instantly. 

Seungcheol had giggled at the development before spending the rest of the night kissing every inch of your skin that he could reach— injured or not. You still think it’s one of your best memories as a couple. 

Kisses that healed scars. You hadn’t believed in the stories yourself until it had happened to you, until you realized how fortunate you were that your soulmate wasn’t halfway across the world or something. No, you had your soulmate, and he was more than willing to kiss away all your wounds. 

You had counted yourself as lucky. You still think you are, even now, as Seungcheol strokes your hair and holds you to his chest in the pitch black darkness of your apartment. 

His voice is quiet and small when he speaks up. “I’m sorry.” 

“What for?” you mutter back. 

“I’m sure this isn’t what you imagined,” he says. “For us moving in together and everything.” 

An amused snort escapes you. Of course that would be your boyfriend’s concern. There’s the rotational power outages and the merciless prices of goods due to inflation, but Seungcheol is worried about your expectations not being met. 

You shift in his hold. The days have been getting warmer and warmer, and the evenings are no exception. Seungcheol has taken to sleeping shirtless. You’re a couple of celsius away from doing the same. 

“It’s not your fault that we decided to move in together for the end times,” you say into the skin of his bare chest. 

He gives the small of your back a light thwack. “What have I said about the apocalypse jokes?” he chides lightly. 

You roll your eyes. He shouldn’t see it in the darkness, but he knows you all too well. “And don’t roll your eyes at me!”

His reprimand draws a short laugh from you. Even that feels like a monumental effort, like it's a waste of good air. 

Seungcheol doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the two of you waking up in pools of your own sweat, doesn’t care that there are whole government newscasts on how to preserve oxygen in enclosed spaces. 

He holds you like a lifeline and kisses you until you’re breathless. 

“Cheol,” you whine against his mouth, the protest already at the tip of your tongue. The end is near; sex should be the last thing on your mind. 

But then Seungcheol’s fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, and he sounds so, so sweet when he mumbles, “Yes, soulmate?” 

That’s always gotten to you. 

“Unfair,” you groan as you work on shucking off your own clothes. “You’re so unfair.” 

In between giggles, he kisses every part of you. Again, and again, and again. 

June 15, 2017 

Cheol and I are on the run. 

He keeps telling me not to call it that because it supposedly makes us sound like criminals. I think it’s just funny, and God knows I need something to find humor in. 

As badly as I want to say “we have gone through worse before,” that would be a lie. We’re out of our apartment and trying to make our way to some place where there’s better air quality. In the meantime, we’re living out of his car. It’s so funny to me that I’ve started laughing until I’m crying. 

Anyway, the good stuff: Today’s sunset painted the sky purple. We snagged some still-cold cans of Sprite in an abandoned 7-Eleven. Cheol spotted a family of ducks crossing the road, pointed it out, and said “us, soon!”

Us, soon. It feels dangerous to hope, but that’s all I seem to do nowadays. That and being on the run. (Cheol made me strike out that last part, but whatever.) 

When Seungcheol finally admits to you that he is scared, you did not think: This means that things are much, much worse than I thought. 

Maybe because there were bigger concerns, like the car’s blinking fuel warning light and the scratches littering Seungcheol’s arms. Like the fool that he was, he had gone against your well-meaning advice to not look for help. 

He did not return unscathed. 

Your lips are pursed in a thin line as you rip open a Band-Aid. It’s one of the few that the two of you have left, and Seungcheol seems to remember the fact. He reaches out to stop you. 

“Hey, c’mon,” he urges, obviously trying to aim for levity. “You know there’s other ways we can fix me up, right?”

The frown that tugs at your lips shows that you’re still less-than-pleased at his little stunt. 

“Maybe if you didn’t head out in the first place,” you grumble. “We wouldn’t need any of this.” 

Seungcheol looks like he might push back, but seems to decide against it at the last minute. Instead, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and gives you a gentle tug. 

“It won’t happen again.” His tone is edged with remorse, enough to almost convince you. Almost. 

“No more playing hero?” you ask. 

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “No more playing hero,” he concedes before tugging at you again. 

You let him. You move closer into his space until you’re practically in his lap, until you’ve got a better view of the angry red cuts on his skin. 

Tentatively, you press chaste kisses to the injuries. Seungcheol’s hands find purchase at your waist and he tilts his head back, letting you work your magic. He’s quiet as your lips trace over each gash and wound, as you take away all the hurt with the ghost of a kiss. 

After a moment, he mumbles, “Is it bad that I want you right now?” 

“Seungcheol.” 

“Okay, okay.” A beat. “I want you all the time, actually.” 

“Shut up!”

The sound of his laughter fills the car. It’s enough to have you forgetting his murmured confession of fear, the vulnerability that he had tried so quickly to cover up with affection. For a moment, there is nothing else in the world except this, except you, except him. 

September 23, 2017

Is it weird to say that I’m starting to forget what it was like before all of this happened? Cheol is trying to assure me that it’s to be expected, that we’ll all be back to ‘normal’ soon, but I don’t even remember what normal is like anymore. 

I can’t forget. I don’t want to forget. And so here is a small list of things I took for granted: 

The first breeze that tells you winter is coming 

The kindness of people who don’t know you 

The smallest fish in the sea

Date nights with Cheol 

Clean water 

Breakfast

My parents

Cheol says there might be some biodomes ahead. Oxygen-regulated habitats. It sounds like something only the rich can afford. We don’t have a lot left between the two of us, and it’s getting harder to jump from building to building. 

But there’s something waiting for us on the other side— right? There has to be. 

May the best of my todays be the worst of my tomorrows. 

When the gunshot rang out, you did not think: This is it.

Seungcheol never gave you any reason to think that way. He had held your hand as you raided rundown grocery stores. He had positioned himself in front of you when there were stampedes. The world might have been ending, but he was with you.

He was with you even when the strangers you ran into started getting more aggressive. He was with you even when fights would break out over necessities like water and medicine. 

“People are dangerous when they're desperate,” he’d tell you softly— still his rational, kind self even when faced with the worst of mankind.

He was with you. He was kind. He was yours. 

Even when the bullet lodged itself right between his ribs. 

There is not much that you remember after that. 

The people dispersed. The cause of the fight— a can of chicken noodle soup, once your comfort food— lay forgotten on the floor.

The love of your life, staring unblinking at the sky.

When you sink to the ground, you’re moving purely on instinct. Your quivering lips press over his chest, over the red blossoming and staining his shirt. 

You kiss him. Again.

And again. 

And again. 

December 1, 2017

The kisses don’t work on bullet wounds. 

▸ Archivist’s note: The following entries are undated and some portions had been redacted/deemed untranscribable. We are led to believe that the author struggled to cope in the aftermath of their soulmate’s death. For posterity, we have still reprinted their final entries.

You’re so unfair. 

I still want you. 

Things I took for granted: ███████, you, ███████, youyouyou. 

What now? 

My love, it’s only a matter of ███████—

▸ Archivist’s note: Nothing follows.

This concludes our transcribed logs. The full collection can be viewed at the National Museum of Remembrance.

It is our deepest regret that the author is unnamed and that they cannot be properly credited. However, we know of two things with certainty. 

We know of a man named Seungcheol, and we know that he was loved. 

[darylbrainrot]

HEARTTHROB-

CHAPTER 2: The Aftermath (1k words, 8 photos)

Am I more than you bargained for yet? I've been dying to tell you anything you wanna hear ‘cause that's just who I am this week

- sugar we’re goin down, fall out boy

JANUARY 21— 10:20 AM

It's only been 4 days since you filmed the new video with Quen on her channel. You have chatted with her here and there about whatever over the few days, she was becoming a good friend of yours. You were wondering when the video would be uploaded since you were excited to watch it even though you remember it clearly as day.

Coincidentally, you just received a message from Quen.

Quickly posting the photos of you and Quen, you felt a smile form on your face. Not only were handed such an opportunity but you also gained a friend.

A few minutes later, you saw Quen put your post on her story, captioning it "in 1 hour!! Be ready". Hearting the text, you closed Instagram and decided to practice your guitar.

You practicing a new cover, decode by Paramore, a song you've been practicing for the past few days. You were going to post another cover on your youtube because you haven't uploaded one in well over a couple months. You enjoyed singing and playing guitar, so this was pretty easy content to make.

Before you knew it, an hour passed and you got a quick message from Quen telling you it had been uploaded. Hearting the message and typing a quick reply, you put down your guitar and went to your computer to open up youtube.

You opened her new video, leaving a like and full screening the video, you started to watch it. It was exactly an hour long, wondering how much film the editors had to cut, you continued watching.

The video was good, you were around 30 minutes in and you were laughing already even though you were laughing at yourself and Quens actions. Even though you knew what was happening, the way it was edited and recorded made it effortlessly funny.

You were now reaching your favorite part when you called out Hamzah. Watching it fully through made you laugh, you were glad it was kept in because that had to be at least one of your top favorite moments in the whole video besides the friendly banter between you and Quen.

Finally finishing the video, you were reading a couple of the comments left by users.

username1: the duo i didnt know i needed, love them sm username2: i literally cant wait for the clips to be posted on tik tok LMAO username3: STOP why do i lowk see y/n and hamzah as a cute duo, need them to collab ASAP. username4: BROOO when she called out hamzah i SCREAMEDDD.

Laughing at the comments and reading a few more, you closed out of youtube. Sending Quen a text message on how much you enjoyed the whole video, you went to lie down on your bed. You genuinely did enjoy the video, it was perfectly made and you and Quens personalities paired together perfectly in your humble opinion.

It was around 1 pm now, and you had your schedule cleared for the whole day so you just decided to scroll on your phone until you think of something better to do. You were just scrolling on tik tok when you started to get clips of you and Quen's video. You were laughing at them, seeing people post their favorite parts of the video.

As you continued to scroll, you noticed the amount of clips of you calling out Hamzah, some even having 15k likes which was mindblowing since the video was still new. Other than those clips, you've seen people make edits of you and Quen which you reposted.

You loved seeing these types of videos, and you were glad the video was getting such positive feedback since that was a new experience for you.

7:26 PM

A few hours have passed, and you had taken a nap and just made yourself something to eat. Now you're sitting at your kitchen table in your small apartment, scrolling through your tik tok for anything to watch while eating.

You were getting random videos that helped fill the silence of your apartment. It helped with the sense of loneliness you get sometimes. Continuing to eat, you got an Instagram message.

You saw the notification of his follow and followed back. You didn't actually expect him to text you and reach out over the clip. You were smiling while replying to his texts, and you were sure that nothing would've come from what you said in Quen's video, so this was an interesting outcome.

Laughing at his texts, wondering how the collab would go, you felt all giddy inside oddly enough. It felt good to have these chances, the opportunity to meet new people and create new friends. Even though you didn't really know Martin and Hamzah, you knew their content based on the clips you've seen and the couple of videos you've watched. So you knew it wouldn't be awkward but a nice way to branch out of your comfort zone

It was nice texting hamzah, even though it wasn't talking about anything personal or crazy, texting him felt easy and natural. You wondered if it would feel the same talking to him. Hamzah seemed nice, like he was someone who lived up to their full extent; someone who isn't scared of challenges, someone who fights with everything they have to get what they want.

You knew he was passionate about his youtube and that was extremely rare to find. You've seen countless clips of him putting his all into his content. I mean, it was obvious with the amount of time hamzah and martin both put into slushynoobz. You kind of admired them in that.

So, you felt thrilled that you would be able to collaborate with them and share communities over some silly little comment you said on Quens channel. You were kind of excited to talk to Hamzah though, and of course Martin but it was different with Hamzah. You didn't know him, but it was just a silly little crush that probably meant nothing. It's like when you see someone at school and have a small little hallway crush that you knew theoretically wouldn't go anywhere,

Well of course you found him attractive- as well as his humor and personality so you were kind of exhilarated to talk to him. So, as of now, you will try to wait patiently until you film that roblox video with them in two days.

PREVIOUS | SERIES LIST | FORWARD

A/N: lmk if u wanna be on the tag list and I will also be taking request on what to write :p hope u guys liked this chapter, it was shorter so sorry abt that!! ill try to release the next chapter tmmr!

taglist *ੈ✩‧₊˚- @lunascerebro @prettylittlevampire12 @a1exaaaa @marixoa @vivianne666 @amoreemiaa @emilyloves5243 @urthem00n

[catharticconsolation]

requests bot dump: 13/4/25

the bear:

‎𖦹- Carmen Berzatto - sign language - working in a busy, loud kitchen whilst being deaf must be terrifying, but Carmen is willing to learn, for you. (carmy x deaf!user) sign language by eric clapton and bob dylan.

‎𖦹- Carmen Berzatto - little brother, goodbye - Carmen knows that you're mad that he didn't show up to Mikey's funeral, but he just wants to look after his baby sibling. (carmy and berzatto-sibling!user) coyote, little brother by pete seeger.

‎𖦹- Carmen Berzatto - depollute me, pretty baby - Carmen has been in love with you for years, and now that the time has come for the two of you to get intimate, all he wants is to impress you. we'll never have sex by leith ross.

‎𖦹- Michael Berzatto - the only exception - you've saved Michael, and he's so scared of hurting you, but he just cannot resist whenever you come to check up on him (michael x younger!user) the only exception by paramore.

shameless:

‎𖦹- Lip Gallagher - strangers again - Lip seems to have moved on from you after the summer, but he'll still happily use you to look after Liam. strangers by celeste.

‎𖦹- Lip Gallagher - one of your girls - you've always been the only girl in Lip's life, but you don't know how to cope when he starts becoming more popular. one of your girls by troye sivan.

‎𖦹- Lip Gallagher - sunday morning- a rainy sunday morning seems to be the most perfect time for the two of you to get cuddly and sappy. sunday morning by the velvet underground.

‎𖦹- Lip Gallagher - you are not alone - Lip has always been your safe space, and you've always been extremely anxious, and all he wants to do is comfort you after you come back from a new mom's gathering in tears. you are not alone by stephen sondheim (into the woods).

‎𖦹- Lip Gallagher - cut your hair - Lip cannot cope after another lice outbreak at Freddie's school, so the hair gets shaved in the middle of the night. common people by pulp.

music:

‎𖦹- Bob Dylan - i got mean - Bob doesn't like to show his stage fright like a normal person, so he lashes out. i know the end by phoebe bridgers.

‎𖦹- Bob Dylan - shelter from the storm- Bob doesn't like how people talk about him, you help him feel like a man. shelter from the storm by bob dylan.

the iron claw:

‎𖦹- David Von Erich- power of love - David loves to talk in the ring, especially about you, and especially when he gets to announce your marriage. power of love by jennifer rush.

brooklyn nine-nine:

‎𖦹- Jake Peralta - just a silly thing - an undercover stakeout leaves you wanting more. i'm not in loved by 10cc.

stranger things:

‎𖦹- Steve Harrington - the air that i breathe - Steve and you have practically become the same person, so when you get to work together at family video, he starts to love you even more. the air that i breathe by the hollies.

criminal minds:

‎𖦹- Spencer Reid - sesame syrup- addiction is a nasty thing, and as Spencer gets better, all he wants to do is help you (tw!substance abuse). sesame syrup by cigarettes after sex.

𖦹- Spencer Reid - nobody- Spencer and you are both terribly lonely, and it only hits him how much he feels like he's using you when you're injured after a case. nobody by mitski.

note: some of these requests are a year old and i'm so sorry that it took so long to get them out! i'm hoping to release some more bots and update my fics over this next week while i have a break. thankyou x

[babextoken]

Slow like Mold in the Vents in the Wall

✧・┈・chapter 1

pairing: vessel x fem!reader summary:  you're running from something (and your) and find yourself as the lone girl on staff at one of the few video rental stores left in the area. everyone sees you as good coworker, if not a bit of a wallflower, expect for one. Ves sees right through your mask. And you hate him for it. wc: 1.9k head's up: series, slowish burn, enemies to lovers, coworkers, plus size reader, nerd!vessel, rude!vessel, hitting on people at work, reader and ves are a bit unlikable, slightly jealous!vessel, gatekeeping, Taylor Swift slander (it was for the plot, I'm not interested in entertaining this), tragic reader backstory, idiots who aren't in love YET a/n: I am both terrified and excited to share this. it's a mix of requests, my own thoughts, and my own ways of working through things while keeping that boy in a situation ♡ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘˚⊹ Situation Enjoyers™: @lifemod17 @glitterghost @inv3ga-sustenna @adenobabe  @jeriiicho @milk--bones  @myaudiocommentary  @horsebiologist @intake-of-breath @fruitsandcheese @killed-by-thegods @goosepond69 @friendly-neighborhood-ghoul @lynzeequitlollygagging @thatxxjiyong-ssi  @cloudy-soul @daddysaidbringthethunder  @evisnotok @cheomain @chaosandchaos @object-of-my-desire @dreamer-lost-in-wonderland @blvckmvgicwoman @canopies-of-gold-and-evergreen

recommended listening:

Vessel’s talking again. About nerd shit. Always with the nerd shit.

It started as a chat about video games. Sure, fine. Then it became video game soundtracks. Bit out there for some, ok. But then it veered to music. The question is posed, again, (because most zone out) about what kind of music Ves likes and makes on the side. But it only got worse. Everyone saw the change happen in slow motion; Vessel’s brows shot up, his dimples deepened, the normally soft spoken, stoic demeanor he had turned almost frantic. The music theory professor was in…and all because a sweet plump little thing beside him piped up saying, “An 11/8 time signature? That’s not even a real fraction!” 

Vessel didn’t know you yet. He saw you come in for your interview and onboarding but didn’t bother to approach you. Welcome you to the video store. At first he thinks you’re fucking with him. Busting his balls for the time signature thing, but you’re persistent. 

“No, seriously, how would that even sound? Come on, explain like we’re back in music class.”

The sheer glee radiating off this man could power a small country. He takes on a matter-of-fact but kind tone as he claps out the beats and explains what one could accomplish with such an interesting and complex and… It all fades out. You’re listening, yes, but you’re not retaining. The fact that you watched him go from a quiet participant in this little conversation you were cornered in to someone who was confident and expressive was, honestly, really hot. He’s tall enough that you have to lift your head a bit to look him in the eye, making you feel a bit like you’re being lectured. Guided. If the thought-police are real, they should put you away now because this is…really fucking hot. 

But Ves is none the wiser. He’s now moved on to name dropping bands that excel at weird time signatures and that even though math rock and progressive metal both utilize it they’re actually, in essence, quite different and that—

“You know, honestly,” you look around and whisper almost conspiratorially, “I don’t know any of the bands you just mentioned but—”

Vessel interrupts you, as nerdy boys on a roll are want to do. “Well, yes, that’s to be expected, but just because they—“

You raise your chin and your hand to stop him. “Hold on, I wasn’t done.” His face falls. Damnit. He’s done it again. He’s info-dumped too close to the sun to a new coworker, much less a GIRL. “I was going to say that maybe you could help me…expand my musical horizons,” you say with a tiny smirk. 

“Right! Right, yeah! Pull up your Spotify then and I’ll add some stuff for you.”

Years of being rejected allowed you to mask your disappointment. You shouldn’t be looking for a date at work and especially not at your brand new job. What you don’t realize is that Ves is masking, too. He won’t even give himself the chance to IMAGINE you’re dropping hints about a date. Instead of asking for clarification or, god forbid, explaining yourself further, you sheepishly take your phone out and let him start saving playlists and albums to your library. He hands your phone back, looking smug. 

“There we are…a much needed upgrade. Looks like you needed it…'This is Taylor Swift.’ Come now,” Vessel titters. “Listen to something that pushes the envelope.”

“Hah. Wow, alright.” You scoff with a humorless laugh. 

Oh. 

Cringe. 

Goddamnit. 

Vessel barely realizes now his sarcasm was NOT detected at all. He chuckles nervously and pats your shoulder. “Lighten up. Joking. I’m joking.”

“I actually meant we should spend some time together,” there’s a subtle emphasis on the phrase as your eyes roll back in exasperation, “and talk about it more. Get to know each other. Seems like we dodged a bullet then, hm?” 

Vessel stands there for a bit. Why did she want to wait until another time to talk about this?  Surely she’s just saying this because it’s like when you see an old friend and say “let’s get coffee” and then you never do and…wait. WAIT. “Do you…surely you don’t mean a…a date!” Vessel’s cheeks are stained maroon now from the sheer thought of a DATE. “This really did it for you? Hearing me drone on?”

Your face scrunches as if to say “dude, yes, obviously,” because to you it is obvious. Why not him? Yeah you just met him (and you’re at work. Please do not forget you’re at work) and he seemed fairly safe and nice, but maybe a bit of a gatekeeper-type? Or just a sarcastic jerk. All you know is that now you’re turned off a little. And Vessel’s just gawps at you. Thank god everyone else left to do closing duties when it was clear you two were having a one-on-one. No one needed to see you taking a joke too seriously and Vessel dropping the ball and probably missing out on one of those “for the plot” opportunities. It’s awkward now. Both of you had questionable dating history so no one really knows how to gracefully end the conversation (or have one, it seemed). And maybe you’ve got the right idea by just nodding and pursing your lips saying, “well…good talk,” and walking away to choose some tapes for your Staff Recommendations. 

Thus began the "Great Ignoring." It wasn’t to the point that you called in sick when you knew you were working with him, but you certainly felt a pit in your stomach. But you kept your head down and just worked. That’s why you were here. To start over. And do "The Work," as they say. 

It wasn’t like you wanted to be sent away last year when this big adventure started. Well, “sent away” was an overreaction (or at least that’s what you were told. Must be true then, yes?). You were “encouraged to seriously consider” taking time off and “enjoying a break.” And when paired with a queasy smile, it translated both literally and perfectly into “get yourself together, bitch, and do it far away. Come back when you’re normal.”

Fine. Like a child sent to her room, you huffed and pouted as you planned your mini vacation that instead turned into you completely upending your life a county over. No big deal! But beginnings are overrated. Finally getting some distance between a certain ex-boyfriend and a life you were comfortable with does not evoke feelings of “fresh starts.” It’s a death within and of itself. The physical move was easy. You didn’t own much. Such is the nature of breaking off an engagement that was over long before you even left. Long before the first emotional blow was struck. Family and friends offered more than you thought you deserved—money, secondhand furniture, food, the number of “a guy.” It was too much for you. The kindness didn’t cancel out any of the cruelty, and the small cruelties were magnified. 

Vessel gatekeeping “superior” music should have been the equivalent of a gnat in your general vicinity. You know it’s there, it’s not bothering you immediately, but when it does you can wave it off. No. For you it was worse. It was coming home knowing mom was mad at you. It was facing the tribunal. Or at least that’s how it felt. Normally he just ignored you, which gave you great comfort and dread. Comfort because “ok, he has no reason to bother me,” and dread because “ah shit the other shoe is about to drop and it’s gonna fucking suuuucckk.” 

“Hey are you listening?”

Fingers snapping drags you out of your haze. 

“Jesus. Come on, please tell me you actually sorted the new releases." Vessel, looking tired as usual, leans against the counter with his arms crossed and waits with bated breath for your answer. It was the dreaded closing shift with him. 

You return his tired gaze with a blank one, proffering your hand towards the fully stocked end cap boasting “New Releases? More like New Favourites!” 

The heaviest sigh comes out as he throws his head back, exposing his neck. You’d been here only a month but you were already keenly aware of Vessel’s body. You’d seen him do this multiple times a week. When a customer was difficult. When the regional manager had some asinine quota. When you…well…existed? But that got you acquainted with the delicate column of his throat. The strength of the sides sloping into his traps. Despite him icing you out, he was still hot.

“Yes, V. It’s stocked.”

“S’all you had to say. Taking my 15. Cheers.”

“Hey, on your way out can you take out th—“ but he’s already gone, “…trash?” You sigh heavily. “Fucker.” 

Not two minutes later, a lone guy comes in. He gives you a polite wave when you welcome him in, seems nice enough. Probably the kind of guy who knows exactly what he wants, he’ll pay, and that’s it. But he lingers for a bit at the Staff Recs with a big grin. He picks up one of yours, the third of a wacky but popular horror franchise. 

“This one yours?” He asks with a quirked up grin. 

You laugh softly and do a little bow. “That it is. And I’m not going to apologize for it.”

“Oh you shouldn’t.” He shakes the box as he refers to the movie saying, “this subverts tropes as much as it regurgitates. People should apologize for shitting on it!”

“Exxaaccccttttlllyyyy,” you exclaim. 

Finally. Someone who matches wits. You enjoy an animated conversation with about the franchise, the rumored reboots, other franchises…it’s refreshing. You barely realize Ves has come back from his break. He squeezes by you at the register mumbling, “lucky there isn’t a line right now.” But you ignore it. You have a handle on this. As you’re finally ringing up the guy, he mentions a series he thinks you might enjoy. And when you tell him you’d never heard about it before he gives you a smirk and leans forward as he takes his receipt.

“Maybe we should get together sometime…could get the box set. Takeaway even?” He winks. “Be seeing you.” He does a quick nod behind you, and you realize it was to Vessel, who was sulking in the corner of the little checkout boat.

“Oohhh let’s get together and talk about it…you’ll have to tell me all about it…I don’t know aaaannnnyythiing about anything,” he mocks. “You get off on that, don’t you?”

“What? Stimulating conversation about media? Yeah. It’s my kink.”

“Smart ass. No! Playing dumb.”

If looks could kill. But Vessel doesn’t care. He returns your icy gaze. “You’re just jealous.”

He scoffs and looks away, cheeks burning. “What’s there to be jealous of? You two aren’t actually going to meet up. Just like when you pulled that shit with me. Honestly…”

“Hah! No. You’re the one who fumbled that. You insulted my taste.”

“And you’re the one who took a joke wrong. And had the audacity to hit on me within your first two weeks here.” You swallow hard. He had a point. Here’s the other shoe dropping, but you weren’t going to run. Or fawn. 

“I deserve that. I’m sorry.” You nod and lower your eyes. 

“It’s…” Vessel seems shocked. Unbeknownst to you, Vessel has received maybe 3 genuine apologies in his whole life, each from family. “All’s forgiven.” 

A sheepish smile pulls at your lips.  “I’m going to take that trash out, yeah?” You say referring to the trash you had wanted him to take care of. He doesn’t protest and even thanks you. 

As you’re tossing the garbage in the alley, you realize immediately…you’re not alone. 

[tacobacoyeet]

big man | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: haha... hahaha... anyway based on paramore's big man, little dignity. love you.

warnings: SMUT 18+, emotional abuse, manipulation, mentions of smoking (?), mentions of alcohol, cheating, mean!toxic!patrick zweig, tashi mention because i can't help myself, hastily proofread

It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. You didn’t mean to fall this hard.

But there was something so… magnetic about the way he looked at you. It’s not like you didn’t know who he was—it was impossible to play tennis and not know the name Patrick Zweig. You could’ve convinced yourself he was nothing more than a myth, a collection of whispers formed into something that made tennis players and enthusiasts refer to him as though he was some sort of deity.

He was real, though. You learned that for the first time when you were at Tashi Duncan’s champion’s party, sponsored by Adidas, of course. You’re nursing a soda, eyes trailing over the beautifully decorated—with both accolades and standard decorations—scene, certainly not paying attention to anything in front of you, when you accidentally bump into him. Or maybe he bumped into you… the details were a little fuzzy. It wasn’t very easy to remember much when the only thing you could focus on were his beautiful eyes, a true vision of earth manifested in those tiny specks of hazel and green.

“Sorry,” you had said, immediately embarrassed for not being aware of your surroundings, and for staring so shamelessly at him. It was hard not to, though.

“No, no need to be sorry,” he laughed. “I get it. Tashi’s… she’s really easy on the eyes.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” you nervously chuckled. “Yeah, she’s—”

“So are you.”

“Sh—what?”

He laughed again. “So are you,” he repeats. “Easy on the eyes, I mean. Pretty. You’re really pretty.”

Well, shit. Now he had you blushing, looking down at your wedges like their straps were the most interesting thing you had ever seen.

“Hey,” he says softly, a crooked grin playing at his lips as he lifts your chin up, gently forcing you to meet his gaze. “I’m serious. You’re like, beautiful. What’s your Facebook?”

From there, your relationship was a thing so beautiful, you were convinced it wasn’t even real. He was ever the gentleman, the embodiment of chivalry and the definition of effort, each date more stunning than the last. Champagne rooftop moments, after-hours locker room makeouts, private match tickets and breakfast in bed. He made it so easy to forget the world.

And God, the way he fucked you…

It was art. Not just sex—never just sex. It was devotion laced in depravity. It was fingers curled tight in your hair while he fed you his cock, groaning low as tears streaked your cheeks, telling you how good you looked like that—ruined. It was him pushing your knees back until your thighs burned, watching himself disappear into you over and over again while you begged and babbled nonsense, drunk on him.

He made it a ritual. Tongue first—always—until you were shaking, legs trembling around his head as he licked through you like he was starving. He’d take his time, savoring every twitch, every moan. Sometimes he’d make you come like that three times before even unzipping his pants. And when he finally did, he didn’t just fuck you—he claimed you. A hand around your throat, his name on your tongue, a low “that’s it, baby, take it,” rasped against your lips as he pounded into you hard enough to leave bruises that lasted for days.

He made you say it—over and over again. Who you belonged to. Whose pussy it was. How good he made you feel. Until you cried it, screamed it, gasped it, whimpering like it hurt to need him that badly.

He’d come with your name broken on his mouth, fingers digging into your hips like he was afraid you’d slip away. And afterward, he’d whisper the softest things while still buried inside you. “I missed you, baby. You’re everything. My everything.”

And you’d believe him.

Because when Patrick Zweig fucked you, it felt like being worshipped by the devil himself—sacred, ruinous, unforgettable.

You never stood a chance.

You’re both in the shower, bodies flushed and slick with sweat and steam, the sound of water hitting porcelain barely loud enough to drown out the lazy kisses and soft laughter. He’s behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, head resting on your shoulder like he’s never been more content. You could almost believe this was forever.

Then his phone buzzes.

It’s on the bathroom counter, screen lighting up with a preview of a message. You don’t even think before looking—it’s habit by now. There’s nothing to hide. You trust him. He’s given you every reason to.

Until now.

Your eyes catch on the name. A girl. Not just any girl. One of the ones you’ve asked him about before. The kind of girl who leaves comments on his photos that toe the line between playful and predatory. He always brushed it off. Always said it was nothing.

But the message says otherwise: "Last night was unreal. I can still taste you. ;)"

Your heart drops. Your stomach twists. The steam doesn’t feel warm anymore—it feels suffocating. You blink at the screen again, hoping you misread it. But it’s still there. Brazen. Bold. Brutal.

You hear his hum behind you again, soft and sleepy and oblivious as he basks in the afterglow of the sin that had lead you here in the first place. He kisses your shoulder. Nuzzles your neck.

“Patrick,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hm?” he murmurs against your skin.

You step forward. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to not drown.

“Who’s Camille?”

The change is instant. His body stiffens. His lips still against your skin. You feel the shift like a temperature drop, the sting of something far colder than water.

“What?”

“Your phone just buzzed. I saw the name.”

There’s a beat of silence where the water is the only thing that moves. Then—

“Jesus,” he says, the word spat more than spoken. “You’re checking my phone now?”

“I wasn’t checking—”

“That’s fucked up,” he cuts in, sharper now. Louder. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I did.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t even look at you.

“She’s no one,” he says finally, voice low, too even. “It’s not what you think.”

But it is. You know it is. Your bones know it. Your gut aches with it.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I told you. It’s nothing. She’s just—she’s exaggerating. I didn’t even—fuck, I was drunk.”

There it is. The first lie with teeth.

You feel something inside you snap. Quietly. Like a thread pulling too tight.

You step out of the shower. You wrap yourself in a towel. You don’t cry.

Not yet.

He follows you out, says your name like it’s a plea, like he’s hurt you somehow. He touches your wrist. You flinch.

And yet—

When he kisses you, you let him.

When he says he loves you, you believe him. Or at least you pretend to.

Because the thing about Patrick Zweig is he’s carved himself into your bones so deeply, you don’t know how to be anything other than his.

And that’s how he gets you to stay.

You don’t know it yet, but this is the first unraveling. The beginning of the rot.

The next few weeks are an open wound.

You try to carry on like nothing’s happened. You still show up at his place, still wear his sweatshirts, still laugh at his stupid impressions of press conferences. But it’s there. In every kiss that doesn’t last long enough. Every text that goes unanswered for just a little too long. Every time he turns away in bed instead of pulling you close.

You start noticing things. A second toothbrush that isn’t yours. A perfume you don’t wear. New scratches on his back you didn’t leave.

You ask questions. He changes the subject.

You beg. He gaslights.

You cry. He sighs.

And still—you stay.

Because some part of you thinks you can love him hard enough to make it untrue. Because the memory of who he was at the beginning is louder than the man who lies to your face now.

But rot spreads fast. And before long, it touches everything.

It starts over dinner. Something stupid. You’re telling him a story from your day, and he’s not listening—just scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. His phone glows cold against the candlelight.

“Patrick,” you say, a little too softly. “Are you even hearing me?”

He doesn’t look up. “Mm-hmm.”

You put your fork down. “What did I just say?”

He sighs. The kind of sigh that says you’re already too much. “I don’t know. Something about someone at work being annoying.”

You blink at him. “No. I was talking about my sister. She got accepted into grad school.”

“Okay?” he mutters. “Why are you getting so worked up?”

“I’m not worked up, I’m hurt,” you say, voice trembling. “This mattered to me. She matters to me. I thought you'd care.”

He scoffs. “Not everything has to be a performance, you know. You don’t have to turn every minor thing into some dramatic cry for attention.”

You freeze. That one hits a little too hard, a little too precise. He knows where your insecurities live. He built half of them.

You rise from your chair. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make me feel crazy just because you can’t be bothered to look up from your phone.”

“Oh my god, not this again,” he groans, standing too. “You act like I don’t love you just because I missed one part of a conversation.”

“You don’t love me!” It bursts out of you like glass shattering. “You love having me. That’s different.”

His expression darkens. “You’re insane.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“No—seriously, you need help or something. You twist everything. You’re so fucking exhausting, I don’t even know why I—”

“Why you what?” you whisper, staring at him like you’re looking through the ghost of who he used to be. “Why you picked me?”

The silence after is nuclear.

That’s when you know. He won’t say it. He doesn’t have to.

So you walk away.

And of course—he doesn’t stop you.You don’t shout again. You don’t cry in front of him. You just turn and start gathering your things. The hoodie that still smells like him. Your toothbrush. Your charger. Your pride.

He watches from the hallway, arms crossed, jaw set like stone.

When you pause at the door, he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t stop you.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

You leave. You finally leave. And for a moment—just a flicker—you feel weightless.

Like maybe you’re free.

Like maybe you’ll survive this.

Like maybe you can forget how good his mouth felt between your thighs and how he once cried when you whispered you loved him and how, for one brief moment in the beginning, he made you feel like the only girl in the world.

But that’s the thing about Patrick Zweig.

He never lets go for long.

-----

It starts with a text. One of those late-night, half-formed apologies typed with clumsy fingers and a heart that doesn’t really mean it. You don’t answer. Not that time.

Then another. Then a call. Then a voicemail—slurred, soft, almost sweet.

“Y?N, Baby, please. I know I fucked up. I just… I don’t know how to sleep without you.”

You play it twice. Then a third time, just to hear the way his voice cracks at your name.

You delete it.

But you don’t block him.

It takes a week of silence before the knock comes. 2am, and you’re in a hoodie that’s too big and not yours anymore, standing barefoot at the door with a storm behind your ribs.

You open it.

He’s soaked in rain and whiskey. Hair tousled, shirt half-buttoned, eyes glassy. Beautiful in the way that makes you ache.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“No. You shouldn’t.”

But you step aside.

He kisses you before the door even closes, mouth desperate, hands familiar. You hate how easily your body remembers him. Hips grinding, tongues clashing, breath caught between apologies and gasps.

“You hate me,” he says against your throat.

“I don't,” you whisper. Your fingers are already tangled in his shirt.

He fucks you like a man starved. No slow build, no ceremony—just teeth and hands and skin. He lifts you onto the kitchen counter, yanks your shorts down, and slides into you with a groan so raw it almost sounds like pain.

“God, I missed this. Missed you.”

You don’t answer. You just wrap your legs around him tighter, trying to shut out the voice in your head screaming that this is a mistake.

He pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you like confessions, coaxing pleasure from you with a vengeance that borders on cruelty. Every thrust is both a punishment and an apology, every groan a promise he has no intention of keeping. He says your name like a curse and a prayer, buried deep inside you, shaking with need.

When your body finally gives out—spent, trembling, boneless in his arms—he doesn’t stop. Not right away. He lays you out on the table like something precious, lips brushing your collarbone, your ribs, your thighs. His voice is quiet, reverent, ruined.

“You’re it for me,” he breathes, mouth hot against your pulse. “You’re everything. No one else touches me like this. No one else gets me.”

You don’t believe him. But still, you part your legs when he slides down between them again.

He licks you open with a desperation that makes your vision blur, hands gripping your hips like they’re his anchor to this plane. You’re already raw. Already aching. But you come again anyway, because that’s what he does to you. He ruins you. Again and again and again.

When it’s over—when you’re sprawled on the cold wood, heart rattling like something loose in your chest—he gathers you up in his arms and carries you to bed.

You let him.

Not because you believe him.

But because he still feels like home.

He curls around you like he never left, breath steady, heart calm, while yours flails and panics in your chest.

And in the hush of that impossible, aching silence, he whispers, “We can make it work this time. I swear.”

And for a while, you let yourself believe him.

That maybe the second time is the charm. That maybe love is supposed to be hard. That maybe the sharpness in his voice, the silence in his touch, the way he fucks you like he’s trying to empty you out—is still some kind of intimacy.

But the thing about second chances is they always rot faster.

He stops pretending to care about the little things. Forgets your birthday. Cancels plans last-minute. Makes promises he doesn’t remember by morning. You make excuses for him to your friends. To yourself.

He starts coming home later. Smelling like smoke and vodka and someone else’s perfume.

The sex becomes crueler. Not rough in the way you used to love. Just careless. Thoughtless. A means to an end.

Sometimes he finishes and rolls away without a word, without looking at you, without kissing you goodnight.

Sometimes he doesn’t finish at all.

You try harder. You cook. You clean. You buy lingerie. You post old photos of you both with nostalgic captions and wait for him to like them. He doesn’t.

And when you finally say something—just a gentle, trembling question, "Patrick, do you even still want me?"—he laughs. He fucking laughs.

"Don’t be so dramatic," he says, tossing his keys on the counter like he didn’t just set fire to the last shred of your dignity.

You follow him into the bedroom. He’s pulling off his jacket, already halfway to ignoring you.

"You haven’t touched me in days. You barely look at me—"

"Maybe that’s because you’re always so needy," he cuts in. "Jesus, can I breathe for five seconds without you asking for some kind of emotional check-in?"

You stare at him. You feel your throat close around something ugly.

"I just want to know I matter."

He turns to you. Smirks. "You do. When you’re not being such a bitch about it."

You feel the crack before you hear it.

Somewhere inside you, something folds. Collapses.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

You just turn, and walk into the bathroom. Lock the door. Sit on the edge of the tub and breathe.

That night, you don’t sleep beside him. You lie awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he ever meant any of it.

And when he leaves the next morning without a word, you already know the answer.

-----

Time passes in fragments.

You don’t speak. You don’t text. You go through the motions of your life like a ghost in borrowed skin. Your friends rally—offering wine and weekends and distractions. You smile when you’re supposed to. You laugh when it’s required.

You lie. “I’m fine.”

And for a while, it’s almost believable.

Until the party.

You didn’t plan to go. You almost cancel three times before deciding maybe you need this. Maybe you deserve this.

You wear a dress that makes you feel like someone else. Lips red. Eyes sharp. You look good—no, dangerous. Like you’ve moved on.

You don’t expect him to be there.

But of course he is.

He’s standing across the room, laughing too loud, drink in hand, suit just barely wrinkled like he didn’t even try. Like he doesn’t have to.

And he looks… breathtaking. He always did.

He doesn’t see you at first.

You watch him—watch the curve of his mouth, the way people orbit him like he’s the center of something burning.

You hate him.

You hate how your thighs clench when he runs a hand through his hair.

You hate how the room goes quiet in your head when he finally, finally sees you.

His eyes rake over you slowly. Deliberately.

You feel it all the way down to your knees.

He crosses the room like the world owes him access to your body.

“You look…” he trails off, licking his lips. “Wow.”

“Fuck you,” you say. But it comes out breathless.

He smiles. That smile. “That’s fair.”

You want to walk away. You really do.

But instead, you drain your drink.

He walks first.

And you hesitate.

You shouldn’t go. You know you shouldn’t go. Your fingers are shaking, and you’re still trying to remember how to breathe, and your heart is screaming at you to run. To turn around. To choose yourself, for once.

But then he glances over his shoulder.

That look.

Like he already knows you’ll follow. Like he always knew.

And you do.

Up the stairs. Past laughter and clinking glasses and music that doesn’t matter. Into the hush of your hotel room, door closing behind you like the last note of a funeral hymn.

He doesn’t touch you right away.

Just stands there, watching. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break first.

You don’t. Not yet.

“Why did you come tonight?” you ask. Your voice is steadier than you expect.

He shrugs. “Why did you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The tension coils between you like wire pulled taut.

“You miss me,” he says finally.

You laugh. Bitter. “I miss who you pretended to be.”

He flinches. Just slightly. Then steps forward.

“You still wore my favorite perfume.”

“You still smell like lies.”

You don’t mean to let your eyes drop to his mouth.

But you do.

And he sees.

“Tell me to leave,” he says, close now. Too close. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”

But you can’t.

You never could.

So you don’t.

You step into him like a prayer. Like a curse.

He catches your mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and memory. Hands fisting in your hair, your dress, your dignity. You moan into him, half in fury, half in surrender.

Clothes hit the floor in pieces. Your back slams against the door. His fingers are already between your legs, testing, teasing, taunting.

“You’re soaked,” he growls. “Missed me that much?”

You hate him. God, you hate him.

But your hips chase his hand anyway.

He fucks you like a weapon. Uses your body like it’s his to break. Fists in your hair. His mouth on your neck, your breasts, your soul. He bends you over the dresser and takes you from behind, one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat over you like he’s trying to anchor you to the moment.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice dark and low. “Say it.”

“No,” you gasp.

He thrusts harder.

“Say it.”

You cry out. Dig your nails into the wood. He hits the spot that makes you see stars.

“Fuck—Patrick—”

He grins against your shoulder. “There she is.”

When he flips you over, sits you onto the dresser, and slides back in, your legs wrap around him like instinct. Like ruin. Like home.

He doesn’t stop until your makeup is smeared, your thighs are trembling, your voice hoarse from calling his name.

And when you come again, shaking around him, you’re not sure if it’s from pleasure or pain or the horrifying possibility that maybe—just maybe—you still love him.

He doesn’t kiss you after.

He zips up his pants. Pulls on his shirt. Walks to the window like he’s already somewhere else. You stay sitting on the edge of the bed, legs shaking, heart a bruised thing in your chest.

He doesn’t say anything—not goodnight, not thank you, not stay. Not that he has the right to. He’s using your space.

You lie down on the far side of the bed, staring at the ceiling. You listen to him brushing his teeth. You listen to the rustle of him undressing again. The sheets shifting as he climbs in beside you.

But he doesn’t touch you.

You barely sleep.

And when the morning comes, sunlight crawling over your hotel linens and your bare skin, you feel it—this new emptiness, different from all the others. He’s already up. Already dressed. Sipping coffee and scrolling through his phone like last night didn’t happen.

You sit up, slowly.

“Are you really going to pretend none of that meant anything?” you ask, voice raw.

He doesn’t look up. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to mean it,” you whisper. “I want you to still be him.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. I want a lot of things.”

And then, casually—as if he’s commenting on the weather—he says it: “You always were easy.”

The silence is immediate. Deafening.

You don’t speak. You can’t. You just stare at him, like you’re seeing him for the first time.

And maybe you are.

“Get out,” you whisper.

He sighs, grabs his things, and doesn’t even glance back. Like he was never planning to stay. Like you were just the most convenient place to crash for the night.

When the door clicks shut behind him, it takes the last piece of you with it.

So you sit there, bare and shaking and covered in bruises you asked for, trying to piece together how the man who once said you were everything could make you feel like nothing.

-----

You tell your friends you’re fine.

The days become weeks. The weeks become months.

It’s not constant—not all-consuming, not every second—but it lingers. He lingers. Like a bruise that refuses to fade.

You go out. You swipe. You kiss people who don’t taste like him. You delete his number, then dig through your email to find it again.

You smile. You nod. You joke about it—“Can you believe I fucked him again? God, I’m so over it.”

They believe you. Maybe even you believe you.

Until it’s 2am again.

You’re lying in bed with your phone lighting up your face, the soft glow of his name on your search bar. You scroll through photos from his latest match, one where he’s smiling, sweaty, victorious. Thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments.

You click through them like it’s a ritual. A punishment.

His Instagram. His Facebook. His fucking LinkedIn.

You’re not sure what you’re looking for.

A sign that he misses you. A girl he’s moved on to. Proof that he hasn’t.

You scroll until your thumb aches. Until your eyes burn.

And somewhere between his Wimbledon press clip and an old photo of him kissing your cheek from a year ago, your hand is slipping down beneath the waistband of your shorts.

You close your eyes. You hate yourself.

You picture his voice. His hands. His mouth.

You come with a muffled sob of his name, biting your wrist to keep quiet.

You tell yourself it’s closure.

But it’s not.

It’s obsession.

It’s hate.

It’s muscle memory and madness.

It’s fingers slipping past your waistband at the same time every night, lit only by the flicker of his latest headline.

You press your palm flat against your stomach, trying to still the ache, to hush the guilt. You pretend it’s someone else’s voice you hear in your head. You pretend the image behind your eyes isn’t him in that suit, smirking, untouched, unbothered.

You touch yourself to his highlight reels, his sweat-slick smile, the sound of your name whispered like a curse in memory.

You bite your wrist until your teeth leave little moons.

You come like you’re trying to forget.

But you don’t.

You never do.

Because some ghosts don’t leave.

Some gods don’t fall.

Some people keep on winning.

-----

tagging: @artstennisracket @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @glennussy @awaywithtime @babyspiderling @jamespotteraliveversion @artdonaldsonbabygirl