°⭒₊ synopsis: rage baiting your ex-boyfriend after a breakup is probably a bad thing. not that you care. but when getting back at him turns into you asking your best friend to pretend to be your boyfriend at a party, you soon realize that maybe your heart has belonged to someone else all along.
°⭒₊ pairing: ex boyfriend x toxic!reader x dorky!best friend! °⭒₊
°⭒₊ wc: 3.6k (there will be a pt 2)
°⭒₊ content: fluff and smut. fem reader. bathroom sex. reader is toxic and insane (do not do anything she does). denial of feelings. jealousy. unhealthy relationship dynamics. fake dating. secret pining. being bent over the bathroom counter at a party. not cumming LMFAOOOO.
PATREON PREVIEW BELOW
“Did you fucking pay some guy to show up at my work and claim he was my lover yesterday?”
“No,” you scoffed, crossing your legs underneath the table as you brought your coffee up to your lips.
Your coworker actually did it for free.
All you had to do was get fake STD results printed for him to wave around angrily and swear that he’d given him gonorrhea in front of half of his office.
“God, what the hell do you want from me?” Your ex-boyfriend glared at you, throwing the paper at you as you shrugged your shoulders.
“Nothing,” you hummed, picking your purse up off the floor and tilting your head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right,” he sarcastically grumbled, gritting his teeth as he slid into the booth across from you. “You always want something.”
“I moved on,” you half-lied, apathetically dragging your eyes across from his unfortunately still-toned body. His crisp button-up was clinging to his chest, an expensive watch wrapped around his wrist, his sleeves all rolled up to draw your attention to his veiny forearms. “You should really do the same.”
You didn’t really want to date him again.
But rage baiting him was your favorite hobby.
Why should you give up something that gives you joy?
“You’re insane,” he accused, brows scrunching together all tight.
“Says the guy who is clearly stalking me and showing up when I’m trying to eat my breakfast in peace,” you retorted, lazily shrugging your shoulders as your eyes swept past him to the previously quiet cafe you enjoyed the pastries from. A few other people were staring, whispering between each other as they eyed the two of you together.
But you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care.
All attention was good attention in your book.
“You eat here every day,” he snapped. “And you're still sharing your location with me.”
“Oops,” you hummed, pulling your phone out of your pocket and scrolling through your contacts before hesitating over his name. But you had to follow through, clicking a few times to turn off sharing despite the fact you’d deliberately left it on before. “I thought I had you blocked.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?” He deadpanned, chin tilting down as he attempted to stare through your soul like it would get you to admit your even a single instance of your wrongdoing.
“I don’t know what you expected me to say,” you chirped, finishing off the last sip of your coffee before standing.
“Were you trying to get me fired?” He demanded to know, all indignant and frustrated as he followed you over to the trash can.
“If I wanted to get you fired, I’d fuck your boss,” you argued back.
“I don’t think she’s into women,” he casually countered, lips pinched together as he shook his head in sheer disbelief. He could act all he wanted, but you could see the hard on through his slacks, the bulge that was certainly not work appropriate clearly outlined.
“So?”
That had never really been a problem for you before.
Women, men, who wouldn’t fuck a crazy bitch?
All it took was fluttering your lashes the right way and coaxing them with a few soft words and tender touches, pressing your palm against their chest and purring their name, and they were yours.
Just like he still was.
“Well, it didn’t work,” he snapped, as if you were supposed to be upset about it. Did he want you to act like some cartoon villain mourning over a ruined plan?
What you really wanted was to annoy him.
A great success in your books judging by the irritation etched into his harsh features.
“It sounds like you’re not over me if you automatically assumed I had something to do with it,” you pointed out, arching up an eyebrow.
“I assume it’s you because I know you,” he sharply retorted.
Fair enough.
It was far from the craziest thing you’d done to him. Didn’t really compare to the time you called his mom and cried to her that he’d cheated on you with her best friend. Or when you posted his address on craigslist promising he was giving away all of his furniture and mentioning where his spare key was kept.
In your own defense though, he had pissed you off prior. Who the hell turned their phone off during boys' night? Or conveniently forgot to text you back after leaving for the weekend to visit his family?
Honestly, you had been sorta surprised he didn’t dump you after all of that.
But no, the straw that broke the camel’s back was less dramatic.
One of his friends posted a photo of him at a bar, a girl smiling by his side in the background – and you promptly responded by going out and posting one of your own with a guy gripping your waist.
It wasn’t like you made out with him. Or fucked him.
But instead of your typical blowout fight, he had the audacity to just block you. And okay, he unblocked you two days later, but the damage was done. You’d cut out all most of the parts of him from your heart. Gone through the five stages of grief the second he had the audacity to make you feel embarrassed for loving him. For making you feel desperate for his attention.
Still, were you supposed to just let it go?
Him and the disrespect?
Accept your (on-and-off again) boyfriend of four years dumping you via telepathy? Assuming it was over because the only way he expected you to contact him at first was via email?
Even you wouldn’t stoop that low.
Could he really blame you for getting creative in your…retaliation?
“I’ve got better things to do than wait around coming up with ways to fuck with you,” you sighed, starting towards the door with him still on your tail.
“Like what?” He retorted.
“For your information, I am seeing someone,” you lied.
“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitched down, and perhaps it was, ah, self-centered, and certainly a little delusional, but you were sure you detected a hint of jealousy in that clenched jaw and annoyed scowl of his.
“Mhm,” you murmured, determined to win this game of nonchalance no matter what you had to say to sell it.
“You’ve got a new boyfriend?” He pressed, as if he couldn’t comprehend someone could be crazy enough to date you.
“Did you lose like twenty IQ points since we broke up?” You scoffed, tilting your head to the side. “I already said yes.”
“Why don’t you bring him Saturday then?” He snarkily asked.
Shit.
FULL FIC ON PATREON HERE (also features a wide assortment of other oneshots/series!)
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your boyfriend hates boy best friend satoru! he says you’re too close and that best friends don’t “kiss like that” or “touch like that,” but satoru, your ever-so-loving boy(friend) always reassures you, telling you that your boyfriend is nothing but a liar who’s trying to take you away from your truest and greatest love—him.
“he’s weird, baby,” your boyfriend says seemingly out of the blue. you’re both in your room right now, literally just chilling and having a great time—well, great for him until you mentioned satoru. you muttered something about having a sleepover with satoru next friday, and now, your boyfriend, who’s usually a huge sweetheart, is about to go on a ballistic rant rampage.
“satoru? weird? in what way?” you decide to take the bait and chomp down whatever wound he’s about to flesh out. the boy now stands in your room like he’s about to give his final presentation of the academic year. it’s laughable, really. “you’re a great girl, y/n. you really are. but… I can’t help but feel irked by your relationship with gojo.”
“could you tell me why,” you reply calmly and your boyfriend nods, taking a deep breath as he’s about to speak. “okay, okay,” he starts. “I think it’s weird that he’s always over, doesn’t even knock on your door—he’s just… just there! what if he walks in on you changing, right?” then let him look, duh. you think to yourself. he moves his hands freely as if signaling just how crazy your tolerance of the white-haired “creep” is.
“and the way he always kisses you, hugs you, and touches you! I’m your boyfriend, and yet I don’t do that in front of your parents, but he does… it’s weird because, why am I not allowed to do that, but he is? right?” he looks at you, desperate for confirmation—wanting you go agree with him for once.
side with the resistance. please.
but you don’t. and your boyfriend knows you don’t. he just watches as you nod. “really? that’s all you’re going to give me?” he says with a face full of crushed hope.
“what do you want me to say?” you raise an eyebrow at the poor guy, who’s just vying to be the one to capture your attention. god, he doesn’t even understand how you’ve gotten him so hooked on your entire existence.
“side with me. tell me you hate satoru. tell me he forces those kisses and hugs on you. tell me he makes you uncomfortable.” then I’ll beat him up with a smirk on my face all for you.
“I don’t lie,” you deadpan, and his heart shatters.
finally, he sits on your bed then sighs, chest aching like never before. “shit, I should’ve listened to toji…”
“what?” you ask, confused. toji? toji zenin? how random. “when I told him I liked you, he made a passing joke about how you whored yourself out for satoru.”
“so you think I’m a whore?” your expression turns deathly serious. satoru would never call you a whore. maybe in bed but that’s different.
your boyfriend rolls his eyes. “yeah? you probably slept with satoru, based on how much you defend him. he pay you with sex?”
you hum with a smile that says “how ludicrous.” then, his attitude flips again. “wait—you did… didn’t you?” he clarifies, his insecurities once again taking over. though, to be fair, you are aware that you may have triggered it. scratch that, you definitely did.
“if you count rounds, a couple of times. if not, just thrice, every birthday since I turned sixteen!” you chirp as if you weren’t metaphorically punching him in the gut right now. “you’re crazy… you’re both crazy,” he says in return, taking a step back with considerable trepidation.
“god, for all I know, he’s in the fucking closet stalking us right now, and you know!” he all but screams. then, he grabs his stuff and heads for your door. “we’re over!”
you tell satoru the moment your boyfriend—well, ex, left in tears. dialing his number, you look over his picture on the poster. you and him during a halloween party wearing a cheesy couple’s costume. you and him were only twelve then. then, the line connects. “come over, ‘toru… ‘m sad…” you pout, knowing your expression transcends the supposed phone call. “my boyfriend broke up with me,” you add.
he chuckles, knowing exactly the look written on your pretty face. “okay, princess, I will. just a few more reps, okay? what snacks do you want? we can munch while you rant about your crazy ex, ‘kay?”
“mhm, okay. spicy chips please and thank you, satoo!” you giggle. “okay, baby. I’ll get there in less than an hour. is auntie and uncle home?” he asks, referring to your parents.
“no, they flew to the states earlier, they said they had some business to attend to in chicago then new york,” you shrug while picking at the loose thread of your comforter. “hm, okay. I’ll sleepover then, yeah?” he suggests so casually.
“but what if they get mad this time?” I ask nervously.
he laughs like your whole dilemma was pointless. “bunny, when have they ever gotten mad about that? they love it when we spend time with each other.” then, he adds “y’know what I think?”
“what?”
“they probably arranged us with each other as kids, our moms intentionally got pregnant in the same year after all…” he whispers low against his cell’s microphone. you laugh in response. “whatever, ‘toru, just finish your sets.”
“reps, baby,” he corrects. “love ya, angel, see you later.”
for a second, you pause. is it perhaps hesitation or maybe the fleeting feeling of uneasiness about something you’re unsure about? fuck, you don’t even understand what you’re thinking of right now.
you just say it anyway “I love you too…” you say it because that’s how it’s meant to be. you’ve always loved him and he’s always loved you, so why do you still try to look for whatever love it is that you want from others?
he can provide you with as much of anything as you want a hundred times over!
you lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling. then, you sigh. maybe your ex is right. what if you are weird. what if this relationship with satoru is far from normal no matter how much your family and his tries to normalize it. though, a part of you thinks. does it matter? you like satoru and you believe he likes you, so why not, right?
Warnings: Infidelity, Adultery, Toxic friendship, toxic relationship, cheating gojo, and so much smut!
Reblogs are appreciated!
Masterlist | Chapter 1 → Chapter 2
Chapter 1 - Pure Evil ⁎
Bzz bzz bzz
It was constant. Your eyelashes fluttered as they opened. The light beamed in through the window, was it late-morning already? Vision glazed over before your hands left the edge of the blanket to rub them. One-two blinks before your gaze was finally clear.
You couldn't help but squint from the bright sky outside, the nicest its been in weeks. Looking around your room, your brain was finally starting to leave that dazed state and actually wake up. Your phone buzzed a few more times before you slowly turned your head like it owed you an apology for waking you up. A moment of a glare.
An irritated sleepy sigh leaves your lips, your hand ran along the fabric of the bedsheet before your fingers found the cold device. Yanking it, you pulled it off the charger. Clicking the power button, the device turns on.
"Shit-"
You were flashbanged by your own phone. Seemingly, your phone is now your opp. Swiping down aggressively before the menu finally pops up. Your brightness gets turned ALL the way down.
"Who the hell is bothering me before lunch?.." You mumbled to yourself.
Pouting at the world, you begrudgingly open your messages. Sayuri; your bestfriend since middle school. So your first thought was, "what happened now?" Because she was one of the wildest extroverted women you have ever met in your life.
Clubbing every other night, always wearing sinful clothes like she had zero things to worry about. She really did to be fair, you never fully understood it. However from what you grasped from her explanation years ago, her family is rich and she can see things only certain people can? Shes a schizophrenic in a fantasy world basically.
Evil. Pure evil.
She knows just how much you hate getting up early in the morning, you might just have to fight her for waking you up so early. Nonetheless, you pulled yourself out of bed to get ready for this nightmare of a meet up where you will be the grumpiest woman and she will be ever so ready to handle you with excitement and whatever new tea she wants to tell you.
Proceeding to the bathroom, your hair still partially wet from last night. You had gotten home from being her designated driver, and she had thrown up on you. So your only choice had been a 3 AM shower. Trailing your fingers up to your scalp to run through your tangled hair.
Eventually it pissed you off enough to reach for the brush. Today truly is a threat your soul.
Once you tamed your hair like the wild animal it was, you reached for your toothbrush. But it wasn't there, because it so happened to have fallen in the trash when you grabbed your brush without you having realized. Your eyes narrowed in disgust. "Fuck my life." You turned to the pantry in your bathroom, wrapping your hand around the knob. The door opened with a loud annoying creak.
You could feel your eye twitching from how irritating your morning has been, and its only been 8 fucking minutes.
Tapping around in the small dark pantry to find the thin box of toothbrushes, you found the casing and grabbed it. Opening it just to find none left. Today was going absolutely swell.
"Oh my GODDDD!.."
Mentally flipping the bird to the world and Sayuri. They were both to blame for your shit luck and this terrible day that had only just started. You turned back to the sink, having only two choices.
One, you use the trash toothbrush after washing it, but it still wouldn't really be clean or...
Your eyes found your finger before you mumbled a quick "fuck it." You turned on the sink, halfway on hot, halfway on cool so you get warm perfect water. You put your hand beneath the soap dispenser. Pumping 3 times before scrubbing your hands like your life depended on it.
When you were 1000000% sure that your hands were clean, your hand wrapped around the tube of toothpaste, your brain already noting to get more toothbrushes. Squeezing the container before it spilled the glob of toothpaste onto your hand.
You took in a shaky breath before you shoved your finger into your mouth. Gagging slightly before just focusing on the minty taste, scrubbing at your teeth with the toothpaste.
Spitting out the white frothy saliva into the running water. You brushed your teeth with your finger as fast as you could. You dipped your head under the faucet and gurgled water before spitting out the rest of the toothpaste. The hard part of today was finally over right?
Wrong.
It was 9:02, and you still weren't out of the house. You had thrown on a white t-shirt, a yellow headband to keep your hair out of your face, light blue jeans, ankle-socks, and black vans with yellow sunflowers on them. You had a sort of pep in your step as you made your way out of the house. You had one thing to look forward to, whatever tea that was about to be spilled by Sayuri!
Practically skipping your way to the corner cafe. Glancing through the glass of the cute little place, your eye caught onto your bestfriend. Pushing the door open, her eyes watched you come in with a glint of excitement that matched your own.
"This drama better be good, Sayuri, otherwise I'm beating you to death with my credit card."
She hummed before happily bursting out, "No tea! Exciting news though,"
News? You tilted your head, because what news could possibly have made her this eager to talk to yo-
"Are you pregnant?" You spoke out, it was a thought and it made sense. She went out clubbing a lot, what if she really was pregnant? Eyes wide and pupils dilated as if expecting her to drop the bombshell on you.
She froze and stared at you. Then her cheeks puffed up before she laughed loud enough to have the entire cafe turning to look at the loud lady sitting down as you stared at her. You plopped down onto the seat infront of her own and shoved your hands over her mouth.
"Pregnant? God no-" she muffled beneath your palm. Giggles a rhythm you've heard for as long as you could remember. You slowly removed your palms from her mouth, her gloss imprint on them. You rubbed them against your pants to remove the gloss. "Then what is so important I had to be woken up so early?
But this time, she really did have a bombshell.
"Im getting married!" She squealed and you dropped your phone onto the table, jaw dropping further than you thought it could.
"Excuse me?"
The disbelief in your voice was prominent to the point that she froze. Tilting her own head at your confusion. "Whats wrong?" Her fingers strummed against the table anxiously, like you had reacted way different from what she expected.. which was usually what happens anyway.
"You can't get married! Who? I haven't even met the guy, how do you know hes good for you?" You explained and interrogated like it was as simple as breathing or eating. Like she should've known you would want to know every detail and be the parental figure to decide if the guy was good for her.
She sighed before mumbling, "well its an arranged marriage.." which made you sit straight up.
Warnings: matriarchal world, bxg, mpreg, reader is A RED FLAG, incompetent, gaslighting, manipulation (by reader)
+++ Yes! The muscly person in pic is YOU, the reader. God, I love toxic readers--we need a hoard of em', well whether you are toxic or not or just tired of life, that's up for you to judge in this fic lmao
─ m.lists
Archie Bonetti. A TikTok, sensation. 5 million followers and still growing, with almost every video having million eyes watching it, is a pop culture icon. From GRWM + life tea and reviews in regards to food, makeup and dresses, he has a good range. He's the ultimate IT boy. He started his career from a YouTube channel and just being silly in his high school years, doing all sorts of goofy shit on the channel with his friends. The most important ones were his "How to become the man that gets chased" one in which he told his audience what kind of partner to be and what is the ideal woman to be with.
He never realized that life would reward him so much by just appearing in front of the camera and doing what he likes. But having fame has its own costs.
Heavy ones.
Being constantly judged. Having different opinions that revolves around you, some labeling you as the beautiful boy that give mean boy vibes to just a blunt reviewer, dome call you funny, some don't...yada yada, you know the drill. But with time one becomes content with their life. Engagement brings in money even if it's negative, money brings Archie happiness and the whole cycle keeps feeding his ego.
Where you do you come along? Well, you are a finance sis.
Yup.
His friends and him tried that.. going to certain restaurants in New York where big finance sisters with EVER BIGGER pockets come in thingy and it worked.
It wasn't like he wanted money, he had enough, but it was him wanting something that everyone was dying for...if that makes sense. Like introducing a girlfriend in finance just...sounded hot to him, just make sense of it yourself because that's how his brain works. also the fact that a girl that busy and focused might not be aware of him, proved true because you had no idea what influencers actually did except review products, do makeup and yap in front of a cam? Especially boys neither you had any interest (you zoned out at his babbling 15 minutes into the date). But he was hot and young. Perfect opportunity and you didn't have much time to play around. You wanted to settle and be done with this stupid responsibility. Maybe popping out a kid in a year or two sounds great.
Yeah, you were thinking all this when he was yapping about what camera lens is better.
Once, halfway through dinner, he stopped mid-sentence and stared.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing," he said, smiling. "You just look like someone who knows exactly what they want."
You did. A house. Stability. A partner who didn't need babysitting. He fit. He listened. He was young enough to mold and old enough to commit.
When he finally asked, awkwardly, nervously, if you were exclusive, you didn't dramatize it. "Yes," you said. "I don't date multiple people."
His face lit up like you'd proposed.
That night, when he kissed you for the first time, it was careful. Like he was afraid you'd change your mind if he moved too fast. You didn't kiss back immediately, just let him, and the way his breath hitched told you everything you needed to know. Later, lying beside you, he talked again.
You stared at the ceiling, arm draped loosely over him.
He quieted on his own, curling closer like he belonged there.
You thought, distantly, this will work.
And when he fell asleep first, trusting, warm, utterly convinced , you didn't move him away.
You let him stay.
Because you didn't need love stories. You needed something steady.
And he needed someone to handle him. It was convenient like that.
And he soft launched you...accidentally that is.
He was filming a video , gorgeous lighting. Dewy makeup. Hair in soft waves. He's smiling too much for no reason. At the end, he turns the camera to show the outfit: oversized sweater, silver necklace, glossy lips. He adjusts the camera… and then a mysterious hand enters the frame, fixing his collar.
Just the hand. Just your hand.
He freezes , blush exploding across his cheeks.
"Um… thanks," he whispers. You walk out of frame. No face. No voice. Just presence.
Comments explode:
@ lalaland: WHO's HAND IS THAT?!?!? 👁️👁️👁️
@ kiwistan: Soft launch?!? Our boy is TAKEN???
@ yapper67: He looks so happy I'm crying
@ cumcumber: you mean our gf😊?
@ gaga'sshoelace: Her fingers look strong, omg he's whipped already
Archie replies to one comment:
":)"
────
But fast forward to now...his viewers hated you.
Like, hated you.
Not in a normal way. In a clip-compilation, unemployed-as-fuck, parasocial, forensic-analysis way. They stitched his videos frame by frame. Slowed them down. Zoomed in. You became a concept. A case study. A villain.
It started small.
A clip of Archie on live, smiling too much. "Yeah, my girlfriend's working late again. She's busy-no, like, actually busy." Says Archie, picking up a wet towel from bed.
The comments went-
@ glopy: does he always defend her? Like all this jus' cuz someone's hot and 6ft? Plz-
@ merekia: She doesn't even show up for him. LIKE IT'S OUR BOY ARCHIE WE TALKING BOUT?! How can you bag such a fine shyt and be such an asshole to them?
@ urpersonalnekomaid: Notice how he said "actually busy" like he's convincing himself.
Another clip.
He's filming a GRWM, applying concealer. "She says I don't need this but I like looking nice for her."
Comments immediately go:
@ jillex: WHY is he seeking her approval?
@ Haleop: She's definitely controlling his self-esteem. He ain't a boyboss I knew him to be anymore...@ gogoboi: This feels emotionally one-sided.
Then came the worst one.
A casual vlog. You’re off-camera. Barely audible.
Archie laughs and says, "No, she doesn't watch my videos. She doesn't even know what half of this means."Silence for half a second.
Then chaos.
@ kelio: SHE DOESN’T SUPPORT HIS CAREER???
@ jalepneo: That's actually insane.
@ hellokitty32: If my partner didn't watch my content, I'd cry.
@ getorade: She thinks she's better than him.
Someone made a compilation titled:
"Archie's Girlfriend Red Flags 🚩 (A THREAD)"
Clips included:
You not laughing at his jokes
You walking ahead of him once
Archie opening his own car door
You gaming while he talked in the background
Overlaid text:
"See how he always touches her first?"
"He constantly seeks reassurance.”
"This is classic emotional neglect. Women should just date women if they hate men so much."
"MEN DESERVE BETTER"
Archie tried to joke it off.
On live, smiling, eyes tired: "Guys, please relax. She's not mean. She's just… quiet and camera shy."
That sentence alone fueled weeks of discourse.
@ boardroombaddie: Why is he justifying her personality? ARCHIE PLZ THIS ISN'T YOU FFS!-
@ slevie: Quiet women are ALWAYS the scariest.
@ cuntgiver: She works in finance and still can't hang a towel? Be serious and stop fucking justifying and babying her behaviour. Such men don't even deserve sympathy imo.
You didn't watch any of it.
You found out because Archie showed you one night, hesitant, phone hovering between you. His face covered with face masks and red ight thingy that honestly icked you.
"They think you hate me babe," he said softly. Almost apologetic.
You glanced at the screen for three seconds. Handed the phone back not even making an effort to see if they were right about you, were you really such a shit girlfriend that so many people hold this opinion?
"They're strangers. And with a lot of time in their hands."
That was it. Archie smiled like you'd just said something profound. The next day, he posted:
"Reminder: my relationship isn't content. Please stop projecting🌟"
Which, naturally, made it worse.
But he didn't stop dating you. Didn't stop smiling. Didn't stop orbiting. If anything, he leaned in harder. He left social media altogether. Like gone. No podcasts, no celebrity interviews or collabs.
A year later, he soft-launched again, quieter this time, almost careful. It was just one photo on his feed, no long caption, no storytime. Him in a soft knit, hair pulled back, hand resting low on his stomach where the bump was unmistakable if you looked twice, and your hand in the frame too, not holding his face, not performative, just there, fingers hooked into his belt, a ring glinting on yours and a thinner one on his. The caption was simple to the point of cruelty: "Some updates." No emojis. No explanations. The internet stalled for a full minute before exploding. Pregnancy speculation turned into certainty, engagement theories turned into breakdowns, and timelines were drawn up like crime boards. People zoomed in on the ring, on the way he was leaning slightly into you, on how relaxed he looked, too relaxed for someone supposedly trapped. Comments split violently between disbelief and grief. "HE'S PREGNANT??" "ENGAGED???" "WITH (Y/N)????" "This feels like a hostage photo, but why does he look so happy?" Some were genuinely happy for him too, and scolding the ones who were spouting negative shit on such an occasion.
He didn't reply to anything. Didn't post for three days after. When he finally did, it was a story of him drinking tea on the couch, your leg stretched across his lap, his hand rubbing absent circles over his stomach, his voice soft and offhand as he said, "Yeah, everything's good."
────
It's not like you didn't show him affection, you did. However, his cameras won't capture all the private moments.
Sometimes, you'd appear behind him while he was making coffee, leaning over just enough to brush your lips against his ear and whisper, "This one's for me," and he'd nearly drop the mug, laughing nervously while his heart did somersaults. Other times, while he was scrolling through his phone, you'd snatch it out of his hand without warning and slide it across the table, deadpan, "Not today," and he'd sit there frozen, grinning, entirely unable to argue. You had a way of touching him that didn't ask permission, running a thumb over his cheek while he slept on the couch, or gripping his wrist mid-gesture and holding him there like you'd claimed him physically, and he melted quietly under your hand.
Then there were the playful ones: you'd tug his hair lightly while he was cooking, making him stumble backward, or pinch his side when he was laughing too loudly, turning a normal giggle into a breathless stammer. Sometimes, you'd drop him into your lap suddenly while he was editing a TikTok, arms wrapping around him in a tight, possessive hug, murmuring, "You're mine," and he'd freeze, staring at you like you'd just rewritten reality. Even a casual touch,like brushing crumbs off his shoulder or flicking a stray speck of makeup from his hand, could make him shiver, heart pounding, entirely undone by the simplest gesture.
And the quiet, domestic ones were just as deadly. While he folded laundry, you'd lean over his back and press your chest against him, cheek brushing his shoulder, sighing softly. When he cooked, you'd hover near the stove, deliberately letting your hand graze his forearm, watching him fumble without speaking. You didn't have to say anything; the smallest touch, the tiniest glance, or a barely audible hum of your approval could send him into a spiral of adoration.
────
Beginning of 2026 is a trainwreck with women getting exposed left and right for either literally robbing a cradle or setting up a cradle with someone who isn't their husband ( an: chat did i cook with this line? ☠) and well Archie's followers--- frenemies at this point- are like digging so fucking deep to just find some kinda dirt on your bitcoin ass.
And they ...well worked hard for a while before an influencer by the name of Bailey Crown stepped forward with a reel with a teasing caption "I also have receipts on this influencer's gf, should I expose?" and people went wild, betting on whom it could be, no like, literally, a poll was done. Your name being there too, along with some other NBA players...
What a load of unemployed freak shi-
Anyway, guess what?
"My dating experience with that finance sis."
Boom. The video gets viral on tiktok. Bailey being a MUA spills tea doing his makeup and starts.
"So," he starts, dabbing primer onto his cheekbones, voice way too calm for what he’s about to say. " Yes I am talking about the bitcoin girl. The 6'2, and whose name starts with a (Your first alph). We dated for about a month. Not a hookup. Not a one-off. A month. Consistent texts. Weekly dinners. Sleepovers. And I fucking kid you not I met her assistant before I met her friends."
He blends concealer, unblinking.
"She loves control. And I don't mean in a cute 'I'lll order for the table' way. I mean- she'd decide when we saw each other. When I was allowed to be upset. When things were 'too emotional.'"
A painful pause with a cringed and disgusted impression.
"She once rescheduled our date because her stocks were 'in a bad mood'"
He raises an eyebrow. "And I waited. Because, you know, women, they make you think maybe you're the problem. I was immature at that point in my life, guys, okay? Don't judge." Bailey sighs, switches brushes.
"She hated it when I wore anything too soft. Said it made me look 'impressionable.' Told me I should stop using heart emojis because they made people think I was 'available.' CAN. YOU. FUCKING. BELIEVE THE AUDACITY. OF THESE WOMEN?. Like---God, I don't even know why I date women in the first place, like fucking makes me want to question EVERYTHING."
He chuckles once, humorless.
"Movin on my boys, she didn't like that I posted. Didn't like when my audience flirted. But had no issue reminding me- constantly- that I was replaceable. And why would you go on a date with and continue dating an influencer if you have a problem with me being a public figure?"
He leans closer to the camera, voice dropping. "And don't get me wrong. She never raised her voice. That's the thing. She'd just… fucking smile. Say, 'You're overthinking.' Or, 'That's not how it happened, darling." LIKE AHHH! Looking back at it now? That's so scary. And so classic." He picks up his phone.
"Now. Receipts. Cuz' of course. I am not making this shit up. Anyway, I asked her if we were exclusive. She said yes."
Screenshot flashes on the screen, showing the texts.
"Two weeks later? She cancels on me because she's 'working late." This time, it's screenshots of Instagram posts. "Same fucking night, guess what guys? She's liking thirst traps of three different men. One of whom-"
He smirks. "-was already married." Bailey exhales through his nose. " We had an argument about it and she of course was making excuses like no those posts are old and blah blah--LIKE HOW? They just posted it. How can they be old? Like that's how patronizing she was thinking that I carry nothing but air in my head and like for real, women go around ACTUALL believing this fact. That we men--we are just floating balloons." He looks straight into the camera.
"Did I mention she laughed? Imma mention again anyway."
A long pause. Mascara wand frozen mid-air. With this look on his face 👁👄👁
"And then she said, ‘You're sweet, Bailey. But you get attached too fast.' and we are not 'that official', whatever the fuck that means when you are literally with someone for over two weeks. Why are you texting me daily then? Why are you deciding dates on your own and picking me up from literally my workplace? Legit." He finishes the mascara stroke. "So yeah. That's my experience. No baby-trapping. No cradle-robbing. Just a woman who likes power a little too much and men who don't ask questions."
He sets the wand down. "I'm not attacking anyone, I am exposing, helping, man to man. I'm saying- if you date her? Know what you’re signing up for. And since young men follow you, you don't wanna set an example that dating such a walking douchebag is like---romantic. People have been watching you since 2018. And my boy Archie deserves better. Every man on this fucking planet deserves better, you hear me?"
Then, softer. Almost sincere.
"And if you're happy now? Good. Genuinely. But don't act surprised when people talk."
He smiles at the camera, polished, devastating and does a twirl. Anyway. That's it. I'm late for brunch. Bye bye my fairies, MUAH" And the comments? On fire.
@ emotionalroi: she treated him like a depreciating asset 💀
@ lipglosslaw: "my stocks were in a bad mood" I'M SCREAMING
@ meninsoftknit: he survived but at what cost
@ receiptsorban: WAIT IS THIS ARCHIE'S GIRLFRIEND
@ softlaunchpolice: so THIS is why he never tags her
@ chronicallyinvested: oh archie babe stand UP
@ sheeos: y'all calling this toxic, but if a man did it, you'd call him confident, smh.
@ cheetobiixh: IT IS FUCKING (Y/N) (L/N), OML , GUYS!
@ fx88ceo: maybe he just couldn't keep up 😌
@ istandforbelttreatmentforwomen: Bailey: You liked 3 men's posts?!
(Y/N) be like: HA💸HA💸HA💸HA💸
────
Archie doesn't stitch Bailey's video.
That alone gets people nervous. Instead, he posts a mukbang.
Camera angled slightly too close, hoodie stretched over a very visible four-month bump, a spread of fire noodles, tteokbokki, and a slice of cheesecake sitting innocently to the side like it didn’t just witness violence. His cheeks are already pink, eyes a little glassy, half spice, half pregnancy hormones.
The caption is simple, "Some thoughts."
No hashtags. He slurps noodles first. Loud and aggressive.
Then he looks at the camera. "Hi," Archie says, mouth still a little full. "I wasn't gonna say anything. My doctor actually told me to avoid unnecessary stress."
He wipes his mouth carefully.
"But y'all are annoying." He reaches for water, wincing.
"First of all--Bailey." He nods once. "I watched your video. Twice. Once on my For You page, once because my aunt sent it to me."
A pause.
"That's where we're at." He takes another bite of spicy rice cake like he's punishing himself. 'You're not lying about dating her. I knew that. She told me. Like an adult. Early. With context."
He shrugs.
"And yeah. She can be… a lot." A small smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. "She's decisive. She's blunt. She doesn't baby people. That's kind of her whole thing."
He sets his chopsticks down, suddenly serious.
"But let's not rewrite history like she was dangling you on a leash for sport."
Archie leans forward.
'You're grown. You stayed because you wanted to. You liked the attention. You liked dating someone powerful. And when it stopped feeling good, you left. That's not abuse. That's dating."
He exhales, rubs his stomach absentmindedly.
"And the screenshots?" A soft laugh. "Liking posts isn't cheating. If it is, half of TikTok needs jail time."
He reaches for the cheesecake now, stabbing it dramatically with his fork. "As for the 'replaceable' comment-" he grimaces. "Yeah. That one sucked. I won't defend that. She's apologized. To you. To me. Privately."
He takes a bite of cheesecake, eyes closing.
"Oh my god. That's damn good. She bought this from my fave store before I even woke up." Then, quieter, "But here's what you didn't say."
Archie looks straight into the camera now. No joking. "She's never lied to me. Never hidden me. Never made me feel small."
A hand settles over his bump, protective, instinctive.
"She comes to my appointments. She makes spreadsheets for the baby budget. She learned how to cook for pregnancy cravings she doesn't even have. Buying gifts left and right, setting up everything for the baby's arrival since the day we found out we were expecting. There isn't a fucking day that I am not grateful. Grateful for such a wonderful woman in my life. And yeah. She's intense, some just are. She's straightforward. She's not soft in the way people expect women to be. But she's soft with me. So if you didn't feel loved by her? I'm sorry. Genuinely. You just weren't for her then."
He nods toward the camera. "But don't turn my partner into a villain because the relationship didn't work for you." Archie sighs, tired now.
"And to everyone else, stop projecting your failed situationships onto my family." He picks up another noodle, then adds as an afterthought: "Also, I'm pregnant, spicy food makes me cry, and I still filmed this. So show some respect."
And that was the day the internet collectively decided: this man is hopeless. No matter what we fucking say, he isn’t going to listen. What a tragic downfall.
Except… it isn't one. Because people don't unfollow Archie the way they're supposed to.
Some do, obviously. The loud ones. The mature lads. The moral high-ground brigade who announce their departure like it's an airport. But a surprising number stay. Quietly entertained and curious.
And then there are the boys. Young, soft-voiced, freshly verified men in Archie's comments, suddenly inspired. Ones with ring lights and clean bedrooms and comments that start with "no offense but--" They flood his inbox left and right, as if he discovered the solution to stop global warming.
"How do I bag a finance baddie?😭😭"
"Father, drop the tutorial fr."
"Is there a class or do I just suffer?"
"Does letting her control my calendar help or hurt?"
Some are joking. Some are absolutely not.
Archie responds in a reels, because of course he does. One video is just him folding baby clothes on the couch, very pregnant, very serene. Text on screen: "I wasn't asking."
tag: @bintangbiru @enchantingkitty (tagged you as well cuz i thought u be waiting for a long time kitty, hope u didn't mind)
you, pissed off and with a gun in your hand: you asshole
you try to shoot him, he grabs your wrist and the bullet flies right next to his cheek, leaving a scratch that starts to bleed almost immediately, meanwhile he groans and angrily pulls you closer to make out with you
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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forever a fan of reader who causes tons of drama and is a little evil bc why the fuck do we always have to be nice ?? to MEN ?? we used to be a society 🥀🥀 bring back misandry and stuff
A misty memory
A haunting face
Is she a lost embrace?
𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙧!: This work contains nuances of emotional incest, if the subject makes you uncomfortable I recommend skipping this post for your comfort.
Fandom: DC
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The world works in specific ways.
There must be roles to follow, labels you can never shake off, appearances you have to play up whether you like it or not. There are protectors and victims, good and bad, one side or the other.
But what happens when you're in the middle of the line?
When your role is to be ambiguous, your label is to shine but your role is to disappear, you're neither a protector nor a victim, you're neither strong enough to protect nor weak enough to need protection, you're neither good nor bad, you're a zero, a smudge on the paint.
You're not memorable.
And you use that to your advantage.
Your family never loved you, that's the truth; Dad's a liar. Bruce Wayne can act so well it's ridiculous, but he never bothered to act with you. He didn't pretend to love you, but he didn't pretend to hate you either. You were a limbo between the two, solved by acting like you weren't even there, easy and simple. Anyway, that's what he did with your mother after having sex with her and discarded her the next morning, coming back only because…Why did he come back? You could have gone back to your maternal family, with whom you still have contact; living in the system is better than Wayne.
Your brothers? As many as there are days in the year, it almost seems like collecting them is a hobby (or his therapy, something he tries to remedy himself by using others—who said that?!), but no matter how many there are, you don't connect with any of them. Maybe because you arrived late, or because you're not a Robin, or an Oracle, or whatever exotic bird and mythological name they use to fight crime.
Your sisters? They're…there, far away, not bothering to get close, and to their credit, you don't either, not anymore anyway, it's not worth it.
Alfred tries, it's sweet of him to do so, but you'll never be a priority for the old butler; you don't need bandages in the middle of the night, or coordinates for a cross-city chase, and God forbid you need empathetic comfort because someone else needs it more.
There are orphans, murderers, revived, a metahuman! Doesn't Bruce hate those?!
It would be funny if it weren't so sad, that your own father loves others more than you, how depressing; but it's not all bad, really, no, the lack of parental supervision gives you time to do many other things; you allow yourself to try everything, after all, Dad pays without a second thought.
So far, you're a singer, painter, dancer, soccer player, basketball player, gymnast, national champion in marine sciences and aerodynamic engineering, archer, model, diva, and all at no more than twenty years old, Take that, Barbie!
That's what negligence, free time, and a billion-dollar legacy combined do.
Another result of this is attention; you crave attention like a moth to a flame. It's a need, your air, your most primal desire. Being adored has become your mission, your purpose. Being envied is what motivates you to wake up every morning at four o'clock to start your beauty and exfoliation routine. Being desired is literally what makes you endure every magazine photo and every clothing ad that appears in store windows all over Gotham.
But through all of that, the smallest, most hidden part of your psyche still yearns for his attention, his desires, his flattery, his adoration, his envy, his need.
𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.
That makes you hate him—hate him and his children, who are part of his world, who don't have to fight for even a glance from him, much less his voice. Dick doesn't have to do a million things at once to be his pride and joy, Jason doesn't have to lose sleep over a compliment on his looks, Tim doesn't rack his brains to be considered a genius, Damian never needed to prove anything to be considered his equal in his eyes, Duke received everything as soon as he arrived, Barbara didn't have to beg for the mantle of Batgirl, Stephanie doesn't have to excel at everything to be recognized as one of his own, and Cassandra is his daughter, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧.
They're all something to him, they're all on that damn wall, in the family portrait he commissioned as a gift for them, one where you're not included, like in everything else. You don't even remember what the excuse was this time, or if it was Alfred who said it or your head made it up, but that painting is the rock that broke the glass.
And, ironically, the painting next to it is your perfect revenge.
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The changes began slowly, although if they had happened suddenly, they wouldn't have noticed.
An extra charge at a beauty salon, a clothing store, a jewelry store—nothing Bruce cared about or Alfred told him about.
Then the glances began.
A familiar figure passing at the end of the hallway as Bruce crossed, a nostalgic laugh that made Alfred nervous, a smell that made Bruce remember his past, details that made both men alert.
The alerts turned into paranoia when the images started coming in.
Bruce knew you were doing things outside the family: events, galas, parties, charity events, anything considered extravagant and spectacular. He always used that as a distraction, hiring anyone who looked like him from afar to appear on the covers and facilitating his double life as Bruce Wayne and Batman.
He's heartless, but he's useful, you're useful, from afar and without interfering in his vigilante life; at least one of his children will be free from the Bat curse.
And in he excuses, he never thought the curse would be any crueler.
Because the next time she sees you, the only gala he attends that you organized as a charity event, the only time he steps into the same space as you and sees you as the very image of her.
That he ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.
Her bearing, her brightness, her smile and laugh, her presence—damn, you even seem to use the same style with a modern touch—it's like having her among the guests who aged like she might have.
And when you see him…
- Father!- your voice echoes in his head, and for a second he hears hers too - Bruce Wayne has arrived! -
He's a scared little boy.
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The world works in specific ways.
And when your role shifts from being a spectator to being a perpetrator, it feels good.
It shouldn't, morally, you shouldn't enjoy seeing him so disturbed, afraid to be around you but seeking you out more often. It should make you feel sorry to hear him cry every time you dress a certain way that you've seen in photos and he saw in person, you should stop when you noticed how he began to harass you more and more until you could feel him breathing down your neck.
But you couldn't.
And the final straw was when he approached you first.
The encounter was strange, an awkward, tense atmosphere; you playing the piano in a living room far from the house, and he standing awkwardly in the living room doorway, listening without hearing and looking at you as if recalling a memory.
He approached awkwardly, slowly, as if each step were on a tightrope thousands of feet above the ground, and you were the solid floor on the other side. He didn't say much when he reached you. In his hands was a sheet of music that he held tightly; you could see the wrinkles in the old paper.
- Play it - he asks you, whispering, afraid of breaking whatever holds his sanity together.
That song, you learned from Alfred, who can no longer look you in the eye, was the first song Martha taught Bruce to play on the piano.
Martha Wayne, the grandmother you never met, the one you only saw in old portraits and hidden photos, the woman you bore an almost frightening resemblance to. You realized this on a day like today, a revelation that gave you the sickest idea you could have had, and despite everything morally correct, you went ahead with it.
Days at the salon to get her hair done, a manicure and pedicure elegant and classic, a new wardrobe with only clothes from the season she was alive, modernized enough to follow trends but still highlighting her style, jewelry she used to wear, the perfume she used (according to old newspapers in which she appears promoting it).
You became her in the present, the reincarnation of Martha Wayne.
Who would have thought that if you just dressed up a little more you'd look just like her?
The media adores you, those who lived during the Wayne matriarch's time desire you, women young and old envy you, and the spotlight always shines on you.
And as if fate were gifting him to you, as if rewarding you for years of neglect and hatred that rotted you as a person, destiny hands you Bruce Wayne as a constant in your life.
Encounters at galas, parties, and gatherings, superficial and tense conversations whenever you meet at the mansion, calls in the middle of the night when he thinks you think he can't sleep, when in reality he's just overwhelmed by the loneliness of the night and the memories his mind combines of his mother and you, hours and hours in the music room where he asks begs you to play him the same piano score or the same lullaby, outings everywhere, accompanying you like a shadow.
The lines that were never defined have blurred, vanished, lost in a limbo that no one bothers to recapture; for you are content to have your father's full attention without seeking it, to snap your fingers and know he will come at your call, to go from being nothing to being his everything, to becoming the most twisted and sick form of you in his sole thought.
And he is in a trance that no magic spell, or brainwashing, or catharsis, or anything like that can compare to; it is his never-healed trauma, the wound he sealed with fire opening again to raw, steaming, red flesh, which he uses to paint your lips the same shade his mother wore for social gatherings.
You want to know the most bizarre thing? That you've been referred to as "𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎"
And you won't change any of that, because your hatred makes you pull on the chain that strangles Bruce, tightening it every time someone tries to intervene and pull him out of the emotional hole he's fallen into; your brothers and sisters have tried, you must admit. Family interventions, paid therapies, magical, intergalactic therapies—there's nothing they haven't done to return his father to normal.
They've all failed because Bruce doesn't want to go out, doesn't want to leave the last piece of his past, of the time when he was full and happy, where there wasn't night and revenge, he doesn't want to be an orphan again.
Bruce was a mama's boy; his previous partners have a bit of his mother in them, and now that he's found his mother in a woman, no force on Earth or beyond will make him let her go.
Even if that person is his forgotten child.
What does Alfred do? Nothing. The poor man has been swallowed up by guilt and remorse; that through his carelessness he let this grow and spiral out of control, that he knew the damage abandonment was doing to you and still left you in the toxic shadows of the house. And now? The family has fragmented.
This is your victory. You have everything you want, your life is complete; while you paint a portrait of a vase, humming a lullaby, with your father dozing behind you, hugging you by the waist.
You have won.
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Hello again! Happy to be writing again! I'm working on the sequel to A Human's Touch, so look out for it soon!
Warning/Disclaimer: Angst. Toxic relationship. Reader-insert is a scumbag. Established relationship. Reader-insert is not Yuu. Written with the intent for you to pick the gender of the reader-insert. Mediocre writing 😢. Possibly out of character Kalim 😢😢. Inspired by this idea.
Author's Note: I don't think it was fully what you were expecting, but I hope you enjoy this, @mirrorkey.
You are not a perfect person.
Almost idiotic to say so, truly. No one's perfect. This is a fact that has been widely accepted by everyone—optimists and pessimists alike.
On the contrary, though, you could be better.
Better in the realm of love—to clarify.
You see, Kalim adores you. He really does.
His eyes brighten up when you're mentioned, giggles tumble out when he's able to talk to you, kisses are always pressed onto your cheeks when the both of you meet—his tanned skin blossoming with an aggressive red.
Kalim loves you, but it's not clear if you love him.
He wants you to change.
It feels weird to him—admitting that in his head.
He loves you for who you are, flaws and all.
It's just that those flaws, flaws that he views with infatuation, flaws that he occasionally looks past due to the love he holds for you, flaws that he accepts from you because he cares, are becoming too much.
Way too much.
He feels sick, honestly. Awful for what he is thinking about.
He can feel his stomach burn and carbonate within him. No doubt from the immense feeling of shame.
He looks upon you with a warm gaze.
You do not reciprocate.
Oxygen is sucked into Kalim's lungs. A shaky wave of air, it was. Perfectly displaying the newly realized truth that was harsher than any word spoken to him by Crewel.
It was more bitter than the countless poisons he had been subjected to ingesting.
More sour than the ripest of lemons.
More painful than the wounds he'd acquired on numerous kidnappings.
You were sprawled lazily on the lounge's couch, completely unaware to Kalim's qualms. But then, a voice calls out to you. A soft one, unlike Kalim's boisterous tones. Your head tilts up; face monotone, actions ever so uncaring. Who knows? Perhaps a stray Scarabian student walked into the room.
"F/N," the voice didn't belong to who you thought it was. "Can we talk?"
"Talk? We always talk." Kalim stares. "Like now—we are talking."
"Yes, but—" he pauses when he sees your face contort into a frown, his grin dissipating. His saliva strangely feels dry as he swallows it.
"Hm?"
Silence. You watch with sharp eyes.
"Kalim."
No response.
"Kalim."
He continues his muteness for it was born from deep thinking. You ponder to yourself whether to leave the situation as it is or not. It's exhausting, in your opinion, to hear him speak.
"Whatever game you are playing, quit it."
Kalim looks at you while biting the inside of his cheek. He turns away soon after.
"Nevermind," he replied calmly, "forget it."
You huff in frustration. "Seriously? All that just for 'nevermind'?"
Kalim's mouth opens to defend himself, only to get rudely interrupted by none other than you.
"I'm tired, Kalim. We should continue this later."
You leave before he can speak, the Scarabian housewarden now alone in the lounge area. His mouth is still agape.
Kalim wishes. It's an action he does quite frequently.
He doesn't wish for riches despite loving the privileges that come with them.
He doesn't pray for parties where the energy never slows.
He doesn't hope that his life, and the lives of those around him, continue to spin around his form. His every need and desire being taken care of almost instantaneously.
No.
He wishes for something rather simple, really.
A perfect world.
Kalim wishes for a perfect world.
A world where all his qualms about you would dissipate.
A world where your hand would finally grace his once more. The both of your fingers threading together tightly as you provide him with the security needed in a relationship. No longer would he lie awake at odd hours of night, his mind running with thoughts both big and small.
A world where you would pay attention to him. Kalim would talk to you instead of talking at you. The conversations held would seize to lack depth; Kalim's hesitation to share his fears would vanish.
A world where you would show that love that you supposedly have for him. You would display to him—demonstrate to him—that fiery passion within you that you feel towards him.
A world you where wouldn't look at him with those eyes. Those cold, sharp optics—your irises boring into his soul.
A world where you wouldn't say things like that to him. You wouldn't degrade him or pass sly remarks. Remarks that you stupidly assume your lover doesn't have the capacity to understand.
He's awake one night—like he has been for many. His inability to sleep is becoming worse. He remains there on his bed, arms brought up to his chest, his legs slightly bent. A fetal position.
Large crimson eyes—his own—stare blankly into space, his face twisted into nothing.
Kalim reflects on a realization, one he discovered when he was with you earlier in the day. His heart practically shattered once that revelation hit. Unfortunately, it is still shattered.
You don't love him.
You can't love him.
That behavior to passed to him, those sickeningly empty glances, the quips you'd cruelly reply to him with—that isn't love.
Tears flow out like rivers, his mouth shivers chaotically.
You'll probably never find it in your corrupted heart and soul—that love that Kalim craves so much for.
He chokes out a few gasps, a pathetic attempt for air, and he clumsily clambers to sit up on the mattress.
Despite knowing this, despite acknowledging the fact that even if confronted, you'll never admit your wrongs, despite understanding that staying with you is only hurting him, Kalim would rather die than have you leave his side. You are like a drug to him. Potent and toxic in all your ways, yet ever so addicting.
Kalim wants you to be better.
He wants to see you grow, wants to observe the positive changes you could have.
Too bad that's something you'll never be.
.
.
.
Author's Note: I didn't really enjoy this piece in all truthfulness. I pray that someone else does at the very least..
Like my writing? Here is my navigation/masterlist 🍗.
