lia, 20s, dark haired men enthusiast. the god that heroin prays to, according to this biography (about me) by evan peters. pronounced mitski + cain, not against excommunicating anyone who falls short of the ten commandments. (rules)
HELLOOO MY DEAREST LIA 🥹🫶🫶 !! IM SO SORRY I JUST MANAGED TO REPLY THIS,, I'VE BEEN SO BUSY WITH COLLEGE LIFE AND STUFF YK 🥹💗💗💗 BUT SO FAR, IT'S MANAGEABLE AS WELL !! MANAGED TO MAKE SOME FRIENDS HERE AND THERE, IT MAKES ME HAPPY 🩷🩷🩷 !!
how about you love ? how have you been doing lately ?? 🥹🫶🫶
whatever’s soft, clean-ish, or already in arm’s reach gets worn. that’s how you end up on the couch in her old college tee (holes under the armpits, stains of mysterious origin) and a pair of boyshorts that might be yours, but honestly? jury’s out.
she’s digging through the fridge, pillow lines across her cheek, your striped pajama pants on backwards, and a hair clip holding back her bangs in a lopsided claw.
“we’re out of milk,” she announces, matter-of-factly, shutting the door with her hip while she stacks old tupperwares like jenga on the kitchen counter.
“mmm,” you hum from the couch, “that sucks.”
“you drank the rest, didn’t you?”
you scrunch your brows at her, feigning offense. “now why would you assume that?”
she rolls her eyes, not buying. “there was a thimble left. you’re the only one in this house who’ll drink half a sip and put it back like you did everyone a favor.”
you shrug, and it looks sort of wonky from the horizontal angle. “you could go get some.”
she crosses her arms. “you could go get some.”
you lift your head, make a face. “i’m not wearing a bra.”
“so put one on?”
“bras are a scam invented by the patriarchy and society to suppress joy, you know this.”
“and yet,” she says, leaning down, arms braced on the back of the couch, to press a kiss to your forehead, “they’re a prerequisite for family mart. plus, i’ll get you those animal crackers you like if you come with.”
you blink up at her. “the frosted ones?”
“mhm.”
“with the little sprinkles?”
“yes, baby.”
you hesitate, then groan. “i’d have to change.”
“you’d have to put on clothes, yeah.”
you reach a hand out from under the blanket and blindly grapple for her wrist, tugging hard. she lets you pull her down beside you with an thump, and you both groan like retirees. she steals your pillow. you steal the warm part of the throw blanket.
“i’m not going,” you murmur into her neck, slipping your eyes shut while you breathe her in. “sorry, guess you’ll just have to brave the yogurt aisle alone.”
she looks at you. then her cold hands slide under the shirt, as though confirming something. as if she doesn’t already know.
“oh my god,” she breathes. “you’re actually bare-ass on my couch right now.”
“our couch.”
you grunt. she leans in again, presses a kiss just under your jaw—then another, a wetter one on your neck. her fingers trace back down the back of your leg like she might not be planning to leave after all.
synopsis: relapsing into someone you should have survived by now
includes: emotional manipulation, mentions of low self worth/self-blame, mentions of sexual content
word count: 1.4k
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The first click of the receiver swept through you like an earthquake does to the ground. The click, static, and the sound of his breath on the other side of the phone brings back memories freshly buried.
“Hello?” You say, and it sounds a lot like a loaded question. What you really mean is: do you remember me? Do you remember what we had?
“Hi,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Something in your chest blooms, just like it always did back then.
This is important to note: this is not the first time this has happened. You are not lovers reuniting after the war. There is nothing heroic or romantic about this story. You had met, fell in love, broken up, and fallen apart—and now you spend each odd month crawling back to each other, unsure of what else to do. Rhythm more like ritual than romance.
This is your fourth coming back—five months after the two of you had officially ended things, a month and a half since your last attempt. The wound has never been allowed to heal, the both of you pick and pick again. It’s still fresh, throbbing, bleeding, like it has nothing better to do. Maybe there isn’t.
But you try again. You try again because you’re too stupid to realize that things won’t change, they never do. And he tries again because he doesn’t yet know how to make sense of a life without you. Still, that’s not enough to save either of you. The two of you don’t learn—and when something doesn’t grow, it rots. The moment the phone call starts, you can already hear the ticking of the countdown timer, you can already picture the way this ends. Just like last time: no fighting, no screaming, just stillness. Just silent resignation. It’s always him that gives up before you.
But before all the bad, things would be wonderful.
For seven days, he’d call you things nobody else was allowed to call you. Baby, honey, my pretty girl—like he used to. In return you’d call him: love, my love, my life. You’d spend every waking hour on the phone with him, talking about your days, your plans, where it hurt and where you were sore. You’d talk about why things ended the last time and how the both of you were sorry you ran away the way you did, but only one of you will mean it. You’ll fall asleep with the phone pressed to your ear, trying to hear his voice a little clearer, and wake up late for class. You will send dirty pictures to each other and he will send voice notes for you to listen to when the night gets dark. In the voice notes, he never says anything vulgar. He’ll moan and pant but his voice will break at the mention of your name. He will tell you you’re beautiful over and over again until you almost believe it.
When you signed on to love him, which never really stopped—even after the breakup—you promised a lot of things. You promised to be understanding, forgiving, patient. You promised to care about the big things and the little things. Especially the little things. He was the kind of person to call you around mealtimes to ask what you were eating, and then, for a picture of it.
“Soba noodles? That sounds so good,” he’d said once over the phone.
“They’re amazing,” you’d say, “come over here and taste them yourself.”
“Already on my way.”
He showed you things. Stupid things. Paper cranes and doodles he made while bored out of his mind. Cute things. Dogs and cats and bunnies he saw. A cloud that reminded him of you. Things only you and him would understand. Perfect quenelles. The shade of blue his eyes were. The way blood splatters on a sidewalk and doesn’t wash off easy.
That’s what I love you was like to him. It slips out your mouth when you’re exhausted and you don’t catch it until you hear his breath catch in his throat on the other side of the phone.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him, “I didn’t mean to say that. I-”
“I love you too,” he cuts you off, “I love you too.”
And that’s when you know the damage becomes irreparable.
After every jarring confession, the countdown timer looms further. Closer. Persistent and without mercy. The morning after will be met with jarring silence. The texts become more scarce. The check-ins less and less. Try and fight it, time and time again, and you’ll find you can’t. You’re just as powerless as you were the first time it happened. No amount of trying to be good and perfect can fix this. Nothing and no one can stop him from leaving.
Every time, it’s the same thing that he’ll tell you.
“It got too real and I got afraid,” he’d say. “I’m sorry.”
You were tired of hearing sorry. He said sorry like he said Hail Marys during the rosary—too much. How many more sorries until you can build a church out of your forgiveness? Sorry, sorry, sorry. He’d been sorry all his life. It seems like he’ll be sorry all his life. Always apologizing, never actually getting better. If he tried and failed, it’d hurt less, but he didn’t even try, he never does. Where he finds he’s in danger of not being enough, he packs up his bags and leaves. You wanted to believe it was because of his upbringing. It’s what gifted people do, you excuse. You want so badly to believe that he did what he did because of some internalized trauma, not because he didn’t care about you.
When time came again for things to wrap up, you left with whatever dignity you had left. Repeating: loving someone is never a waste, over and over to yourself. No fighting. The two of you never fought over anything. It made leaving all the more easy; nothing to fight for is a good reason to leave. Keep telling yourself that to make yourself feel better. Joke with friends that he’s got major daddy issues and other things to work out. None of that will mask the hurt of knowing you weren’t good enough to make him stay. None of that will subdue the sting of having been left over and over again. Someone always has to leave first, Richard Siken had said, and that was his part that he played brilliantly well.
So before he leaves, that in between lull when you know things are going to start snowballing downhill, you start packing your things. Hell, you know better than to unpack now. You leave your luggage by your bed, unopened, because you know the stay is temporary. You know, everytime, it’s not meant to last. You savor each good morning, each I love you, every I’m not over you, even if it’s not sincere. Not because it was necessarily good, but because it was rare. Sometimes things acquire value just because they’re rare. You’d take anything of his if it had his scent, reminding you that there was once a time when you were good enough, that you were worth staying for—worth coming back to.
24 hours after your last ‘are you okay?’ goes unanswered, life resumes as if the two of you never happened. Writings in the sand. He goes to work and posts about the report he’s working on. You wake up from dreams of him calling you to apologize, then get on with the rest of your day. You cry in the shower and linger by the frozen food section of the supermarket until the memory of him is hazy. If you’d ever meant anything to him, he buries it well. There is no guilt, no remorse, no sadness that shows through him. You are the body he dumped in the forest to rot. You are the grave he doesn’t visit. He will be cold, and you will act like you’re above feeling sorry for yourself, but you’re not.
The thing about having someone know the deepest, most intimate parts of you, is that they know exactly where to twist the knife.
But if he called again, you’d answer. If he says: “I’m sorry it took me this long, let’s make this right”, you’d believe him, because that’s what you do best. Because that’s all there is to do, really. Until you grow a backbone and some self respect, you forgive, and ache, and hurt—over and over again. And when the calls become scarce, when he declines your calls saying he’s tired, or busy, or sick—when he stops answering your answers and runs away again, slipping through your fingers like sand, you’ll curse and think: almost, again.
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author’s note: call me america and my last relationship 9/11 the way i’m never forgetting about it and it’s left a lasting (damaging) impact on my psyche resulting in paranoia and increased defensive methods. i guess whatever doesn’t kill you comes back six months later to finish the job.
synopsis: it’s just you, him, and a couch that’s about to see more action than the gig ever will
content warnings: suggestive content, no sex (yet), partial nudity, voyueristic undertones, implied erotic photography
word count: 2.5k
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You came to practice dressed for the heat—and maybe Choso too. The shirt you’d thrown on was an old tee you’d hacked into something riskier: sleeves chopped off, neckline wide and loose enough that it slouched off one shoulder if you moved just right. The front dipped low, a soft promise of cleavage everytime you bent over to adjust an amp or coil or mic cable. I love drummers pasted in big bright letters across the front. You told yourself it was practical—it was hot in the garage, after all—but the truth was you liked the way Choso’s eyes sometimes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.
And tonight, they definitely lingered.
“We’ve got a game to catch,” your bassist calls out, eyes flicking from your face to your chest with an unsubtle grin. “You two behave now.”
The others laughed, footsteps fading up the old basement stairs. Then it was quiet—just you, the leftover hum of the amp still cooling down, and Choso, standing a few feet away. Good things happen when two bandmates get left unsupervised. Good because now you can actually talk, and ask questions. Questions like: how long have you played the drums? What are you doing after tomorrow’s show? And, do you want to come over and make me scream so hard my neighbors file another noise complaint?
Instead you shifted your weight, tugged the hem of your already-low shirt a little lower—because if you couldn’t say it out loud, you could at least make him look.
“Thanks for missing the game and helping me clean up. Means a lot.”
Choso’s arms flex as he puts away the boxes of cables and wiring, lifting them as if they were nothing. You wondered if he could do that with you too; sling you over his shoulder and carry you up to his room. He could show you his record collection, or how to cut skulls out of old t-shirts and stretch them out. Maybe after the arts and crafts, he could stretch you out too.
“It’s no problem,” his voice snaps you out of your daydream. It’s gruff, and feigns nonchalance, but you see the way his eyes linger on you for a beat too long. “Wanted to make sure everything’s in order. I don’t trust the guys to check.”
You chuckle, and for a second, he flashes you a soft smile before returning his attention to the checklist on his phone. You step toward him, place your hands on the rim of the cardboard and lean forward.
“Anything I can help with?” You ask, voice dangerously sweet.
His face flickered, with what exactly, you weren’t sure. Lust? Want? Disgust? God, don’t let it be disgust. You’d quit the band if he told you to fuck off.
“Actually, there is something,” he says, eyes actually meeting yours. “I was thinking of re-doing our poster.”
You let out a half-laugh, thinking he was messing with you, but when you realized he wasn’t, you stopped. You knit your eyebrows together, confused.
“What’s wrong with the current one?”
He looks at you like you’re stupid.
“Just look,” he pulls up the image on his phone and shows it to you. It’s a visual mess—colors and graphics placed haphazardly, like an afterthought, and letters of varying fonts and sizes fighting for space.
“Yuji designed that,” you shoot back, evading blame.
He laughs, “that’s even more of a reason to re-do the whole thing.”
Your laughs fill the garage, bouncing off its walls, and back towards you, and you want to play the sound over and over again. Even his laughter had a certain rhythm to it, almost like the way he played the drums—sharp and fast. Maybe he was just naturally gifted the way some musical prodigies are. You imagined him as a baby, banging out tunes on his toy xylophone long before he could talk.
“Okay drum genius,” you quip, nudging closer. “What do you have in mind for the do-over?”
Choso tucks his phone into his back pocket, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. He scratches the side of his neck, as if debating whether to say what’s on his mind.
“I was thinking..” He trails off, turning around to pull a camera from his bag. “Would you mind?”
You let out a single, confused laugh—a quick ha you can’t hold back. You glance behind, half-expecting to see someone else, then point at your chest..
“Me?”
He rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at his lips. “Who else?”
The way he looks at you in that moment very well nearly brings you to your knees—all soft eyes and a grin that could make a nun sin. Angelic. Heaven sent. God.
You’re grinning like an idiot when his gaze dips—from your lips, down to the neckline of your shirt, then back up to meet your gaze. He catches the smooth ball of his piercing between his teeth, and you want so badly to find out how it’d feel pressed to your own. Camera still in hand, he nods towards the gear stacked behind you.
You take a seat on the floor and lean against the amp. The carpet’s scratchy, dust and stray guitar picks buried in its fibers—you try not to think about it as you look into the camera lens.
Red light first. Then a soft click followed by a bright flash. He lowers the camera, checks the screen, then looks at you as if he’s about to laugh.
“What?” you ask, half-worried, half-defensive.
He lifts a brow and turns the camera around. “You look scared.”
You scoff, crossing your arms tight around your chest. “Am not.”
“Just surprised,” he says, taking aim. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be so camera shy.”
You blink. You grasp for something to say—an insult, a smart comeback, anything—nothing.
“Cat got your tongue?” He teases, capturing your wide-eyed expression with a soft whir of the shutter. He tilts his head, a lazy grin curling at his mouth “It’s alright. Just sit there and look pretty for me, okay doll?”
Doll. God. The way he says it makes something warm pool low in your belly. You’d sit there and let him shoot a whole roll if he asked.
You shift, trying to ignore the way doll echoes over and over in your head. He lowers the camera again, eyes skimming over you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.
“Move your arms,” he says, gentle but firm, nodding his head at how you’ve got them crossed. “Relax.”
You uncross them slowly, allowing your hands to rest on your thighs. He hums in approval, stepping closer. The lens clicks again.
You do as you’re told, eyes flickering from the camera to him. He takes another shot. The soft click, whirrs, fills the silence between you, punctuated by your breathing. He takes a few more shots, the flash flickering against the garage walls, then lowers the camera, chewing on the ball of his piercing like he’s turning something over in his head.
“Get up,” he says, voice still soft but now edged with something that makes your stomach flip. He quickly sets the camera down and reaches for your hands.
You let him pull you up—his palms rough and warm around your wrists. He steps back and looks at you, head tilting as he sizes you up like you’re a new instrument he’s learning how to play.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
You raise a brow. “Turn around?”
He smirks. “Yeah. Trust me.”
So you do—you turn your back to him, the garage feeling suddenly too warm, too small. You feel his hands brush against your hips, positioning you in front of the equipment.
“Hands here,” he says, guiding them to rest flat against the top of the speaker. The surface is cool under your fingers. You can feel the faint rumble of leftover bass vibrators from earlier, or maybe that’s just your heartbeat. Same thing.
He steps back and grabs the camera again. “Perfect. Hold that.”
The lens clicks. You hear him suck in a quiet breath, like he’s trying not to lose it.
“Look over your shoulder,” he says. His voice is lower now—almost rough.
You glance back at him, and the look on his face—like he’s seeing you in a way no one ever has—nearly makes you forget how to stand.
“Good,” he murmurs. He moves closer, one hand bracing the amp beside yours as he leans in to adjust the hem of your shirt, tugging it just enough to expose a sliver of skin above your jeans. His knuckles brush against your waist, slow, deliberate.
Another click. Another flash.
“Good girl,” he says, almost under his breath. “Stay just like that for me, doll. Perfect.”
The shutter clicks. Your skin tingles everywhere he touches you. You hold the pose for him, feeling the brush of air each time he shifts to find a new angle. He keeps adjusting you—a hand on your hip, a brush of his knuckles against your ribs as he pulls on your shirt again. Each touch feels heavier than the last.
Then he lowers the camera and steps in, close enough that can see the tiny smudge of eyeliner under his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. He flicks his gaze to the old couch in the corner; half buried in cables and battered gig bags.
“Come here,” he says, his voice dipping lower. He slips in hand around your wrist like it’s nothing, and tugs you towards the couch.
“Lie back for me,” he says, gesturing to the faded couch cushions. “Lean on your elbows.”
You shoot him a look. Trying for a teasing laugh, but it comes out breathless. “This still for the poster?”
His grin flashes, wicked and soft all at once.
You do as he says—lowering yourself onto the couch, propping yourself up on your elbows. The angle makes your shirt ride up, your legs part slightly where your jeans stretch. He watches every shift like it’s something sacred.
He climbs up next. One knee on the cushions between yours, one braced by your hip. The camera hangs heavy from his neck, dangling close enough you could tug him down by it if you wanted to.
He lifts it, one hand steadying the lens, the other braced on the back of the couch by your shoulder. The closeness makes your breath catch—the way his knee brushes your thigh, the soft rasp of his jeans against yours.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, but his eyes aren’t on the viewfinder—they’re on your mouth.
You’re putty underneath him. Mouth slightly parted, breathing shallow and quick. Your expression gives up what your words don’t say—I want you; plain and simple. The strap of your top slides off one shoulder, you don’t bother pulling it back up.
“Hey–hold that—” Choso mutters, stepping closer. He lifts the camera again and aims it down at you like he’s framing something just for him.
You laugh—low and breathy. “What? This?”
You tuck your chin down, eyes flicking up at him through your lashes—and something about that look, sharp and lazy all at once, makes his throat go dry.
“Yes,” he says. “God, yes.”
His voice is rough. He hovers over you so close you can smell the cologne under the sweat. He lifts the camera—click—lowers it—click—gets closer until it’s just your eyes filling the frame.
You let your head fall back over the armrest, exposing your neck, your mouth falling open just a little. Your breath hitches—the way you expose your throat like that. Bare. You knew exactly what you were doing.
“You like that, huh?” You tease, voice husky now. Your free hand slides over your stomach, thumb hooking the hem of your shirt.
He swallows. His knee shifts closer, bracing himself over your thigh. The lens clicks.
Choso lowers the camera halfway, lips parted like he’s got something he shouldn’t say. He huffs a breath, shakes his head, grinning crooked. “You’re gonna pack the whole gig tomorrow.”
You toss your hair, grinning wide, feeling the buzz of it in your chest. “Good. Maybe they’ll finally notice the drummer.”
He laughs, eyes catching yours for a beat too long. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“Sure I do.” Your lips curl, lazy and wicked. “These for the poster too?”
“Yeah. Poster.” His voice cracks into a laugh. He doesn’t move—just keeps snapping, angle after angle, the flash popping like fireworks. The camera’s lens clicks and whirrs, but half the time, you’re sure he’s not even looking through it anymore. You shift under him, arching your back to make the top ride up higher.
The other strap slip completely, falling down your arm. You don’t fix it. You look straight into the lens, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, a sheen of sweat on your collarbone. He shifts his weight, knee pressing deeper between your thighs, The shutter clicks again, but slower now—like he’s dragging this out just to watch you squirm.
Choso lowers his camera for half a second, his eyes tracing over your face. Your lips, the sliver of skin where your shirt’s ridden up. He bites the ball of his piercing, his thumb brushing the curve of your waist. Your eyes lock, and your grin turns slow, feline.
“Last one,” he murmurs. His mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smirk—but there’s heat behind it, dark and sweet. “Hold it. This one’s for me.”
The words sink into you like a match to dry paper—a sudden heat, a rush that makes you feel reckless. For him. Not the band, not the poster—him.
“Oh?” You say, your voice soft, teasing. “For you, huh?”
His hand flexes on the couch near your head. “Yeah. Just—hold that pose for me, doll.”
You tilt your head, your grin curling to match his. You feel the thrum of your pulse everywhere—your chest, your throat, between your thighs where his knee brushes so close.
“Okay,” you say sweetly. “One for you.”
And then—before you can talk yourself out of it, you slip your fingers under the hem of your shirt. The fabric brushes over your stomach, your ribs—and then higher, until it clears your chest completely. No bra—just skin, flushed and soft under the garage air.
You feel the chill hit you first—then the heat of his stare, dragging over you like a touch. You swear you hear him suck in a breath, low and sharp, the lens lowering a fraction.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. When he lifts the camera—his eyes aren't behind it anymore. They’re on you, hungry and half-lidded, mouth parted like he’s seconds from forgetting the camera exists at all.
The shutter clicks—just once. Then his free hand slides up your ribs, warm skin to skin.
“Perfect,” he says again, voice wrecked with want. “Fucking perfect.”
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author’s note: hello lovelies it’s been a while :) professional and personal life has been a bit of a mess + very packed as you might’ve noticed in #mitskicain confessionals 📿 this is my little procrastination project before a huge exam i’ve got coming up in a week hehehehe it’s also self indulgent because i too, want to fuck the drummer 👩❤️💋👩👩❤️💋👩👩❤️💋👩 shoutout to him for being hot!!! until the next drop!! MUAH MUAH 💋💋
one of the few good things after my ex stumbling back into my life is that I always end up writing so much more with them around soooooo if I drop a fic or two or a short ramble don’t be surprised, you have them to thank
when people ask me if I want to date I always say no but when I’m listening to music, I imagine scenarios where I’m with a loved one. when I’m alone in my room, I think of all the adventures I could go on with my partner. when I go to sleep at night, I dream of a love so tender and genuine I melt like water in their hands.
but if you asked me: why aren’t you dating? don’t you want to be with someone?
I’d tell you: no, I can’t imagine myself in anything like that.
baby brother fell asleep on my bed after a bad day and wow I still call him my baby brother even though he’s 18 and much taller and stronger than me. he will leave for college in 3 months and we will be 10,000 miles apart. when he moves out, it will be the last time both of us live under the same roof. everything will change in three months. but right now he’s fast asleep in my bed after chatting with me about his day while I do my work, and I’m going to tuck him in and make sure he knows his older sister will always be there for him.
reread my works and realized I’m good at describing the yearning and wanting, but the endings are always rushed and choppy—probably has to do with my ample experience in the first, and lack thereof in the latter
