#Edit: Raising the number to 5 of them...

[anoteofcalcium]

imagine being British AND a South Park enjoyer...

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: CHICAGO DISS TRACK * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where at the Chicago show of the Surprise Party Tour, Chris is not only surprised by the diss track made by his brothers against him, but especially by his girlfriend being part of it.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I'm not a song writer by no means, so I apologize in advance if Y/N's part of the song sucks 😭✋🏻

A/N³: Stream LIKE ME right now!

The orange glow of the stage lights bathed everything in warmth, catching little glints in the shelves to the left of the stage, bouncing off the glossy top of the coffee table sitting between the two orange couches.

Y/N, standing just off-stage behind the curtain with the crew, had that weird ache in her chest she always got right before the surprise segment. She could practically feel the excitement coming from the fans, like static electricity tingling across her skin.

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling too hard. She already knew what the surprise was. I mean, how couldn’t she? She was in it.

She leaned forward a little, peeking past the thick curtain, watching the boys from her hidden little corner.

Nick was lounging - well, more like bouncing - in his seat on the left couch, leg jittering, fingers tapping on the cushion, clearly vibrating with excitement. Matt and Chris were sharing the right couch, the former sitting up straight with a smile. Chris, meanwhile, was leaned back with one arm stretched along the back of the couch, his head tilted in curiosity, eyes glued to the giant screen in front of them.

And then, it started.

The big screen flicked to life with a massive countdown in bold white numbers against a glitching screen.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

Everyone in the theater screamed. It was instant.

Echoing. Like someone had thrown gasoline on a fire and let it explode.

Y/N laughed under her breath, clutching her jacket at the chest. She swore her heart jumped with that countdown. It always did.

The screen flickered, and there they were.

Matt and Nick. Edited to be side by side, both in suits and ties, serious expressions. Nick was adjusting his already-too-tight tie, and Matt was patting down his shirt collar, eyes locked with the camera lens.

The crowd absolutely lost it.

Nick leapt up from his couch like someone had shocked him and started doing these little bouncy jumps toward Matt, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. His feet barely touched the ground, boots thudding heavily against the stage floor.

"Oh, Nick." Y/N whispered to herself, soft smile decorating her face, watching Nick’s expression explode into a wide grin as he reached Matt and wrapped him up in a huge hug.

Matt hugged him back with one arm and held the mic to his mouth with the other.

"I’m so excited."

Nick pulled back from the hug, mic now in his hand.

"We've been talking about this all day." He said, turning to the audience. "And I'm so excited that we're about to show this to you guys. I feel like me and Matt don't have many duo moments, right?"

The theater roared with approval, stomping and clapping and shrieking. Chris raised an eyebrow from the right couch, side-eyeing them both with an amused but skeptical expression.

"Oh, here we go." He muttered into his mic, finally standing up.

Y/N bit her lip, stifling her laugh as Chris casually strolled over to the left couch Nick had just vacated, flopping onto it in one fluid motion, stretching out like he owned the place. Which, well, he kind of did.

"Alright, I’m curious." He said, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it. "I’m suspicious, but I’m curious."

Nick, still standing, grinned mischievously, and held up a single finger.

"Okay." He started, pacing a little as he spoke. "Before we play this video, I know you’re excited. I know you’re screaming. I know you’re probably on the edge of your seat."

People in the front row giggled, phones held up and already recording.

"But this surprise?" Nick continued, voice dropping dramatically. "It’s a little dramatic. It’s a little drama. And it’s gonna be amazing. But I need y’all to listen while you watch it. ‘Cause we only get to watch this once, alright? And I want to make sure that you have the best experience watching it. So, be excited, laugh, but listen, and let's get into it."

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Matt gave Nick a quick shoulder bump before the two of them made their way back to the right couch, both of them trying to suppress the stupid, excited grins tugging at their mouths.

Y/N clutched her chest.

The screen flickered again.

And the video began.

Matt and Nick sat on the edge of Matt's bed, both in crisp white long sleeves, shoulders brushing, Matt with his backward baby pink cap on.

"Me and Matt have some major plans today." Video-Nick said, not even waiting a single second to properly greet the camera. "And it all kinda involves shitting on Chris... Basically, Chris hasn’t done his fair share of shit on us, and going to the studio with his friends and making a diss track seemed just fair."

And that was when the place went feral.

People screamed. Hands flew over mouths.

On the right couch, Chris’s head whipped toward his brothers so fast it was a miracle he didn’t pull a muscle. His face was this perfect blend of betrayal and disbelief, pinkish lips parted in a dropped-jaw expression, blinking like he’d just been slapped.

And before he could even grab his mic to react verbally, Matt’s voice echoed again from the screen.

"Besides Chris’s friends, there’s gonna be another very important person in there with us to help create this diss track about Chris." He turned his head on the video to Nick beside him and added. "Also, Nick has never sung in a studio before. Not even once."

Video-Nick gave a little 'yeah, true' shrug and nodded.

"Never touched a mic for singing, actually. Either way, I feel like I’m more of a singer than a rapper, though."

"Chris needs a rap, not a pop song." Matt replied immediately, barely holding back a grin.

The crowd laughed.

Chris, still holding onto his mic like a lifeline, shook his head with this baffled little smile like he genuinely didn’t know how to react yet.

Then, cut.

The video jumped to a dimly lit studio room, those iconic blue neon lights casting this soft futuristic glow over everything. Matt stood in front of a mic setup, black headphones pushed over his ears, phone in one hand, looking relaxed but focused. He was glancing at someone off-screen.

"... If I have a visual cue of when the beat is gonna drop, it’s gonna be easier for me." He said, pointing slightly with the hand holding his phone.

And then, from somewhere just beside the camera, a familiar voice called out.

"Oh, you wanna see it drop?"

The second that voice hit, the entire crowd lost it.

Chris straight up jolted on the couch, body shooting forward like someone had zapped him. His cap almost flew off. His mic dropped from his hands to his lap - almost fleeing to the ground, and his whole expression screamed 'is that who I think it is?'

Because it was.

Video-Y/N's body walked into the frame. She had a big pair of headphones hanging around her neck, layered gold jewelry below it, catching the blue light.

She looked at whoever Matt had been talking to and nodded, her voice smooth and easy.

"Yeah, that would actually be very helpful."

That was it.

That tiny moment was enough to send the crowd into full-blown chaos. People jumped on their seats, screamed, you could barely hear over the shrieking.

Chris was still frozen with his mouth wide open, jaw starting to hurt, blue eyes staring at the screen, like his brain hadn’t caught up with what just happened.

And then he finally managed to react, dragging his mic to his lips like a man possessed.

"WHAT?!" He practically screeched, his voice cracking with disbelief.

Nick stood up, cracking up as he grabbed his own mic. He turned to where Y/N was obviously hidden behind the stage, grinning.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest for this surprise..." Then he pointed his free hand toward the side of the stage. "Y/N, come out here, queen!"

And right on cue, Y/N appeared, that same smug little smile on her lips like she knew she just turned the theater upside down.

She walked to the center of the stage, waving sweetly to the audience, blowing a kiss toward Matt and Nick’s couch, then heading over to Chris’s one, her movements chill and confident, already used to being on a stage after standing on its side for six shows in a row.

Chris hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He stared at her the entire walk to the couch, his expression a mixture of love and betray.

Y/N plopped down beside him, letting her shoulder bump his casually as she laughed at the chaos around them, thighs touching his jeans covered ones, feeling instantly his body heat penetrating her skin.

Chris dragged his mic back up dramatically, his eyes following hers.

"Did you really make a diss track about your own very good boyfriend?"

The tone was so wounded, so fake-offended, the crowd roared.

Y/N just rolled her eyes, leaning in more - as if it was even possible with how close they already were -, plump lips covered in pink gloss pressing a quick kiss on his milky cheek, leaving glitter behind, and leaned back with a shrug, turning her head to the screen.

"Gotta keep you humble."

Chris stared at her like she’d just invented fire, completely smitten, then dropped his head back with a groan into the couch.

"Unreal..." He muttered into the mic. Though he was smiling so wide, it nearly broke his face.

On screen, Y/N turned to Matt, pressing just one side of her headphones against her ear, listening to what Matt and Nick had sung until now while waiting for the producer to do what Matt had proposed.

"'I’m the favorite child, you can go and ask your father' is literally the best thing you could think of, Matt." She said, eyebrows raised, half-laughing in this low, amused tone that came straight from her chest.

From behind the camera, Nick cackled.

Matt just nodded super fast, his whole face smug, a crooked smile already spreading.

"No, exactly! If he comes with that shit of 'Oh, I have the best tour surprise', dude, I’m getting my gay brother who watches RuPaul’s Drag Race four times a week and his girlfriend who’s obsessed with him to come to this studio and diss rap him for hours."

Y/N snorted.

"Guilty." She muttered, tossing her free hand up dramatically, one foot tapping the ground to the beat that was still echoing from her headphones directly to her ears.

The crowd was still going wild as everyone’s attention kept glued to the screen, the video now slowly fading into what looked like the start of a music video.

The screen lit up with Nick.

Back to the camera, hood up, shoulders squared, and standing in front of a closed elevator.

The hoodie was pitch black and decked out in silver spikes that looked like they could kill someone if he turned too fast, catching the dim light of the scene and gleaming like daggers.

The second his figure appeared, there was a wave of gasps.

"Oh my God." Chris's voice echoed from his mic to the speakers, his eyes darting from the screen to Nick and back again.

DING

The elevator doors slid open, and Nick stepped in without hesitation.

Inside the elevator, the vibe somehow got even cooler.

Matt was standing on the left, looking like he had just gotten out of an important meeting, body covered in an all-black suit. He gave Nick the quickest up-and-down look, raising his eyebrows before turning back to face the closed elevator door again.

The crowd was already going crazy again. People clapping, some laughing with his reaction.

But then the camera moved again, and there she was.

Right side of the elevator.

Leaning back on the wall like this was the most boring situation in the world.

Her body was covered in a black faux leather pleated mini skirt that sat low on her waist, a wide belt looped around it, thick and grommeted, fastened with a large silver buckle that sat slightly tilted.

The skirt was paired with a long-sleeved black mesh top, fitted close to her body, dotted with tiny, scattered rhinestones. Her sleeves extended into fingerless gloves that wrapped around her hands decorated with silver rings.

Black shiny boots to her knees. Choker on.

She had her arms crossed, one knee bent, chewing gum like she could not care less about the world.

She didn’t even look at Nick.

Didn’t acknowledge anyone.

Just chewed her gum with this bored expression.

And that’s when the entire room collectively combusted. Someone yelled 'HOT' so loud it echoed above the screams.

Meanwhile, Chris went through five stages of falling in love all over again in two seconds.

His eyes lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and this huge smile just took over his face. The kind of smile you try to hide but it’s too late, it’s already there and it’s so obvious you’re whipped.

His body acted almost on instinct, reaching for Y/N and just gently wrapping his arm around her shoulders. His fingers pressed into her upper arm like he was making sure she was real, and he tugged her softly until she leaned into him.

Her laugh was caught in the mic, soft and warm, tilting her head to look at him, but Chris, still staring at the screen, shook his head with the most insane look of awe.

"That's my girl right there, everyone." He said into the mic, taking more screams out of everyone.

Y/N didn’t even try to hide her grin. She leaned fully into him, nuzzling her head briefly on his covered shoulder before turning to look at the big screen like everyone else, her cheeks a little pink from the screaming crowd and the way Chris was looking at her like she hung the moon.

[When you get dressed, you should think a little longer]

On screen, the elevator dinged once more. The doors opening.

Only Nick stepped out, walking to the corridor that stretched in front of him. Neon purple lights on the ceiling. He walked forward, still not looking at the camera.

[First verse + Chorus]

[... Yeah, he wanna be just like me]

The space was bathed in neon purples and soft violets that kissed the black, curved walls. One big circle light glowed from above, dead center, like a spotlight from another planet.

And then, Y/N stepped into frame.

She moved with this crazy mix of confidence and chill, her steps slow and controlled as she slid into the middle of the frame like she owned the place. Half-lidded eyes decorated with shiny gems just below her lower eyelid locked with the camera in that way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

"You talk big, babe, but you're softer than my skincare. Actin’ like a player, but your game’s just not there..."

Y/N’s voice wasn’t sweet. It was smooth, sultry, sharp as glass wrapped in silk.

The crowd gasped.

Literal gasps. Audible whispers.

"Holy fucking shit." Chris's voice sounded choked against his mic, his tongue poking out to wet his lips in a hypnotized manner, pupils intensely widening.

"You say you run the house, can’t find clean underwear. Yeah, I date you, it’s a choice, but let’s not go there."

She bounced gently with the beat, arms moving effortlessly, shoulder dips, slow turns causing her skirt to dance around plump thighs, little half-smirks on the beat drops.

[Middle verse]

[... I'm the favorite child, you can go and ask Mary Lou]

The music video jumped into the next part. Purple. Neon. Glowy and deliciously moody.

"Your brothers roast you, I just add the spice. Lucky that I love you, boy, I’m way too nice."

There she was.

Y/N on the screen, in that dim, vibey room, with a glowing purple haze washing over everything. She was standing front and center, with Nick and Matt behind her, each on each side of her.

Nick was bobbing his head from his place in the left back of the dark room, smirking.

Matt had this calm confidence on his face, nodding along in the right back, his arms moving to the beat while his eyes locked onto the camera, blue bandana moving with each movement.

A smug smirk stretched across her face, exposing the two tooth gems glued to her pearly canine teeth's.

Two silver stars, shining below the camera flash.

"The gems!" Chris yelled on the mic before pointing it to the big screen, blue eyes widening. "Oh, you're gonna have to use those every day now."

Y/N laughed, her body shaking against his.

"It looks amazing, doesn't it? I was the one who told her to use them." Nick nodded from his place on the couch, a smug look taking over his features.

"And we all say 'thank you, Nick'." Matt muttered against his mic, snorting.

Then the video flickered.

Now it was all white neon light. Their dark silhouettes danced and vibed in perfect sync. Just their outlines, glowing in white and shifting around with the beats.

"So sip your soda, flex that 'Rizz God' fame. But let’s be honest, you'd forget your own name."

Every word, she looked straight into the lens like she was talking to someone specific.

Back on stage, Chris turned slowly to her and narrowed his eyes.

"You’re lucky I love you."

"Aw." She said into his mic, pouting her lower lip with the fakest sweetness ever. "You’d forget your own name without me anyway."

[Last verse + last chorus]

[... Yeah, he wanna be just like me]

When everyone thought the music video was over with how the beat got lower, the final scene started.

The crowd screamed, gasping in surprise.

"Wait, what the fuck?" Matt's voice yelled from his place, echoing from the speakers and bouncing against the theater walls. "There wasn't-"

"The song ended... it ended with that chorus! Wha-" Nick picked up from where Matt abruptly stopped, body sitting a little more straight on the orange couch, frowning.

Dark neon purple again. But this time, deeper. Intense.

Y/N was back, alone in that glowing room.

She was staring straight into the camera, half-lidded eyes, lips already curled into that smug, almost daring little smirk. Her head purposefully tilted just slightly to the side.

She had a Fresh Love unreleased black cap pulled low over her forehead, the brim shadowing her eyes a bit. But not enough to hide them. Not even close.

They were sharp. Locked in.

Her lips were red now, glossy and full, a little too perfect.

And then, she rapped.

"Okay, but listen, he’s mine, so tread light. Y’all can joke, but I swing when it doesn't sit right."

And holy shit.

Chris audibly choked on stage.

Nick had to grab Matt’s arm, jaw dropping so hard that anyone who paid close attention knew it hurt.

Matt let out the longest "AYOOOOOOOOO" into his mic like he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

And the crowd?

Feral. Hands in the air. People screaming.

On the screen, Y/N's hands moved as she spoke, smooth and expressive. Her long black nails with silver glitter caught the light and sparkled as she pointed to herself on 'he’s mine'.

She looked down for just a split second, then licked her lips casually as the next line dropped.

"You call him the worst? Nah, he’s my favorite view."

She dragged that line with the softest rasp, just enough flirt in her tone to make the entire crowd go still for half a second like they needed to process it.

Chris's hand flexed around Y/N's shoulder, discreetly adjusting his hips and legs in a manspread position to try and hide how turned on he actually was, jaw flexing and adam's apple bobbing as he gulped, watching the screen like he could devour her video version with his eyes.

"Say what you want, but he’s better than the two of you."

The screen paused on her face for one last beat. Her smirk still there. Her eyes still locked into the camera like she was daring anyone to come for her man. Like she was saying, 'go ahead, try me'.

And then it all fades to black.

The music stopped.

And for a second, the theater was pure silence.

Until the crowd exploded.

Screams. Claps. Cheers. Laughter. Chaos. Literal hysteria.

Nick had his eyes still locked on the big screen, mic frozen halfway his mouth, while Matt glared at Y/N with a playful hard gaze.

"Oops?" Y/N pressed her lips in a fine line.

"How did you even record this part without us knowing?"

Y/N just sat there all smug, doing a little shoulder shrug.

"I just went back to the studio a week later. Me and the producer had it all planned since day one." Her eyes darted from Matt to Nick. "And then, I talked to the crew that helped us record the music video and asked them if we could film the last part and add it to the already edited MV. The one you both received didn't have this part."

"I'm shocked. This is actually insane, Y/N." Nick shook his head, looking at the crowd with raised eyebrows. "I guess we all were surprised tonight, guys."

Y/N jokingly rolled her eyes at him before turning to look at Chris with this soft little smile, one that was completely different from the cocky on-screen version of her. One from the girl who loved him too hard, who wrote verses like that not to roast him but to make him laugh.

Her fingers were affectionately tapping against the inside of his thigh, her arm resting comfortably above his legs, cheeks glowing with the most genuine happiness.

Meanwhile, Chris was just staring at her with this look, like she was the only person in the room before turning to the crowd.

"Y’all heard that, right? That was a threat." His eyes moved to his brothers. "I would watch my back now if I were you two."

Y/N giggled and grabbed the mic from him, casually resting her free hand on his chest.

"It was a love letter, babe. Relax."

The crowd screamed again.

Matt shook his head, fixing his cap before looking at her again.

"You’re so scary sometimes."

Chris snorted, pressing his mouth to the side of her head before turning to the mic again.

"I don’t care what anyone says... you’re better than all of us."

Nick nodded.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, the protector of Chris’s dignity, the queen herself, give it up for Y/N."

The cheers were deafening.

Y/N peeked down to the crowd, eyes wide, lips bitten back into a shy smile, shaking her head.

Under all the lights, with all the noise, the chaos, the screaming, Chris leaned in, whispering in her ear just for her.

"So just to confirm... I’m your favorite view, yeah?"

She turned to look up at him, eyes shining.

And without even thinking, she kissed him.

Just a peck. Quick, sweet. Pure instinct. Pure them.

Everyone screamed as loud as the whole crew thought it was possible, the stage shaking with it.

"Oh for fuck's sake- Chris!" Matt yelled, throwing his free arm up.

"CUT THE CAMERAS." Nick followed right after, standing up and waving his hand in a frenetic way, holding back his laugh.

Chris just held her tighter, his own laugh echoing like music around the speakers.

RECORD BREAKING FIRST RELEASED SONG - IS THERE ANYTHING THE STURNIOLO TRIPLETS CAN’T DO?

By E! News Staff

The Sturniolo Triplets have officially made their mark in the music world. Nicolas and Matthew's debut single, LIKE ME, has climbed into the Top 20 Most Streamed Songs on Spotify less than 24 hours after release, garnering over 1 million streams. The track, which features Chris Sturniolo’s girlfriend, Y/N, has taken the internet by storm.

Alongside the single, Chris’s fashion brand Fresh Love released a limited-edition black cap that Y/N wears in the music video. The drop sold out in just six minutes, reportedly bringing in over $100,000 in merchandise revenue within the first day.

With viral success, chart-topping numbers, and a fast-growing presence in both music and fashion, the Sturniolo Triplets are proving they’re more than internet personalities. They’re building an empire.

© vanteguccir

[audacityinblack]

URGENT HELP NEEDED: Neurodivergent Disabled Queer Family of 4 (3yo and 9yo) Needs Rent and Survival Funds By Next Week

You may recall a month ago that I was raising money to help my family move. While we were successfully able to do that, they have been unsuccessful at finding work, and many of the financial resources they've been hoping for have fallen through. I've helped in all the ways I am able, contributing some to their power and fuel bills.

They need:

$800 for rent

$150 for electric

$90 for fuel

anything else for food, meds and other survival needs

Goal: $1000

p: paypal.me/audacenoire c: $audacenoire v: @ audacenoire k: ko-fi.com/audacenoire

These are close friends of mine that I have known for at least ten years, who helped me escape a domestic abuse situation and more since then. It's painful for me to have to watch them struggle like this after they literally saved my life. This is their three year old's first time facing hardship, and I can't bear the thought of her suffering the way I did at her age.

I had originally been planning to move not long after them, but this situation has forced me to put off my move to help them. My needs as of now are met and I'm fine, the worst that will happen to me is that I have to live in this apartment for some more time.

My gigs:

I perform a number of small services for a fee. Please DM me for details.

Tarot and oracle card readings: $5 per card, $10 for a three card general spread

Graphic design: I can make icons, banners, blog headers and other small assets. DM for more information

Proofreading/Editing/Beta Reading: $5 per 500 words

Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read this far. Anything you can give will be appreciated, even if all you can do is share this post.

[writingslob]

SPIN-OFF: Lin Ling's guide to becoming an emotional support civilian [BIRTHDAY EDITION!]

[TO BE HERO X] x [LIN LING]

[The actual series can be found here!]

Author's note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIN LING! This is written as a crack spin-off of my main series, so this is not canonical! I hope you enjoy!

Once again, thank you @kiraisrika for the idea (And for reminding me today is Lin Ling's birthday)

.

.

.

Nice was stressed.

E-Soul was running around at top speed, setting decorations, but they were all crooked, so Nice had to follow behind him and fix them. Even though that wasn’t his job. No, his job was to make sure everything was on schedule, but nothing was! It has been 50 minutes since X and Ahu were sent to go pick up the cake (From some bakery he doesn’t know, mind you). The only reason he allowed it was because X promised him they sold the best cake, and Lin Ling deserved the best. But! It has been 50 minutes! Where the hell are they!? (X can fucking teleport!) 

Behind him, as he straightened another streamer, he could hear Lucky Cyan arguing over the phone, telling the backup singers and dancers if they didn’t get over to the right location in time, she would personally make sure they were blacklisted from the industries forever. Loli, on the other hand, hasn’t even arrived yet, even though she was supposed to help Lucky Cyan and her team set up the stage for Lin Ling’s birthday concert. (There’s a text in the ‘Number 1. Lin Ling fan group’ which states that she would be late as she’s still putting the finishing touches on his gift. No one has seen it.) 

Dragon Boy and Ghostblade were busting in the kitchen, and he could hear the arguments and swearing from where he was standing. 

“You shouldn’t have put in that much butter. It’s not healthy for Lin Ling.”  Dragon boy snaps back, “IT’S HIS BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN!”  “So? I don’t want him to be as unhealthy as you.” Ghostblade calmly replies, continuing his chopping. “HUH!? WANT TO SAY THAT TO MY FACE, GRANDPA!?” 

Originally, they planned to hire the best catering company. But, when Lin Ling shyly told them that he preferred food made by his friends. Well, how could they deny him that? (The catering company was not happy with the late cancellation, but Queen and Ghostblade took care of it.) Speaking of Queen, he looked over to what she was doing, only to drop the banner he was fixing because—

“WHY IS THERE A ZOO IN HERE!?” The Johnnies looked over to him and glared at him witherly. The animals behind him give him the same look. “Because Lin Ling said he always wanted to visit a petting zoo, so this is our gift.” A faux look of surprise overcame his face as he looked at Nice. “Oh! Wait, no, you weren’t there when Lin Ling said that on our date. What. A. Shame.” Nice felt a blood vessel burst at Johnnie’s smug look. Before he could kill him, Queen intervened. 

“That’s Enough from the both of you. Lin Ling is set to come back any minute now. Get in your places.” She orders through gritted teeth. It was loud enough that everyone heard, and immediately complaints were raised.

“I HAVEN’T FINISHED FIXING EVERYTHING!”

“HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO HIDE ALL THESE ANIMALS!?”

“...” 

“THE STAFF WON’T COME IN TIME!”

“WE STILL HAVE 5 DISHES THAT NEED MORE TIME TO COOK.”

“SHUT UP!” Queen’s power takes effect, and Nice can feel his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth and his throat close up. He settles on glaring at her instead. She meets his and everyone’s glare head-on. “I don’t care about whether you finished your part or not. Lin Ling is coming. GET. IN. YOUR. PLACES.” His finger itches as his brain reminds him how many imperfections there still are (Lin Ling only deserves the best, after all.) But he backs down and flies over to his hiding spot beside the elevator. Nice can see everyone scatter, and the lights are turned off; the apartment is now pitch black. (Loli had designed automated curtains after Lin Ling muttered how he couldn’t sleep well because of the city lights.)

Waiting in the dark, Nice can only hear the sound of faint shuffling and soft breaths as they wait. Soon, the sound of the elevator rising and the glowing number up top illuminating what floor the elevator’s on—what floor Lin Ling is on. 

15

14

13

12

11

Nice’s hand spasms. Just one more floor. Then Lin Ling can be in his arms once more. (He already misses him.)

10

The elevator door opens. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIN LING!!!”

X blinks back at them, a cake box sitting innocently in his hands. Ahu at his feet. They stood in silence before Dragon Boy groaned. “OH COME ON! WHERE THE FUCK IS LIN LING!?” That shout broke everyone out of the silence, and soon, everyone else was groaning and bemoaning the fact that Lin Ling wasn’t here. X blinked again. “Don’t worry, he’s coming soon. Very soon.” Taking a look around the place, the smile on his face turned into a slight grimace. “This looks…nice.” X turns to Nice. “No pun intended.” Nice, waves him off. “Whatever, just hand me the cake.”

X looks confused. “Why?”

“I’m going to greet Lin Ling with it.” Obviously. 

Before X can respond, Lucky Cyan jogs over. “Now hold on, why do you get to be the one to greet Lin Ling first with the cake?” Nice scoffs, “Because I’m his favorite, obviously. Now give it.” Before Nice can take it out of X's hands, X raises it above his head. His smile was now one of amusement. “His favorite? And here I thought I was number 1.” 

Nice opens his mouth to retort (X? The favorite? Please, Nice has been here the longest.) When the cake box is ripped out of X’s hand, Dragon Boy crackles manically. “Ha! And why would he want to hang out with you old fucks?” His grins widens “You know what? I’ll take this cake and Lin Ling, and we’ll celebrate his birthday. Privately.” Everyone saw red, and what transpired was a battle to the death. Punches were thrown along with all manner of weapons as they ducked out who could hold the cake.

They were so engrossed in their battle, in fact, that they didn’t hear the opening of elevator doors or the sound of footsteps approaching the battlefield before—

“What are you guys doing?”

Instantly, a feeling of calm washes over him as Lin Ling draws closer. However, the calm is instantly replaced with panic as he sees E-Soul kick the cake. It soars above them all as it flies directly over to Lin Ling. Nice tries to push him out of the way, and X has his hands ready to snap, but it’s too late as—

SPLAT

They all watch in horror as chunks of cake and frosting drip down Lin Ling’s head, splattering onto the ground below. The room is deafeningly quiet, and even with Lin Ling in arm’s reach, Nice can feel his heartbeat reach a crescendo. (Because Lin Ling is going to hate him because of this. This was supposed to be the perfect day—everything was supposed to be perfect. How did he fuck up this badly? Oh god, Lin Ling hasn’t moved. He’s going to hate it. What can he do? What can he do? WHAT CAN HE DO? Clean up. He can clean Lin Ling up and then beg for his forgiveness. Right, he can do that. Oh god, why won’t Lin Ling say anything—?)

Lin Ling laughs. 

Everyone freezes.

Ling Ling clutched his stomach and stumbled as he laughed. The laugh was loud, bright, and ugly, and Nice fell in love once more. It lasted for a few minutes, and everyone stared transfixed as Lin Ling's laugh turned into a giggle. His eyes were bright with joy. “Is…is this supposed to be my birthday party?” Someone nodded behind Nice. Lin Ling’s smile grew even bigger. “Then this is the best birthday party I have ever had!” His eyes soften. “Thank you.”

The party went smoothly after that. 

(“Hi guys! Sorry, Lin Ling, for being late—huh!? You already started without me!?”)

[ramp-it-up]

Knock You Down: IV

Photo credit to @thebluemage. Edit mine.

Part III | Knock You Down Masterlist | As Hard As I Did

Summary: James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. But when he meets you, he finds out that sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down. Finally! Date Number Threeeeee!

This is a follow up to

Word count: 3.5 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This is the final part! (For now) I think that this is one that I will definitely write in answer to asks. I just love these two so so much! Thank all of you for rocking with me on this one. This was in part inspired by Seb Stan's latest pics and this press run 🫠, and partially inspired by an old song by some problematic people, lol. This is the result. As usual, I am Basil Exposition, so this is broken into parts.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. SMUT!!!! The end of the Slow burn, now it's burning very fast 😅. Cursing, flirting, jealousy, apologies, Bucky cooking (a warning!), kissing, dry humping, dirty talk in both English and Romanian, voice kink, oral sex (m and f receiving), protected sex (yay Bucky!) And these two are so fucking fluffy. I'm scared, y'all. I want it to be good enough for the build up.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

As soon as he entered the Brownsville Arts and Culture Center, James Bucky Barnes was hot. Blood was rushing to his ears and he needed a drink. He wasn’t sick; his symptoms were all due to you.

The black dress that adorned your body contained all of his hopes and dreams, but you seemed to be flirting with another man, twirling for him and then giving him a hug. To add insult to injury, you had the nerve to laugh and smile with the punk. 

You in that black dress was everything in the world that Bucky could want, except maybe you out of that black dress. As his eyes traced down your form, he noticed the 5 inch red bottoms that you had on. Yes. You, out of that dress with just the red bottoms. That was what he needed in his life.

But first, he had to take care of that other man.

—-

“Benson’s work emphasizes the subjects’ spiritual essence over their physical appearance, don’t you think?”

You turned around at the sound of the deep baritone. 

“Well hello, Mr. Rogers. How are you today? Delivering an art analysis given to you by AI? Oh. I forgot. You are an ‘art dealer.�� An art dealer who goes to Soul Cycle in Brownsville all of a sudden?”

Steve clutched his heart.

“Ah. I’m hurt, Y/N. I thought we were cool. But I guess I deserved the air quotes.  I do actually love art. I took some art classes when I was a kid and I still love to sketch.”

“Hmmmph. Okay. I’ll give you that. But how is it that you popped up in my Soul Cycle class? Don’t play me, Steven.”

Steve raised his eyebrow at you and grinned. He understood why Buckiy was so drawn to you. Not only were you gorgeous, you were a spitfire. That was hot.

“I would never try to play you, Y/N. I also actually love Soul Cycle. Used to teach a class in Park Slope.”

“I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?”

Steve’s eyes slid over you appraisingly.

“Speaking of. You look very, very nice today.”

You twirled for him, feeling as safe as you would your brother.

“Nice. Okay, listen. I’m sorry about the other day. I was just trying to protect my friend. And you.”

Steve sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve never seen Bucky like this. He’s never been this smitten with someone before and let them into his life. But I get it now.”

Steve’s blue eyes were almost as beautiful as Bucky’s.

“Bucky is my family. Since we were kids. He’s always taken care of me. And I will do anything for him.”

He raised his eyebrow at you.

“I can see now that means that I will do anything for you, because I have a feeling that you’re gonna be around a lot. So do you forgive me?”

You considered Steve. He was not too different from his best friend, and you couldn’t hold a grudge. Not after Bucky laid it all out to you last night You opened your arms.

“Let’s hug it out.”

Steve chuckled and gathered you into his warm embrace. You pulled back and giggled, grinning at him.

“So what makes you think I’m gonna be hanging around?”

“Well, judging from the look on Bucky’s face, he’s serious about you.”

Steve nodded behind you, toward the door. You looked that way and saw James Bucky Barnes headed straight for you. 

And he didn’t look happy.

—--

“Good morning, Frumoasă. You look stunning today. The exhibit is amazing, the space looks great and it seems that the right people are in the building.”

Bucky came up and placed his hand on the small of your back as he spoke to you, ignoring Steve. His blue eyes were storm clouds at the moment, and his touch was electric.

“Thank you, James. You’re so observant, I appreciate that. And you look very handsome today.”

You looked him up and down and bit your lip, meeting his gaze and the way he kept eye contact as he inclined his head in response. 

Bucky was attractive as hell in his black on black shirt, blazer and slacks. You noticed that his collar was unbuttoned; the medallion hanging on his chest made you want to take it between your teeth. You stared at it for a moment, imagining such a scenario where that could happen and then met his eyes again, prompting desire to roll through you as Bucky licked his lips. He was right there with you.

You smiled at him in a way that you didn’t smile at Steve. Who was Steve Rogers, anyway? You could hardly remember meeting him as your mind went to the feel of being in Bucky Barnes’ arms.

You sensed an air of proprietariness as Bucky took your hand and kissed it, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Possessive Bucky Barnes felt like a sin you wanted to indulge in. You cleared your throat and looked at Steve, as if surprised to find him still standing there, watching the show.

“Well, I see some board members over there, I’m going to go do my job. Talk to you later, boys.”

You walked away and gave them a wink over your shoulder, and you caught both of them looking at your ass. You shook your head and chuckled as you went on your way.

“You trying to steal my girl?”

Everyone stopped when Steve laughed, his deep boom a distraction. Bucky still wasn’t amused.

“Oh. So you’re in love.”

“What?”

“You’ve never worried about me taking your leftovers or vice versa before. Hell, we’ve even shared–”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Bucky snapped at Steve who put his hands up.

“Whoa, there. Just yanking your chain, buddy; I know she’s special. I wouldn’t dream of making a move on her. Not that she knows I’m alive. When you walked up, I thought I was going to have to take off my jacket so you two could fuck on the floor.”

Bucky was barely listening to Steve as his eyes followed you around the room. One thing Steve said was echoing in his mind: “So you’re in love.”

—-

You floated through the rest of the day on a cloud. The exhibit was a smashing success with the 

Board of Directors in attendance. Securing Howard Benson’s penultimate work from Rebirth was the feather in your cap. 

And you had Bucky to thank for it.

Bucky’s visit was also a hit; he and Steve charmed the board members with the help of Sam and Nat, who arrived later. They all made amends for what occurred that week and you were left very impressed with James Barnes.

After a couple of hours at the event, Bucky came over to let you know he was leaving.

“I will see you later, Frumoasă. I have much to prepare for tonight. Nico will pick you up at 7:30.”

“See you soon, James.”

He kissed your hand again.

“See you soon, Y/N.”

—---

“It is actually insanely attractive how you handled yourself in the kitchen.”

You were seated with Bucky on his couch in his living room, looking over the New York skyline from his Brooklyn penthouse. The dessert had been delicious and the wine in your hand was spectacular. 

“I was sure you’d order something in and just play it off. But I watched you create a meal in front of me, and I should have known that if you said you were going to cook, that you would do just that.”

Bucky’s heart beat double time at what you were saying. He wanted so much for tonight, but most of all, he wanted it to flow naturally. He saw that you were relaxed and open to him, which pleased him immensely.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Frumoasă. I enjoy cooking for my friends and family. Cooking for a beautiful woman is a treat.”

Bucky’s eyes slid over your form. You had changed to jeans and a color block sweater that just put your cleavage out there for the world, which was Bucky Barnes, to see. You also wore the same red bottoms from that day, and Bucky was beginning to think he had a foot fetish as you took them off at his entryway.

You took a sip of wine.

“How often do you do that? Cook for a woman?”

You barely hid your curiosity.

Bucky smiled and drained his glass, reaching over to refill it.

“Not as often as you’d think. Never had any other woman over here. Food is not usually the top priority with them.”

You pouted, which was so cute. Your spark of jealousy inspired Bucky.

“But I don’t want to talk about anyone else. Tonight is about me and you.”

Any uncertainty that arose was quelled by his assertion. You grew warm, so you finished your wine and rose to go to the window. 

“This is the most gorgeous view I’ve ever seen.”

“Absolutely agree.”

You looked behind you and Bucky was still sitting on the couch, hands spread out on the back of it, checking you out. You gave him one of your adorable smiles and he came to stand behind you, and took you in his arms. 

“I want you to know that you deserve everything, Y/N. To be cheered on and protected every day. And thoroughly ruined every night.”

You turned around and his hands went to your hips. It was the perfect moment.

“James?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

Bucky’s eyes dilated, and he moved his hand to your cheek. He licked his lips as he looked deep into your eyes.

“Ah, Frumoasă. I thought you’d never ask.”

His first movement was a subtle brush of your lips. He pulled back to assess the situation, and you didn’t know why, but that made your nipples tighten into stiff peaks. You gasped as Bucky watched you hungrily. 

The air seemed to change around you, and you shivered. He lowered his head so his lips could meet yours again, and this time his mouth was gentle but demanding. You gasped at the spike of electricity that flared between you and Bucky took the opportunity to dip his tongue into your mouth, scorching your lips and soul. With a low groan, he shifted your angle, bending you backward a little to kiss you deeper and ripping a moan from you as you melted against him. 

Good lord, could the man kiss. 

At that point, he was holding you up, one hand on your hip and one hand on the back of your head as you molded yourself against him. Bucky’s fingers dug into you, sure to leave bruises the next day. You relished the thought as you moaned into his mouth again, giving him the opportunity to continue destroying your soul. 

Bucky dragged his lips from yours reluctantly and stared at you, eyes almost black with desire. He brought his thumb up and wiped the moisture from your bottom lip. Motivated, you captured his digit, drawing it into the hot wetness of your mouth. He stared at you, mouth open, as you looked him straight in the eye and started sucking.

Bucky moaned as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth, and walked you back to the couch. He extracted his finger, watching the show your lips put on as he pulled it out, leaving them in a delectable pout. 

“More,” Bucky demanded as he crouched down and took your head in both hands as he kissed you again. 

His hands wound up in your hair, tugging gently, then on your back, then your ass as you arched your back to fill his palms. Bucky picked you up, then deposited you on his lap as he sat down on the couch, and you felt how aroused he was. His thick length was where you needed him most.

“Fuck! That feels good.”

Bucky was watching you grind on him like it was the best show on earth. Then he looked up at you.

“Yes, yes it does.”

He leaned forward and captured your bottom lip between his teeth, a preview of how rough he wanted to be with you. Then, he went in for another kiss. That continued for a good five minutes until he pulled away to stare at your swollen lips, and down to your cleavage, which was practically in his face.

When his eyes met yours, you were entranced.

“You good? You want this to happen?”

You nodded and took his hands in yours, guiding them up to your breasts, squeezing yourself with his hands. You rolled your hips, causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

“Like you said, James. More.”

You continued to grind on him, causing him to just gape at your body moving on his.

“I’ve dreamed of this so many times…”

“Yes? Tell me about your dreams, Baby.”

His hands moved to find your nipples through the lace of your bra and the wool of your sweater. He found them in no time, and pinched them lightly, then more roughly when you moaned.

“Mmmmnnnn. So fucking hot.”

Bucky kissed you again and then pulled away as he stared you down and tortured you. 

“I dream about marking you up,” he kissed your neck under your chin, “to your clavicle,” a kiss there, “and all over this beautiful flesh until I get to your nipples.” 

He looked at you for any signs of discomfort as he slipped his hands under your sweater to find the thin lace there. He found your hard peaks again and started rolling them both in his fingers.

“Then I want to kiss and suck them until you come in my arms.”

“Holy god, Jamie….”

Bucky’s eyes rolled at the second pet name you called him and continued.

“Wake up so fucking hard every morning since I met you. Then, I daydream about how wet and tight you will be after I made you cum, and how good it would feel to… to give you my cock. Do y’like that idea, Frumoasă?”

“Y-yesssss!”

“O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă.”

You almost came right then.

“D-don’t know what you said, but yes to whatever you just suggested.”

Bucky pulled you to him, and then chuckled into your ear.

“It means that I want to make you cum over and over again on my cock.”

You were already making a mess in your jeans, but you knew he could feel you soaking them at the moment.

“Please. Give it to me?”

Bucky groaned and kissed you again, this time encircling your waist in his grip and pressing you down on his bulge. 

“You know I can’t deny you anything. Are you certain?”

“Yes, James. Please…”

He lifted you easily, kissing you as he walked you down the hall to his bedroom, depositing you on his bed. 

“Y’look so fucking good.”

He crawled toward you on the bed and settled between your thighs as you hitched your leg over his. You pressed your core against his bulge and it had you muttering.

“Too many clothes.”

Bucky leaned up and you were fumbling with his button and he with yours. You looked up and laughed. 

“Maybe faster the other way.”

“Agreed.”

You two made quick work of your own garments, flinging them around the room between frenzied kisses. The way your eyes widened when Bucky got naked made his chest swell. He wanted you to always look at him like that.

“Wow…,” you said as your eyes roamed his physique.

His cock seemed massive as it slapped him on the abs.

“Wow, indeed,” replied Bucky as he took you in hungrily.

Your white lace underwear looked amazing against your skin and against your cunt it served to make him hungry.

He moved toward you again, kissing up your leg until he got to the edge of your panties and nudged his nose there, making you squirm.

“Smell so good, look so good…”

Bucky kissed at the edge of your underwear,

“I just know you’re gonna taste good too..”

He moved to the center of you, placing a kiss over your lace-covered sodden slit. Then, he looked up at you and smirked before he leaned down and licked you over your panties. 

“Fuck.”

He pulled your panties to the side and gazed at you there. 

Those blue eyes threatened to steal your soul as he gazed at you and confessed, “This is the most gorgeous pussy I’ve ever seen,” and proceeded to lick a rude stripe up the center of you after he tore your panties away.

“Oh my god, James.”

You rolled your hips again and reached down to feel Bucky’s soft hair. He pulled your hips closer and his lips suckled you with more pressure, adding one finger, then two to stretch you out. 

“Gotta get you ready for me, my love.” 

Your eyes rolled back into your head as you moaned through Bucky thrusting his tongue inside you, then pulling back to focus on your clit.

“I c-can’t.. I–”

“Give me my cum, Frumoasă!”

You locked eyes with him as he buried his face in your cunt and shook against him as you came embarrassingly fast, pulling on his messed up curls.

“So fucking delicious. Taste.”

He took your head in both hands and kissed you deeply, and you responded by sucking your essence off of his tongue. You reached down and started stroking his cock, overjoyed and a little bit scared that your fingers didn’t meet around him as he unclasped your bra.

Bucky whimpered as your thumb came up and stroked his sensitive head, spreading his precum over the wide, mushroom cap.

“You’re so fucking huge, Bucky…”

Bucky pulled you toward him as he reached into his bedside drawer for a condom and a bottle.

“And you’re so wet, Furmoasa. We will make this work. Believe me…”

You continued to stroke and watched him as he brought the wrapper to his teeth and him tearing it open was about the hottest act of sexual protection you’d ever seen. Somehow, your mouth ended up sucking his tip as you watched his eyes roll back into his skull.

“That beautiful mouth…”

Bucky put his hand on your head as you tasted him experimentally, wondering if you’d ever be able to take it all. He seemed to read your mind as he spoke next.

“Don’t worry, I plan on us having a lot of practice with this later, but if you don’t let me put this condom on, I’m gonna cum all over your face, Frumoasă…”

You looked up at him and grinned as his cock jumped in your mouth, but you finally pulled off of him with a pop.

“I need to feel you around me when I cum love. S’all I’ve been dreaming of all week.”

Now his chest was heaving as he rolled the condom on, and he pushed you back onto the bed as his hand went to your core once again. You were even wetter than before and Bucky smiled at you, lining up and kissing you on the forehead as he began to breach your folds.

When he slid inside, your fingernails curled into his shoulders and your eyes grew wide. Bucky stopped, concentrating while his cock pumped, barely inside you.

“There is nothing. In the world. Like being inside your soft, wet, cunt.”

“Fuckkkkk!” 

You became even wetter and he slid fully inside you. There, Bucky waited for you to get adjusted around him.

“So fucking tight. And hot. Just like I knew you would be.”

“More, Jamie!”

Smiling, Bucky started moving and you gripped him as he stroked in and out.

“Please don’t stop. Harder!”

Bucky grabbed the headboard and gave you what you wanted. His other hand pulled your hair and his strokes became more intense.

“Wanted to last longer, but I can’t, Baby. So beautiful. Pussy made for me. Cuming soon, but later… O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă. I never make a promise I can’t keep.”

You orgasm whited out your vision and your throat burned as you screamed. Bucky roared, filling the condom with copious amounts of cum. Your cunt was milking him and he hoped it would hold. He stayed sunk into you as long as he could before he had to get up and rid himself of the prophylactic.

He was only in the en suite for a few minutes as you floated in and out of sleep, lust drunk and exhausted.

Bucky climbed back into bed and got both of you situated under the covers, whispering in your ear.

“Stay tonight.”

“Of course. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

Both of you chuckled, because you knew it was true. Bucky kissed your ear and waited for your breath to even out. When he thought you were asleep, he whispered again.

“I’m going to be a better man for you, Frumoasă.”

“You are exactly who you need to be, James Barnes. Just keep moving forward. Tomorrow is another day to do that.”

After a few more minutes, you spoke again.

“Tomorrow will only be a week that we’ve known each other. Imagine that.” 

Bucky buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent.

“Guess I better wait until tomorrow to ask you to marry me.”

You laughed a sleepy laugh.

“You got jokes.”

“You know me, Frumoasă. A professional comedian.”

But somewhere in the dark of Bucky Barnes’ closet, a diamond found some light and sparkled.

——

The next morning is here ;)

Please, please! Let me know!

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega

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A/N: their where a number of people that asked to be tagged in this story, if you have not been tagged but asked, please let me know and I'll add you.

💙

I think I got everyone !

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Tw: Cussing, frustration,

Part 4

Words of Command - Part 5

The sun slants through the high glass windows, streaking the living room with warm, gold light. It should feel comforting, domestic, but instead there's a chill in the air—an invisible line drawn by uncertainty.

Stark Tower’s furniture gleams, but there’s a lingering tension in the room, like it remembers too many arguments and too few reconciliations.

Steve sits on the edge of a sleek leather chair, a worn cardboard box open at his feet. The contrast is stark—1940s brown and battered, resting on a pristine Stark-designed rug.

The box holds the last pieces of James Buchanan Barnes.

Photographs.

Dog tags.

A battered 1st edition book.

A faded Brooklyn Dodgers cap.

Cracking leather gloves.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, beside Bucky—he hasn't moved since Steve began setting out the items. His body is coiled, posture upright and too still.

His vibranium fingers rest against his thigh, flexing once every few seconds with mechanical precision. Not curiosity—just control.

Steve picks up an old photograph. Him and Bucky, arms slung around each other in their uniforms, both smiling wide, unburdened.

“Remember this, Buck?” he asks softly, holding it up.

Bucky looks at it blankly. “No.”

“Your ma gave me this,” Steve tries again, hopeful but gentle. “You kept it folded in your coat pocket through all of ‘43.”

“No.”

Just that. Flat. Empty.

You reach into the box, brushing your fingers over cold metal—two dog tags, dull with age, the chain tangled.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you murmur aloud, reading. “107th Infantry.”

You don’t even think about it—you’re absently twisting the tags between your fingers, letting them sway gently as you examine the etched letters.

Behind you, the Bucky’s head tilts slightly. His gaze follows the motion, a slow tracking—not recognition, but something else.

Tension.

Steve catches the look, his hope reigniting. "They’re yours Buck, You used to tap them against your knuckles when you were thinking. You even—”

Bucky’s expression tightens. Subtle, but unmistakable.

His voice cuts through like a gunshot.

“Stop.”

You freeze, the dog tags dangling mid-air.

Steve sets down the photo. “Buck, it’s okay—”

“I don’t know these things.” His tone is clipped, his breath beginning to hitch. “They mean nothing.”

“But they’re yours,” Steve insists, stepping forward.

Bucky flinches back. It’s the most human thing you've seen him do.

“They are not mine.” There’s a tremor in his voice now, shaking beneath the metal. “That name—” He gestures toward the tags, fingers curled like claws. “—is not mine.”

The silence is fragile.

Then, suddenly—CRACK.

Bucky surges to his feet, the coffee table exploding beneath the force of his boot and metal arm. Splinters fly across the room.

You scramble back instinctively, heart hammering. Steve raises arm protectively in front of you and himself without thinking.

Bucky stands over the wreckage, chest heaving. His arm gleams—the plates shifting and whirring subtly like a beast under his skin. His eyes are wild, lost, locked somewhere deep within that isn’t here.

Not Brooklyn.

Not Stark Tower.

Not now.

“Doll?” he murmurs, searching.

“I—I’m here,” you say, slowly standing, your voice shaking only slightly. You cross the short distance, to stand beside his towering figure, and reach your hand out—not to touch, just to be seen. “I’m here. You’re not in danger.”

His breathing slows. Bit by bit. The metal arm lowers.

He doesn’t look at Steve. Only you.

“Don’t… don’t show me things,” he mutters. “They hurt.”

Steve kneels beside the broken table, his hand brushing a shard of wood.

“I thought it might help,” he says quietly. “I thought maybe... he'd feel something.”

You don’t have the heart to respond. Not yet.

Bucky sinks down beside you on the couch like a puppet with cut strings, his head bowed.

“I don’t want the name,” he mutters. “Don’t want their memories.”

“You don’t have to take anything you don’t want,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be anything but what you are right now.”

He looks at you. The sharpness in his eyes dulls, just for a moment.

“Doll,” he breathes, softer now. A single word. A tether.

The sharp scent of wood lingers in the air as you kneel down beside the broken coffee table, carefully gathering scattered fragments.

Your fingers ghost over jagged edges, mindful of catching a splinter. The sunlight pools across the floor like honey, warm and gentle—utterly at odds with the tension lingering in the room.

Bucky stands still a few feet away, silent, coiled like a spring. His metal arm reflects the light in soft, rhythmic pulses as he flexes and unflexes his fingers.

He’s watching you again—hyperaware, always alert.

He hasn't moved to help, but you sense it’s not indifference—it’s wariness. Confusion. Waiting for a command.

Steve is pacing nearby, eyes flicking between you and his oldest friend.

“Buck,” Steve says again, trying to soften his tone. “C’mon, you have to remember. That name—it’s yours.”

Bucky’s eyes shift slowly toward him. “No.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, frustration mounting behind his quiet grief. “Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. You were—my best friend —hell, you are—you might as well be my brother.”

Bucky's jaw tightens. His voice is sharp, strained. “I said no.”

You rise slowly from the floor, gently setting a handful of splinters on the side table.

You don’t move too quickly.

You’ve learned that his stillness isn’t peace—it’s the calm before something breaks.

You take a slow step between them, placing your hand lightly on Steve’s forearm.

“Steve,” you murmur, your voice quiet, apologetic.

“He might not be ready for that.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but something in your eyes stops him. He sighs, stepping back. Not defeated—but wounded.

You turn to Bucky, your posture softening—shoulders lowered, eyes gentle, voice so quiet you barely hear it yourself.

“You don’t have to be who anyone says you were.”

His eyes flicker—curious, not yet understanding.

You shift your weight, folding your hands in front of you. “What do you want to be called?”

There’s a long silence.

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his feet, then over at the shards of the table. Then back at you. His brows draw together.

You can see him thinking—not just reacting. That alone feels like a victory.

Finally, he speaks.

“Soldat.”

One word.

No hesitation.

Your heart twists a little. It's not what Steve wanted to hear. Maybe not even what you hoped for. But it’s his choice.

You nod slowly. “Okay, Soldat.”

The way his body eases—not visibly, but subtly—tells you it was the right move.

His eyes linger on you, not searching for approval, but grounding.

Steve watches this exchange in quiet disbelief. There’s pain in his face, but he masks it quickly. He turns his gaze to the window, jaw clenched.

You move to pick up more debris. Bucky watches for a beat longer, then quietly steps forward.

“Doll,” he says, voice lower, uncertain. “...You want this cleaned?”

You look up, surprised, and smile gently.

“No, it’s okay. I got it.”

He hesitates, shoulders twitching faintly, like he’s fighting the instinct to obey or to stay alert. But when you don’t issue another command, he simply nods once and stands silently beside you. Not helping. Just being near.

Steve crouches beside the box of Bucky’s things again, but doesn’t touch anything this time.

“I thought maybe hearing his name would bring something back,” he says softly. “That maybe some part of him was just... waiting.”

You glance at him, your heart aching for both men in different ways.

“I think he’s trying,” you reply just as softly. “But he’s scared. He doesn’t know who he is is yet.”

Steve doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t argue either.

The couch beneath you is just a little too plush, the kind that swallows you whole, and you’re curled up on one side with a knitted throw across your lap. The TV glows warmly in the dimmed lighting of the shared lounge in Stark Tower.

Steve had chosen an old black-and-white romance—Casablanca—murmuring something about nostalgia. The kind of story that used to make people believe in fate and sacrifices.

Bucky sits on the far end of the couch, rigid, alert, back never fully touching the cushions. His vibranium hand rests on his thigh, the fingers twitching occasionally, as if uncomfortable being still for this long.

He hadn’t wanted to sit at first.

You had to quietly ask him.

Not order—but suggest.

Gently. Like you were taming a skittish animal.

And still, he only did it because you asked.

Steve sits in the armchair nearby, watching the screen—though he steals glances at the man who was once his best friend.

You try not to stare, but your gaze flickers to Bucky, to the faint slouch in his shoulders when the film softens. He’s not watching the action.

His eyes are fixed on the interaction between the leads—Ilse and Rick.

There’s something hesitant in the way he watches them, like he's seeing a language he used to know.

And then it happens.

Ilse says Rick’s name—soft, broken with affection—and touches his cheek. Onscreen, it’s romantic. Longing.

Beside you, Bucky flinches.

It’s so slight, you almost miss it. His brow twitches. The corner of his mouth pulls down. His jaw clenches tight, and his hand—the flesh one—lifts a few inches, as if reaching for something that isn’t there.

“Doll,” he murmurs quietly, the Brooklyn cadence slipping through like it was never forgotten, his voice a bit above the sound of the movie. “I know that.”

You turn to him, heart in your throat. “What do you know?”

He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head once, sharply, like trying to shake off a memory that hasn’t fully formed. His metal fingers curl tight into his leg.

“Soldat,” you say gently, tilting toward him, “It’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But he interrupts. Not with words—just a look. Frustration. Something like fear. He doesn’t want to forget. He just can’t remember.

Steve’s voice cuts softly across the silence.

“You know,” he says, lips twitching with bittersweet fondness, “he used to be the biggest flirt in Brooklyn.”

You blink in surprise.

Steve chuckles dryly. “Seriously. Bucky Barnes couldn’t walk down the street without giving some poor girl whiplash. He used to say the army gave him a uniform just so he could have an excuse to wink at nurses.”

You glance back at Bucky.

His expression hasn’t changed. But his shoulders tense, just slightly. The name doesn’t spark recognition—but the words? They linger. Maybe deep down, they ring true.

He doesn’t say anything. But you think he’s listening more intently now.

"Were you a heartbreaker?” you ask, voice amused.

Bucky looks at you, just for a moment. His eyes search your face, and for the first time, there’s a ghost of something there.

Maybe confusion.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe even shame.

His mouth opens like he might say something—

—but then he closes it. Shakes his head once. “Don’t know.”

But his voice isn’t as flat this time. It’s uncertain.

You notice the way he shifts a little closer on the couch. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel your warmth. He hasn’t done that before.

You don’t press it. You don’t need to.

Instead, you settle back against the cushions, letting the movie wash over the three of you.

The film is long over, the credits a soft blur in the background as the three of you remain in the cozy dim of the common room.

The quiet has settled comfortably around you, broken only by the sound of Steve shifting in his armchair and you gathering the courage to speak again.

“I… Steve?” you begin softly, still cradled under your blanket.

He lifts his head. “Yeah?”

“Can you tell me more?” You gesture a little toward Bucky, who sits across from you now, perched on the edge of the couch like someone waiting for orders. “About… back then. About Bucky.”

Steve hesitates, eyes flicking toward the man who used to be his best friend. There’s sorrow there. But he nods.

“Sure,” he says. “Back in the 40s, Buck was... well, he had this way about him. Real smooth. He was the kind of guy dames lined up for.”

You pause, blinking. “...Dames?”

Steve grins slightly at your puzzled expression. “Yeah, it was what we called women back then. Girls. Ladies. ‘Dames,’ ‘broads’—kinda like saying 'chicks' now.”

You blink again. “That sounds so weird.”

From the couch, Bucky makes a faint sound in his throat—almost like a scoff. You glance over.

He mutters, “Dames.”

Steve’s eyes widen slightly. “You remember that?”

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge it. He just lowers his gaze to the floor, jaw set tight again.

Steve leans forward a little, voice softening. “He used to take me out to dance halls. He’d charm the whole room and I’d just be the friend tagging along. But Bucky? He could make a girl blush with just a look.”

You peek at Bucky again, just a glance, before returning your attention to Steve “Really?”

Steve chuckles. “Oh yeah. He used to run his fingers through his hair like it was a signal. Girls’d go nuts. He’d smile with this crooked little smirk. Talk slow. Confident. The guy had a whole routine.”

You tilt your head, curiously. “Did he have a catchphrase?”

Steve laughs again. “Not really. Just… ‘You ever dance with a soldier?’ That kind of thing.”

You glance back at Bucky, amused. “Did you really say that?”

This time, he looks at you. Right at you.

"Maybe,” he says simply.

The fact that he responds at all has both you and Steve frozen for a second.

Then he blinks, confused. Like he didn’t even mean to answer.

You press a little, just to see.

“What else did you say?”

He frowns. Shakes his head slowly. “Don’t know.”

But it’s there. A flicker. Like a coin caught in the light before it disappears again.

The cadence is different now, less monotone.

The voice of someone still trapped behind years of conditioning, yes—but also the accent of a man who once teased girls in diners and danced to swing records under cheap lights.

You shift a little on the couch, your frame pulled upright now, legs tucked beneath you.

Bucky tracks the movement, his head tilted slightly, like you’ve shifted the center of gravity in the room.

He doesn’t touch you.

But when you lean forward slightly to adjust you sock—his flesh hand twitches on his thigh. A response to proximity.

Maybe comfort.

Maybe confusion.

Steve watches the entire exchange like someone seeing the beginning of something sacred.

He leans back, folding his arms.

“I remember once, Buck tried to flirt with this nurse by pretending he’d hurt his shoulder—”

“Didn’t work,” Bucky cuts in suddenly. Voice flat, but louder this time.

You both freeze.

“…You do remember?” Steve leans forward again, hope flashing in his face.

Bucky shakes his head, visibly irritated now. “Don’t know. Just… sounds wrong.”

His jaw locks. Muscles tense. The soft warmth of the moment vanishes. He’s retreating. You can feel it. Like someone slamming a door in a quiet house.

You speak gently.

“Soldat.”

He blinks, eyes immediately snapping to yours at the name. Focused.

You smile a little. “You don’t have to remember right now.”

“…Okay, Doll,” he replies after a beat, the words sounding more automatic now—but still, there’s something a little softer about the way he says Doll tonight.

[sevgilimsatoru]

Error: 410 (Self Aware!AU Caleb Edition) Part 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 A/N Summary: A self aware!AU with Caleb and NonMC! reader. Tags: Caleb x reader, Caleb x NonMC! reader, Caleb x fem!reader, fluff, angest (slightly) Stressedout!reader. Hypersexual!reader Word count: 1k Inspired by: @ittybittyfanblog A/N: This was supposed to a part of the part 3 but tumblr had other ideas. Oh well, have a good day!!

"Can you carry a little of this sin too? Don't leave me in this loneliness any longer" "- Caleb, Love and Deepspace" The smile that formed on Caleb's face was enough to calm your mind down. That easy, teasing smile. "Just trust me, alright? Keep breathing though. We don't want to be stressed out. You know I'll indulge you, ask me whatever you want. I'll answer honestly. Promise.." He said, holding out his pinkie finger towards you on the screen.

You responded with reciprocating the gesture, holding out your pinkie towards the screen. The skin of your finger pressed against the cold screen where his pinkie finger was. "So, uh.. how are you talking to me? Are you like Monika from DDLC or.. is this something different?" You asked, laying down on your bed, your phone still in your hand, holding it over your phone. "Who is Monika?" Caleb asked with raised eyebrows. Curious but.. that frown on his face made you feel like your words had irritated him in some way. "Nothing.. just a character in a different game who was programmed to act like she was self aware or sentient." You replied back with a shrug. "Huh.. That's interesting. Well I'm not like her." Caleb said with a scoff, crossing his arms over his chest. "She was programmed for act like she was aware. I'm not. I know what I am, what this game is and who plays it. I know you." "You know me? I suppose you do. So you know that you are a fictional character in a game made by people to get money? And you know about the other love interests. What about the MC?" "Yeah, I know I'm not real. Not in your universe- your world.., your timeline. Call it whatever you want. And yes, I know about those other 'love interests'" Caleb said, the bitter tone was clear in his voice. His nose scrunching up slightly. He shook his head, shrugging as he thought about his next words. "Yeah and the MC. It's weird.. to live in a world where I know that people around me, the ones I care about..- they can't see the world like I do. No matter what I do, things will happen how they are supposed to. I'm not the one who is making my own decisions." "But isn't that sort of like what fate is..? destiny? That every action you do is predetermined and because of that, every action you have taken was actually meant to happen and so was its outcome. Do you believe in that?" You replied, clicking you tongue. You wanted to know his thoughts, his feelings. How his brain worked. "I'm not so sure.. it's sort of depressing in my case to think too much about that, don't you think? It's not something I want to think about but if it is true, then I'm not too disappointed because it meant I got meet you. And if we look it that way, I always supposed to meet you." Caleb said, the sincerity in his tone made your stomach twist in such a painfully good way. He didn't mean it like the way you were thinking. Yeah, he probably didn't. You shook your head, clearing your throat. "So, how can this even happen? You said that you aren't supposed to be real in my world or universe. Are you suggesting the possibility of an alternate reality?" “Perhaps I am. There are more than an infinite amount of galaxies in the universe. If every galaxy has smaller galaxies within it and those galaxies have countless numbers of  planets in them. There could be millions of planets where life exist like yours. Maybe I am a part of that” Caleb said, he didn’t look too sure himself. You shrugged, hearing his words. It was interesting but too farfetched “I don’t know if you are pulling my leg but suggesting this theory seems irrational. Okay.., I don’t know if we’ll even get a conclusion about something like this. People have been arguing about this topic for years now. I’m sure whatever this is.. our conversation is, it’s not something that any other player experienced. So, what makes my game different? What makes you different?" Caleb sighed, hearing your words. He was now sitting on the leather chair in the café, The camera was closer to him, more than it was ever allowed in the game. It was as if you were talking to him- face to face.

“Everything and Nothing at the same time.” Caleb said, crossing his legs as he sat back. One of his hands resting on the arm rest. “I’m the same as every other Caleb that people might be playing with right now. The only thing that’s different is I have thoughts and emotions outside the sphere of your game. I’m not some puppet on a string”.

“I never wanted to you think that you were.., do you think there are others like you? You know, self aware. You know about the other Calebs? and how long have you been like this? Were you made like this or..” You muttered, trailing off. Not wanting to offend him by saying something wrong. “Yeah, I do think there are others like me but they don’t have to be me to understand things how I do. It could be Zayne in some other game or that painter.. Rafayael or that guy..Sylus. Don’t even think about asking my opinion on those guys.” He said, shutting the idea down even before you had the chance to ask.

“And no, I wasn’t made like this. It just happened.. one day. I could see you, hear you.., it was eerie at first. Some girl I didn’t know seemed to know everything about me, my life, her.” Caleb said referring to the MC. “But you aren’t that bad..” You huffed, ignoring his last statement and focusing more on his words. “So, you mean one day you just woke up and everything was different” Caleb shook his head in response, “I was always awake, I suppose I just didn’t realize it before.” His words were starting to make sense, as weird as that might sound. Sure, he was self aware and he knew what was going on but didn’t this detail change everything? “So, what about your world, and her.. Doesn’t it change everything?”

Does it change your feelings and thoughts about her too? Do you still love her? Will you ever love me like you love her?

“It might but I’m still me.. she is still herself and she’s safe. That’s what matters to me.” Caleb said. Of course he cared for her, why wouldn’t he? He had always been loyal to a fault when it came to her. “Of course, you do.. that’s what your purpose is, isn’t it?” You said, your tone slightly bitter yet you didn't know why. You were being so stupid. Caleb raised his eyebrows at your words. A frown forming on his face. He was clearly offended "My purpose, huh?" He said, scoffing. He stood up from the leather couch, leaning down to look you straight in the eye. "Care to explain that?" Your mouth dried up when he spoke with that tone. Shrugging as you thought about the words you could say. "I'm not lying.. you know, it's true and we both know it. You are supposed to love her, that's what your purpose is, that's what you are literally made for." You said, swallowing back the words lingering on your tongue. He was made for her. For the MC, not you. Never you. Caleb sighed, a small tired smile gracing his features, looking at you as if you had said the dumbest thing ever. "Doesn't matter if it was my purpose or not. It certainly isn't anymore. I know that no matter what I do, her safety and well being is out of my control. I can't help her.., I can't protect her. I can't keep her safe if the creators of this game don't want me to. And since this whole game- my whole world revolves around her, I doubt she needs me to protect her." He said, an exhausted expression. He must've put so much thought into this decision if he was so easily giving up the thing that he had spent most of his life trying to achieve. But before you could say anything, his purple eyes flickered up to look at you. Giving you a comforting smile. "Why don't you rest for a bit? I know you are tired. Won't you take care of yourself.., atleast for me? I'll be here when you come back" You didn't want to go, a voice in the back of your head kept reminding you that all this might just be a dream. He might go back to normal if you leave. But your exhaustion out weighted your stubbornness. You couldn't help but nod, closing your eyes and letting sleep take out your exhausted body. Caleb's smiling face was the last thing you saw before you fell into a dreamless sleep.

Tag list: @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @aneertawrites @etsuniiru @demon-master-zero @angstylittleb1tch @mcdepressed290 @ittybittyfanblog @winwinwrites @alifyairl @huhleighna @calebsbeanpeeler @bookworrm1999 @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123

[lilacgaby]

Firstly I wanna say I love your writing and although I’m very new to your page I’m OBSESSED 🤩

This is my first request ever so I hope I’m doing this correctly. ANYWAYS- I was hoping for like an ice hockey au where it’s like bakugou playing midoroya’s team and bakugou doesn’t like the way deku is looking at reader in the stands even though bakugou and readers relationship isn’t public and they fight and all that good stuff.

Thanks I totally appreciate you! Hope you’re well and have a great day!!

title: iced out.

pairing: hockeyplayer!bakugo x girlfriend!reader

"he'll need an ice pack when i'm done with him."

note: my love you're so smart omgg, i loved this au! ty for the support i hope this is a good read <3

it was the match up of the season.

everyone knew of the rivalry between bakugo and midoriya, every match they'd have would end in shoves, bloodied noses, bruises, and cards called. the audience was thankful for the dividers that kept them safe from the confrontations that would always break out in corners, bakugo usually pushing midoriya away forcefully into them just to get control of the puck.

you were there at that match for katsuki after the matches, waiting outside the locker rooms to drive home. you knew first hand just how much he wanted to win against midoriya. he'd confessed to you how they used to be close friends, but after midoriya 'lied' about getting excepted into an overseas junior team, he had been ostracized from katsuki's life.

they hadn't faced each other since last season, the bracket hadn't allowed for it. until today.

you, katsuki's girlfriend since before he got drafted into a team, were pepping him up before the first interval. his teammates already knew about you, but the public didn't.

katsuki preferred in this way, he thought. saying "those damn publicists would shove cameras and mics down our throats if they knew." you didn't mind either way, the bile of jealousy at every woman who thought they had a chance with katsuki going away after multiple times of him cursing them out.

katsuki had never had to experience that though, not until today.

you were in the stands, the front row of one of the many sections in the rink. it was a full house today, but you stood out because of your limited edition jersey given to you by katsuki himself.

while the practice period was going on, he was calming himself down. his coach had told him that a clear head is all he needed to beat midoriya into a pulp, or something like that. 'easy shit.' he thought.

but like a shark who smelled blood, his pupils dilated severely as he saw him throwing a puck to you. you caught it, raising your hand to thank him and you let an appreciative smile, flipping it over to see his number on the back of it (how did he even write that?). at your shocked expression, he laughed.

and he had the audacity to make a phone sign with his hand after?

oh, he was gonna need to call someone once bakugo was done with him, he was sure of it.

the promise of calm was gone as fast as it came, an impossibly angrier katsuki coming back as he finished warm ups.

at the sound of the timer, katsuki played aggressive. the first 20 minutes was full of this mentally. he was rushing in and hitting, shoving anyone in his way. he 'accidentally' launched the puck into midoriya's helmet at the fifteen minute mark.

the teams managed to stay even though, but katsuki was scoring a majority of the points for his team. the only thing in his way was midoriya, like always.

midoriya, who kept his eyes locked on you while the puck wasn't in play. who kept waving to his fans, but sending winks to you.

katsuki had decided to murder him. or rather, his team.

he hit another puck in easily, already having the game be the highest scoring one in the league for the year. midoriya managed to match one up again, barely keeping on his heels.

the score was now 5-5, katsuki wanted to finish it in this interval. going into a sudden death overtime would just be too tiring.

they were tied again with only 2 minutes left on the clock. all it took was midoriya to eye you again, that was enough to spite bakugo.

with a minute left he finally got control of the puck, as midoriya got in his way. katsuki predicted a fake out, and sent the puck flying with a curve.

as the keeper missed, and with 3 seconds left.

he scored.

the arena cheered, the cameras caught on midoriya's smirk and small claps, the pissed off looks from midoriya's teammates, and the celebration of katsuki's team.

they had to play again to let the puck slide for 3 seconds, out of courtesy, but katsuki took a victory lap, looking straight at you.

the second he was free he walked straight through the rink, much to his manager's dismay. this caught the attention of the media, who had all eyes on him. he saw none of it, passing by fans without a care in the world as he grabbed your face and kissed you, making you drop the puck.

midoriya was seen with an 'ohhh' expression on his face as the rink went crazy, flashes all in your faces as katsuki pulled back, hips lips now smeared with your lip gloss. you two were on the jumbotron, and you awkwardly waved as the attention was focused on you two suddenly.

"didn't i tell you so? these losers are breathing down our throats."

"yeah, oh my god kats' your eye!" you gasped as you saw the bruise starting to form over his eye.

he wore a stupid smirk on his face as you fussed over him. his eyes squinted as he saw the rival team give themselves 'good luck next times' and 'we'll get em back's. midoriya in particular was being the captain as always, cheering up his team though occasionally looking back at you. katsuki sneered, he won the game and the girl! take that deku.

"why do you have that dumbass look on your face?"

"hah?! my face isn't dumb woman!"

[hypnobeauty]

a chance encounter - a cho hyun-ju x reader fic (part 15)

summary: a story about how you and hyun-ju met and the following years of your relationship. masterlist cw: mentions of blood, panic attacks, body dysphoria. a/n: girls, s3 didn't happen. my wife is alive. continuing the story where i left off, s2e5. this is part 1, will finish editing part 2 today and post tomorrow. as usual, comments are always welcome xx enjoy! taglist: @strayteez3staner @dekiruxxx @jeongteen @sunnysurvives @3leni @etta-huracan @honeyhyunju @basoressia @antisocial-aina @googie-jeon @christinamadsen @deernat @vvlwvvy @psychobitchsthings @dikeu-yoiz (lemme know if you'd like to be added or removed!)

part 15. one moment at a time

your arms thread through the crooks of hyun-ju’s and geum-ja’s, forming an awkward but necessary chain of human contact, a makeshift anchor. the warmth of their bodies bleeds faintly through the stiff fabric of your jumpsuits, but it’s not enough to keep out the synthetic chill that seeps from the walls and floors. when you shift your weight from foot to foot, the soles stick just slightly before letting go, like they’re reluctant to let you move. every small motion feels too loud, too exposed.

you try to regulate your breathing—in through your nose, out through your mouth, just like hyun-ju taught you when you had a panic attack in her apartment for the first time. back then, it was her living room. now, it’s this. your lungs feel too small, your chest too tight.

inhale. exhale. focus.

but your thoughts are slipping out of your control, unspooling faster than you can catch them. they loop, frayed and panicked, dragging your logic down with them.

i can do spinning top. i can. i told them i could. fuck. no, i can’t. i’ve never done it right. not once. fuck, fuck, fuck—what if i drop it? we’re going to die. we’re going to die and it’s going to be my fucking fault.

your throat clenches and you swallow it back, hard. you can’t afford to fall apart, not yet.

at the far end of the arena, a guard raises his arm, pistol held aloft. his mask, a blank pink canvas with a single symbol etched into it, reflects nothing but brutality. no eyes, no mouth, no soul, you have no idea if he’s looking at you.

and then—

bang.

the shot detonates through the air like a whip crack, and you flinch hard despite yourself. the sound reverberates off the walls and slices clean through your thoughts, leaving a hollow echo in its wake. overhead, the digital clock explodes into light—big white numbers that read 5:00.

the buzz from the clock pierces through you, a flatline drone that says start, but all you hear is die slowly.

the line of you, five bodies strung together by the thinnest chains of loyalty and the thickest rope of fear, begins to shuffle forward. ankles locked. steps restricted to stutters. a syncopated rhythm begins, low and mechanical:

one, two. one, two. one, two.

you all begin to chant the numbers softly, barely more than breath—a mantra to keep pace, to suppress fear, to pretend this is just a game and not a gauntlet built to break you. your own feet scrape forward in short, dragging steps. the cuffs around your ankles won’t let you lift your legs fully, so you slide across the floor. 

your heart is pounding in your chest, wild and fast, beating like it wants to escape your ribcage. you glance to your side—hyun-ju is there, her face unreadable. her eyes stay locked forward, lips pressed into a firm line. but her jaw is tense, you can see the vein pulsing in her neck. still, her grip on your arm doesn’t falter, it’s firm and real. you squeeze her forearm once, just for a second, and she squeezes back without looking.

the group stops as you arrive at the first station.

a guard awaits, standing unnervingly still holding a wooden tray, and on that tray—two paper ddajiki tiles, one red, one blue, both crisp, cleanly folded, perfectly placed. young-mi leans forward, slowly, like her body is obeying the command but her mind is still three steps behind. you see her fingers hesitate in the air, hovering just above the two tiles, and for a moment it looks like she’s about to pull back. but she doesn’t and reaches out and grabs the blue one.

the guard holds on to the red tile, rotating it slowly between his gloved fingers. then, without a word, bends down and places it on the floor and young-mi just stares at it. you can see the way her shoulders tense as she takes one tight breath and holds it, then brings her arm back and hurls the blue tile downward.

it hits but bounces awkwardly off the red. fail. the group next to her tenses. 

there’s a beat of stillness. no sound. just the low buzzing from the arena lights and the hard drum of your pulse in your ears.

“come on,” yong-sik says, the encouragement in his voice strained around the edges. “again. smash it.”

young-mi crouches down to retrieve the tile. her hand trembles as she picks it up, and when she rises, her face is pale—jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. she tries again, faster this time, arm stiff, all shoulders.

thud and nothing, the red tile doesn’t move.

you feel your fists balling instinctively, your nails bite into your palms. you’re silent, but inside your skull, a storm has started. she wanted this. she asked to change to this. she said she could do it. and now… did she ask to switch into this role just to fall apart now? did she really think she had it in her?

yong-sik again, voice softer this time. “alright… try again.”

young-mi blinks, sways slightly, then nods. her movements are jerky now. she bends down, grabs the tile with a clenched fist. you can see how tightly she’s holding it, fingertips turning red. she throws again.

thump. no flip.

and then she stops. not moving, not speaking. the tile rests flat and still on the padded floor, and she stares at it like it just said something cruel to her. her hand hovers in the air, then slowly lowers to her side. her lips part slightly but no sound comes out.

you’ve seen this before, that look—it’s the moment before the dam breaks.

something inside you coils tighter and tighter, until it snaps. 

“what are you doing?” you blurt out, your voice cracking sharp against the silence. “pick it up and throw it!”

the words are louder than you intended, harsh, barbed and biting. they cut through the tension like glass against skin. the echo of your voice bounces off the walls and back into your chest like a slap. young-mi startles. you regret it instantly, she doesn’t deserve it.

yong-sik hisses at you. “shhh!”

you turn to snap at him, but before the words even form, you feel it—a gentle but firm pressure on your forearm. hyun-ju. her fingers curl around your sleeve, grounding you. her gaze meets yours: wide, steady, and clear. 

stop it, her look says. a whisper written across her face in silence. you take a breath and hold it. hyun-ju turns to young-mi, her voice soft, but anchored in certainty.

“hang on,” she says. “try it with the other side. flip the tile.”

young-mi doesn’t move at first. just blinks like she didn’t understand. then her eyes drop to the tile in her hand. slowly, like she’s coming out of a trance, she turns it over. she breathes in deep—you can see her chest rise like she’s lifting something heavy—and throws.

crack.

the red tile flips with a sharp, satisfying snap and lands face-down.

a beat of silence—too short to savor, too long to miss.

then the overhead pa crackles: “pass.”

you don’t wait. your body moves before your mind catches up. you exhale hard, loud  and so do the others. young-mi turns back to face the group, eyes wide and glassy, blinking like she’s not sure it actually happened. everyone’s eyes are already on what’s next.

the group begins moving again.

one-two. one-two. one-two.

you’re painfully aware of the shortness of your stride, of how unnatural it is to walk like this—hips stiff, knees barely lifting, posture compromised.

as you round the arena path, the next station looms into view: flying stone. at first glance, it seems deceptively simple. a single gray tombstone shape rests on the ground at the center of the track. a second identical stone is presented by the guard, who stands statue-still beside the target zone, holding it out like an offering. 

yong-sik steps forward without waiting for instruction. he’s puffed up slightly, like he wants to impress, or maybe just distract himself from how goddamn scared he must be. he takes the stone with both hands, cradling it awkwardly before gripping it tight in one. he squares up, lowers into a half-crouch, feet staggered, knees flexed. it’s a focused pose, deliberate—like lining up a free throw or breaking in a pool game. you see him glance down at the target on the floor, the grounded stone waiting, daring him.

then he throws.

the stone leaves his hand in a tight, flat arc—it slices through the air, skimming just above the ground, fast and clean.

but it misses, by maybe three inches. the thrown stone clips the floor just beside the target and ricochets with a loud, ugly clack, tumbling sideways.

“shit,” yong-sik breathes. “shit, sorry.”

you watch his face twist with frustration. he’s trying to keep it together, but the tension in his shoulders says otherwise.

“it’s okay,” hyun-ju says, stepping slightly ahead. her voice is brisk but even, a gentle authority that gives no room for blame. “we’ll go get it.”

she glances back, nods, and the team resumes movement.

one-two. one-two. one-two.

you shuffle forward with the others, the cuffs scraping softly across the ground with each step. yong-sik bends to retrieve the thrown stone—he fumbles with it for a moment, hands still jittery, before gripping it again.

“alright,” hyun-ju says calmly. “now we walk backwards.”

walking backward in the cuffs is a delicate thing—counterintuitive, a little awkward—but it works. faster and smarter than circling around. hyun-ju is a great strategist, her mind is always thinking ahead.

back in position, yong-sik resets. geum-ja, standing just behind him, reaches forward and gently touches his arm. “yong-sik,” she says, her voice a little raw, but calm. “picture that stone. imagine it’s the face of the bastard who scammed you.”

yong-sik doesn’t respond at first—not in words. but his grip tightens on the stone. his brows draw together. his expression darkens.

“that asshole ruined my fucking life,” he mutters. his voice is low, rough, loaded. his body shifts subtly and you see it in the flex of his arm, the tension in his shoulders thet he isn’t just throwing anymore—he’s aiming with intent, with something closer to vengeance.

he throws again. the stone slams into the grounded target with a satisfying crack. the two collide, clattering in place, but the target stone moves—nudged several inches with the hit. not a miss or a maybe,  direct strike.

the group exhales as one. you don’t realize how tightly you were clenching your hands until you feel your fingers throb. the crowd behind you stirs, their murmurs swelling into a shared ripple of admiration. you’re still trying to calm your heartbeat when the sound begins again.

one-two. one-two. one-two.

the rhythm carries you forward, steady and haunting. one game down.

a guard lowers a small wooden table in the center of the track and hands geum-ja the five gonggi stones. old school, playground stuff, harmless—until it isn’t.

her knees creak as she crouches, one hand gripping her hip until she finds balance, the group lowers with her. she exhales slowly through her nose, then rolls her shoulders back. it’s a dignified motion—not proud, but practiced. like someone who’s spent a lifetime making herself smaller just to survive, and now must take up space again.

geum-ja begins,she flicks one of the stones upward and reaches to snatch another before the first falls. it hits her palm, then bounces, slips, drops to the table. no one reacts audibly, but the group tenses like one organism. she resets, adjusts her posture, her hands hover over the stones again. another try. flick, snatch… almost, but one slips. it clatters against another, sends both tumbling. again, a fail.

you glance at the red digital clock on the far wall: 3:08. still time but the pace of your heartbeat suggests otherwise.

you look at geum-ja’s hands again. then at her face. then at hyun-ju. hyun-ju’s expression is unreadable—her focus total. then she looks at you, just for a moment. a flick of her eyes. she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t have to but her head moves just slightly—a quiet no.

yong-sik leans toward his mother. “you said you played gonggi with bullets during the korean war.” his voice is warm, encouraging, a little nostalgic, like he’s telling her she’s still that girl.

geum-ja pauses. the words change her— not just her face but her whole presence. she isn't an old woman anymore, she's a girl again. you can see it—ten-year-old geum-ja, barefoot in a shelter’s rubble, dirt under her fingernails, warplanes screaming above her. her fingers snap into motion.

stone. stone. toss. catch. toss. grab.

you can't even breathe. the stones vanish and reappear in the air like sleight-of-hand and she reaches the final toss. yong-sik leans in, murmurs something in her ear—you don’t hear it, but whatever it is lights a fuse.

geum-ja’s nostrils flare. she snarls, “rotten bitch!”—the phrase exploding out of her like a memory too long buried. the final stone launches and she catches it effortlessly, midair, without even looking.

she lifts her hand, opens her palm: five stones. the guard, unmoved, raises his arms in a clean, practiced gesture—the o of approval.

“pass.”

this time, the wave of relief is uncontrollable. you laugh—loud, real, from your chest. the others cheer around you, their joy raw and unshaped. even the crowd behind the glass cheers now, their energy rolling toward you like sound breaking across a beach.

yong-sik leans in and wraps his arms around his mother—not tight, not overwhelming, just present. you move forward instinctively and offer your hand under her elbow. she lets you help her up, her grip on your wrist is stronger than you expect—fingers like steel wrapped in silk. whether she’s holding on to you or you to her, you’re not sure.

you glance at the clock again: 2:14. still time, barely.

one-two. one-two. one-two.

but now there’s a different cadence in your chest: anticipation. and dread. because the next station isn’t just another challenge, it’s yours. each flicker of light feels harsher now, every hum amplified to an unbearable frequency in your ears. your group continues forward, but inside your head, the rhythm has fractured. what should be comforting, ordered and mechanical, now only compounds the panic gnawing at the edge of your lungs. your thoughts scatter, racing in all directions, faster than your feet can carry you.

the last few games had gone well. too well. miraculously well. but instead of relief, all you feel is dread crawling higher in your throat with every passing second. because now, the spotlight turns—now it’s your turn. the knowledge settles in your gut like a cinderblock—solid, cold, and impossible to dislodge. you can feel it dragging you down from the inside, pressing against your lungs until even breathing feels performative or unnatural.

you remember how it happened, the moment you sealed your fate. young-mi had looked at you with those round, anxious eyes, clutching her assigned role like it was a live wire. she begged, and you, trying to be brave, trying to be useful, had said yes, said that you could do it. 

it wasn’t even a real lie, not exactly. you had done it before. when you were ten, in a schoolyard, once, maybe twice. but never well. and now your entire team—every single one of them—will live or die by whether or not you can make a piece of metal spin.

the soles of your shoes squelch as you step into something wet. you don’t stop to look, you don’t want to know. the game station rises like an altar.

a guard waits beside the track, holding up a tray and upon it rests the object of your dread: a dense, gleaming steel spinning top—thick-bodied, unnaturally symmetrical, heavier than it looks. beside it coils a long length of black string, wrapped tight and neat.

your palms are already slick with sweat as you reach for it, slow as molasses. your heart is no longer beating in your chest, it’s slamming against your ribs with the kind of force that makes your hands shake. 

you grip the string in your trembling fingers, trying to remember how this works. someone told you once it was all in the wrist.

you start to wind. the first loop is loose and it slips off almost immediately, unspooling like an accusation. you try again, faster, messier, the motion clumsy and urgent. the string won’t hold, it feels stiff, like it’s working against you. hyun-ju’s voice whispers to you, soft like silk but carved from steel:

“you have to wrap it around the axle first.”

“yeah, i know,” you lie. you don’t.

you grit your teeth and try to hide the tremble in your fingers, but your whole arm is starting to shake. the top tumbles from your grasp and hits the floor with a brutal clang, skidding slightly through the thin puddle at your feet. you crouch to retrieve it and your fingertips brush the blood-slicked floor—too warm, too sticky, too real. you recoil, heart clenching with nausea. 

from behind and beside you, you hear the sound of movement. murmurs, soft but insistent, build around you like a wind starting to rise. someone exhales too loudly, another voice mutters “ugh.”

the pressure inside you spikes. your chest burns. you try again—wrap the string, one coil, two, but the loops loosen. your hands have gone too slick, your grip too soft. your vision begins to blur at the edges, and your stomach tightens into a painful knot. the string unravels again.

you try again.

again.

it unravels again.

and again.

you blink. you blink again. it takes too long to realize the wetness on your face isn’t sweat, it’s tears.

“i—” you start to say, but your voice breaks like brittle glass in your throat. the word withers halfway through. geum-ja’s voice slices into the silence. not cruel, but sharp:

“you sure you’ve done this before?”

it shouldn’t land as hard as it does but it cracks something in you. you want to scream. you want to shout that of course not, you haven’t done it, you lied, and now you’re about to get every one of them killed. but the only thing that escapes your mouth is a half-swallowed sob.

“please… please stop talking to me,” you whisper, so faint it barely reaches your own ears, as you try the string again. 

it falls apart in your hands.

again.

it slips.

you wrap tighter, your grip turning frantic. you mutter under your breath like a prayer, like superstition: please please please please—

from the crowd, or your teammates, you can’t be sure, another murmur.

“she’s losing it.”

“she’s done.”

“she’s gonna blow it.”

geum-ja tries again, her voice steady, like she’s narrating a bedtime story. “take it easy. take it easy…”

it doesn’t help. the world is pulsing in your ears. your hands are foreign objects. you whisper hoarsely, “i said stop talking.”

then louder—not to her, not even to hyun-ju, but to the air around you:

“please… make her shut up.”

you hunch over the spinning top, your entire body folding in around it like you can protect it—or like it might protect you, if only you could just make it work. your hands move in desperate loops, trying to coil the string tightly along the metal shaft. again. again. you pinch the thread against the axle, trying to force it to obey, but the string slips through your fingers like water.

it won’t hold.

your breath catches—not just a hiccup of emotion, but a full-bodied gasp, involuntary and sharp. your chest rises too fast, too shallow. you feel like you’re breathing in shards. you taste salt on your lips. the arena lights overhead fracture in your vision, blurring and refracting, doubled by the wet film across your eyes. you blink hard, but it only worsens the effect—streaks of white cut through the edges of your vision, as if the whole world is being smeared with panic. you glance up and it’s your worst mistake.

00:59

everything stops, time collapses into itself. the white numbers burn into your eyes, pulsing like a wound. less than a minute. 

less than a minute to save hyun-ju, to save yourself, to save them. to do something you’ve never been good at. a sob breaks out of you, raw and high and helpless. it’s ugly—ripped straight from your diaphragm, like something inside you has given up.

your eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the world. your fingers clench the string again, trying to pull it into place, but they’re shaking too badly. you can’t make them obey, it’s like your own body has turned against you.

you can feel the pressure rising in your skull—the hot, bright edge of a panic attack. your vision narrows. your thoughts scatter into static. somewhere in the background, someone is calling your name. or maybe not. maybe it’s just your own voice echoing back at you from inside the hurricane.

then—contact. hands. warm, strong, and present.

they close over your shoulders, steady and sure, and shake you—hard and firm. enough to shock the air back into your lungs. enough to break the loop of panic, if only for a second. you blink up through a blur of tears, eyes wide, and see her: hyun-ju.

“hey. look at me.”

she’s lowered in front of you, her face inches from yours, close enough that you can feel her breath against your face, her eyes are locked onto you, fierce and unblinking. they don’t flinch or waver. her voice cuts through the chaos like a wire through fog.

“jagiya,” she whispers. “you can do this. you hear me? right now, in this moment. i need you to stay here. i need you to breathe. don’t think about the time. don’t think about the others. just this.”

you suck in a shaky breath and nod fast. hyun-ju pulls back slowly, her hands sliding from your shoulders like silk. her touch lingers in the warmth she leaves behind. you’re not calm—not even close—but you’re present now. you feel your fingers again, you feel your body return to you.

this time, your hands still tremble, but they move with purpose. you grip the string tighter. pinch the tip of the top. anchor it. you wrap once—tighter. then again—cleaner. you guide the string across the base in a slow, focused spiral.

it holds.

it finally holds.

you adjust your stance, knees still trembling, but upright. the puddle of blood still stains the floor in front of you, dark and wet, you ignore it.

you don’t look at the clock and breathe, then—throw.

a sharp tug, a flick of your wrist. the string uncoils cleanly.

the top spins.

it catches the ground and begins to whirl—a perfect pirouette. it twirls inside the blood, drawing small red circles beneath it like a ritual. you don’t move, don’t blink, the sound of the world falls away. then:

“pass.”

you release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. your knees buckle slightly, and you catch yourself on the table. a sob escapes—part laugh, part gasp, part pure unfiltered release.

the crowd erupts behind you. for once, they cheer without hesitation, not just murmurs but real, human noise. you hear clapping, shouting. you catch glimpses of fists raised high, faces stretched into smiles you never thought you’d see, but there’s no time to bask in it.

you glance up.

00:30

not enough, you’ve wasted too much time, but still you move.

one-two. one-two. one-two.

the chain of your team—yong-sik, geum-ja, young-mi, hyun-ju, and you—moves with a kind of shaky unity. behind you, the other players rise to their feet. they count with you now. the chant echoes like a battle cry:

one-two! one-two! one-two!

for the first time since this hellish trial began, you don’t feel alone. your group rounds the final corner, and the last station comes into view: jjegi.

the game is deceptively soft, gentle in appearance, a children’s pastime wrapped in thin foil and nostalgia. the weight—a tiny pouch of sand or beans wrapped in bright paper—rests on a wooden tray, its frilled metallic ribbons catching the overhead lights and flashing pink and gold.

you know that kind, you used to buy them as a kid, back when the corner stores still kept toys in little plastic bins by the counter. back when life was simple enough that failing to keep a shiny pouch in the air counted as a loss. now? it might mean dying.

the guard stands at the ready, a silent sentinel. he gestures toward the tray, then raises his open palm in front of his mask. the voice cuts through the pa:

“you must kick the jjegi five times.” so, no room for error.

hyun-ju reaches forward and picks up the toy.

she doesn’t hesitate. her face is composed, her mouth set in a tight, unreadable line. but you’re watching closely, and you see it—the slight twitch in her jaw, the micro-hesitation in the way she shifts her weight. her face has changed. gone is the calm commander and something flickers there, deep in the eyes, behind the mask of resolve. you know this look,  you’ve seen it at night, in dressing rooms, in poorly lit bathrooms,  after sex, before sleep… then she turns to face the group.

“please,” she says, quiet but clear. “look away.”

it’s not a command, it’s a request, an ask for kindness. she turns to the crowd and says: “you too. everybody turn.”

geum-ja starts to ask something—probably why—but you don’t let her finish. you place a hand on her shoulders and gently turn her around  and turn too.

you don’t have to. you've seen hyun-ju naked more times than you can count—in your bed, in the shower, tracing her spine, kissing her abs while she cried about hormones that betrayed her. but you turn anyway because this isn’t about nudity, it’s about exposure.

you know what this moment costs her—the simple act of lifting a leg, opening her hips, letting her body be seen. hyun-ju knew it the moment they reached the tray. she didn’t flinch, she’d trained herself not to, but inside? her stomach turned to acid.

as she reached for the weight, closing her fingers around the little object it suddenly felt like a grenade, light and devastating. she turned to the others and your eyes were already on her—soft, trusting, wide. you didn’t say anything, but she saw the moment you understood.

her voice barely made it past her throat: “please look away.”

three words, that’s all, but they felt like swallowing a landmine. 

you silenced geum-ja with a gentle touch. hyun-ju watched you step between her and the question without hesitation. no embarrassment, just instinct and you turned just like everyone else.

for a second, hyun-ju stood alone, and the silence of that moment made the noise inside her unbearable. her heart was a clenched fist, her throat was dry, her sweat pooled beneath the harness of her sports bra, she held the jegi in her hand, staring at the floor.

five kicks. that’s it.

but that wasn’t it, was it?

she’d have to lift her leg, expose her balance and her stance. every slight curve or lack thereof. her thighs under pressure, her hips shifting. the way the joggers pulled across her pelvis if she moved wrong...

don’t think; execute.

she'd barked those words a thousand times in training.

but now she couldn't bark. she could only hope her body wouldn’t betray her now. body dysphoria is a creature that doesn’t make sense. it crawls into your skin when you least expect it. it lives in her bones, waiting for moments like this—moments that should be neutral, but instead become cruel. in a second, her mind had left the arena, she’s not thirty anymore. no, she’s nineteen, in the army. it’s winter, the barracks stank of sweat, foot powder, and cold rust.

hyun-ju (though that wasn’t her name then—not the one they called her, anyway) stood in a line, hands behind her back, spine rigid, chin up. uniform pressed within a millimeter of failure. not because she wanted to be the best, but because mistakes made people look; and if they looked too long, they might see.

the corporal walked past, boots hitting the tile with that cruel rhythm, the kind that only men perform for each other. “chin higher. posture like you’ve got a fucking pole up your ass.”

there was a mirror on the far wall, foggy, rimmed in grime. she tried not to look at it but she always did. the cut of the jaw, the broadness of the shoulders, the flatness of the chest… the wrongness of all of it. her body was a stolen uniform—and not the one she wore. the one she lived in.

after drills, they filed into the showers.

the sound of twenty men laughing and shouting echoed through concrete like it had nowhere else to go. she’d mastered the choreography: undress fast. face the tile. keep her arms close. eyes lower. don’t linger. in, out, invisible.

she’d wrap the towel high, too high for a man. she could sense everyone looked but no one ever said anything, probably because she carried herself with a stillness that warned: don’t ask. she felt like didn’t look like a man but she didn’t look like herself either. she didn’t look like anyone, just a ghost in progress.

she was a fucking machine when she had to be; her posture was textbook,  her marksmanship scored highest in her division. she could scream orders louder than men twice her size.

she was the perfect soldier.

and she learned to love the rules, the steps, the strict choreography of control. it let her survive.

left foot forward. 

right foot back. 

steady the rifle. 

don’t blink. 

don’t think. 

be the weapon.

…

but sometimes, in the seconds before the trigger, she’d imagine a different uniform. not the camo. not the kevlar or the balaklava. something… soft. a white t-shirt, a fitted blazer, a dress, maybe—though she wouldn’t let herself dwell there long. that was dangerous. 

so she pulled the trigger. 

clean. 

no hesitation.

the only place she let herself feel anything was in silence.

when the barracks lights went out and the others snored, when the moonlight painted thin lines across the tiled floor. she’d lie on her back, hands on her stomach, imagining a body that matched the shape of her spirit.

she didn’t have the words for it yet.

but the ache was there.

the longing.

and she made herself a promise—one she never spoke aloud, not even in her mind fully. it existed as a shape behind her ribs:

someday, i’ll come home to myself.

hyun-ju takes a deep breath and took the stance.

raised her leg.

and kicked.

tap.

the jegi fluttered upward, landed clean.

tap.

one more. breath held.

tap.

her balance wavered slightly. she hated that it wavered.

tap.

one more.

please—

tap.

five.

silence.

her chest was heaving—not from exertion, but restraint.

then:

“five! it was five!”

voices behind her. yours, first. yours, always first.

when you turn you see her standing there, jegi on the floor, chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon. her cheeks are red. yong-sik backs you up instantly. “five times. no drops!”

the guard pauses.

then raises his arms in the o-shape.

“pass.”

and that’s it.

the finish line is in sight—maybe twenty meters ahead, a red ribbon being held by two guards. you don’t think, you all move. the whole group bolts—or tries to. the cuffs don’t allow for real speed, but your legs push forward anyway, feet scraping hard against the ground.

one-two. one-two. one-two.

the crowd roars.

this time they’re shouting. screaming in pure euphoria. the voices of dozens of other players lift like a storm behind you, some cheering, some counting, all watching. every footfall echoes louder, every movement sharpened by desperation.

you see the seconds ticking down.

ten. nine.

hyun-ju grabs your arm as you stumble—rights you with one sharp tug. you don’t look at her, but you squeeze her hand hard.

six. five.

geum-ja is slower and you and yong-sik flank her, arms under hers, lifting her just enough that her feet drag over the ground. she doesn’t protest, in fact she’s laughing through her breathless sobs.

three. two.

the line blurs in front of you.

one.

you cross.

and everything explodes. you scream��not words, just the noise of being alive. laughter bursts from your mouth and turns into sobs halfway through. hyun-ju catches you before your knees hit the floor. yong-sik is screaming, punching the air. geum-ja is sobbing openly. young-mi collapses into someone’s arms, maybe yours.

the guards approach and one unbuckles your ankle cuffs and the green gate in front of you opens. you all stumble through, honestly, you don’t even remember your feet moving.

only then do you see the other team, they made it too. two guards with rifles begin escorting your groups, through the red arch, down the colorful staircase, through the winding hallways. 

your hand finds hyun-ju’s without asking and she squeezes back. no words are needed.

[voidster3]

I am Mahmoud Helles, the owner of the donation campaign.The campaign aims to expel my family from Gaza and expel my wife to Egypt due to her serious condition with a kidney injury. Please enter my page and then share .https://gofund.me/53fa2830🌹🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🌹😭

At €21,896 out of €31,000, Mahmoud is very close to reaching his goal. He has been verified by @/nabulsi and is working to raise enough money to evacuate his wife and four children from phalestine. Do not think your contribution means nothing. Food is very expensive in the strip right now, so even €5 means a huge difference to them.

Edit: please ignore the number of notes on the post as Mahmoud is still in need of donations to reach his goal.

[fuctacles]

A tale as old as time

For @subeddieweek Day 7 | M | 2696 | cw: age gap (about 25-30y difference, Eddie's age is not stated, Steve's aligns with canon) | camboy Eddie, transmasc Eddie, kinda sugar daddy Steve?, modern AU, simp Steve, virgin Eddie, chatfic, pre-anything, gray ace Eddie | Ao3 Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 | Ao3

"Hawkins High '86? How old is this guy?" Eddie asks himself, his eyebrows raised. There is a letterman in front of him, a gift from one of his top subscribers. Hell, his top subscriber. His number-one fan, who was responsible for about half of his revenue.

He's opened a PO box recently, with no little amount of worry about what kind of stuff he might get. He only gave the address to his top subscribers but he knew that the ones with the most money were usually the most unhinged. He went to the post office with his heart in his throat but all he got was a set of lingerie, a toy, and the letterman he was now holding.

He tried not to think about what kind of people would pay for his content. As long as he was making money he didn't care. But now he got a piece of one of them in his hands. Staring back.

1986.

Meaning the guy must be nearing 60. Double Eddie's age. 

He tries to imagine that. An older guy, with wrinkles, maybe a beer belly, a gross old t-shirt, and his hand permanently in his sweats, beating it to his photos. 

It was gross. And in a way, alluring.

Though someone with so much money to spend on a camboy must have a well-paying job. Some rich asshole, exploiting others to do the work for him. That's a more likely scenario. He tries not to think about big, rough hands on him when he puts on the jacket and takes pics for Shar.

He edits them a bit before sending them, knowing the guy will get a kick from seeing him in his jacket. The appeal of wearing your boyfriend's letterman eluded him in high school, but being claimed like that gave him a heady feeling. The fact that the guy could be his father apparently worked for him too. 

He doesn't put his phone away fast enough and sees the message that pops up.

Shar: So hot. You look like every repressed teen jock's dream

Shar: Definitely like mine

Eddie thinks a moment about his response, channeling the persona he takes on for the camera. 

PuppetOfMasters: Would I be your dirty secret?

PuppetOfMasters: Would you fuck me in the locker room behind your girlfriend's back?

Shar: I'd make YOU my girlfriend

Shar: Wait no

Shar: NOT LIKE THAT

Shar: A girlfriend but in a manly way

Eddie snorts.

You're good, he types. I know what you mean, don't worry.

He wouldn't keep around someone who didn't respect him. Besides, he made it clear he's saving for a transition with his Only Fans.

Thank god, Shar types. I respect who you are 

Shar: In fact, I spend so much money on you because of it. 

Eddie rolls onto his other side, his mood souring. One of those trans fetishists, then. That's fine, as long as he's being respectful and paying... Even if it leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. 

Ah, a connoisseur! Well, I hope I'm your favorite tranny, then, he jokes. He waits for an answer, but it doesn't come for a long while, so he flips his phone screen down and turns away, hoping for sleep.

A response is waiting for him when he wakes up. 

Shar: I guess it sounded that way, but I'm not that kind of pervert. You're the only trans sex worker I follow, but not the only trans person I've sent money to.

Eddie sauntered to the bathroom, not taking his eyes off his phone. He wonders if continuing the conversation is even the right move. He's talked to one too many guys who thought sending him a dick pick was okay after ten minutes of small talk between a content creator and a fan.

But he's kind of curious. When he has money to spare, he sends some change to other trans folks to help out, because he knows how hard it is from his own experience. But why Shar, a seemingly loaded old guy, would spend his money on queers instead of, let's say, starving children?

PuppetOfMasters: So you're just an ally with cash? Or is there more to it? I'm curious.

He goes through his morning routine, washing his face, and brushing his teeth, not expecting Shar to get back to him any time soon. So he's surprised when he picks his phone back up and a response is waiting.

Shar: Long story short, I hope my father is rolling in his grave while I spend his inheritance on people he hated so much.

That's not what Eddie expected at all. 

PuppetOfMasters: So I'm a means of rebellion against your bigoted dead father? I'll take that. I hate rich assholes

Shar: Me too

They don't talk for the whole day after that, but when Eddie's done running errands and editing in the evening, he looks back at the letterman hanging on the door of his wardrobe. 

How is sending me your letterman an act of rebellion? he asks. Because he's a curious little shit. 

The response comes fast like the guy is glued to his Only Fans chat. Gross. Eddie wonders briefly if he's talking with other sex workers there.

Shar: A souvenir of his precious high school fetishized on a queer ssex worker? He'd die if he hadn't already

So it is a fetish thing! Eddie smiles triumphantly at his phone.

Shar: Okay, fine

Shar: Sticking it to my father is just a bonus for you being really hot. 

Shar: And I do love seeing you in my letterman, I've jerked off to it three times already

Shar: is that what you wanted to hear?

Eddie grins, rolling on his bed.

PuppetOfMasters: Yes 

Shar: So yeah, I'm an old man who peaked in high school, laugh it up

PuppetOfMasters: I'd rather you peaked in me

Shar: Insufferable

Shar: Menace

Shar: Yeah, I'd love that. A man can dream, right?

Eddie bites his lip. How far is too far? The guy seems genuine and after the amount of creeps that's been chatting him up, he thinks his creep radar is quite good. Tentatively, he starts typing.

PuppetOfMasters: I don't know. I think people would like seeing me get railed by an older guy

Shar: An old guy, you mean

Shar: You'd make a video with me?

PuppetOfMasters: I record most of the sex I have, yes

Shar: Huh. I've never seen one before, then

PuppetOfMasters: warm, warmer

Shar: ... There aren't any?

PuppetOfMasters: din ding ding! ya boy is a virgin

Shar: shit

Shar: fuck

Shar: that's so hot

Shar: you'd let me?

PuppetOfMasters: Would I let my best-paying subscriber be my first time on camera? Probably

Not necessarily to be released but he couldn't lose the possibility of such golden content in case it was watchable. 

Shar: I'd better keep my spot then. Just in case.

PuppetOfMasters: No worries, you seem the most trustworthy so far anyway.

But as he types it, a new notification appears. Shar sent him a hefty tip on one of his photos.

PuppetOfMasters: That's really not necessary

PuppetOfMasters: But I hope your father is kicking and screaming in his coffin

Shar: I fucking hope so

----

It takes Eddie another day to google Hawkins High's yearbook photos. He'd thought about it before but didn't want to break the bubble of anonymity between himself and his fan. But the thoughts of big hands on his hips, and beard rubbing against his neck, took root in his brain and were tainting his mind.

Not fully in tune with his body and distrustful of others, Eddie has been single for most of his life. And now his stupid horny brain was drooling at the thought of losing his virginity to a grandpa on the internet. 

Hoping it would help his thoughts calm down, he looks through the photos from the year 1986, in search of a Harrington. And he finds him.

Steve Harrington. Basketball captain and swim team co-captain. His hairdo was magnificent and his smile was self-confident. Eddie would hate him in high school. Should probably hate him now. So he expands his search further, beyond the Hawkins High memory lane.

He finds one single photo on a LinkedIn profile. 

The current Steve Harrington's hair is no less magnificent, just peppered with silver. He wears glasses now, which accentuate the line of his jaw and make his neatly trimmed facial hair pop out. He's wearing a yellow jacket and a white golf, which should be hideous but weirdly, works for him. Eddie doesn't get to see his eyes, unfortunately. The photo looks like a candid photo shoot take-out after someone told him a joke. His head is tilted down, eyes scrunched and lips pulled in a smile, as a bubbling laugh got immortalized on camera.

Eddie shouldn't be finding a sixty-year-old man this endearing. 

PuppetOfMasters: I like your LinkedIn photo

PuppetOfMasters: Well, I hope it's you. 

PuppetOfMasters: Steve, right?

He can't forget about this for the whole day, not as he budgets his income, and especially not when he records a short video jerking off in the shower. He tries not to look at his phone but it's his only one, so he does while trying to budget in a second one, just for sex work. Maybe then he wouldn't be feeling so insane about not getting a response from a stranger who is an old pervert spending loads of money on him. 

He tries to be normal when a chat notification finally pops up. 

Shar: If you saw the golf and yellow jacket photo, that's me

Shar: though please don't make me type my full name in here.

no worries, Eddie types back so fast he should be embarrassed. It's a good photo.

Shar: Thanks. My best friend took it 

PuppetOfMasters: Your friend has a good eye

Shar: I'll let her know

Shar: I'm surprised it took you this long to search me up

Eddie's surprised too. Usually, his curiosity would take over him sooner.

PuppetOfMasters: I tried not to pry. But I had to in case we were gonna meet up one day

Shar: So you were serious?

Shar: I've been wondering if you sweet-talk all your followers like that 

PuppetOfMasters: Only the ones that don't send me dick pics

Shar: I knew holding back would pay off

Eddie snorts at his phone. 

Though I might need one before we meet up, he types. Gotta know what I'm working with

Shar: Right. Of course

Shar: So how would that work?

Eddie hasn't thought about it this far.

PuppetOfMasters: I need to read about OF's policy on collabs. Never had to before, since I work solo. Would probably have to hire you, well, sign a commission/gig contract or something like that. So it's all legal and shit.

Shar, Steve, doesn't answer for a long while, and it might be the end of his devirginizing journey. Well, if the guy doesn't want to make this legal, put his name on some paperwork, then he isn't trustworthy, and that's the end of it.

It's half an hour later and Eddie's bitten all his nails off trying not to follow up with any messages and focus on anything else when an answer finally comes.

Shar: Sorry my friend was bothering me

Shar: this sounds more complicated than I anticipated. So I would be like, a co-creator, then?

PuppetOfMasters: Precisely

Shar: Holy shit okay

Shar: Thought I'd be you know, less involved

Though you could hit it and quit it, huh? Eddie scrunched his nose. What was he getting himself into? Gods.

Shar: If that's what you wanted I'd take it

Eddie shouldn't be blushing over this one. It's like he's throwing the man scraps and he's licking them up.

PuppetOfMasters: Simp

Shar: I am what I am

Shar: With that said, I'm willing to make it work. Do all the paperwork you need

PuppetOfMasters: Doing paperwork just to fuck me? so romantic

Shar: I suck at paperwork so my friend would be doing it anyway

Shar: If that's okay

PuppetOfMasters: I think it's best if someone looks it over, yeah

Eddie hesitates for a moment.

PuppetOfMasters: That friend doesn't happen to be your wife?

Fuck no, comes the immediate response

Shar: I'm perpetually single and she's as gay as they come. 

PuppetOfMasters: Good. Wouldn't want to be the other girl

Shar: If I had the chance you'd be the only one

PuppetOfMasters: Jesus.

Eddie squeezes his legs together unconsciously.

PuppetOfMasters: Stop sweet talking me, I've already agreed to fuck

Shar: But we haven't signed anything yet. Even then, I'll keep sweet-talking you. It's what you deserve. 

For the first time, Eddie thinks he might not survive their meeting. And not because of the possible killer scenario. Thankfully, Steve gets back to business talk.

Shar: How would this work, legal stuff aside? Do you script this?

PuppetOfMasters: Do I look like I script shit?

Shar: I'm not the one with Only Fans

PuppetOfMasters: Fair. I think we could just set up cameras and do whatever we feel like. Then decide together if the footage will be released or not. 

Shar: Sounds reasonable

Shar:When would you want to do this?

When?

Eddie hasn't thought that far. In fact, he felt like he hadn't been thinking for the past couple of days. 

I'm the sole god of my schedule so I'm open to anything, he types evasively.

Shar: I have some time off next month, could fly to wherever you need me

Next month seemed close. Extremely close. Or maybe it wasn't? He never worked with anyone before. Hell, he didn't even have that many friends to meet up with. 

Next month works I guess, he answers despite his nerves.

Shar: Wanna face time before we start the legal work?

His nerves escalate, making his mouth dry. He reminds himself he's done this before, he's on camera all the time. 

PuppetOfMasters: Like, right now?

Shar: Yeah?

PuppetOfMasters: Ok, give me five minutes.

Eddie shoots up, checks himself in the mirror, and finds a good angle for his phone to set up. He lowkey hopes Steve picks up with his dick in the frame so Eddie can block him with a clear conscience and forget about the whole thing. When six minutes from his last message pass, he hits 'call'.

"Hi," Eddie squeaks when the video connects. Steve Harrington's arms are in the frame, crossed on the desk, and toned where he's leaning on them.

"Hi," he greets him with a dazzling smile. 

It is the guy from the photo, so at least he's not being catfished. And he has none of the creepy simp energy Eddie feared. He's just... a guy. It's both a relief and a disappointment. 

"Well?" the guy asks.

"Well, what?" Eddie frowns. 

"Are you disappointed? Am I too old?"

Eddie looks at him properly. His hair is lighter on the sides, but not grey yet, and the video quality doesn't make any wrinkles stand out to him. Maybe some worry lines, crow's feet if he squints. He looks like he keeps in shape, too. Eddie wouldn't call him old. Mature, maybe. A DILF slowly transforming into a Silver Fox. 

"You look fine. Good. You look good. Attractive," Eddie fumbles with his words and barely stops himself from facepalming. This is why he mostly texts.

Steve smirks at him. And holy shit, a dude twice his age smirking at him shouldn't be doing things to his body.

"You sure? You're not gonna block me after we hang up, are you?"

Eddie shakes his head.

"I stand by our plans. You're passing my creep radar so far, but uh..." He scratches his cheek nervously. "I'd like to keep in touch in case, you know. A red flag pops up. I hope you get it."

Steve nods, his expression growing serious.

"Absolutely. We're strangers, after all."

"Yeah." Eddie nods, relieved. It would give him ample time and opportunities to back out.

On the screen, Steve leans more on his arms, closer to the camera. 

"So I think dick assessment is next on the checklist?"

Eddie might not even survive video calls with this guy, after all. 

[it-happened-one-fic]

Together - Azul

Summary: This has been sitting and gathering dust in my google docs for so long. I finally decided it was time to pull it out and post it just a couple of days ago though. I wrote and edited this piece while listening to the song "Love Somebody" by Maroon 5. As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-neutral reader/ fluff with angst/ pining/ comfort/ sfw/ romance

Word Count: 1554

I inhaled slowly and deeply, balancing myself and forcing myself to return to the reality of the moment I was in. 

It didn’t matter how much I wanted to return home or how much I wondered what might happen if I couldn’t return home. 

It also didn’t matter how much I simultaneously feared being abandoned by my small group of friends after we finished school or how hollow I felt right now. What mattered was this present moment.

I glanced over at the man next to me, letting myself observe him and his methodical motions as a way to stabilize myself. 

Azul was shuffling, stacking, and scanning through an unholy number of documents. Something to do with being housewarden and running the Mostro Lounge.

I tilted my head as I watched him through my peripheral vision. Both his brow and nose wrinkled slightly as he read something he didn’t like, and I felt myself smile even despite my current mood.

I didn’t know when I’d gotten close to Azul, but… it had happened. And he was my friend now. 

I was fairly certain that it was a fact that had my other friends questioning my sanity. Even Riddle had voiced some concerns about Azul’s nature. Scheming was the word he used, I believed.

I distantly heard Azul clear his throat, and I snapped back to reality in time to see him staring at me awkwardly, “Y/n… You’re staring.”

I jerked, leaning back out of the relaxed position I’d just been in with my chin propped on a supporting hand as I’d watched him, “Sorry! I just zoned out.”

Azul frowned, laying down the sheet of paper he’d been holding as he twisted to better look at me, “And you’ve been doing that all day. Is everything alright?”

I smiled slightly, amused that he seemed so genuinely concerned when I'd just been thinking about my friend's warnings of his duplicitous nature, “I’m fine, just a little tired, I guess.”

He hummed, standing and collecting his coat in one smooth motion as he spoke, “Then perhaps I should walk you home for the evening. Can’t have you wandering around in a daze after all.”

He finished with a slight chuckle, but I reacted faster than my brain could process my motions. My hands clamped down on his arm, stopping his motions and causing him to look at me in startled confusion. 

Confusion that was mirrored in my own thoughts. I hadn’t realized I’d be that desperate to stop him even though I’d already known that I really didn’t want to be alone right this instant. I faltered, though, as I attempted to explain my actions, “I, uh, want to stay for a bit longer.”

His eyebrows rose incredulously, and I faltered even further as he frowned. His hand found mine, gently loosening its grasp on his arm and holding it in his own as he knelt in front of me.

I almost wanted to lean back as he held eye contact with me, concern shining in those eyes that were practically the color of a pale winter sky, “Y/n, what on earth is the matter?”

I pulled my hand out of his, locking both my hands together and laying them in my lap. I attempted a smile, wishing that hollow feeling had just been allowed to fade into oblivion without him noticing. “Nothing, Azul. I’m fine, really, just a little out of it.”

He sighed but didn’t move as he lowered his head slightly, his face now hidden by the brim of his hat, “I’m aware that I am not always the most comforting individual, but you can always talk to me.” He raised his head, looking at me with a unique determination in his eyes that promised he wasn’t giving up and wasn’t just going to let this go easily.

And that was how I knew he wasn’t just ‘scheming’ or ‘duplicitous,’ though those words certainly could be applied to him.

Azul was someone who did indeed love his little plots but would also drop everything to help someone that he cared about when it was necessary. Because outside of Jade, Floyd, and Idia, Azul didn’t seem to have many people that he viewed as friends. Much less those that he would open up to. 

He was even a little bit in denial about his friendship with the twins.

Which was why the fact that I was one of the people he cared about enough to help, and even acknowledged it himself, was beyond touching.

I held his gaze, forcing myself to build confidence and talk to him. I didn’t want to open up about my fears, but… I needed to. Especially if I was worrying those close to me. 

“I was just thinking about the future,” My voice came out soft, but he nodded. His expression carefully controlled as he listened to me. 

I smiled slightly at the position he was in, kneeling in front of me with his hands resting easily on my knees as I continued, “I think I’m just afraid of what will come. The uncertainty of everything.”

He smiled at my confession and nodded, “As am I. I often wonder what will happen to us in the future. Whether you and I will stay in close contact or….”

He trailed off, a bitter frown crossing his face as he looked away, and I felt my smile turn sad, “Or if I’ll return home?”

He jolted at my quiet question, meeting my gaze with wide eyes, and I lifted one shoulder, not surprised by his concerns since I shared them, “So do I.”

I watched him droop slightly at my words, and I frowned, leaning forward to get a better look at him, “Azul?” 

His eyes flicked back up to mine once more, and he looked… ashamed?

“Can I be honest with you?” I blinked in surprise at his restrained tone but nodded. Azul could get emotional sometimes, but he typically didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him. He usually preferred to hide away in his octo-pot, out of sight and safe in the darkness where no one could see him or his emotions.

In fact, it was amusingly hypocritical of him to push me to talk to him.

He inhaled steadily and started, “I don’t entirely know what to do here. I want to comfort you, but…. Well, you’re no fool; I’m sure you know how greedy I can be.”

I felt my eyebrows raise at his words, but I forced myself to stay silent, watching as he started to nervously toy with my fingers.

 “I want you to be happy, even if that means you leaving and returning to wherever it is you come from, but…. But I also want you to stay here…with me.”

I felt myself starting to smile, half-shocked but also incredibly touched by his words as he lifted his head. Meeting my stare with an unsure smile and slightly wet eyes, “I really didn’t think I would get this attached to you, Y/n.” 

I felt my lips part slightly in shock, but he didn’t give me a chance to answer. Instead, he forged ahead. Almost like he was unable or too afraid to stop now, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this out of control. I knew when I let myself fall for you I’d never recover, but I let it happen anyway. And now that I know I could lose you, I don’t know what to do.”

My voice wavered when I started to try and answer him, “Azul-”

He didn’t let me answer, continuing, almost desperately, “I know I’m not the best man, and I’m sure you’ve been told that by numerous people, but… I think I can improve. I’ve already started doing better because of you. Because of what you’ve shown me. I think-”

“Azul, it’s fine,” I cut him off, grasping his hands in mine. He stared at me wide eyed, as I continued, smiling down at him as I spoke and squeezing his hands slightly.

“It’s fine if you’re scared, and don’t you dare start thinking you aren’t worthy of me or my time. I love you, and I am staying with you right here and right now with you, the way you are in this instant. If you want to change, then you can, but don’t ever feel like you have to. Definitely not for me. If you want to change, do it for yourself.”

I rubbed my thumb across his hands, feeling myself relax as I comforted him, “I don’t know what the future will bring, but….” I paused, laughing breathlessly at both myself and him, “ I think we can figure it out. Together.”

A wobbly smile made its way across his face at my words, and he let out a relieved, wheezy laugh, “So you weren’t saying you were going to leave?”

I shook my head, smiling down at the young man in front of me, wondering how I could have felt so alone when he was right here with me, “No.” 

I leaned forward, letting him wrap his arms around me in a tight hug filled with his relief as I hugged him in response.

It was true, though; I didn’t know what the future held, but with him I could figure it out.

[sophieinwonderland]

r/systemscringe with DID disinformation and the most despicable takes...

Let's jump into it!

Now, before I share the screenshot of what u/Competitive_Watch121 is complaining about, I want you to take that little nugget about the the system they know "somehow throwing their parents under the bus" and tuck it away for now. That's going to be important later!

To be completely fair, I can see that there are absolutely valid criticisms of how this was written. It comes off as very amateurish. I support them raising awareness of plurality and DID, but yeah... maybe edit it a bit better.

And I think u/frost_squash733 makes a sort of good point about OSDD-1b not technically being an official disorder, but I want to add a bit more nuance to this...

What's said above is mostly true. I would argue the subtypes still kind of exist though. They just aren't labeled as such. Here's the DSM-5:

These are not labeled as 1a and 1b, but OSDD-1 still encompasses both types. And it's just easier to say that you have OSDD-1b than to say "I have the variant of OSDD-1 with distinct alters and no amnesia."

I think it's important to remind people when you can that these aren't clinical terms. But they are still useful terms for differentiating between different presentations.

No! Please don't u/acceptable-box4996! I can count the number of times something intelligent and valuable has come out of your mouth on a closed fist!

I promise you that you aren't going to say anything intelligent this time either, and would highly advise you stop trying!

Even the diagnosed ones are faking! 🙄

Do you know just how ARROGANT you have to be to claim that not only are these strangers you don't know faking, not only do you know their mental state better than they know themselves, but you also have a better understanding of their mental state than the psychologists who are educated in the matter and have actually worked directly with the people in question to diagnose them.

There is something to be said of the sheer ego in making such a claim.

Especially when spreading active disinformation. Because "system" originated from the medical community.

Seriously. Just look up "system of alters" on Google Scholar and click some links. It's not hard to find!

And yes, people DID do refer to themselves using "we" pronouns too.

Here's one from a case study back in 1964.

This was before TikTok. It was before the system community formed online in the 90s. It was before the explosion of cases in the 80s. This was during a period where there were only about a hundred cases recognized worldwide.

DID systems have always talked like this!

What are you talking about???

This is completely wrong. DID treatment recommends building relationships between the parts. MANY articles talk about this, but here's a favorite of mine that discusses applying DID treatment to other types of voice hearing.

Notice that listening to the other parts is a key aspect of this treatment!

Ignoring what parts are saying worsens dissociative barriers!

You are supposed to talk to them. To validate them. To build connection!

Saying that treatment just focuses on the trauma and not the parts is misinformation.

And it's dangerous misinformation that will get people killed!

While the article has some minor inaccuracies, it's overall far more accurate than what you're claiming in this comment. I would be much more concerned about people believing you and others on your hatesub, because you clearly have no idea what you're talking about while pretending to be experts and spitting lies that are completely contrary to reality and go against real treatment strategies used by experts!

And here (un)Acceptable-Box, whose own post was filled with dangerous lies, ends by recommending trying to get the DID awareness article taken down!

Yikes!

Yes, u/kosherginger, that about sums my thoughts up about (un)Acceptable-Box's post.

But somehow, it's still not as much as I want to smack the OP who I've been saving for last.

Haha... yeah... system oppression is just being grounded from VR Chat... /s

But seriously, I have a hard time believing that even this hate sub is THAT stupid!

Like surely, at a certain level, they HAVE to know that DID is a heavily stigmatized disorder. That there's a long history of fakeclaiming systems. Including accused child molesters like the False Memory Syndrome Foundation leading smear campaigns against their accusers to claim the accusers were making up their memories of abuse.

People with DID are treated as if they're crazy. They're dehumanized. Being 'out' with DID endangers your personal relationships. It endangers your career.

Beyond the typical ableism, alters of different genders tend to suffer the same type of oppression as trans people do, enduring the exact same stigma when they front and want to identify by their own name and gender identity. And sometimes having DID can make it more difficult to get gender-affirming care if you are a trans system.

When you tell me that people with DID aren't oppressed... I just have a hard time believing that even you could be that obtuse.

Now... remember that thing about the DID system "throwing their parents under the bus" that I told you all to tuck away at the beginning??? Well, now it's finally time to pull it out! Because we're about to get a huge piece of context!

Yeah! That's right!

The parents that u/Competitive_Watch121 defended in the first post because they "pay their kid's car insurance" were queerphobic pieces of shit, who kicked out their 14-year-old child for being queer!

And I mean, good for you, I guess, for taking in the kid. 🤷‍♀️

This whole thing gives heavy abuser vibes.

Like, legitimate abusers.

Normal, well-adjusted parents don't kick out their 14-year-old children for being queer. And it's well-known that DID often comes from childhood trauma. That alone makes me wonder what happened prior to them being kicked out.

I've only heard this one side of the story, but it paints a picture doesn't it?

A child is abused growing up and develops DID. Their parents, presumably religious conservatives, kick them out at 14 for being queer. The child is sent to live with other abusers who defend the queerphobic parents and fakeclaim the kid's DID.

I'm going to assume here that it wasn't JUST the DID being fakeclaimed either, but whatever abuse led to it. You can see that in how they accuse the child of "throwing their parents under the bus" while KNOWING their parents, at the very least, kicked them out for being queer. Of course if the child reported being abused, they would deny that too.

"Think of the poor innocent parents saddled with such an unruly and ungrateful queer child who tells nothing but lies about them." 🤮

And I'm sure they are helping pay for their kid's insurance. Because what better way for abusers to make sure that their secrets stay secret and their reputations stay intact that maintaining some financial control over their child into adulthood?

Abusers love to financially support their grown children because the money is a leash and a muzzle. It's something they can hold over them to maintain power and control.

It's not something done out of the kindness of their hearts. If they loved their child, they wouldn't have kicked them out for being queer.

Do you know what I think u/Competitive_Watch121? You were not "made a villain." You are the villain. You are a monster. At the very least, you defend despicable monsters who would kick out a 14-year-old child for being queer while portraying the parents as the victims.

That alone would be monstrous and indefensible!

But I would be willing to bet you've defended the parents from far worse than you've been willing to talk about in these posts.

And THEN you have the nerve to go and publicly mock this system online!

You, u/Competitive_Watch121, are a horrible piece of garbage! Shame on you!

[lesbianalanwake]

Severance S2E3..... I'm chewing through drywall:

-- Natalie referred to the Board as "it"..... it? it??

-- speaking of that: Natalie? are you good?? how literal is the concept of speaking for the Board? Natalie??

-- Milchick packing away the box of paintings (and it doesn't quite fit.... girl....), and Cobel driving away from Helena's invitation to speak to the Board (sleeping in her car.... where is she driving to)..... obsessed with them and everything they do, actually. enemy of my enemy please god 🙏

-- Devon and Gretchen meeting the innie version of someone they love, and seeing how innocent/lost/earnest that person is, how they echo the person they know but less closed off and worn down..... Devon's face when she said Mark's a good egg, and Gretchen's face when Dylan G said he would make her proud..... oh I'm chewing through drywall AND glass. (the stark contrast to the contempt that Helena's father shows towards Helly..... ough)

-- the unhinged conversations between Cobel and Helena..... careful flat affect and measured tone while simmering with cold rage. makes me wonder if it's a "raised by Lumon" thing, which makes me wonder about Miss Huang and her impassive mannerisms..... Miss Huang get behind me. Dylan worrying about her.... 😢

-- Dr. Asal Reghabi's first in-person appearance: beat a man to death with a bat. Dr. Asal Reghabi's second in-person appearance: unsevered Mark's brain. what WILL she do next. how long did she work for Lumon? going to make a tentative guess that it might have been for quite some time, because she's got those funky off-putting ways of saying things, but she emotes a bit more than, say, Cobel. so maybe more of a Milchick type

-- Lumon wanting to edit Ricken's book.... trying to absorb and rewrite every part of the narrative in order to control it. a dumb out of touch self-help book, but it meant something in an environment stripped of most anything else, just like Miss Casey's "wellness" sessions meant something to the goat people. scraps of some kind of meaning, and now getting twisted and taken away. I am actually sick in the head over it

-- we have GOT to get a copy of The Body Keeps The Score down there to them next

-- that has to be Helena because 1) we don't spend time with her that isn't driven by another character, and 2) Irving's instincts. and girl must have studied the security footage closely because she's got a lot of Helly's mannerisms.... but not all of them, and so much of what she does is stilted or subdued. even the register of her voice isn't quite right. studying Britt Lower's microexpressions and body language under a microscope like who ARE you

-- Reghabi talking about 5 brain waves while the macrodata files emphasize the number 4..... chewing thoughtfully on it..... the input survey also has 5 questions. is this anything

-- also pondering how Reghabi says the only way for Mark to get information in and out of the severed floor is through reintegration. locked down tight with code detectors, and an afterimage is too ephemeral, but information is encoded within the brain, and that can't be locked down so tightly despite every effort to control it.... you carry it with you.... the body keeps the score

[thecreaturecodex]

Xytar

"Tiger Lizard Creature" detail © Paul Perada, accessed at his ArtStation here.

[My last foray into the Creature Catalogue for now. The xytar appears in both editions of that book, as well as in the Mystara Monstrous Compendium. But neither of the art pieces it got in the Catalogue are very good, and it's not illustrated in AD&D at all, being lumped into the entry on lizards. In the Creature Catalogue, it talks about them being used as mounts by the sis'thik, which is that book's take on stronger, desert-dwelling lizardfolk. I already have one of those, the ssurrans from Dark Sun, so moved that relationship over. ]

Xytar CR 3 N Magical Beast This creature has orange and black scales and a head like a monitor lizard. It has six legs and holds its body off the ground, and its teeth are clearly those of a predator.

Xytars are fire-breathing carnivorous reptiles found in desert regions. Some scholars suggest xytars have a relationship to dragons, basilisks or both. They feed on a wide variety of different prey, from small morsels like hares and lizards all the way up to antelope, camels and horses. Their social structure is flexible in order to accommodate their harsh environment; when prey is scarce, xytars live and hunt alone, but thy come together in large numbers when food is more common. The presence of a caravan of men and horses may attract xytars from miles around, the lizard-like beasts following at a distance, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Xytars ignore any environmental heat less than a lava flow, and so often attack during the full of the day. When fighting in a pack, they are not especially coordinated, but tend to gang up on the largest, and therefore most nourishing, targets. Xytars use their breath weapons in battle as often as possible, as they like their meat well charred, and do not especially care to avoid other members of their own species. A xytar’s internal fires spark one last time when the creature is critically injured, granting them one last breath weapon as they fall.

Xytar packs typically only contain healthy adults, as juveniles and badly injured members may find themselves becoming prey. Xytars lay their eggs buried in the sand and well-hidden, abandoning them to their own devices. Xytars can be trained as guard animals and even mounts if they are raised from an early age. Ssurrans especially covet xytar mounts, and ssurran bands mounted on xytars are some of the most successful and terrible of all their raiding parties.

Xytar CR 3 XP 800 N Large magical beast Init +5; Senses darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +7, scent

Defense AC 15, touch 10, flat-footed 14 (-1 size, +1 Dex, +5 natural) hp 32 (5d10+5) Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +2; +4 vs. fire Resist fire 10 Defensive Abilities heatproof

Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee bite +6 (1d10+3) Space 10 ft.; Reach 5 ft. Special Attacks breath weapon (20 ft. cone, 3d6 fire, 1d4 rounds, Ref DC 13), dying breath

Statistics Str 15, Dex 13, Con 12, Int 2, Wis 13, Cha 8 Base Atk +5; CMB +8; CMD 19(27 vs trip) Feats Endurance, Improved Initiative, Nimble Moves Skills Perception +7, Survival +3 (+7 following tracks); Racial Modifiers +4 Survival following tracks

Ecology Environment warm deserts Organization solitary, pair or pack (3-12) Treasure none

Special Abilities Dying Breath (Su) When a xytar is hit with an attack that will reduce it to -1 hit points or below, it can use its breath weapon as an immediate action, even if it has not recharged. A xytar can only use this ability once per day, even if it is healed and then reduced to dying again. Heatproof (Ex) A xytar gains a +4 racial bonus to saving throws against fire effects.

[allpiesforourown]

Can I ask from this ask game for BingYuan (all of the questions)? Thanks 🧁

https://www.tumblr.com/comingfromastatechampionasshole/119898100247?source=share

Send me a ship and a number and I'll tell you

1. Which one is the better cook

Binghe 100%. Shen Yuan was a spoiled rich kid and after Binghe fell into the abyss he just stopped eating... there's no way he knows how to toast bread

2. What their love letters look like

Love letters imply they're ever far enough to need to send each other letters... at most they'll be long texts Binghe sends rambling about how much he wuvs his hubby and would rather be at home than his stupid job as King 🙄 and Shen Yuan blushes and replies "Focus on work Binghe..." Then he waits for Binghe to get home and whine that sy was so cold to him so he can apologize with smooches

3. Which one outlives the other, and how they cope

I mean . We know how this goes. Corpse cuddles and trying to raise the dead

4.What they do on date night

Since Binghe is a hopeless romantic who never thought anyone would love him, I think he'd want to do stereotypically romantic and basic dates. They go to an ice rink and hold hands while they skate and he's vibrating with joy because he's living out his hallmark fantasies. Shen Yuan indulges him sooo much.. too much. He got a cold but it was worth it seeing Binghe's happy face

5. How many kids they'll have

I'm gonna say... two. One is through breeding kink gone too far, second is them seeing an orphan boy who reminds them so much of Binghe as a child and deciding they have to adopt him immediately

6. How they decorated their bedroom

Elegant and slightly minimalist. Shen Yuan has all his merch hidden away in his childhood bedroom at his parents house because he's thin faced... they stay over one night and Shen Yuan completely forgets his old room is a haven of his weeb shit and is mortified when Binghe sees his limited edition poster of a hunky male character naked holding a sword.

7 Which one is the worse driver

Shen Yuan by far... same reason as his cooking, he probably had a driver take him everywhere until Binghe showed up

8. What they argue about

9. Which one swears more

Shen Yuan by a landslide. Binghe is a very intelligent and well read man and while the same holds true for Shen Yuan, if he goes 2 minutes without calling Airplane a dumfuck authour it's worrying

10. What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other

Theyll watch anything together, even stuff they dont like so Binghe can listen to him rant about how much it sucks. Shen Yuan hides PIDW and all his other porn-for-plot interests but Binghe knows about them.

11. What their first impression was of each other

Shen Yuan impression of Binghe: beautiful and strong man

Binghe’s first impression of Shen Yuan: beautiful and kind man

(This never changes)

12. What they do for their anniversary

Regrets of Chunshan role-playing baby!!

13. Which makes a bigger deal of birthdays

Hmm. I'm gonna have to say both. Binghe cooks a feast and Shen Yuan dotes on him and fulfills any wish Binghe has.

14. What nicknames they call each other

Binghe: yuan-gege or laoshi

Shen Yuan: Bingmei (in his head only, he's too embarrassed to say it)

15. What they would change about each

If you ask them, Shen Yuan would say Binghe should have a smaller pillar... this is a lie. He can't go back to normal after getting used to Binghe stretching him so wide