#whatever whatever whatever. i should go work on stuff (<- is about to go look at dolls some more)

[7spaceace7]

“I didn’t know you played regular guitar, too.”

Eddie’s lip quirks up in amusement as his fingers brush against the well-worn letters painted on the smooth wood of his first love. Although, it might be time for a touch up—it’s looking less like slays and more like lays.

“Regular? You mean acoustic?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, acoustic, whatever,” He says like it’s obvious that’s what he meant, and obviously Eddie should know because Steve imagines he knows everything about guitars compared to him. “I thought you just played rock and metal stuff.”

“Au contraire, Stevie Wonder,” Eddie grins at him, “This baby can rock just as well as anything else.”

And then Steve laughs. Actually laughs at Eddie’s stupid joke. Eddie’s fingers pluck a string completely out of tune, and his heart is sputtering a mile a minute from staring at the way Steve’s mouth falls open from the most adorable sound he’s possibly ever heard.

“Stevie Wonder? Really?”

And because he’s also an idiot, the metalhead’s response can only be described as an undignified scoff.

“What, you know him, but not Ozzy?” He hopes Steve still remembers their conversation from the Upside Down where this was even relevant. Mostly he hopes that it just isn’t obvious how Eddie hangs onto every word they’ve ever shared.

Still chuckling a bit, Steve shakes his head. “I told you, man, I’m not much of a music guy. The stuff I listen to probably isn’t your style. It’s more 70s.”

This guy was going to make Eddie’s brains fall out.

“Are you kidding? Black Sabbath was also 70s, Ozzy left in ‘79, their fame was totally 70s, man!”

Steve just shrugs. “Well, maybe I’m just not much of your type of music guy, then,” Eddie pokes him in the ribs for his transgressions, “Hey!”

He returns to tuning his guitar like nothing happened. “Not much of my kinda music guy yet, Harrington. That’s the key word there.” He flashes Steve’s skeptical expression a classic Munson smile. He can do this. Steve’s adorable mouth be damned. “If we’re going to be any kind of acquaintances, associates, dare I say even friends—“

Eddie plucks the E string this time. It resounds the proper note.

“—then you’ll be getting a full musical education. Mandatory, no refunds or exceptions, although I do accept tips.” Eddie winks.

“Uh huh, I bet you do,” Steve’s brown eyes are surely getting a workout, and that just makes the curly-haired boy grin wider.

The charms work, and once more it’s just casual banter between them. Nothing more. Obviously.

But Eddie misses the way Steve’s cheeks turn pink when he looks away.

[cainrising]

propt list #3 the theatre au with choscar???? those boys are built for the stage

prompt 3: theatre AU where one character is trying to goad the other character out of the bathroom and onto the stage from where they are crying in the bathroom because they're on in 5.

I didn't edit this as harshly as I usually do w my stuff, so I'm sorry some bits are rushed and weirdly paced. I know next to nothing abt theatre so 😭 ntm on me

here's 3.6k of sound tech oscar & lead actor charles ^^

“Where the fuck is Charles?” Max is demanding, as Oscar rounds the corner. “Fucking—we’re on in fifteen and nobody has seen him?!”

“He was getting changed, I don’t know,” Lando says defensively, hurriedly shrugging on his waistcoat. “Mate, I’ve got to—Carlos! Carlos, have you seen my script? Carlos!”

Frazzled, Carlos almost gets his eye poked out by a makeup brush when he turns, then nearly trips over an intern, who looks seconds away from bursting into tears. “How many times have I been telling you to keep it in your pocket, Lando,” Carlos scolds. A cloud of powder bursts, and about five people fall into coughing fits. Carlos screws his face up, turning back with a foul twist to his mouth, but the makeup girl has already fled to pursue her next victim—poor, unsuspecting Kimi.

Oscar pushes his hair back off his sweaty forehead, and for the fifteenth time this hour, he thanks his lucky stars he’s only working Sound. Max looks like he’s about to brain someone with his clipboard, Ollie is hyperventilating under the prop table, and apparently Charles, their leading man, has fucked off to Timbuktu. It’ll be a miracle if Oscar makes it out of this without grey hairs.

“Oscar!”

Christ, Oscar thinks, and pulls his headset to the side. Not that he really needs to. His mum probably heard Max back in Melbourne.

“Yeah?”

If stress had a picture in the dictionary, it would be Max.

“Are you busy?” Max bulldozes on, “I need—fucking Charles! He’s waltzed off, and curtains are up in—” he jerkily consults his watch, and his eyes go wide and despairing. “Fuck!”

“You want me to, uh,” Oscar, for some stupid reason, looks around, like Max could be talking to someone else. “I mean, wouldn’t Pierre—?”

“No!” Max snaps, whirling around, to where Yuki is lounging on the stage apparatus. “Yuki! If you fall from there—”

He storms off in a cloud of furious anxiety, and Oscar sighs. He never should have allowed Logan to convince him this would be fun. He’s sweating in places no man should sweat. He’s ninety perfect stage glitter. He’s got a raging headache, and it’s not even six thirty. This? This is not fun. 

“Don’t just stand there!” Max yells, face red, Yuki thrown over his shoulder. Pierre has his phone out, recording. God, Oscar does not want to know. “We’re on in fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen!”

Oscar closes his eyes, dumps his headset on the stack of chairs tucked in the corner, and goes to find Charles.

--

He checks the dressing rooms first. They’re closest to the stage, in a little deserted corridor, where the air is much cooler, free of the chemical stench of hairspray. Oscar takes his first breath free of rancid floral perfume and knocks twice on the door. Pushes it open.

“Er.”

“Oscar!” Alex says shrilly,

Slowly, Oscar glances down, where George’s shirt is chucked. The room is a right state, feathers flung everywhere, tins and bottles of fuck knows what uncapped over the counter, lipstick smeared over the mirrors. It’s what the house looked like when Hattie had her first date. Oscar’s never really forgiven her for smearing eyeliner on his favourite shirt.

Staring at the floor inevitably leads him back to Alex’s bare ankles, then Alex’s bare legs, then Alex’s—

Politely, Oscar averts his eyes. George makes a sound like a drowned cat.

Eyes on the prize. Not—whatever this is. “Have either of you seen Charles?”

“Charles?” Alex repeats weakly. “Oscar. Are you serious?”

Right. Bit of a stupid question, really. Only thing Alex has seen recently is George’s tonsils.

“Sorry,” Oscar drums his fingers against the doorframe. “Er. I would say carry on, but, like…”

“Mate,” George finds his voice, crimson all the way down his chest. His naked chest. Because his shirt is on the floor. With Alex’s trousers. “Can you get out?”

--

“Charles?” Liam frowns, or, well. Oscar thinks he’s frowning. Hard to tell over the stack of boxes towering over him, and, subsequently, his face. “Nah, mate. Haven’t seen him. D’you mind—?”

“Oh—” Oscar steps out the way, and Liam grunts his thanks. “Sorry. Do you know where he might be?”

He doesn’t fancy being guillotined today, which is probably the fate that awaits him if he returns to Max empty handed. It’s looking more and more likely, though, the more rooms Oscar pokes his head into, only to find them distressingly absent of Charles.

How many places are there for someone like Charles to hide? Oscar has never seen him without an entourage loudly announcing his presence for all the building to hear, or one of his fifteen hefty instrument cases, or his ten million rattling keychains. You can hear Charles coming from the other side of campus—quite literally. But with Oscar’s life literally dangling in the balance, magically, Charles is nowhere to be found.

“The café, maybe?” Liam suggests, distracted. “I don’t know. Saw a few of the extras coming back from there. He might have gone with them, you know what Charles is like.”

Indeed, Oscar knows what Charles is like. A breeze, maybe, or a windchime. There one minute, gone the next; chasing the next daydream, as all the artsy types are wont to do.

To Oscar, who lives his life amongst zeros and ones, Charles could not be more of an antithesis.

“Thanks!” he calls after Liam’s strained back.

Liam lets go of his stack to stick his thumb up, and Oscar is halfway down the corridor when he hears a catastrophic crash, and a fervent, loud curse.

He winces and hurries down the corridor.

--

He doesn’t find Charles in the café, but Oscar does pilfer a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and that’s pretty good, too. Logan only stocks Monster—‘doesn’t believe’ in coffee—so Oscar has been cut off from his source of sweet, disgusting, real caffeine for weeks. Honestly, as he peers into the coatroom, Oscar thinks it might be worth getting flayed alive for this. Silver linings, and whatnot.

Mark, his student advisor, would weep with joy at his newfound optimistic streak.

As Oscar sets his empty cup on the carpet and reaches for the bathroom door, it swings open on him. Franco nods in greeting, in full costume. Never in Oscar’s life has he ever seen a tie knotted that sloppily. And are those—hickeys?

“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” Franco grimaces. Lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “Someone is having a, uhhh…” He twirls a finger by his temple and whistles. Stares at Oscar expectantly.

“Um,” Oscar says.

“Yes,” Franco nods, “So. Break his leg, or whatever the saying is.”

He proceeds to pat Oscar on the shoulder and stroll leisurely away. His shirt is untucked at the waistband. Oscar considers the absurd state of his life. And of his bladder, because he really needs a piss, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with a mental breakdown, and really, none of this would be happening without Logan. This is all his fault. Oscar will be sure to tell Max that, when he’s forced to turn up with his tail between his legs and without the star of the show. Surely, Max will understand.

Max will not understand, Oscar thinks with dread. Max is an easy-going guy usually, but not when it comes to theatre. He runs the club like the damn navy SEALs. Rumours say he kicked Lewis Hamilton out of his own play for being three seconds late to dress rehearsal. Oscar is so dead, it isn’t even funny.

With a deep breath, arming for war, Oscar pushes open the door and slips inside, and it’s—quiet. Nobody is wailing. It’s just a normal bathroom. If the far stall door wasn’t closed, Oscar would have had no idea someone else was here at all.

Warily, he approaches the urinal. Why he’s bracing for someone or something to leap out of the stall and eat him, he isn’t sure. He’s severely anaemic. Nothing wants to eat him.

Oscar is washing his hands, already thinking about where to check for Charles next, when his peripherals snag on a spike of light. Oscar's head jerks, nearly gives himself a nasty crick.

Lando swears on his nan’s grave he got knifed in the loo once. Oscar has no desire to follow in his footsteps, and—today is not going to be that day, he realises in relief. There’s no Nike tracksuit and balaclava lunging for him; it’s a keyring, laying on the floor, beneath the shut stall door.  A whole host of them.

A mini silver microphone, he notices, somewhat absently, as he rips off a square of paper towel. A prancing horse, a tiny dog, a shark. One of the souvenir types, with a worn French-looking word painted on the fin. A homemade chain of red-white beads, and a CL. A Lion King the musical pendant.

Red-white beads, and a CL, Oscar thinks, and freezes.

--

In any good story game, there comes a pivotal moment in the plot where the character is faced with a panel of critical dialogue options. Standing like the standing man emoji in front of a regular, unimposing loo, Oscar searches the crossroads ahead.

Number one: clear his throat as un-awkwardly as he can and tell Charles that he needs to crawl out before Oscar is nailed six feet under. Probably insensitive if Charles is having a breakdown, and Oscar doesn’t feel like informing Charles that his best friend, who is a loving dad to three cats and two dogs, is most definitely an axe murderer in another life.

Number two: send Charles a text. A very good option, Oscar thinks, but his phone is out of power and—he doesn’t have Charles’ number in the first place. He can count on one hand the amount of meaningful interactions he’s had with Charles since meeting him. Which isn’t to say they aren’t friendly. Charles is friendly with everyone. Oscar, like most poor souls, is more than a little in love with him, in a, like. In a cool, chill, low-key way. He isn’t leaving love letters in Charles’ bag. Or baking him brownies. Oscar is too broke to buy ninety pence ramen, let alone eggs.

Number three (and this one is the worst, but also the most feasible): knock on the door and coax Charles out himself.

Okay, Oscar thinks, nodding pacifyingly to himself. Okay. Splitting things into chunks didn’t help, so he’ll divide it further.

Pros to number three: he lives to see another day. The show goes on, hopefully without a hitch, and Oscar can assuage the guilty conscious he’ll inevitably develop if he scurries off and leaves Charles here.

Cons: literally everything else, but especially the concept of—a crying Charles. Who probably needs reassurance. Reassurance Oscar is infamously bad for supplying.

(Lando came to rehearsals the other week red-eyed and teary over the death of his hamster, and Oscar asked him if he accidentally put it through the washing machine. Because, well, in his defence, he’s heard it was a common way hamsters die, and he likes collecting data, but apparently, Logan explained patiently, it was a little—a lot—tactless. And whatever Oscar does, he should never ever become a grief councillor, God, please.)

A hitching sniffle bounces off the tiles, and Oscar’s choice is taken out of his hands.

“Charles?” he clears his throat, apprehensively rubbing the pads of his fingers together. “Um. Is that—is that you?”

There is a very long moment of silence, in which Oscar tries not to lose his nerve and flee, and Charles tries to pretend he doesn’t exist. Neither of those work out too well.

And then, “Please go,” Charles begs thickly, “I will—I’ll—”

His voice cracks, and there’s a wet gasp, and Oscar closes his eyes, physically pained. He wishes he was literally any other person in the world right now, or at least one who wasn’t a catastrophic failure at human connection.

Max wants you, Oscar goes to say, and pauses. Thinks. He doesn’t want to give Charles the impression he’s only here for Max, even though that is… the reason Oscar is doing this. It doesn’t feel nice when you think you’re a chore for someone, Oscar knows that.

Okay, see, he’s doing such a good job. Just a little bit more.

“Is—er. Can I help… with anything? Would you—” Oscar hesitates, “Do you want to, um. Do you want to talk about it? Or can I—get someone?”

“No! No, don’t get anybody,” Charles says frantically, a jingle of his keychains as his bag is shuffled. “I’m fine, I’m—this is just. I am having a little break, I will be fine, you can go now. Please.” Ruining the effect, Charles’ voice breaks, and a panicked sob wavers beneath the door, reverberates between the walls, and pings directly into Oscar’s brain.

Torn, Oscar chews the nail off his pinky finger and stares at the bronze hinge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe. Or a manual on how to fix a crying person, like they give you in toy sets. Insert battery here. Take out this screw. Press button. All done. Neat and tidy and perfunctory, a perfect sequence of xyz working in expected harmony.

There is no manual for what to do when your sort-of crush, sort-of acquaintance is sobbing in the bathroom, less than ten minutes before a show.

“I won’t tell anyone?” Oscar tries. He winces at his own flat awkwardness. Christ, he wouldn’t confide in himself either. “I mean, I’m a pretty good listener, and…a problem shared is a problem halved?”

Fuck, just kill him. Just shoot him. That did not seriously come out of his mouth. He sounds like his mum.

But, miracle of all miracles, despite the overwhelming odds, Charles says, whiney with hysteria, “I am being stupid, this is all. We’ve practised lots and I know all my lines and I know I will be good, but—but maybe I will not be, and Arthur said he will come, and—and he will—he will make fun of me!”

Oscar still remembers Edie’s giggle fit when she saw him in his donkey costume for the first time ahead of his Year Two nativity. Siblings are evil like that.

“What if I say something wrong, or I trip and break my nose and get blood all over everywhere, and what if I have to kiss Alex with the bone sticking out of my face and—and it gets in her eye and she dies?” Charles wails, and Oscar holds his breath, so he doesn’t do something majorly stupid, like snort.

“That probably won’t happen,” he assures, dropping his jacket on the floor. Oscar nudges it open with his toe, and folds to take a seat. They’re probably going to be here for a while. “Everything will be fine. You’re a good actor, and Alex is a good actress, and everyone’s—you’ve all practiced a lot, haven’t you? So anything that will go wrong, you’ll probably know how to fix it, right?”

“But what if I forget?” Charles insists, “Or what if someone else will forget? And all these people will be staring at me!”

People are usually staring at Charles. Really, Oscar thinks, he could perform thirty minutes of an algebraic lecture, and the audience would still be watching, enraptured, by the end of it.

Logically, Oscar points out, “I’ve watched all the rehearsals, and I know you’re going to do great.”

“You know?” Charles sniffles doubtfully. “How can you know? So many things can go wrong, and I will never live this down, and my whole life will be ruined and buried and it will have all been for nothing, and what if I am really just so bad and they throw tomatoes at me and I get kicked out and have to live on Maman’s sofa for the rest of my life—”

Damage control, Oscar flails. Damage control, damage control—

“I think you’re pretty neat,” he blurts, painfully earnest. Might as well have wriggled his heart out from between his ribs and pushed it under the door, Jesus. “I mean. You’re—um.”

Like when he finally solves whatever’s causing his code not to run, and his chest loosens, and the universe unfurls beyond the gloominess of college work, and Oscar remembers that actually, the world is full of beautiful, lovely things, and he wants to bunch all of them in his stomach at once, so he remembers always.

Oscar blinks. Okay, no. He can’t say that. But it’s true. Charles is lovely and beautiful, and he pours into life like sunshine, and Oscar’s crush on him, perhaps, is not so small. Even though Charles has only ever said hi and good morning to him, and also that one time they got caught in the rain and Charles offered to share his umbrella with Oscar.

“You work really hard,” Oscar salvages, “You’re really, um. Passionate. You make your characters feel real, and you’re a brilliant musician, and, yeah. You’re going to do fine?”

Charles stays quiet. Oscar can’t even hear him sniffing.

Then, “You really think so?”

Oscar closes his eyes in relief. Thank God he hasn’t cocked it up. Again.

“I really think so,” he confirms.

 The door gives way behind his back. Oscar jolts to support his own weight, head swivelling, and—

“Oh,” he says stupidly.

Charles has glitter along his cheekbones.

It’s such a little thing to notice. His eyes are red and puffy, and his white shirt collar is wrinkled where he must’ve been tugging at it, and his hair is in a sorry state, but over all of it, Oscar is stuck on that. The glitter.

In the sterile bathroom lighting, it lays dull against Charles’ skin, but Oscar can imagine it, in the stage lights. The glimmer, otherworldly. How Charles’ entire body throws itself into animation, a fluid extension of somebody else, not a twitch out of his control. It seems ridiculous Charles could ever doubt himself. Oscar knows all this—has known it all these weeks—but it’s thrown into stark relief, here. With Charles looking a little like a wet dog, yet still so—whole, Oscar thinks. So encompassing. It’s like looking into a lunar eclipse.

“Oh,” Charles repeats, and he smiles, sheepish and still glassy eyed and pink-nosed and really pretty. So pretty, Oscar thinks, and realises he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, practically at Charles’ feet.

He clambers upright as gracefully as he can, as Charles collects his backpack and wipes his eyes. Oscar didn’t really plan for… what he would do after. Finds himself at a loss, not sure what to look at, or what to do with his hands.

Thankfully, Charles beats him to it. “I was—I am being very stupid, so thank you,” he ducks his head, rubbing at his nape. He’s wearing rings, Oscar notices, and his brain blue-screens. “It was just—I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I am a little nervous, and—yes. It’s like this, sometimes.”

Weirdly enough, Oscar only likes him more. It’s nice to know even Charles Leclerc cries in the toilet and gets worried about—stabbing his stage partner’s eye out with his broken nose. It’s endearing.

Oh, God. Oscar is endeared. That’s what’s happening here.

“You’re welcome,” he says, strangled. Clears his throat. “It happens to, um. A lot of people, I think.”

“Maybe,” Charles agrees. His knuckles are blanched ivory around the crimson strap of his backpack. He’s staring somewhere over Oscar’s shoulder, gaze darting. Oscar blinks, and Charles is looking at him with big, open eyes, and saying so, how would you feel about having coffee sometime? As thank you—for being nice?

No, he’s not. Oscar is daydreaming. He does this sometimes. Makes up possible conversations before they can happen, just in case. Charles would never in a million years ask him out. Ever.

“If you don’t, this is fine, too,” Charles is rushing to say, “I know you were just being nice, but I—”

Oscar realises three things at once. One: Charles Leclerc just asked him out. Two: he’s standing here, in front of Charles Leclerc, who just asked him out, and saying nothing, like a gormless twit. Three: the only dream this is is a dream come true.

“Yes,” Oscar interrupts, humiliatingly eager. “I mean—yes, yes please. I would like that. Coffee. With you.”

“With me?” Charles points to himself.

Oscar nods so hard he thinks his head will fall off. “With you. Please.”

“Oh,” Charles blinks. “Oh! You—so, that is a yes? To coffee. With me?”

If Oscar opens his mouth, he’s going to make a noise only dogs can hear. He hums instead, ears burning hot.

“Oh, that’s—” Charles is kind of pink. “That’s. Okay! Do you—can I—your number?”

Charles wants my number, Oscar thinks, dazed and dizzy and giddy. Holy fuck. Maybe the bloodline won’t end with him.

“Yep, can I—?” Oscar gestures to Charles’ phone, sticking out of his pocket, and almost sends his jacket flying into the urinals. “To—my number?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Charles hurries to hand it over, and Oscar has to retype it three times before he’s sure it’s the right one. He saves his name as oscar, and, after a careful moment of consideration, adds a :].

“So—coffee?” Charles checks, one last time, as he reclaims his phone.

Oscar has never heard anything sweeter. “Coffee,” he confirms.

He takes back every bad thing he’s ever thought of Max. In fact, Oscar could kiss him right now.

He’ll be sure to dedicate Max a speech at their wedding, instead.

[isetfiretomyself]

Yandere Male Chef X G/N Actor Reader

This is my first request for a Yan online! YIPPEE :D I don't think I'd respond to questions again because damn it ruined my engagement last time. This took me way longer then expected to get done(⁠ ⁠≧⁠Д⁠≦⁠)Guys I need you to understand how long it took me to figure out how this guy was gonna lose his mind(⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) - Jay

Trigger Warnings! Putting people in harms way, Unhealthy Protectiveness, Violence, Gore, Cannibalism, Tricked into Cannibalism, This Fic gets a little darker then my normal stuff! This is all fictional I don't condone toxic behaviour or crimes irl!

🔪Yandere Chef who worked at his families restaurant till he was 17. He was taught to cook with love and care! He then got the opportunity to learn professionally were he spent years working with the best of the best! It's wasn't about fun anymore it was about perfection.

🔪Yandere Chef didn't like people by the end of his training and worked out private work was so much more isolating then high class restaurants. He would come in for romantic dinners, parties, whatever, whenever. He didn't care.

That's where he met you. Wade learnt what to expect from certain clients. Influences usually want small appetizers for parties, athletes want meals they can heat up but you. Actor's usually want a show piece for events, you just wanted your favourite meal alone on your birthday. How bizarre?

🔪Yandere Chef knocked at your penthouse. You opened the door. "Hiya! You're here!" Wade isn't used to people talking so excitedly around him. It reminds him of his childhood before yelling negatively was what ingrained into him. He didn't really like having these feelings brought up in him.

🔪Yandere Chef was lead to your kitchen where you had all the ingredients neatly laid out, cute. What surprised him more was when you sat opposite him elbows on the counter. "You don't need to be about. I won't burn your kitchen down." "Oh! I know! I just wanted to keep you company! If I'm allowed?"

🔪Yandere Chef was taken aback. "Who am I to deny you on your birthday?" He was so curious about you that for the first time he questioned a client. "Why are you alone on your birthday?" "Oh! I prefer being on my own!" "Amen to that." He mumbles while focusing on the meal.

He plated your meal and to his surprise you ate all of it. If it's one thing he's learnt from celebrities is that they never eat everything. Something about being "humble" or not being "greedy", whatever it's insulting to see the food he spends hours cooking get only half ate.

"This is so good! You're so talented!" You were so excited over his food it threw him off guard.

🔪Yandere Chef felt a little embarrassed. He's not had so much praise since he was a child. He was more thrown of guard when you tried tipping him on your birthday. "You don't need to do that." He tried resisting but you wouldn't let it happen. "Please, I really, really want to! I haven't had such a delicious meal in a while!"

Wade went home looking going through the cash you gave him. Most of the time celebrities pre pay, completely ignore him and send him on his way. On a bad day he'll actively hear people negatively talk about his food. You were so happy it was such a harsh contrast.

🔪Yandere Chef was hired for a house warming party. Some rich actor wanting show off his mansion. He was there hours early making appetizers because none wants a real meal anymore. He had everything set up and was about to leave and till his client stood in his pathway.

"Listen it's totally optional but you're hard to get and I think if you showed your face it'd be pretty cool. I mean you're notoriously hard to get and I did give you a generous tip."

That's how Wade ended up with swirling red wine around in a glass, sat on an expensive sofa debating if he should stain it. He had people come up to him mainly trying to hire him or trying to get gossip on his prior clients. He was going to leave when he hears someone from the other side of the room. "Oh my! Wade! Hiya!" You come rushing over. "I thought you made the food, it's so delicious!" Then like a proud parent you dragged him around telling everyone how good the food is and how they should try it. It was so embarrassing!

🔪Yandere Chef was leaning on a wall watching you talk to others. Why does he always feels so embarrassed around you? That's when your laugh brought a realisation within him. You're so pure in such a vile industry. You remind him of his family restaurant, where there was hard work but joy in his creations.

Wade noticed the way some of the others side eyed you. He felt a scoff come from his throat, they were so stuck up, it irritates him.

🔪Yandere Chef takes his hands in yours. "Would you want me to make you another meal? This one's on me." The host's visitors were all shocked. Behaviour like this wasn't common! He noticed the eyes on you made you embarrassed. "I don't mind..." You mumble.

🔪Yandere Chef was making something for you in your kitchen. He was actually trying to engage with you this time. "So." Wade said cutting up vegetables. "You're an actor but you get nervous at parties, why?" He watches you trace circles in your counter. "I don't know...I was a child actor so I suppose it's all I've known." His face hardens.

🔪Yandere Chef thinks you deserve better. I mean you're a good actor but you're better then acting in his eyes. "How many movies have you been in then?" "Didn't you look me up?" "No?" Everything went silent. You had lunged forward over the counter and hugged him. "You're the first person not to goggle me in a while..." You mumbled into his shoulder.

Now the two of you had a sort of alliance or whatever. You called it a friendship.

🔪Yandere Chef was cooking for some rich couple while they were watching TV in the living room. He didn't mind, the women was sweet but the man was cold. He's glad they left him alone. He could faintly hear the TV when your voice was on the screen. Must of been a show or movie you were in.

Wade felt himself smile when he can hear your faint voice from the screen. That's when he can hear his client being rude about your appearance.How dare they!?

🔪Yandere Chef was following a recipe from the husbands descendants. The ink was smudged already in some places so what if he smudged the part on how much spice he was suppose to put in the meal?

It was too spicy. The couple started yelling at him. But he simply pointed at the recipe he followed. By the end the couple was apologising to him completely unaware Wade was in fact to blame.

🔪Yandere Chef didn't like people who were rude to his friends. And you were his friend now. You said so.

🔪Yandere Chef started hanging out with you more and realised maybe he didn't hate all rich people. (Acting like he isn't yk...rich)You were so down to earth. Wade had you round his house watching movies when and advert for your show came on.

You cringed leaning on wades chest to hide your face. "Mute it! Mute it!" You cried. "Seriously you don't need to act." He rubbed the side of your arm. "I just don't want to feel useless.." That's when it hit him, the best idea he ever had in his entire life.

🔪Yandere Chef opened a restaurant! The famous private chef opening up a small restaurant in a busy part of the city. He had the help from his business friend (Yandere Ex Wife cough cough) to insure it.

🔪Yandere Chef needed your help. Well need is a strong word. It gave you a reason not to act, helping your friend! The more you helped, the closer you two got, the closer you two got, the stronger he's feelings for you grew. Manifesting into someone more sinister.

Who complemented him it never meant anything compared to you. You would come in to help the chef's to clean the kitchen after the shifts sometimes too! Aren't you a cutie?

🔪Yandere Chef was opening up early in the morning. Putting his keys into the door but before turning he hears your voice. "Wade! I'm on my way to a magazine shoot but I made you something!" You show a box of homemade sweet treats. "Don't eat them Infront of me...I don't want to know what a renowned chef thinks of my online recipes!" He watches you run off. He hates that your still in the public eye. So casually complacent with your discomfort because what if the change is worse than the norm?

🔪Yandere Chef sat in an empty booth of his restaurant before his employees came in. He opened the box and to see cookies, brownies and sorts. He bites into one. It was so average but tasted so good. Thick tears run down his face, splattering against the table. He's never been the one served food before. Since he was a child he always cooked his food and dinner. Unprovoked act of kindness was something that hit him in a sensitive spot.

🔪Yandere Chef kept working and till he heard you had came to visit. As much as he complains about you being in the public eye but you haven't done any acting since he opened his restaurant, I suppose Wade's plan sort of worked.

Wade walked through. He was going to ask you round his, he as many times before but this time it romantic. He wants you, He needs you to be his. He see's your gorgeous face but before he can talk to you, A waiter has got your attention to try and flirt with you. This angered him. You don't deserve some dirt like that, the world doesn't deserve you. Nobody deserves you.

🔪Yandere Chef had staff stay back to help him clean. Purposely giving the guy trying to flirt with you a hard job so he stays back longer. "Boss, I'm done. I'm going to clock out for the day,Okay?" He turned his back not being able to see Wade pick up a meat tenderizer and smash it on the back of his head.

The lifeless body lays on the white kitchen floor. Wade had already turned the cameras off. The cameras needed to be reset anyway so nobody knows who came in and never came out. The servers head was caved at the back, a slight dent filled with dark red blood before overflowing onto the floor. "Disgusting pig." He said while spitting on the corpse. Wade took out his own personal cooking utensils from a tool box. Taking out a meat cleaver he slides it along the body's corpse angling it away from the corpse and pushes down in a sliding motion skinning the flesh of the bone. It reminds Wade of how his father taught him to handle meat while preparing a dish.

You were in bed, it was quarter to midnight and you were snuggled in your bed thinking about your day. You hope Wade likes the food you made. He was very supportive! Acting was something you felt like you grew out of and he understood that. You've been trying to stay out of the public eye since but it's all you've ever known. Maybe you could ask Wade for a job? Is that scummy? I mean he was so caring! While you were debating the ethics of asking your friend for a job, you hear a knock on your door.

You were scared a little. Checking your doorbell camera, you see Wade waiting there. "What are you doing here?" You asked, rubbing your eyes. "Midnight snack?" He ruffles your hair. Usually you wouldn't eat so late at night but Wades such a good Chef. It was a meat you've never tried before goat, horses? It was strange.

Little did you know Yandere Chef had feed you the man who tried to flirt with you.You didn't know is this is a morbid start to a brutal end.

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Please, please, please, please can I get a Ga Ming Alphabet I just love him so mucccchhhhhhhhh

Author's Note: Gaming is 20+ here

For our 3000 follower celebration! (CLOSED NOW)

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Gaming practically attacks your face with kisses!! He still has so much energy, he's like an excited puppy kissing you and tangling your bodies together. While he's still riding the high from his orgasm, it's impossible for him to keep his hands off of your body. Always touching whatever he can reach.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He's quite proud of his legs/leg strength, and his bubble butt 🧡

Of yours, I'd say Gaming would adore your cheeks. Which cheeks, you ask? Yes~ 😊

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

Gaming's orgasms are quite powerful, and rightfully so, since it takes some work to help him cum. But the reward is soooo worth it ❤️

He likes to cum on you, if possible. Seeing his cum dripping down your skin is a huge turn-on!

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Wishes you would bite him more often ;'(

Not enough to break the skin, of course, but please bite down on his shoulder while you're pounding him? Gaming craves that extra stimulation!

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Not very experienced, but he's enthusiastic about everything. It's easy to try out new things and get him interested in different positions or ideas.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. May include a visual)

Cowgirl, mating press, and 69.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

I think the answer is pretty self-explanatory lol. He's a goofy goober for sure. His dirty talk can be a bit silly too, but it's still very hot.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

THICK BUSH! EXTREMELY THICK BUSH, IN FACT!!!

Gaming's hair looks so nice engulfing the base of his cock… sometimes he jokes that he should shave it, but seeing the disappointed look on your face drives any thought of doing so away 😅

I also think Gaming would have thick chest and arm hair! And just, thick body hair all over fgkskfhskf

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

He's very romantic, inside and outside of the bedroom. No matter how intense the moment becomes, Gaming will wrap his arms around your neck and hold you as if you're about to vanish. Sometimes he even leaves bruises from how tight his grip was on your body, but all is forgiven pretty quickly. He just naturally clings to you for comfort.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Loves, loves, loves mutual masturbation! Seeing you jack off right next to him while he's pumping his own cock, both of you creating a wet mess in your lap, maybe even reaching over to touch your cock too? Yeah, that's the life 🤤

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Overstimulation, electro play, sounding, puppy play, and I could totally picture Gaming getting into fisting, if that's considered a kink? A fetish? Also, plushie humping is totally his thing~

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Gaming has become quite fond of kitchen sex. Gettin' spicy while you cook up a spicy dish? Count him in!

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Kissing almost always leads to something more… just the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you enticing him to forget everything else and wrap his legs around your waist, a hand on the small of his back… subtle touches, or innocent touches, do so much to rile Gaming up.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

While he is a bit of a masochist, I don't think he would enjoy impact play. He's not into you hitting his face/slapping, CBT, that kind of stuff.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Loves both equally. That's why 69 is one of his favorite positions, Gaming can thrust into your mouth while you do the same to him~

He's pretty damn good at it too. When Gaming wants to suck you off, you're guaranteed to get milked for every last drop 😅

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Somewhat fast and rough, then gradually likes for you to pick up the pace until you're destroying his hole/he's bouncing on you so fast it makes him dizzy!

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Eh, they're alright. It's usually not enough to satisfy him though, and he will pout until you can do more :(

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Yeah, I think he would be interested in trying all sorts of new things. Hell, he even suggests a lot of the things y'all try out 😅

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

Archons above, this man has stamina for DAYS–

You kind of need stamina to be a wushu dancer, and it comes in handy in the bedroom. You end up fucking for hours, taking water breaks in between, but overall fucking desperately for a long time.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Honestly, Gaming prefers your cock over a toy. It's your cock, mouth, fingers, tongue, hands, or bust (and not in the fun way).

The only exception is a vibrator pressed against the underside of his cock while you're fucking him. That's the only way Gaming will let it slide.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

I'd say he's a little bit of a tease, but it's the fun kind of teasing that makes sex even better for both of you.

Rolling his hips/grinding his hips down while he's riding you, making you feel how tightly his body's grip on you is. Touching your chest while you're kissing, and possibly unbuttoning your shirt while you're distracted 👉👈 Wearing shirts that ride up whenever he stretches or reaches for something, or, similarly, wearing pants that hang low on his hips while you're chilling at home.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He's pretty dang loud lol. Gaming laughs a lot during sex, and he repeats words a lot (ex. Repeating "yes" over and over right when he's about to cum)

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Bro does not wear underwear often… definitely not if he has a day off and is lounging at home. The dick is hanging free, baby!

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

5 and a half inches, uncut. The prettiest happy trail ever that leads into his bush is also hidden within his pants~

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

It's a bit high, but I don't think he's exactly insatiable? Although it may seem like it sometimes 😭

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Gaming, falling asleep after sex? Not in a million years! He either mellows out a bit, or he has a lot of energy left to cuddle and kiss!

[thewitchblue]

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Tim asked, hurt. His own twin was hiding a secret lair. How did you even build this thing with nobody noticing? He felt betrayed. You mumbled while searching for a way to get the entire family out of your lair,

"It was the only thing I can call my own without needing to sibling tax half of it."

That hurt Tim even more because it's true. Everything you two have and everything you both do is together or split between you two. That's not always a bad thing, but it's nice to have something not tied to Tim for once in your life. You both work together better than anybody else and even suffer when apart in a lot of aspects, but you desperately need some autonomy, and so does Tim.

"We could have done so much illegal stuff in here, idiot."

Tim said, and just like that, the tension between you two broke. You ran towards him as he opened his arms to hug you.

"That's your fault that you brought them with you, stupid."

Your muffle voice said, officially smothering yourself into Tim's chest. Tim scoffed as he pulled you into a tighter embrace. How was he supposed to know this totally evil looking tower would be yours? You disabled all of your trackers and even cut out the one Tim thought he was subtle in injecting. He's certain you injected one into him, so he figured fair is fair.

"How did you even find the tracker I put in you? I placed it right next to your femoral artery. You could have died."

You smirked. The tracker wasn't small enough. He was an idiot not to put it into the artery itself like you did. There would be no way to cut it out because it was constantly moving inside his body. You said happily,

"I didn't, though!"

Tim rolled his eyes. Fine. You always were mechanically gifted. All of their newer tech was made by you and your brilliant brain. Who even thinks about half of the gear they have on them? You came up with nanotechnology specifically to track Tim. Who else would go that far just for Tim? It's saved him from many villains, but it's borderline insane and completely uncalled for. The worst part is that he hasn't found the device that displayed his specific tracking information. If he could, he would just take whatever device with him.

The device is actually inside your middle finger because it is hilarious to you. Screw Tim and his sneakiness. You're joining him or tracking his every movement when you do find out about him sneaking off.

Nobody should have given the twins access to unlimited resources. They just find ways to make the other's life slightly better or worse. It's straight up warfare, and it's a game the family can only watch helplessly and sigh. Why is Tim making shape-shifting tech? Because he wants to see what embarrassing things you tell your best friend to blackmail you with, of course! Why are you implementing malware in Tim's grapple gun? Because it's hilarious to see Tim flail mid-air, and you found the perfect spot on his patrol route to trigger the malfunction. You caught him, of course, but you made sure to call him a moron before fixing it as if it wasn't entirely your fault for fabricating the situation.

It's comical, yet also horrifying. You team up when someone gets in your way or, worse, hurt one of the two.

Jason learned that the hard way when he woke up in a warehouse chained to Joker with a shock collar around his neck to prevent him from either of them from leaving the warehouse. One of them was going to die (again), and you simply watched in the corner. The only words you said were,

"For Titan's Tower."

He already felt bad about it before the Joker chaining, but he learned a valuable lesson that day. Don't touch Tim, or he'll regret it.

Dick learned by listening in when Tim started reminiscing about the time you planted a homemade pipe bomb and called the bomb squad on the person. You recalled fondly as Dick looked at both of you with horror,

"He's still in prison on federal charges."

Tim laughed. Laughed. Dick was terrified for not only his life, but what if his cop buddies found out? His twin siblings could go to federal prison! On multiple charges! He had to walk away when you started talking about the time Tim put a secret switch in someone's backpack that blew up their entire house.

"The best part was that I managed to place her fingerprints on the switch!"

May the villains rest in peace if they kidnap one of the twins and not the other. Tim is not above committing war crimes, and neither are you. Who is the public really going to believe? The hero Red Robin amputated Poison Ivy's leg for daring to put mysterious powder on you or that some farmer mistook her leg for a weed and cut it off accidentally?

Only the villains will ever know. They are terrified of the twins and especially terrified of how aggressive Red Robin becomes when the Wayne brat gets kidnapped. You once got sold to someone in Metropolis, and Red Robin still showed up, furious and ready for war. Villains gossip and think you are dating him, which is venomous denied. You have ruined multiple lives when Jason cackled about seeing people shipping you with Red Robin.

"Send me the fanfic."

You demanded in a threatening tone. Not even Tim could qualm your rage. You found the writer and the owner of the website it was written on. You found everything about them and systematically destroyed their lives to the point the website owner sold it, but you kept going until someone finally deleted the website entirely.

"Nobody touches my brother."

You said in an interview when you were officially adopted. You made it sound playful until the interviewer asked,

"Aw, you mean your new brothers?"

You side-eyed Tim, but you bit your tongue when he subtly shook his head. Don't fight the interviewer so soon. Back them into a corner first. So you waited like a bear trap. For just the right time to snap their legs. The trap never did end up happening, however, as there was no more disrespect towards Tim and your relationship as siblings.

"Tim is my best friend and the best part of my life, but I'll give my new brothers a shot at becoming any better."

The interviewer made sure to take lots of photos of you both hanging off one another with matching grins that immortalised your love for each other. Nobody will dare get in the way of the siblings. You both are ready for war at any point of time with scary creativity and now unlimited resources. May the gods have mercy on their souls. The Batfamily was not ready for the devasting duo.

[nostalgebraist]

When you finish writing a big story and you became very close the characters, was there a time after where you were like "i kind of want to revisit these characters again, but i should probably just let the story be, they deserve to rest" Im not talking about wanting to write a sequel, is more about still coming up with fun ideas for them, maybe a little scene or something, but choosing not to do anything with it because it'd feel disrespectful to the ending you gave them?

This doesn't happen to me, no.

The reason is that, once I finish the story, my sense of "being close to the characters" suddenly vanishes. And, although there are rare moments where it (briefly) returns, it mostly stays gone.

I can't remember if I've ever talked about this in detail before, but – when I'm in the process of writing a story, especially near the end, the characters feel "real" to me in a very strong and kind of uncanny way.

I don't actually believe that they exist as independent entities from me (much less sentient ones), but it does almost feel like that's true, when I'm in the thick of the writing process.

I have no trouble intellectually distinguishing fiction from reality, even in the state I'm describing. But my emotional and intuitive relationship with my characters, when I'm in that state, is pretty similar to the one I have with real people I know in real life. And there are a bunch of... uh, mental phenomena?... associated with this that I'm slightly afraid to describe because I worry they'll sound like hallucinations or delusions if I don't add a lot of caveats.

For example, when I'm alone in a room writing (especially if I'm writing in the middle of the night), I sometimes feel like it's not just me in the room, that the character I'm writing about is "there with me," in much the same way I'd be aware of someone real person's presence if I knew they were in the room but didn't happen to be looking in their direction. Or: sometimes I feel like the characters' voices are "flowing through me," that I'm merely taking dictation from them – and will sometimes even think to myself: "man, I'm so grateful that the character is helping me write this part, because if I tried to do it all by myself there's no way I would get it right." And it takes a moment before I realize, wait, no, I am writing it by myself – at least in a literal and physical sense.

Basically if you read this post, and then sort of read between the lines of it under the assumption that I'm downplaying how weird the experience actually is because I'm worried an accurate account would make me sound kind of unhinged... then you will have roughly the right impression of what the writing experience is like for me.

Whatever is going on here, it feels like it's probably on some kind of spectrum that also contains stuff like tulpas, multiple systems, and maybe also the way that children can sometimes get really deeply wrapped up in their imaginary play. I don't know how common this stuff is among writers (maybe it is common but rarely talked about?). It's not something I've experienced anywhere else in life; I don't experience it with other people's fictional characters or stories, or with fantasies I have that aren't associated with a work in progress, and I don't remember ever experiencing it before I started writing fiction as an adult.

Anyway, as I said at the top, the moment I finish writing a story, this phenomenon simply turns off, suddenly and completely. The transition is very noticeable when it happens, and makes me feel something akin to grief or loneliness over the brief span between the moment it starts and the moment it is fully completed – like I've just lost a bunch of close friends at once.

With Almost Nowhere, I remember a very specific feeling – on the evening of the day when I finished writing – that the characters were "departing 'into' the finished book," reverting to a lesser existence as "mere words" rather than "real people," as though they had been plastic toys animated by Terra Ignota's Bridger, and were now turning back into toys again. It made me sad, for a little while, but once they'd fully "lost their reality" I no longer cared, because it was that same sense of reality that made me care, and now it was gone.

So, to finish answering your question: I don't feel an urge to return to my old characters, because it feels intuitively obvious that doing this is impossible. That anything else I wrote about them would be inauthentic, somehow, in a way that the original work wasn't. They were "there," before, but they're "gone," now. This difference is very stark, and very hard to ignore.

(As I noted above, they do sometimes "come back" to me – very rarely, and very briefly, but that is enough for a proof of concept. Perhaps, if I were to try, I could find some way to "bring them back" for longer intervals. But I doubt I will ever try that. I feel a bit afraid of the concept for several reasons – for one thing, the "inauthenticity" I just mentioned squicks me out and I'd prefer not to come too close to it, and I also have a baseline wariness of doing stuff that seems too much like messing around with my own mental health. There's also a "catch-22" involved here, where I don't feel motivated about the characters the way I used to, and that means I'm not even motivated to do things that would generate that motivation. The "target" of the effort won't appeal strongly to me until I've already gone to the trouble of obtaining it, which means the effort doesn't feel justified in the first place.)

[enchantress-arc]

(Last time I posted something that included actual commands, people did end up dropping reading it, so this is just a warning, this does have commands in it. Not much buildup because I'm not trying to get those to work, but, you know, I feel the warning should be there due to that possibility of that happening. With that in mind, hypno stuff and pet stuff are in this post.)

I really should take you home.

It'd be the responsible thing to do, honestly. A pet like you can't just be left out on your own. Especially with how little it took to get you staring. Just about anyone could take you off the street and make you do whatever they want. I suppose you should consider yourself lucky. I'll make sure to take care of you.

We'll get you cleaned up, of course. Pick out some new clothes, something nice. And something to show that you're being taken care of. A collar should do the trick. Worst case, you can sleep at the foot of my bed, can't you cutie? And I'm sure a pet bed can't be too expensive...

Ah, yes, before that, I should really make sure you stay like this. Staring at me won't be enough for the whole process, I'd like to give you some time alone to adjust, but then, well, we need some precautions to make sure you stay during that time, don't we? And, though given the look on your face, it's rather unlikely you'd try anything while I'm present, I'd prefer not to leave that up to chance. And the trip home is rather lengthy, hmmmm... I suppose we should do a bit of training now. Even if it's just temporary, that should be enough, at least until we get home.

Dear, you've been listening so intently, haven't you. Gods, makes me want to pet you right here, right now. But I'd prefer not to draw any attention while your mind is this open. Cutie, just look at me. Take in every inch of my body. Take in the sound of my voice. How deeply it penetrates even the furthest recesses of your mind, how warm and soft and comfortable it feels to follow along. I'm going to be your new owner, understood? And good pets listen to their owners. So when I tell you to be a good pet, you're going to remember your place. You're going to listen. And until I give you other commands, the last statement I associated with "be a good pet" will remain in your mind, right at the forefront, nice and bold and emphasized in my voice, guiding you, reminding you to obey, reminding you who you obey, understood, my darling? Good pet.

To start, dear, be a good pet, and follow me home. I'll be doing the talking, so no need to worry that empty little head of yours. I'll hold your hand, keep you nice and close. It feels good to be so close to your owner, doesn't it? Just follow along, focus on me, and be a good pet. Gods you're obedient, I hadn't even meant to take you like this, cutie, but you were just so suggestible... How could I have possibly resisted when I first saw those little thoughts starting to fall away behind your eyes? With so little effort... I can't imagine how devoted, how obedient you'll be once you're fully trained, dear. And there will be so much training, so much brainwashing and conditioning and little hypnotic suggestions, just for you, darling, waiting for you at home. I can't wait to see what you'll be like afterwards.

You're going to make such a wonderful pet for me, my darling.

[leebrontide]

Hello!

I'm Lee (any pronouns), a middle aged queer writer from the midwest of the US. It's been a bit, so I'm doing another writeblr intro, to find more potential writeblr folks to chat with!

What I write:

- Mostly scifi! I have a bit of fantasy brewing in a collab project, but mostly, scifi.

- Queer stuff. Lots of different types of queerness.

- Community. Both in the group-hugs-and-support variety and the extreme-mess/everybodies-traumas-keep-smashing-into-each-other variety. I have training as a family therapist and am endlessly fascinated by interpersonal dynamics. This is the meat of my work.

- Grounded worldbuilding. My main project right now is near future scifi that diverges from our timeline around 2001. I'm enjoying the hell out of playing the US I know with some very key tweaks that changed society. I know a lot about medical systems, criminal justice systems, and legal systems and like using fantasy and scifi elements to show them as I know them. But like, in a way that should appeal to people who give 0 shits about US institutions.

- Disability stuff. Not that after-school-special shit. I am just tired of characters being generic pretty dolls whose physical attributes don't impact how they move through the world. That means not only writing a variety of different disabilities, but also different bodies. My characters aren't "inspiration porn" or just waiting around for less disabled characters to come save them. They are messy, with a wide array of relationships to their limitations and the things they use to cope with those limitations.

- YA into new adult. Not exclusively, but mostly. I really like taking characters from YA into early adulthood. Not just a standard coming-of-age arc, but the actually moving from a self-concept of a dependent teen into someone with legal responsibility for themselves, jobs, college, etc. Especially when combined with all of the above. I love a nice long character arc with lots of sub-arcs along the way.

What I have out, now.

- I have two books out so far, Secondhand Origin Stories and Names in Their Blood. I'm working on book 3 in that planned 5 book series now, which is currently titled Brittle Idols.

- I have a free monthly newsletter called Shed Letters where I talk about psychology, tech, queerness, storytelling, and the creative process, plus whatever random topic I've been researching for my books recently. Also contains pictures of my three very photogenic cats.

- Newsletter subscribers also have access to a novella I wrote that goes between Secondhand Origin Stories and Names in Their Blood, that's about an fictional AI (the only kind I like) trying to decide on a body for themself.

- I also draw and animate, with my first and still in-progress animation project being a "trailer" for Secondhand Origin Stories.

What I'm looking for

- writeblrs - especially writeblrs that aren't JUST writeblrs. I want to feel like I'm meeting people, at least in some manner, rather than just hearing about a product in process. That doesn't have to mean deep confessions or private information, but honestly I'm not likely to remember you for your writing project alone. Sorry. Please show me what else you care about!

- Bonus points for queer or disabled scifi or fantasy writers.

- I am white for most intents and purposes but I always want to find more AOC who write sci fi.

- Also always excited to meet more YA authors- especially the currently kinda sidelined YA scifi.

- People who care about where society is going but aren't posting that everything is doomed and pointless. I mean you post whatever you want but I don't need that on my dash. That shit is not helping me help.

I sometimes do ask games? It's fun when I have the time. It'd be fun to have more folks to do them with, provided those folks are patient.

Please interact if this has piqued your interest!

[prettyboykatsuki]

CALEB SEX DREAM?????? SHARE????? MAYHAPS????

RU I FEEL CRAZY IT FELT SO REAL IM SICK AND DERANGED

it was so vivid help me. i was like making dinner at my grandparents house (MY REAL GRANDPARENTS WHICH IS HILARIOUS) while no one was home. i remember the dinner details too like i was meal prepping for relatives and stuff while they were away for work and vacation cause my grandma left 😭😭

(this had a somewhat insane prelude also that had such real life details about my old grandparents house😭😭 )

both caleb and bokuto hq were courting me and both checked in periodically before they went off to do something at like a little local event. i saw caleb twice as in he came to see me two separate times before he actually ended up coming back home

AND BOTH TIMES HE WAS SO FLIRTY I FEEL INSANE . like im embarrassed thinking about it. i fed him something i was cooking the first time and the second time when he hung around he was so so .

so the dream sequence was cooking dinner, caleb came over, bokuto came over, then caleb again basically and i was doing a bunch of random kitchen stuff (realizing this is probably because i’ve been so hung up on meal prepping 😭)

THE SECOND TIME HE CAME OVER …. it was so vivid i feel insane he was wearing a jean jacket and jeans that matched and a graphic tee and had a backpack on that he set aside and once again came into the kitchen and we were like. Bantering back and forth because he had gone to something and decided he wanted to take me on a date and i was like ohhh someone’s real confident and . i feel insane literally crazy because of we started talking back and forth over

he was like halfway into saying something and like. dream me was like turned away from the kitchen counter with his back up to it and caleb was hovering over me kind of. comically even in my dreams i’m whore of the century

so halfway while he’s trying to fake sway me into going on a date i drop to my knees HSJFMDHFJ.

warning it gets graphic here but christ . like jesus it was so horny and insane. he’s like yapping and i put my hands on the waistband of his jeans and sort of tug until he asks what i’m doing and im like hm? and don’t answer.

his boxers were like a royal purple for whatever reason. anyways i’m like i just want to see something and he’s like what here have you already havent seen (which l. HABDKSJD)

ANYWAYS . HERES WHERE IT GETS FUCKING BSBDKGKS

GUYS HE HAD A DICK PIERCING IN MY DREAM ? he was also uncut and it looked exactly the way ive described in vivid detail many times . again sorry so graphic but he was so leaky i felt insane im thinking about it rn like ?!

EVEN IN MY DREAM THE PIERCING MADE ME FEEL NERVOUS? LIKE MADE ME SO NERVOUS I STARTED NERVOUS LAUGHING AND TRIED TO PULL AWAY?

AND HE GRABBED BOTH OF MY WRISTS AND SAID ARENT YOU USED TO THIS ALREADY? LIKE REFERRING TO HAVING SLEPT AROUND. AND HE USED MY WHOLE ENTIRE GOVERNMENT NAME . IM SO?

i need to die rn this is embarrassing me but long story short i blew him and my long time history as throat goat came in clutch 👍🏽 HSHFKSJDF. dream me was going to just keep make dinner and then he said be serious and . manhandled me to the kitchen floor 😀 like on my hands and knees and we did it while i was wearing an apron and a sweater and oh my god

INSANE DETAIL BUT AFTER I [REDACTED] ONCE WE DID IT AGAIN WHILE I WAS BENT OVER THE SINK

but he was specifically like. so like at my grandmothers old place they had like a single window over the sink that if you passed you could see pretty easily into and he was like. AHDJGMAJFJW. you should keep your head down or your neighbors will realize we’re not just doing dishes together AND IR WAS SO????

THE DREAM ENDED THERE AND IM STILL RECOVERING????? I HAVE A LOT OF FICTIONAL MAN DREAMS BUT NEVER ONES SO VIVID AND REAL? AND SPECIFIC? MY STOMACH IS STILL 🦋🦋

[bitegore]

if you're an egotistical artist, you should use alt text.

hear me out. you want to show people your art, right? you want them to see the important details, the shit they should be blown away with... right? so they know how to compliment you and what they should be focusing on, no? and you want everyone to see it?

put a description in the alt text.

not just "my oc standing in front of a background" no get descriptive after you say that. focus on that shit you put in there. "a woman with beautiful eyes and an ornate hammer" better. what'd you spend three hours detailing? "wearing a shirt with an ornate lace pattern" better! what are you aiming for? "it looks like a classical portrait" THERE.

and having the alt text button means people who can see might click on it too. and then be like "wow i didn't notice half of these details". its true. happens to me pretty often. half the time they're like "this owns, omg, you guys should look at the alt text" because i did a good job describing it and there's details even they didn't catch until they read it and looked back over it.

if you like when people stroke the hell out of your ego and catch all the cool things in your art. and you want everyone to see your art. put some alt text on that thing. for serious.

[badgopher]

"Saturdays by Twin Shadow (feat. HAIM)" is how I've mentally started every post I've made here on a Saturday for the past however many years that song's been out.

I decided I needed bath bombs so I set out to do that and only realized my error when I saw the traffic control person as soon as I turned into the mall. On the Saturday before Christmas. lol

My upstairs neighbor moved out a month ago so I no longer hear about their sex life through my ceiling. My next door neighbor moved out last week so I no longer have to wear my active noise cancelling earplugs to muffle their snoring. It’s quieter around here, but the hot water takes longer to find my tap in the morning.

I deleted a whole chapter about that computer case. You’re welcome.

Never did end up doing Christmas cards this year. I’ve got mixed feelings about that.

I want to do a bunch of dumb end of year data analysis things, but I have to pull a bunch of data to do it, and that’ll take me like a dozen minutes, and that's like a dozen minutes that I could spend not doing that thing. You see my dilemma. Stay tuned, I guess?

I’m the only one on my team not scheduled off on Monday and I think Tuesday next week (and, actually, most of the next 2 weeks). It’s easy enough to keep Teams active and my work email open while I tinker on side quests.

The checkout person at LUSH is always like “oh, are these a gift?” as I unload 9 bath bombs from my basket, as if they don't get many solo middle aged dudes stocking up on bath bombs on Saturday afternoons.

Turns out I miscounted and have 1 too many bath bombs so I’m taking a bath about it.

[feareborn]

Need to move out of this state soon I'm going to be so for real the cost of these are insane

[b-blushes]

my balance: I am having a somewhat miserable time with it, but I AM killing it with my medical admin at the moment.

[newtness532]

i know that graduating one semester later is not that big of a deal and i haven't made any plans about what comes next so it doesnt even make a difference. so why does it feel just so terrible

[boxchewr]

okay i'm gonna continue my thoughts from the girl shampoo tags because. i remembered how viscerally miserable i was when i thought all i could do was Girl things bc i was raised as a Girl. my mother wasn't even that strict but she would automatically assume i couldn't like hot wheels bc thats for Boys and i was Girl. so i never had any hot wheels and she even made me leave a monster truck toy i got from a del taco bc "well you wouldn't want that anyway" (even though i was playing with it the whole time to the point of annoying her abt it) when i realized there are no hard struck boundaries on what Girls can do and what Boys can do it felt like a whole other world opened up to me. it kills me to see that a lot of people never get that realization that they CAN just do WHATEVER they want and stuff marketed for different genders like toys or fucking toilet paper is a waste of time and pointless and just companies trying to gouge more money out of you. plus stuff marketed 'for girls' is usually of lower quality anyway (coughs CLOTHES coughs)

[obligatory-name-change]

the setting itself can be the monster... but also... a lover? much to think about