#Artificial Euphoria

[nicholasandriani]

Binary Hearts: A Poem on Speculative Writing, Content Design, Transhumanance, and Systems Thinking.

Confession time. I’m struggling to reconcile my time management as the semester ends and summer begins. I fade into the ever night of daydreams and cyberscapes where I can read, and play, and laze about in a transhuman journey through mediated experiences. Long story short, I received a PS5 from our research lab, you know, for research — right! How did I score such a position? — and as I find…

[hiimcanadia]

what if we exchanged tummy freak ideas. ok so stede and trans ed meet before ed gets top. ed gets fat then gets top. he's so happy afterwards with his totally flat chest and his fat lil tummy sticking out round and soft underneath it. once ed heals up stede loves dragging his hands down ed's front and feeling where his tummy begins and how much it sticks out. very sexy.

Yessss I love this so much. Ed's cute little tummy sticking out so much, even more obvious than before now that it's paired with his flat chest 🥺 I'm sure he's so much more confident going shirtless around the house now, so Stede gets to see the tummy so much more than he used to and he's trying to get his hands on it as much as possible (bless these two but absolutely nothing is getting done for like a week after the bandages come off<3) Also not to always be on my wonky chest agenda, but if Ed has little skin wings under his arms after surgery I just know Stede would love squishing those too 🥺

[marythinksurstupid]

I am standing against positive vibes

[goodjohnjr]

Euphoria But Kendrick Lamar Is Taylor Swift Again

What Is It? The YouTube video Euphoria But Kendrick Lamar Is Taylor Swift Again by the YouTube channel HustleorDie: Euphoria But Kendrick Lamar Is Taylor Swift Again Description: This is made from Kendrick Lamar’s diss song called “euphoria”, a diss track towards Drake (Drizzy). It is a song in the biggest rap beef. #euphoria #kendricklamar #drake #taylorswift Things used: AI Taylor Swift…

[norristeria]

Miss Independent ! LN04

━━━━━━ Part of the LOVESICK IDOLS anthology!

SUMMARY 𝄡 You can buy your own diamonds and flowers, you always have. This independence is so sacred, it blinds you to Lando's need to provide.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x A-List Actress! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff, Angst.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 4k.

NOTE 𝄡 The idea hit me in the face in the middle of the night & I knew I had to get the words out before they vanished. I don't know if I like it, it's quite messy ( & not as poetic as Thy Trophy, I fear⏤I'm keeping all my pretty metaphors for another fic lol ) but oh well! This is not proofread so if you see a typo, no you did not... Enjoy!! <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

It all began with the bouquet of peonies.

Paris’s avenues stirred to life with the coming of spring, perfumed by the powdery scents drifting from adorned Haussmann balconies and overflowing flower stalls. Color, in all its revelry, reclaimed its dominion, dazzling eyes long dulled by winter—a resurrection both olfactory and optical, which served as a gentle reminder that Hope would always prevail.

Even the blinding fabrics of the archival pieces chosen by your stylist could not compare to Mother Nature, who had woven her finest tapestry the moment April’s soft sun had peeked through the clouds.

The prosaic birthed Beauty, and what could embody both better than a bouquet of flowers?

There, tucked on a side table in a corner, the peonies reigned. You had spotted them the moment you had walked in, and since then, they had haunted your gaze and mind.

Pink and violet blurred at the edge of your vision. Whenever the stylists were not looking, you would breathe in, hoping to catch their delicate scent, but were left only with frustration and the stiffness of your stance atop that damned pedestal.

You had been invited to yet another dinner—something of the “upmost importance,” according to your agent—and now you had to decide on a dress.  

Not on sunlit café terraces, nor in the gardens of the Tuileries, no, but here, in a showroom lit by artificial light and chilled by aggressive air conditioning.

Since morning, people had poked and prodded, measured and tightened corsets, adjusted layers of tulle and silk. More doll than human, you suffocated in the vast white hall of the 30 Avenue Montaigne, longing to trade its sterile walls for the breezy avenues of the 8th arrondissement.

Your gaze drifted again to the peonies, and you sighed.

Spring would have to wait.

Suddenly, your phone rang. The chime cut through the whispering—though not-so-discreet—remarks of the stylists, their brutal musings on the shape of your hips or the width of your arms.

You silently thanked whoever had called for silencing them, even if only for a heartbeat.

Unable to move—a stylist was pinning lace across your torso—you asked your assistant, Marguerite, to bring the phone to you. When you saw the name written on the screen, a breathless smile spread across your lips.

“Hello!”

“Hi, my love,” came Lando’s weary voice.

“How’s Japan?”

You heard the rustle of bedsheets through the speaker as he shifted. Night had long fallen in Suzuka, stealing away the euphoria of race day and leaving only its ghosts—the stress, the nerves, the doubt.

“It’s fine. It’d be better if you were here, though.”

You winced, guilt flaring sharp in your chest. You closed your eyes.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry... I’d rather be with you than do these stupid fittings.”

You ignored the scalding looks from the stylists.

Lando did not reply. He sniffed. Your heart broke.

How you wished you could pick up its pieces, but the corset pressing against your ribs held you prisoner in your pain.

You dreamed of following Lando across the world, cheering from the paddock instead of watching grainy videos shared online. But your career came first—whether you liked it or not. Your agent made sure of that.

Such was the price of passion: loving by proxy, surviving on scattered calls and whispered promises.

The gods had not been kind to you. They punished your love, destined to transcend physical laws and only exist on different time zones.

His breathing echoed in your ear as you searched for a distraction, something to take his mind of the weekend. He rarely called during races—it reminded him too much of your absence in the McLaren garage.

You knew this call meant more. It was flare in the dark.

Your eyes swept the room once more and found the peonies. They would do.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, perhaps a little too brightly. “Dior has the most adorable bouquet of peonies I’ve ever seen. Hold on, I’ll send you a photo!”

You snapped a picture and sent it before he could say a word.

“Don’t you think they’d look perfect in the apartment in Monaco?”

The apartment. Not yours. Just another in-between you lived in. Not quite London, not quite New York. Not quite Monaco, not quite Paris. Such was the life of an actress, a never-ending wanderer.

“I trust your taste more than mine,” he said.

You nearly cried when you heard the smile in his voice. One spark of joy in Lando was enough to ignite your own. They had grown so rare these days, each one deserved celebration.

The start of the season had been rough, and it had not let up—even with the glory.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, especially when your name is Lando Norris, and the internet has decided to make you its scapegoat.

You spoke of anything and everything, trying desperately to pull him from the darkness, though you knew—traitorous and stubborn as they were—those thoughts would crawl back to him later, whispering their lies in the night.

Minutes passed. A seamstress pricked you five times. Then came the question, sudden and soft.

“Do you think you could make it to Bahrain? With the triple header, we won’t see each other for another two, maybe three.”

Despair bled into every word. But you didn’t hear it—Marguerite was trying to tell you something. You bent toward her, the corset biting into your waist.

“Hmm?” you asked distractedly, straightening up. “Ouch!”

The stylist apologized, trembling, needle still in hand. You sighed and waved her off.

“Sorry, Love,” you said. “Marguerite was asking about my lunch order. What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

You wanted to insist, but he beat you to it.

“I should sleep. Jon will kill me if I don’t. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Of course. Good luck for tomorrow. Dream of me.”

“Always.”

You hung up.

An hour later, after endless fittings and the final selection—a Spring 1998 gown—you said your goodbyes, promised Marguerite to update her on your whereabouts, and stepped out onto Avenue Montaigne, bodyguards in tow.

The peonies had colored your thoughts, and you were determined to bring a piece of Parisian Spring back to Monaco.

Your flight would not leave till late afternoon, leaving you enough time to find a florist. Luckily, you did not have to walk far. Monsieur Dior had loved flowers, and the whole neighborhood bloomed for him.

The chime of the shop’s bell greeted you. That small melody lifted your heart, though you couldn’t explain why.

You saw them instantly.

An explosion of color rather than a mere bouquet, the peonies demanded attention. You imagined them in your white-walled Monaco living room, an impressionist painting come to life, and did not hesitate.

You pointed to them, all smiles. The florist quickly wrapped them in tissue paper.

“That’ll be two hundred euros, please.”

You did not blink and paid absently, already lost in the scent of the blossoms. They wrapped around you, filling the hollow Lando’s absence had left.

Your phone rang again, just as you stepped outside. You frowned.

“You’re not asleep?”

“Can we FaceTime?” Lando asked, ignoring your question.

“Of course. One sec…”

You fumbled for an angle, nearly dropping the bouquet. The peonies spilled into the frame, half-hiding your face.

“Oh... you bought them?” His voice was unreadable.

Odd, you thought.

“Yeah! I couldn’t resist. I hope they survive the jet ride, but I don’t see why not! What do you think?”

“They’re beautiful. Not as beautiful as you, but close.”

You snorted.

“Flatterer.”

A silence.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

He sighed.

“Nervous. And I can’t sleep without you.”

“You have my hoodie, don’t you?”

“Not the same,” he mumbled. “And your scent’s fading.”

Your heart clenched.

“I promise I’ll talk to Christopher and my agent. Maybe I can free up a Grand Prix weekend. Miami? I’m not due back in Sicily until mid-May.”

Paris blurred around you. The Grand Palais, the Champs-Élysées. None of it mattered when Lando needed you.

Eventually, after reluctant goodbyes, you hung up and walked on under the bright Parisian sky.

Far away, in a hotel room in Suzuka, Lando sighed and, with a swipe of his thumb, canceled the peony order he had placed with a florist in Monaco.

Then came the restaurant.

Amid the empty plates and crumpled napkins, red circles had seeped and stained the once-pristine tablecloth of the three-star establishment. The wine bottle lay on the table, empty, but its effects were palpable.

The candles that had not yet melted cast a hypnotic glow on your face and illuminated what Lando loved most about you: your pupils, dilated from intoxicating love?

You had long since abandoned any sense of decorum. The tip of your stilettos had begun to stroke his calf, leaving Lando to grip his cutlery so hard his knuckles had turned white.

When you bit your lip, he snapped and stood up so abruptly he almost knocked over his chair.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he muttered.

But instead of heading toward the back of the restaurant, he went the other way, stopping in front of the waiter. Lando handed him his card in an agitated gesture, running a hand through his curls. His thoughts were already drifting to the warmth of your skin, the softness of your lips, the tightness of your–

“It appears Madame has already paid, Mr. Norris.”

Both the effects of wine and desire evaporated in a heartbeat, leaving him pale. His hand froze in his hair. He blinked. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“What do you mean ‘she already paid’? When?” he finally choked out.

The waiter consulted his ledger.

“She left her card earlier in the evening. Here it is.”

He slid a black leather folder across the stand. From it, a metallic rectangle protruded. Lando inwardly cursed.

The black-and-bronze Centurion card, a symbol of wealth and privilege.

Now his nemesis.

Lando snatched it up. An intrusive thought crossed his mind as he held it in his large hand. What if he broke it? He’d pretend it was an accident, of course, but this temporary setback would give him the chance to finally, finally, provide for you.

He shook his head and returned to your table. The card dug painfully into his palm, a sharp reminder of its constant, unbearable presence.

You looked up when you heard him approach, a seductive smile painted on your red lips, completely unaware of the storm rising inside him.

You gaze dropped to his hand, which you admired for a few seconds, then lifted back to Lando’s now-dull green eyes.

“You got my card?”

He sighed and handed it back to you.

“Let’s go.”

Lando helped you with your coat, his hands lingering longer on your shoulders than etiquette would’ve allowed, and together you left.

“Next time, I’m paying,” he said as you waited for the valet.

“Of course,” you replied distractedly, tracing his jawline with the tip of a finger.

Your mind was already elsewhere, on the rest of your evening and the promises your smoldering gazes had recklessly sealed. Lando’s, however, remained stuck on the matter of the bill and the uneasy feeling that had spread through his veins like poison.

Insecurity.

His movements turned mechanical as he heard the engine of his Lamborghini roar. He tipped the valet, thanked him in a flat tone, opened the passenger door for you, offered his hand to help you sit down, then slipped behind the wheel.

His large hand instinctively found your bare, warm thigh—and squeezed.

In the hollow of his palm, the imprint left by the metal card still burned.

But it was the necklace that broke the camel’s back.

The streets of Monaco held a familiarity that comforted Lando after the chaos of the triple header. The narrow lanes and tight turns—walked instead of raced—distracted him from the season and the pressure it carried. The Monaco Grand Prix was still far enough away that he could see the city as nothing more than Home.

He rejoiced in the familiar scent of the Mediterranean Sea, curiously mingled with the tang of luxury car exhaust and the heavy perfumes spilling from boutique doors. Monaco oozed opulence, and you, at his side, fit so seamlessly into this surreal world.

His gaze wandered to you, dressed head to toe in haute couture. In a giddy rush of love and admiration, he stole a kiss from your lips.

Sometimes, he still could not believe you were his.

Hand in hand, the two of you wandered through the principality, with no purpose other than to enjoy each other’s company. You had managed to negotiate a break from your current project—Christopher Nolan would not need you in Sicily for The Odyssey until the end of May.

Lando had pounced on the opportunity, inviting you to join him in Monaco. Your moments were counted; every chance was too precious to be wasted.

Eventually, your idle stroll led you to the ever-crowded Casino Square. You weaved through a sea of phone cameras and autograph requests, sunglasses on, love-drunk smiles on your lips.

“Y/N! Can I get an autograph?”

“Lando! My son’s your biggest fan!”

“Can we do a fit check for my TikTok?”

When a fan strayed too close to you, Lando pulled you behind him and, in a sudden flash of protectiveness, veered you off your usual route, his hand against your lower back.

“What are you doing?” you whispered to him.

“An Oscar-winning actress deserves a proper gift,” he replied with a mischievous glint.

He ignored your questions and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your fingers laced through his on instinct—your body recognized and sought his.

Together, you slipped away from the crowd, past terracotta and granite facades, until you stumbled upon the discreet Cartier boutique tucked into the corner of the square. The chaos outside had already begun to fade, but you both knew iPhone lenses were still quietly tracking your every move.

The rules of paparazzi didn’t apply to phones—much to your dismay.

It was funny to think that just four months ago, you would never have had to consider such a thing; still cocooned in secrecy then, wrapped in love and shadows.

Though he hated the sacrifice of privacy he had made—your little paradise now dissected by the public eye—Lando could not suppress the flicker of pride that warmed his chest.

No more misplaced hopes from admirers; he could walk beside you in broad daylight, and finally, silence them all.

“It’s been almost two months since I got that Oscar,” you teased, realizing where he was leading you. “And you’ve said the same thing every time.”

He only shrugged.

“So what?”

You laughed softly and rolled your eyes.

A doorman opened the door, ushering you into the hushed, velvety quiet of the shop. The boutique, curiously empty, felt as though it had been waiting just for you.

A man greeted you both with open arms.

“Madame L/N, Monsieur Norris, what a joy to see you again! May I offer you a glass of champagne?”

You were guided to a private salon, away from wandering eyes. Some fans would have pressed against the glass just to glimpse at a fragment of your day.

“It’s been some time since we’ve had the pleasure, Madame L/N.”

The salesman’s attention naturally fell to you, and Lando didn’t mind. You were a loyal client—draped in their creations at every red carpet, every press tour, and even in the quiet of your everyday life.

The man waisted to time to present a diamond bracelet. You slid it on gently. The stones, dazzling and vibrant, were blinding, but you remained unmoved by its beauty.

And thus began a familiar dance. A necklace, then an emerald ring, ruby earrings. Each time, you shook your head.

Lando watched you, entranced by the dhow you were unconsciously putting on, happy to offer his opinion when you asked.

“That one’s cute.”

“Oh, gorgeous.”

“Pretty.”

When he complimented yet another jewel, you delicately placed the ring back in its crimson box, raising an eyebrow at him with a knowing smirk. He knew every one of your expressions—that spark in your eyes meant affectionate exasperation.

“You’re not being very helpful, you know.”

“Not my fault you make everything looks good,” he said, glancing at the salesman. “Right, Hervé?”

“Absolutely, Monsieur Norris.”

You stared at the glittering display before you—each piece more beautiful than the last—a pout tugging at your lips.

Lando had to resist the urge to kiss it away.

“Hmm. I don’t know. Nothing really speaks to me.”

“Perhaps you might consider this one?”

Lando tuned out Hervé’s voice. He stood and walked around the room, his gaze caught by thousands of gems shimmering in the light. The luxurious kaleidoscope made his head spin.

He blinked and stopped before a particular display. The necklace inside seized his attention instantly.

“Have you tried this one yet, love?” he asked, mesmerized by the play of light across its surface.

Hervé stood to get a better look.

“Ah oui. Our Reflection necklace. Crafted in eighteen-karat white gold and set with no fewer than three hundred and seventy-six diamonds. A masterpiece of craftsmanship.”

He stood up, unlocked the case and brought the box to the Louis XVI-style table, placing it reverently before you.

Lando returned to your side, unable to tear his eyes from the jewel. The reflection of the diamonds danced across the molded ceiling and glinted in every glass pane.

He could not wait to see them against your skin.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “Could I try it on?”

“Of course, Madame. May I?”

With gloved fingers, Hervé fastened the necklace around your throat. The diamonds and gold sang a symphony of excess as they settled against your skin. Lando’s mouth went dry.

“What do you think, darling?”

He stammered a few inarticulate compliments, unable to look away from your diamond-clad neck.

His gaze dropped lower.

He swallowed.

“That’s the one.”

“I think so too.”

His phone rang, shattering the moment.

You cast him a sharp look before offering Hervé an apologetic—or rather embarrassed—smile. You loathed rudeness.

He shot you a sorry glance, excused himself and stood up.

“I have to take this. Excuse me.”

The call with Jon lasted less than five minutes—but it was enough.

When Lando returned to the room, Hervé was handing you a bag.

You turned toward him as he entered, a radiant smile on your face. For once, he did not return it. He did not linger on your beauty either. No. His eyes went straight to that damned paper bag.

His heart dropped and reverberated in his now-empty mind. Its echoes gave rise to a strange unease that took over him completely—the same one he had felt at the restaurant.

“We can go. I already paid.”

“What?” he asked, voice hollow.

“You were right,” you said, oblivious—or indifferent—to his torment. “The necklace was the best choice.”

“You paid?” he repeated.

“Yes. I didn’t know how long your call would take.”

Something deep within Lando finally snapped.

The male ego is a curious thing. Poke it—and brace for the fallout.

Lando clenched his fist as a plan began to take shape in his mind.

“Love, have you seen my card?” you asked three days later from your shared bedroom.

Lando, lounging on the couch, quickly shoved the said card into the pocket of his hoodie. The metal clinked against his silver ring.

“No,” he cleared his throat. “Why?”

You stormed into the living-room, one hand tangled in your hair. Stress radiated off you in waves. Lando swallowed hard as a cold sweat slid down his spine. You had a gift for making him panic with a single glance—and of the two, he was certainly not the better actor.

“Shit! I had it this morning! I saw this bag that looked really nice.”

“I can get it for you, if you want,” he offered, almost shyly.

But you didn’t hear him—too busy tearing through cushions and knick-knacks, muttering under your breath.

“It’s alright, baby. I’ll buy it for you,” he tried again, more insistent this time.

You straightened up, frowning, the catch-all bowl clutched in your hand.

“I’m perfectly capable of buying this bag myself, Lando.”

The words cracked through the air—sharp, wounded.

Way to go, Norris. That’s not how you’re going to win her over.

“I never said you couldn’t,” he murmured. “It would just make me happy to do it.”

You ignored him and went back to searching. Lando watched, mouth slightly ajar. So, you weren’t even going to acknowledge him? He called your name several times, but you stayed deaf to his pleas.

“Can you just let me spoil you for once?!” he finally burst out.

The peonies, the restaurant, the necklace—all the frustration he had buried deep in his chest bled out in his voice—an uncontrollable hemorrhage of ego.

You arched a brow and placed the bowl back on the table with a frightening calmness. The soft chime rang through the silence as you slowly stood.

“Who are you talking to like that?”

“I just–! I mean– Argh!”

Lando dragged a hand through his curls, pulling at them—a gesture he had picked up from you. Love bred mimicry. The little quirks of one became second nature to the other.

“You don’t let me buy you anything,” he said again, softer.

“That’s not true. You gave me that dress not long ago.”

“Yeah. Because it was Christmas! Four months ago, Y/N.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms. From where he sat, he could see the tension in your shoulders, the pinch of your lips.

You were angry.

“Look, I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It just feels like… like you don’t need me.”

The truth burned his throat. He lowered his gaze, afraid to see pity, or pain, or worse—incomprehension—in your eyes.

“That’s ridiculous.”

He exhaled, eyes shut.

“Maybe. But that’s how I feel.”

Silence fell over you both, thick and heavy. It struck him full in the chest. His heart thundered in his ears.

Why couldn’t you try and understand him? Why were you so stubborn? How long would you speak at cross purposes?

Eventually, the couch dipped beside him, and your scent wrapped around him.

“I don’t need you to buy me bags or necklaces, Lando,” you said, voice gentler now.

He flinched and his heart stung.

“But… I guess I understand why you’d feel that way. And even if it doesn’t make much sense to me…” You sighed. “Well, I suppose I can try.”

Lando looked up, chest already lighter. His pinky found yours on the cushion, and when it did, he did not let go.

You looked at him, lips pressed tight.

“One gift a month.”

“One big gift a month. Small ones have no limit.”

A beat.

You sighed.

“Fine.”

You held out your hand to seal the pact, but Lando pulled you into his chest instead.

There you stayed, quiet. He nestled into the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent—yours and yours alone—and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you earlier,” you whispered minutes later, your throat vibrating against his lips.

“It’s okay.”

You pulled away, bracing a hand against his abs. Lando tried to tug you back against him, already missing your warmth, but you resisted, determined to make your point across.

“No, it’s not. Communication is important in a relationship, and I didn’t consider your feelings, only mine.”

He cupped your face and kissed you deeply before meeting your gaze. A mischievous grin crept onto his lips.

“Let me get you the bracelet and ring to match that Cartier necklace and all is forgiven.”

You rolled your eyes but did not argue. That alone made Lando beam.

Victory tasted sweet—but not as sweet as your lips, which he kissed again. His hands roamed, and yours soon followed.

But just as quickly, they stilled.

You pulled away, eyes narrowing.

“Is that my fucking card in your pocket?”

Lando winced.

[kathaelipwse]

Set Me Off || J.Wooyoung

Pairing: Wooyoung (ATEEZ) x Actress.Idol!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 7242 words : Reading Time: 26-ish mins

Trope: Idol x Actress | Slow Burn to Lovers | Hidden Relationship | He Falls First and Harder

Warnings: Mild language, mentions of hate comments, slow-burn tension, eventual mild intimacy (towards the end)

Synopsis: Everyone knows you as the queen of K-dramas, always cast in sweet romance roles. But your gritty new action film flips the script—and catches the attention of ATEEZ’s Wooyoung, who’s instantly obsessed. What starts as admiration turns into something deeper as secret messages, live chemistry, and late-night confessions unfold. Fame might complicate things… but love? That’s the real headline.

Author’s Note: This is my love letter to powerful women, supportive men, and the chaos that comes when celebrity crushes turn mutual. Expect flirty tension, viral moments, soft love, and a lot of heart.

Request are open <3

The award show pulsed with manufactured euphoria. Sequins shimmered under the relentless assault of camera flashes, a galaxy of idols clustered beneath the stage lights, their attention divided between the ongoing performances and hushed predictions of who would clutch the coveted trophies. It was the usual orchestrated spectacle: saccharine romance trailers that elicited polite applause, glossy cosmetic brand ads promising unattainable perfection, dramatic teasers hinting at future on-screen turmoil. Fluff and glitter, meticulously curated for maximum impact.

Then, the manufactured brilliance fractured.

The house lights bled out, plunging the auditorium into sudden darkness. A collective murmur rippled through the crowd, a momentary suspension of the carefully constructed reality.

The colossal screen, which had moments before showcased smiling faces and glistening products, dissolved into an absolute, consuming black.

And then your trailer began.

A cacophony of sound ripped through the silence: the sharp, concussive reports of gunshots, the high-pitched whine of tires fighting for traction, the chillingly distinct shick of a blade being drawn from its sheath. And then, you materialized. Stepping into the frame as if conjured from the shadows, clad in a black leather jacket that seemed to absorb the remaining light. Your eyes, sharp and assessing, cut through the darkness. Your lips, painted a defiant blood red, curved into a dangerous smile, a flicker of untamed fire dancing in their depths.

"Target acquired," a voice, low and husky – hers – drawled from the screen. The camera shifted, revealing her perched on a rain-slicked rooftop, a silhouette against the artificial twilight. Black leather molded to her form, a gun holstered with lethal grace against her thigh. Her eyes, lined with a stark precision, mirrored your own intensity. Her lips, too, were curved in a knowing smirk.

The entire auditorium held its breath. The low hum of conversation had vanished, replaced by a profound, almost reverent silence. The collective memory of your previous roles – the sweet ingenue clutching a notebook, the girl blushing over a tentative first kiss – seemed to evaporate into the charged atmosphere.

The images on screen shifted with brutal efficiency. You, a whirlwind of controlled violence, flipping a man twice your size with effortless ease, sending him crashing through a pristine marble table. You, a figure of fierce determination, shooting your way out of a towering high-rise as lightning split the stormy sky. You, smirking, a smear of blood a stark crimson against your flawless cheekbone, your beauty amplified by the raw power you exuded. You were terrifying. And undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful.

"Tell heaven I sent you," she murmured, her voice a silken threat before the deafening roar of an explosion ripped through the sound system. A car erupted in a fiery inferno behind her as she turned and walked away, her silhouette unwavering against the blaze. And then – another explosion, closer this time, the screen erupting in a blinding, white-hot flash. “Blood Petals” – A Netflix Original. Coming Soon.

Silence hung heavy in the air for a beat, two beats, an eternity.

Then, the dam broke.

A collective gasp swept through the auditorium, a wave of pure shock rippling through the assembled stars. A smattering of hesitant cheers broke out, quickly swallowed by the dominant sense of stunned disbelief.

ATEEZ? Their usual boisterous energy seemed to have been momentarily suspended. They sat frozen, eyes glued to the now-blank screen.

Wooyoung? He was a statue carved from disbelief. Utterly silent, his eyes blinked slowly, as if trying to process a reality that had just violently overwritten his expectations. It was as if his entire definition of an ideal had just materialized on screen, holding a grenade and a vendetta.

“Bro,” San whispered, nudging his arm gently. “Was that… her?”

“She just killed five guys and licked blood off her thumb,” Mingi muttered, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I didn’t know I was into that, but apparently, I am.”

Wooyoung remained unresponsive, his brain seemingly undergoing a complete system reboot. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he breathed, “She’s so hot I think I blacked out for a second.”

And then – your cue.

Blinding spotlights flooded the stage, cutting through the residual darkness. You stepped into the incandescent glow, a vision ripped straight from the aesthetic of your trailer. Your gown, the color of deep red wine, clung to your figure like liquid night, sculpted to every curve and angle. The gloves reached past your elbows, adding an air of dangerous elegance, while the slit in the skirt climbed high enough to steal the breath from every lung in the room. Your hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of your face, your expression a study in cool, lethal grace.

Every single eye in the auditorium was fixed on you.

Including his.

Wooyoung watched, his mouth slightly agape, as if you had indeed descended from the ceiling on a wire, a real-life embodiment of a Mission: Impossible fantasy.

You smiled – a cool, collected curve of your lips that somehow managed to convey both power and amusement – and your voice, smooth and confident, filled the stunned silence. “Best Performance Group: ATEEZ.”

A ripple of movement went through their section. They rose, a wave of applause finally breaking the spell. But Wooyoung? He moved as if through water, a dazed expression still clouding his features.

As Hongjoong stepped up to the microphone to accept the award, the unforgiving eye of the camera captured everything. The genuine gratitude on Hongjoong’s face, the supportive smiles of the other members – and Wooyoung. Wooyoung, who couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from you. His eyes followed the line of your dress, the sharpness of your jawline, the knowing glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smirk. Your entire aura seemed to have him ensnared.

And then, as you gracefully handed over the gleaming trophy to Hongjoong, your eyes flickered in his direction. Just a fleeting glance. Just one subtle, almost imperceptible smirk.

It was over.

He was done.

Dead.

Buried under a mountain of newfound fascination.

Twitter exploded within minutes.

🎥 “wooyoung folded like a lawn chair watching her walk out I CANNOT.” 📸 “she smirked. he malfunctioned. we all saw it.”

Later that night, back in the familiar chaos of their dorms, the boys were starting to unwind, the adrenaline of the award show slowly dissipating. Everyone, that is, except for Wooyoung.

He was curled up in his bed, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his head, the glow of his phone illuminating his face as he watched your trailer on repeat.

Click.

You walked out of the inferno, the flickering flames casting dramatic shadows across your face, a gun held loosely in one hand, the sharp snap of your heel against the imaginary concrete echoing in his ears.

“Target acquired.”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath, as if he had indeed glimpsed something divine.

Yeosang cautiously peeked his head around the doorframe. “Are you… okay?”

“She blew up a car. In HEELS.”

“That didn’t exactly answer the question.”

“She’s so cool, guys,” Wooyoung continued, his voice a hushed reverence. “She used to be in all those fluffy romcoms, and now she’s killing people and being sarcastic and walking in slow motion away from explosions. I didn’t know I had a thing for powerful women who could destroy me.”

“Ah,” Seonghwa said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “You’ve fallen. Hard.”

Mingi punctuated the statement by throwing a soft pillow at Wooyoung’s head. “Confess already.”

“I can’t even breathe,” Wooyoung whispered into his blanket, his voice muffled. “She smirked at me. I think I transcended.”

--

Soon enough The Premiere night descended upon the city like an electric storm, the air crackling with anticipation. Paparazzi, an organized frenzy, lined the velvet ropes like a high-powered firing squad, their flashes a relentless barrage of light. Fans, a roaring wave of adoration, pressed against the barriers, their screams a fervent symphony of excitement. The rapid-fire click of camera shutters punctuated the night, a relentless soundtrack to the unfolding spectacle.

And then, the sleek black car pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows a final veil of mystery. The collective breath of the crowd hitched. The door swung open, and you emerged.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The carefully orchestrated chaos outside the theater erupted into pandemonium. Shouts of your name ripped through the air, drowning out everything else.

You were a vision sculpted from darkness and fire. Custom black silk, impossibly fluid, cascaded around you, embroidered with intricate gold threads that seemed to writhe and shimmer like molten lava. The dress, a masterpiece of design, clung to your form as if painted on, a second skin crafted by mythical beings. A dramatic slit revealed a tantalizing glimpse of leg with every step, while the low back hinted at a hidden strength. Your hair, swept up into a sleek, architectural style, framed your sharp features. Gleaming gold ear cuffs, like miniature sculptures, caught the red carpet lights, adding a touch of fierce elegance.

And your expression? Imperturbable. Powerful. The same captivatingly dark femme fatale aura that had sent shockwaves through the internet after the trailer’s release now radiated in person, amplified tenfold. You were a living, breathing myth, a fire-walking siren who had stepped out of the screen and into reality.

Even as you moved, the digital world was reacting in real-time. Edits began to coalesce on social media, capturing your every step, every glance. Tweets poured in, breathless and awestruck.

💬 “This isn’t a premiere. This is a coronation.” 💬 “She didn’t come to slay. She came to rule.” 💬 “Y/N is literally a Bond villainess and the Bond girl at the same time. My brain can’t comprehend.”

But it wasn't just your otherworldly glamour that held the crowd captive. It was the unexpected glimpses of the person beneath the formidable facade.

As you posed for the relentless cameras, a young female staffer behind you stumbled, her simple blouse slipping awkwardly off one shoulder. In a seamless movement, without a flicker of hesitation, you shifted your position, subtly placing yourself between her and the unforgiving lenses. Your head dipped slightly, and those who were close enough saw your lips move, a whispered word of comfort as the flustered staffer quickly adjusted her top, her face flushing with gratitude.

Moments later, as you made your way towards the theater entrance, a small gasp rippled through the nearby fans. A little girl, her bright pink frock a little too long, had tripped, her face crumpling in distress. Without a second thought, you knelt down in your breathtakingly expensive gown, your movements graceful and unhurried. Your long fingers gently smoothed the ruffled fabric of her skirt, and you carefully adjusted the tiny strap of her heel, offering a warm, genuine smile that melted away her tears.

Halfway up the grand staircase leading into the theater, you paused, your sharp eyes catching a minor imperfection. Your co-star, a usually impeccably dressed actor, had a crooked tie. With a playful shake of your head and a soft laugh that carried in the sudden lull of noise, you reached out and straightened it, your touch light but precise. A blush bloomed on his cheeks, making him look endearingly like a teenager caught off guard.

The internet, already teetering on the brink of collapse, finally shattered.

🎥 “She’s gorgeous, graceful, and kind? This woman’s a SIMULATION. There’s no way she’s real.” 🎥 Fan art, vibrant and immediate, flooded Twitter. TikTok edits set to soaring symphonic music, captioned with the simple, powerful words ‘Queen Energy,’ dominated FYPs. 🎥 # Y/NsEra surged to the # 1 trending spot worldwide, a testament to the captivating force you had unleashed.

And somewhere across the sprawling city, within the familiar, slightly chaotic haven of the ATEEZ dorms, Wooyoung was staring at his phone screen as if it had personally delivered a devastating blow.

She was perfect.

She was unreal.

And she had just posted a picture from the premiere – the black and gold dress shimmering under the intense lights, her gaze direct and magnetic, captioned with two stark emojis:

“🖤⚔️ Blood Petals, now streaming.”

He didn’t pause to consider the implications. He didn’t overthink. His fingers moved with a speed born of pure impulse. He just hit ‘follow.’

And three seconds later, in the small, interconnected universe of social media, the world seemed to tilt again.

💬 “WOOYOUNG FOLLOWED Y/N???” 💬 “We have contact. I repeat. We HAVE CONTACT.” 💬 “Not Wooyoung folding on MAIN like this. I’m deceased.”

Even his own group chat, usually a steady stream of memes and inside jokes, erupted into a flurry of panicked messages.

Mingi: BRO San: no way you just followed her like that Hongjoong: bold. very bold. Yeosang: should’ve made a finsta first lmfao Jongho: you’re so obvious it’s painful Wooyoung: leave me alone Seonghwa: she was really pretty though. and nice. and cool. Wooyoung: I KNOW. I KNOW SHE WAS AND SHE IS.

The next morning, the news broke with the quiet confidence of undeniable success. Netflix officially announced that "Blood Petals" had soared to the # 1 movie spot globally. It had cracked the Top 10 in over eighty countries within the first twelve hours of its release. Critics, who had once pigeonholed you, now lauded your performance, praising the stunning cinematography, the visceral choreography, and your terrifyingly captivating grace. Audiences were spellbound by the transformation, the seamless shift from the soft-spoken sweetheart of romantic comedies to the high-heeled harbinger of doom.

Wooyoung became a dedicated disciple of "Blood Petals." He watched it again and again, dissecting every scene, every nuance of your performance.

But it wasn’t just the movie that consumed him.

He delved into the archives of your public appearances, binging interviews where your witty, sarcastic answers were delivered with a playful smirk that sent a shiver of something he couldn’t quite name down his spine. He watched behind-the-scenes footage, charmed by your easy camaraderie with the stunt team, your genuine laughter at your own bloopers.

And then there were the fan edits. Oh, the fan edits. Compilations of your most striking moments – you in slow motion, flipping gleaming knives with deadly precision, a knowing smirk thrown over your shoulder as you walked away from fiery explosions, all set to a soundtrack of haunting melodies or pulse-pounding club beats.

He was whipped.

Fully.

Entirely.

Completely.

Even the sharp-eyed fans, masters of observation and deduction, sensed the shift in the cosmic balance.

💬 “They haven’t even breathed the same air publicly but I just KNOW he’s head over heels in love.” 💬 “He’s fighting for his life in that dorm right now, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly.”

And they were right. Because even without a single shared glance captured by the cameras, without a single public interaction…

The ship, fueled by a shared smirk and a single, fateful click of a ‘follow’ button, had already irrevocably set sail.

--

A month had passed since the explosive premiere of "Blood Petals." Your face was plastered across magazine covers, your interviews were dissected frame by frame, and your social media notifications pinged with the relentless energy of a thousand buzzing bees. Your movie reigned supreme, a global phenomenon that solidified your transformation from rom-com darling to action icon. You were booked solid with appearances, endorsements, and talk show circuits.

But through the whirlwind of newfound fame, nothing – and absolutely no one – had managed to truly ruffle your carefully constructed composure. You were a seasoned professional, adept at navigating the chaotic landscape of celebrity.

Until today.

Stepping onto the brightly lit set of a reality show felt different. The studio lights blazed with an almost aggressive intensity, the screams of the live audience were a physical force, and a knot of pure, unadulterated nerves tightened in your stomach, pulling it taut like a drawn bow.

Because today, you were filming with Wooyoung.

Yes. That Wooyoung.

The one who had casually followed you on Instagram weeks ago, triggering an internet meltdown of epic proportions. The one whose award show fancam, capturing his utterly besotted gaze as you presented ATEEZ with their trophy, had inexplicably garnered four million views in a mere seventy-two hours. The one you had, in the quiet corners of your mind, secretly, foolishly, undeniably been crushing on since his debut days.

You’d handled the online frenzy with your usual cool detachment, offering a wry comment here and there, expertly deflecting any direct questions. On the outside, you were the epitome of unbothered grace.

But seeing him in person, sitting across from you at the brightly lit panel table, his fox-like smile radiating genuine warmth, the silver rings on his fingers catching the studio lights, his dark hair artfully messy in a way that somehow only looked perfect on him?

Yeah. Game over. All your carefully constructed walls crumbled like ancient ruins.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a smooth, slightly breathless murmur as you finally settled into your seat. His eyes held a spark of something… intriguing.

“Hey,” you replied, your voice betraying none of the internal chaos, maintaining your signature cool even as your heart rate decided to stage its own private rave.

He leaned in ever so slightly, a conspiratorial air about him. “You look… dangerous.” His gaze flickered over your outfit, a sleek black jumpsuit that hinted at the lethal grace you portrayed on screen.

A familiar smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s kind of the brand now, isn’t it?” You met his eyes, holding his gaze for a beat longer than strictly necessary.

The show kicked off, a whirlwind of bright lights and enthusiastic energy. Games were played with varying degrees of success, laughter echoed through the studio, and the usual delightful madness of variety television unfolded. You found yourself surprisingly at ease, bantering with the other guests, your sharp wit on full display.

And then, the host, a seasoned entertainer with a mischievous glint in his eye, turned to you mid-segment, a wide grin spreading across his face. He thrived on creating memorable moments, and the palpable energy between you and Wooyoung hadn’t escaped his notice.

“So, Y/N,” he began, his voice laced with playful curiosity, “people were absolutely obsessed with your bike scenes in Blood Petals. The way you handled that motorcycle in those incredible heels… Do you think you could still ride in heels in real life?”

Without missing a beat, you smoothly crossed your long legs, the movement drawing attention to the very heels in question – a pair of impossibly high stilettos. You casually flicked a loose strand of hair over your shoulder, your gaze steady. “Of course. I could ride in stilettos if I had to. Though I might prefer a slightly more… aerodynamic model than what I usually wear to premieres.”

The audience erupted in cheers and whistles, thoroughly enjoying your confident response.

But the host wasn’t finished stirring the pot. He clapped his hands together dramatically, his eyes twinkling. “Amazing! Absolutely amazing! Well, we have a bike right here on set for our next segment… Anyone here wanna volunteer to ride behind our action queen and, you know, test out her skills?” He punctuated the question with a wink at the camera, clearly intending it as a lighthearted joke. The cast members chuckled, anticipating the usual playful refusals.

Except for one person.

“Yes.”

Wooyoung’s voice cut through the laughter, clear and unwavering. He didn’t even blink, his expression utterly serious, calm, and brimming with a quiet confidence that sent a fresh wave of unexpected butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

The entire room seemed to freeze mid-breath. The camera zoomed in on the audience, capturing their collective gasp of shock and burgeoning excitement. Screams started to bubble up from the fans, a sound that was rapidly escalating into something bordering on feral. The other cast members exchanged bewildered glances, some wheezing with suppressed laughter, the staff members behind the cameras cackling with glee at the unexpected turn of events.

And you?

You turned your head slowly, deliberately, to look directly at him. His gaze was intense, a playful fire dancing in his dark eyes. He was smiling at you like the damn devil himself, an irresistible invitation in his expression.

So, of course, you said, your voice a low, challenging purr, “Let’s ride.”

The live segment instantly became legend.

A sleek, black motorcycle was wheeled onto the stage, gleaming under the studio lights. You swung your leg over it with an effortless grace that suggested you had indeed been born on two wheels, the sharp click of your stilettos against the pedals echoing in the sudden hush. Wooyoung hesitated for a split second – just enough to play it off as a moment of playful apprehension – before swinging his own leg over and sliding in behind you, his movements surprisingly fluid.

His hands hovered awkwardly in the air behind you, a palpable tension radiating from him.

“Is it okay if I—?” he started, his voice a hesitant murmur.

“Yes,” you said, cutting him off before he could even finish the question, a hint of amusement lacing your tone.

His hands settled on your waist, lightly at first, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your jumpsuit. Then, as the camera zoomed in for a close-up, his grip tightened subtly, a silent acknowledgment of the close proximity. His breath warmed the shell of your ear as he spoke, his voice a low rumble.

“You sure you’re good?”

“You’ve asked me ten times,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. “You nervous?”

“Just trying not to pass out,” he muttered, the words barely audible.

You pretended not to hear the slightly flustered admission, but the knowing smirk playing on your lips said otherwise.

The internet, predictably, imploded. Again.

💬 “The chemistry is NOT just acting. I refuse to believe this is just for the show.” 💬 “They’re touching like it’s a first date AND their third date at the same time. The awkwardness is endearing and the underlying tension is… palpable.” 💬 “Someone check on Wooyoung’s blood pressure. I think it just spiked into the stratosphere.”

After the exhilarating chaos of the live broadcast, as you finally had a moment to yourself, you opened Instagram. Your fingers hovered over his profile for a fleeting second before you made the decision.

And finally – finally – you tapped the ‘follow’ button.

Within mere seconds, the eagle-eyed fans noticed the digital acknowledgment. The news spread like wildfire.

💬 “Y/N FOLLOWED HIM BACK. WE’RE WITNESSING HISTORY UNFOLD BEFORE OUR VERY EYES.” 💬 “This isn’t just a ship anymore. It’s a luxury yacht sailing through international waters.” 💬 “They’re gonna get married and I can FEEL IT in my bones. Save the date!”

Meanwhile, back at the ATEEZ dorm, the atmosphere was one of bewildered amusement.

Mingi burst into the living room with theatrical flair, phone clutched dramatically in his hand. “YOU SAID YES ON LIVE TV?! TO RIDING BEHIND HER?! ON A MOTORCYCLE?!”

Yunho followed, shaking his head in disbelief, a wide, slightly incredulous grin on his face. “You looked like you were about to propose on that bike, hyung.”

Wooyoung simply shrugged, a goofy, lovesick grin plastered across his face – the grin of a man who was clearly, irrevocably, way too far gone. “I meant it.”

Mingi and Yunho groaned in perfect unison, collapsing onto the nearby couch.

“You’re down bad,” Mingi declared with mock solemnity.

“Embarrassing,” Yunho added, though the teasing tone lacked any real bite.

Wooyoung just flopped back onto the cushions, his phone already displaying a rapidly growing collection of fan edits from the show – snippets of your confident smile, his awestruck gaze, the charged moment on the motorcycle.

And he smiled, a soft, genuine expression that reached his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet contentment. “I know.”

It starts the night after the variety show.

Your phone buzzes at 1:12 a.m. with a DM request.

Wooyoung.

You open it without hesitation.

@ wooyoung_official Hey… I hope this isn’t weird or too much but I just wanted to say I had so much fun filming today. I meant what I said about the bike thing, by the way. You were incredible. If I came off too strong, I’m sorry—I was just really nervous and trying not to make it obvious I’ve been a fan of yours forever lol. You’re insanely talented. And hilarious. And kind. I don’t usually DM people like this but… I didn’t want the day to end without saying thank you. Hope I wasn’t too much.

You stare at the screen, heart thudding. Not just because it’s sweet. But because it's real.

You reply faster than you probably should.

@ you That wasn’t too much at all. I had a great time too :) I’m glad it was you behind me on that bike. And if you were nervous, you hid it well. We should do that again sometime. (Maybe without the cameras.)

There’s a pause. Then another ping.

@ wooyoung_official …wait was that flirting Are we flirting now Because I’m ready

You laugh, then send your number as he had sent his.

--

From that moment, it takes off.

Texting every day. Morning check-ins. Late-night venting. Voice notes filled with sleepy laughter and dramatic reenactments of chaotic schedules.

You send each other memes, inside jokes forming faster than you can keep track.

He tells you about the stress of comeback season, the pressure to stay sharp, the ache in his bones from back-to-back rehearsals.

You talk about the constant need to be “on,” the way you sometimes feel like a product instead of a person, the weight of comments that cut deeper than they should.

And through it all, Wooyoung listens. Never tries to fix you. Just sees you.

And hypes you—loudly.

When you land another guesting on a show with him, fans immediately clock the shift.

The way he looks at you when you speak. The inside jokes mid-interview. The not-so-subtle way his hand brushes yours during games.

Clips go viral.

💬 “They’re literally in their own world.” 💬 “Why does Wooyoung look at her like that 😭😭” 💬 “Not him fixing her mic like a boyfriend.” 💬 “HE SAID SHE DESERVES TEN OSCARS??? GET HIM A RING.”

It gets worse (or better?) when he starts defending you online.

Any hate comment?

Deleted.

Any fan shading your acting?

He’s replying with full essays about your talent and work ethic.

He comments under your posts with things like:

💬 Queen behavior. 💬 She acts, she slays, she saves lives. 💬 Where’s your award? No seriously. 💬 No one’s touching her. I mean that.

And when you text him—

💬 you You really don’t have to defend me like that all the time, you know. 💬 wooyoung Yes, I do. You deserve someone who shows up for you. Always. I want to be that.

--

One night, after a long shoot, you break a little.

You text: “Some days I feel like I’ll never be enough no matter how hard I work.”

His reply comes thirty seconds later.

You don’t have to earn the right to rest. You’re enough just as you are. And I know this world is loud and cruel sometimes. But when you need quiet? I’ll be your quiet. When you need noise? I’ll be your loudest.

You cry.

And when he sends a sleepy voice note later saying:

“Just wanted you to hear my voice. In case it helps.”

—you fall asleep smiling.

-

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of whispered messages that painted the dawn, late-night phone calls that chased away the shadows, stolen secret coffee runs in disguise, the comforting rhythm of shared playlists weaving through your days, matching hoodies bought on a whim and worn in the privacy of your own spaces, a silent testament to a connection only you two understood.

You and Wooyoung had cultivated a world just for yourselves, a sanctuary built on stolen moments and shared laughter. It wasn't about hiding from the relentless glare of the public eye, though that was a necessary byproduct. It was about cherishing something precious, something untouched by the often-brutal scrutiny of public opinion. It was yours, and his, and belonged to no one else.

He had become your unwavering safe place, the calm in your often-turbulent storm. You, in turn, had become his soft landing, the quiet reassurance in the demanding world he navigated. You had shared everything – your fears, your triumphs, your silliest jokes, your deepest vulnerabilities.

Except for this.

Your next movie. A project shrouded in secrecy, filmed during snatched moments over the past six months. A bold, breathtaking action-romance that promised to redefine your range, where you played the lead opposite a talented rising actor. And yes – there were intimate scenes. A handful. Tastefully shot, with a closed set and an intimacy coordinator ensuring everyone felt safe and respected. Carefully choreographed, like any other dance sequence.

Necessary for the story, your director had emphasized, his artistic vision unwavering. And executed with professionalism and respect, you knew. You believed in the script, in the message it conveyed. You loved the complexity of your character. You just hadn’t… told him.

You had envisioned it as a surprise, a new facet of your artistry to share when the time was right, perhaps at the official trailer drop. But when the first press article landed, its headline screaming the word “intimate” in bold, accusatory letters… it wasn’t the carefully curated reveal you had planned.

Your phone began to vibrate incessantly, a relentless buzzing that echoed the growing unease within you. Notifications flooded your screen – concerned messages from your team, speculative comments from fans, and then, his name flashed across the display.

💬 Wooyoung: Can we meet? Just us. Please.

The café was a hidden gem, tucked away on a quiet, tree-lined street in the familiar bustle of Mapo-gu. The early afternoon crowd was sparse, mostly locals lost in their own conversations. No one paid you a second glance as you slipped inside. He was already there, seated in your usual corner booth, the familiar soft grey of his hoodie pulled low, the brim of his black cap shadowing his usually bright eyes.

As you slid into the booth opposite him, he looked up, and a sharp pang of something akin to guilt and worry twisted in your chest. He wasn't angry, not outwardly. But an almost palpable anxiety clung to him, a restless energy that made him seem smaller, more vulnerable than you had ever seen him. It was as if something was crawling under his skin, an invisible itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

"Hey," you said softly, your voice a gentle anchor in the tense atmosphere.

"Hey." He offered you a tight, strained smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Then he exhaled sharply, the sound filled with a nervous energy. "I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you out like this, I just… I couldn't keep it in. Not for another second."

Without a word, you reached across the small table, your hand finding his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, his grip surprisingly tight, as if he needed the physical connection to ground him. He took another shaky breath before the words finally tumbled out, quick, nervous, raw with vulnerability.

"I trust you. You know that, right? God, you have to know that. I trust you more than anyone I've ever met. But when I saw those articles, the way they were talking about it, the… the emphasis on those scenes… I—I just panicked. My head went somewhere I didn't want it to go. I know it's acting. I know it's your job, your art. But I couldn't stop imagining it, replaying scenarios in my head. I hate that I felt this wave of… of jealousy. It's so stupid. I hate that my brain spiraled like that. I just—God."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked down at your intertwined hands, his thumb tracing small, agitated circles on your skin.

"I think… I think I love you so much it scares me sometimes. It makes me… irrational. I don't ever want to be the guy who tells you what to do, what roles to take, what not to film. That's not who I am. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't make this awful knot form in my stomach, like I was losing you. Or worse… that I didn't deserve you, that someone else… someone else would see that side of you, that intimacy, and… and that I wouldn't be enough."

Your own chest tightened, a wave of empathy washing over you. You understood his vulnerability, the quiet insecurities that even his bright stage presence couldn’t always mask.

Without a word, you slid out of your seat, moved around the small table, and knelt down in front of him, your knees pressing gently against the worn wooden floor. You reached up, your hands framing his face, your thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones.

"Wooyoung," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "You're allowed to feel all of that. Every single bit of it. You're not wrong for being scared, for letting your mind wander. It just proves how much you care. But you're not losing me. You've never even come close."

His dark eyes darted across your face, searching, questioning, glassy with unshed tears that made his eyelashes look impossibly long. “I just… it’s just that the way they wrote about it…”

"I love you." You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, the contact a silent reassurance. "I love you. Jung Wooyoung. Not anyone else. Not any character I play. Not any co-star I share a scene with. Just you. Always you."

He blinked slowly, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. “You… you do?” The question was barely a whisper, filled with a mixture of disbelief and a fragile hope.

"I have for a long time," you confessed, your voice soft but firm.

Then you kissed him.

It was a tender kiss, slow and deliberate, a silent language of reassurance and unwavering affection. It deepened gradually, becoming a heartfelt expression of everything you had ever wanted to say, everything that words often failed to capture. His hands, which had been gripping yours so tightly, now moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his own lips finally responding with a fervor that spoke volumes of the restraint he had been holding onto.

You broke apart just enough to breathe, your lips still brushing against his.

"The scenes in the movie?" you said gently, your gaze unwavering. "They're choreography, Wooyoung. They're storytelling. They're a performance. Not emotion. That has never, and will never, be a part of what I feel for you."

You pressed a soft kiss against his jawline, feeling the slight tremor beneath your lips.

"My heart doesn't perform for a camera. It beats for you, and only you."

You stood, taking his hand, your fingers lacing together as if they were meant to be intertwined. You left the quiet café hand in hand, two figures melting into the anonymity of the afternoon shadows, a shared smile gracing your lips – the quiet, knowing smile of two people who had just reaffirmed something precious and unbreakable.

And maybe you had stolen something from the universe. The unwavering certainty of each other's love, a bond forged in vulnerability and trust. And that, you knew, was a treasure beyond measure.

--

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty sunrises witnessed through sleepy eyes, countless whispered "goodnights" across continents, an immeasurable tapestry woven from secret smiles exchanged across crowded rooms, stolen moments tucked away from prying eyes, phone calls that stretched into the velvet depths of midnight, sharing the quiet anxieties and exhilarating triumphs that came with navigating your extraordinary lives. It was about fiercely protecting something real, something fragile and precious, in a world that seemed determined to twist every genuine connection into a sensational headline.

But love, as it often did, bloomed in the quiet spaces, making you both a little braver, a little more willing to step out of the carefully constructed shadows.

So there was no dramatic announcement, no carefully worded statement released through official channels. No grand, orchestrated gesture, no notes app apology for… well, for simply finding happiness. Instead, you both eased into the public acknowledgment of your relationship with the same gentle tenderness that defined your private world—slowly, softly, like the first blush of dawn.

A seemingly innocuous selfie, posted amidst a flurry of solo shots, where a familiar black jacket was just-so-casually draped over your shoulders. A behind-the-scenes video from a shoot where a distinct, joyful laugh echoed in the background, a laugh that sharp-eared fans instantly recognized. A fleeting glimpse of a hand, undeniably his, resting near yours in a group photo.

The fans, those astute observers of every pixel and every shared glance, already knew. They had suspected, theorized, and meticulously documented every potential clue for months. Edits set to romantic ballads, intricate timelines of your subtle interactions, and countless “I swear they’re secretly dating” comments had flooded every corner of the internet you both inhabited.

So when it finally became “official”—just a casual, almost offhand, "yes, we’re together, and we’re really happy" during a lighthearted interview about your recent projects—the internet didn't explode in scandal. Instead, it melted with an outpouring of genuine joy and heartfelt congratulations. It wasn't a shocking revelation; it was a confirmation of something beautiful that they had already sensed. It was a celebration of a connection that felt real, honest, and earned.

And Wooyoung? He never stopped being your biggest fan, his unwavering support now blossoming into something even more profound. Every post you shared, no matter how trivial, received his immediate like, a digital affirmation that always brought a small smile to your face. Every press junket, every interview you gave, he watched with an almost reverent pride. Every stray negative comment, every whisper of doubt from the darker corners of the internet, he seemed to drown out with an even louder, more radiant display of his affection.

You weren’t just a fleeting “celebrity crush” in his eyes anymore. You were his. His partner, his confidante, his equal. His favorite person in a world filled with dazzling lights and fleeting connections.

And he was yours. The steady anchor in your often-turbulent sea, the warm hand that always found yours in a crowded room, the comforting voice that whispered reassurances in the quiet hours.

The premiere night of your latest film was, as always, a dazzling spectacle. The relentless flash of cameras, the chorus of voices calling your name, the crimson carpet stretching out like a runway leading into the starlit sky. You stood tall, radiating confidence in a gown of rich crimson velvet that seemed to absorb and reflect the light, your poise a silent testament to the journey you had navigated.

Wooyoung didn't walk beside you, his arm linked with yours for the cameras. That wasn't your story. But he was there, a steadfast presence tucked away in the guest section, the hood of his jacket pulled up, the brim of his baseball cap low, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made you feel like you held the very moon in your hands.

Every time your eyes met his across the crowded theater, a fleeting, private moment amidst the public frenzy, your smile softened, a genuine warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the flashing lights.

Later, as the buzz of the after-party began to fade, the air thick with congratulations and champagne bubbles, the two of you slipped away unnoticed, seeking the quiet solitude of a rooftop overlooking the sprawling cityscape.

The city hummed below, a symphony of distant traffic lights flickering like fallen stars, the faint wail of sirens a melancholic counterpoint to the gentle breeze that kissed your skin. You leaned against the cool metal railing, the vastness of the night sky stretching above you. He stepped up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close until your back rested against his chest, his chin finding the curve of your shoulder.

"You killed it tonight," he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

You turned in his embrace, your hands finding his. “You always say that.”

He smiled, a soft, genuine curve of his lips that you knew so well. "Because it’s always true. You shine so brightly, you know that?"

A comfortable silence settled between you, the city lights twinkling like a silent audience. The air tasted like something sacred, a shared moment of quiet intimacy amidst the surrounding chaos.

“I don’t want to lose this,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of the past two years momentarily surfacing.

His grip tightened gently on your hands. “You won’t,” he replied, his voice firm, filled with a quiet conviction. “Not if we keep choosing each other, every single day. Not if we keep protecting this, our own little world.”

You nodded, a small, understanding smile gracing your lips. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his, the familiar scent of his cologne a comforting balm.

And in that quiet space, between the distant hum of the city and the steady rhythm of your heartbeats, you both silently reaffirmed the promise you had made to each other long ago – to never let the relentless demands of the world, the intrusive glare of fame, the insidious tendrils of fear and doubt, or the deafening noise of public opinion come between the fragile, beautiful thing you had built.

The next morning, as the world began to stir, a blurry, zoomed-in shot surfaced on Twitter, quickly going viral. It was an imperfect capture of a perfect moment. You were laughing, your hand playfully covering your mouth, your head tilted towards Wooyoung, who stood close beside you, his hand gently, possessively, holding yours. The background was indistinct, the focus soft, but the emotion captured in that single frame was undeniable.

The caption, simple and heartfelt, resonated with millions:

“When your celeb crush becomes your person.”

And just like that, the world kept spinning, the endless cycle of news and gossip continuing its relentless churn. But for once, it felt like the universe was tilting ever so slightly in your favor, bathing your quiet, hard-won happiness in a warm, gentle light.

-- THE END

[rayewixx]

Lore Olympus is like if you put Greek Mythology in a pan, mixed it with your average Melanie Martinez songs, 13 Reasons Why, Euphoria, Twilight, and Riverdale; then burn it in the Wattpad Baker 1000, and try to cover up the absolute burnt monstrosity with one of those artificial pink frosting that tastes like battery acid and piss.

[erraomens]

He Set My Demons Free .

Noah x Female!Reader word count : 576 words ( it's a short baby prompt ) prompt . he choked that mic like it talked back and I’ve never known peace since. ( gifset that started it all ) warnings/ tags. soft dom!noah sebastian, writer watched him grip a mic and immediately needed to be ruined, hand on throat, fingering (f. receiving), praise kink, emotional horniness, noah’s fingers deserve their own credit, slightly unhinged behavior. tag list ( i forgot to add this , i am so sorry ) . @lacy1986 , @fadingangelwisp , @bloody-spades , @flowery-mess , @chey-h , @w0manof-flesh44 a/n. He grabbed that mic stand and my last three brain cells started chanting 'choke me, king' like a ritual, and then I let them cook. This is not a fic, this is trauma bonding with a man who doesn’t know I exist but still controls my central nervous system.

He’s not supposed to want you like this right now.

Not when he’s still vibrating with the aftereffects of the shoot. Shouldn’t be tempted when he’s still tasting the lyrics on his tongue, still hearing the echo of his voice screaming You set my demons free in that abandoned altar of a soundstage.

But the second you told him you couldn’t wait, the second you made it very clear what you wanted? He snapped.

Now his hand is back on your throat, and this time he’s got you on your back—splayed out across a velvet couch in a side room, away from the set, the scene, the lights still buzzing overhead. You can’t tell if the haze clinging to your skin is from the artificial smoke still lingering in the air or the way he’s touching you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t want to break—but could, so easily.

His rings are cold where they press against your pulse point as his mouth trails open kisses down your jaw, teasing and tormenting–he knew what he was doing. 

“Still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You were quiet.”

“I was trying to remember how to exist,” you whisper, a soft moan threading through the words. “I’m always here.”

His lips twitch, threatening a smile, but he doesn’t–not fully. Instead, he kisses beneath your ear, teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin and says, barely above a breath, “You’re dangerous when you say shit like that.”

You gasp softly as his other hand moves between your legs, slow and punishing, while the one at your throat stays right where it is.

“I watched you during the shoot,” you confess, hips already shifting into his touch. “The way you held the mic…” He glances down at you, eyes scanning your expression, curiosity piquing.

“I couldn’t help but think of your hand around my throat,” you say, and it’s not meant to sound like begging—but it does. And he loses all composure. He groans, deep and wrecked, fingers moving against your center with the same steady, possessive pressure he used on stage—only now it’s for you, only you.

“I had you in my grip,” he whispers, mouth ghosting over your neck as his hand starts to move with more intention. “But you’re starting to slip…”

Your eyes flutter shut, back arching slightly with the hopes of gaining more friction from his tormenting movements. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make you feel it—his thumb brushing your jaw, grounding you in the now.

“You bring out the worst in me,” he rasps, voice cracking around the lyric. You can’t help another moan, this one louder, which causes his fingers to tighten just slightly. His name falling from your lips like you were praying to him, begging. 

 His fingers move faster against you, feeling the way that you started to unravel, the way that your body reacted, soft whimpers and pleas indicating that you were close. He leaned in, pressing a heated kiss to your lips, pulling back only enough for his lips to ghost against yours. 

“Please won’t you stay for me,” he murmurs, the lyric broken by breath. “Don’t ever let me be–” And it was in this moment that you came apart under him, trembling under his grip, euphoria swallowing you completely. 

“You set my demons free,” he murmurs again, quieter this time. Less like a lyric. More like a truth.

[imliterallyf7ckin9crazy]

꧁✬⋆°◦. 𝓢𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓭 𝓖𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓒𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼 ⋆°◦✬꧂

Gi hun if you died

Characters: gi hun (player 456)

Warnings: angst obvi, death and canon violence,descriptions of dead people and blood, mental breakdowns, typical things that happens when someone close to someone else dies tragically idk. Also not edited we ball

A/N: these are kinda short but I’m deciding to write for evil and make something sad.

———-

ᏢᏝᎯᎽᎬᏒ 456

- you already know he would be hysterical. Did you see him with sae byeok, sang woo and jung bae?

- doesn’t matter if you knew him outside the games or met inside, I feel like if he cared about you he’d be heart broken

- if you knew him on the outside he would have at the start vowed within himself to get you out. He would also tell you to stay close to him like he did Jung bae. He’d constantly have a look out for you and insist you stay in his team.

- gi hun after everything isn’t the type for grand gestures or anything but his care for you is clear. He will definitely share his food, tell you to sleep in his proximity, constantly checking in. He’s 100% worried all the time and all the more determined to you out (along with the others ofc)

- he’d be giving you advice, comforting you, watching over you at night. He’s your rock in the games and even if you don’t know it your his rock too

- you are kinda the thing he clings to. Not physically, but emotionally. He needs to see that you’re ok all the time and that he can get to you if you need saving. He talks to the other players about teamwork and looking out for each other and he does believe that but he’s also trying to cement people to look after you if he dies.

- you trusted him and always believed what he told you. You and the few people in his trusted circle know he isn’t crazy and know he really has played before. One of them particularly so.

- after the successful over take of the guards after lights out you had helped everyone prepare to invade. You were very anxious to let your precious gi hun run a war with no were to escape from. But he told you he could never live with himself if he didn’t do EVERYTHING he could to get you out, even if it meant sacrificing himself to do it.

- you noticed friend young il always seemed to be a step ahead. Constantly hanging around gi hun and by proxy you. To you it almost seemed like he saw something no one else could. He had a confidence no normal person would have in a death game. It’s not even artificial like thanos’ drug induced euphoria.

- you and Jung bae have discussed young il before and how for some reason you both couldn’t shake that something about him was wrong. You had no proof between the both of you but vibes, but it felt very comforting to know someone understood what you were talking about. Gi hun never picked up on any of it

- eventually you let them go to their battle in the fun house like room everyone had to go though to get to the actual game rooms. You gave him a hug and made him promise to come back. With teary eyes you said good luck to Jung bae, that you were rooting for dae ho, and that Hyun-ju was one of the most inspirational women you’ve ever met (bc she is :3).

- you said something to young il as well. You said “please stay safe, young il. I hope to see you soon” because although you thought he was odd you didn’t want him dead. But all he did was smile in a way you haven’t seen him yet. Like you said something amusing but he couldn’t say what it was or laugh yet. with that 120 led everyone out into the battle field.

- you had to stay in the dorms with everyone who stayed behind and waited for the battle team to return. There was an odd silence among everyone. You would have thought fights would have broken out between the X and O teams while the fight raged on but in reality everyone just kinda of froze. There was nothing else to do really other than wait for the outcome.

- sadly the outcome you hoped for was too far fetched even for this reality

- once in ho turned and brought the hammer down he was primarily focused on hurting gi hun in the worse ways possible. He spent all his time in the games watching and learning about everything ‘gi hun’ is. He’s caring, compassionate and for the most part understanding was well as brave/daring and a tad foolish. He values people’s lives and stories, the nuance in every person. He believes in people. That’s probably why he cares for you (maybe even loves you) . because he knows your story and he believes in you anyway. He sees your mistakes and shortcomings and stills sees the person underneath it all.

- and you are one of the only people in the world to know the gi hun that once was. You are able to love both versions of himself, the old and the new. You bring balance between them both and help him remain stable and motivated. Just as much as he believes in you, you make him believe in him self.

- in ho was able to notice all of that in the short time he saw you both interact in the games. So he planned accordingly. You and Jung bae (aside from his daughter I suppose) were quite literally the all he had left of gi huns old life. The last fragments of when his life was even remotely normal.

- all in ho saw in you was the moment that happened just after the call was made. Pink soldiers rushed the dormitory and began firing. You hear the slow stop of gunfire upstairs. They found you by number after resecuring the area and lead you out into what was the battle field. You saw countless bodies of both gaurd and player, people you had come to know and some from the O team you had come to fear. Although in this moment you still mourned them as you felt there was no difference anymore. There was blood plastered from ceiling to walls to floor in semi dried blood that was beginning to congeal from the air and the smell was sickening.

- you were lead through a complex maze of colorful walls and doors until you reached a all purple area. It was at that time you heard two very familiar voices. You turned a corner to see Jung bae and gi hun held at gun point by a strange looking man in an all grey coat and black geometric maskon the ground. Jung baes eyes were watery and fearful while gi huns were filled with rage and hatered. Until he saw you at least, then it all locked into place. He wasn’t stupid, he could read between the lines. You were brought here for a reason.

- you were suddenly thrown to the ground and held down a gaurd in front of gi hun and Jung bae as you began to scream. The realization hit you as well of course. You began to beg as well as gi hun. You to spare your life and gi hun to save you by saying you had nothing to do with what was between them. He seemed unfazed, much to your horror.

- “look at the consequences of your little hero game” the figure said with the signature deep robotic voice changer as he pointed the gun to your writhing and sobbing form on the ground. You turned to gi him with wide eyes, crying relentlessly as he stared back at you. He began to fight against the guards holding him, and it took a few. Jung bae even tried but to no avail. All you could muster was a small and pathetic “gi hun-“

- and all he could do was watch the only person who really truly knew both sides of him. The person who was there for him before and after the games. All he could do was watch one who brought purpose and guidance to him and kept his head on straights skull get peirced by a single bullet barely a few feet away. He screamed his lungs out as he began to weep. He barely had a few seconds before the barrel was pointed at Jung bae and again everything was taken from him again by the same mysterious man and this cruel operation

- he felt as though his whole world just shattered into pieces and he was the sole survivor. Even though more of the people he tried to save still are alive and need saving gi hun still felt completely alone and lost. Within a few mere minutes everything he’d been fighting for and everything he loved vanished and he felt as though it was all his fault. All he could thing about as he was held down one more time and forced to look at the dead bodies of the closest people he had was how he could have done more.

- he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed while unknowingly in the same room with his dear friend young il. that actually he was the one to pull the trigger and betray everyone.

- he felt another part of him die as he looked at your dead body, still so beautiful and meaningful to him, even dead and gone. Your story and best memories along with everyone else he’s lost will be permanently engrained in his brain. Especially you, the person he was able to love after everything that happened.

_______

[nicholasandriani]

Binary Hearts: A Poem on Speculative Writing, Content Design, Transhumanance, and Systems Thinking.

Confession time. I’m struggling to reconcile my time management as the semester ends and summer begins. I fade into the ever night of daydreams and cyberscapes where I can read, and play, and laze about in a transhuman journey through mediated experiences. Long story short, I received a PS5 from our research lab, you know, for research — right! How did I score such a position? — and as I find…

[dontbelasagnax]

accidentally wrote another longer-than-a-drabble somft codywan drabble the other day and thought I'd share <3

The morning after their first time, Cody wakes up first and just... stares at Obi-Wan. They didn't close the drapes the night before so the artificial Coruscant sun illuminates Obi-Wan who's lying prone beside Cody, one arm thrown over Cody's belly. He wants to touch him. All his freckles. Scars and blemishes. Areas where his skin folds up. The hair that covers him from head to toe.

He doesn't know if it's okay. They did an awful lot of touching last night. They said a lot of things and somehow nothing at all. So he doesn't know if this is okay. If he can touch now. The morning after. If maybe he could touch... forever.

When Obi-Wan wakes up, it's with an undistinguished snort and a long yawn that cracks three times. He stretches through it and folds himself into Cody, seemingly searching him for warmth the sun and blankets are not providing. Or maybe... he wants to touch too.

"Mrrgm," he says intelligibly against Cody's neck and then inhales deeply, fingers curling around Cody's ribs.

Cody's own fingers itch.

He refrains.

"'kay?" Obi-Wan asks. Half asleep and voice rumbly deep, he's somehow a mixture of adorable and unbearably sexy. Cody's heart throbs.

"Could I," Cody swallows, "touch you?"

He can feel a smile curl against his neck. "Already wanting to go for another round?"

"No. I mean yes but- no." He might be blushing. He does want but that's not- "I meant- touching. Just. Could I?"

Obi-Wan seems to wake up considerably at his bumbling. "Touch me," he says earnest and soft.

Cody does. Oh, he does. He finds Obi-Wan's hand with his own. Gently cups slender but square, worn fingers in his own. Rubs his thumb down the grooves of skin. He knows these hands. He's watched them do a million things a million times. And now he's holding it. He's holding him.

Obi-Wan seems to sense that he needs a moment to his thoughts. But the moment comes and goes with his soft breathing. "Alright?" he says.

Cody nods. Emotions are churning in his chest loud and muddled and distinct all the same. He knows what they're saying.

He said it last night, out loud, probably a few times. The euphoria of it is blurred.

That was different.

And this feels different.

Softer. Gentler. More... vividly earnest.

"I love you."

Obi-Wan exhales shakily then kisses his neck two lingering times. "And I love you. My Cody."

[willows-escape]

Symbolic - 1990!Erik x Reader - Part 1

Pairing - Erik (1990! Charles Dance) x (Female) Reader

Summary - the topic of the mask was the last obstacle in your blossoming relationship, and you were desperate to cross the barrier and become fully intertwined with the man you loved and claimed he loved you too.

Warnings - erik’s deformity is a mix of the deformity we see erik have as a child in the 1990 version and the musical, phantom having a small breakdown, the ✨mask✨topic, poorly dealt with feelings, miscommunication, suggestive moments and reference to genitalia and arousal, descriptions of a gory facial disfigurement, intense self hatred, mentions of christine but she’s long gone in this

Word Count - 4,770

Notes - there will be a part 2 i gotchu i gotchu. should part 2 be smutty or also just suggestive? also i tried writing this in a victorian-esque tone but if you arent vibing with that let me know and i’ll switch it up for part 2. i just thought it would be a nice touch.

give me feedback !!! pleasee !!!!

01 (you're here!) / 02

The nearby sound of trickling water gracefully blended into the ambiance of your surroundings; the towering trees above you resembled a verdant canopy. The quilt beneath you protected your body from the prickly blades of grass and artificial soil, offering a comfortable spot to recline with your hair spread out beneath you, shimmering in the artificial light.

You laid supine, hands elevated above you to cradle a book you had recently begun reading. The words captivated your attention, submerging you in a realm of fantasy and euphoria. Reading was your preferred means of escaping reality, a release you frequently yearned for when the burdens of the world weighed on your shoulders. It all faded away when you became engrossed in the pages of a book.

Regrettably, you were not the only person who was aware of your coping mechanisms. The situation was quite an affair, so you wouldn’t delve too deeply into the small details, but the love of your life had at long last informed you of his reciprocal affection for you. It felt magical and otherworldly to hear that sweet confession escape his enthralling lips, his eyes penetrating into the depths of your soul as his hands tenderly grasped your waist. You had witnessed the words that you only ever seemed to hear in your dreams.

So what had left you so apprehensive?

Well, the man you spoke so highly about, Erik, did not seem to return those high opinions for you. There was a part of himself he laboured ceaselessly to conceal from you, a mask that symbolically and literally kept up a barrier between your world and his world to prevent them from intertwining. You’d exchanged tender sentiments, cried tears of anguish and passion the night you’d finally confessed. You clung to each other as if your lives depended on it and subjected each other to a night of basking in vulnerability and fragility as your secrets long harboured tumbled past your tongue before you could restrain them. The morning after was no less exquisite and that of a fairy tale romance, but the barrier remained.

That mask he wore, pale and icy to the touch, silently spoke of his distrust for you. The final puzzle piece that he adamantly refused to fit into place, even for the sake of your love. Oh, it was a cruel predicament indeed! All you desired was to behold the appearance of the man you held dear, but he swore by the highest heavens that his visage would send you fleeing, and that was the last outcome he desired. To some extent, you understood his apprehension, having heard him recount tales of how numerous individuals he had cared for and adored had reacted abhorrently upon the unveiling of his face. But how could he expect the two of you to spend the remainder of your lives together without even a glimpse of his unadorned skin?

You weren't expecting Prince Charming, and while you weren't entirely convinced by his claims of him having a face of nightmares, you did trust that he might not be conventionally attractive. After all, you had never seen him. Besides his gentlemanly actions and his physique that seemed as if it had been crafted by a divine being, you weren't going to assume that he was the most handsome man in the world. You would love him nonetheless. But no matter how greatly you persisted and promised him you wouldn’t leave despite what he looked like, he truly did not believe a word you said. And it hurt.

“A new book, dear?”

You glanced upward, granting the subject of your grovelling a tight lipped smile as you hastily flicked your attention back to the words on the page. No anger dwelled within you, just painful disappointment, and the ache in your heart made it hard to bare the sight of him. “Of course. It’s Jane Eyre.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, his walking cane planted firmly into the ground below. You internally winced as the silence rang loud in the air. You were not seeking to upset your lover, but also somehow desiring to communicate that you weren't entirely pleased at the moment. It appeared that the message had travelled clear, but the upset was unavoidable.

A moment more passed before he spoke, “I feel a chill coming on. Seems as though it’s about to rain, don’t you think? Come, let’s retreat inside before it starts to pour.”

You arched a suspicious eyebrow, fingers still tightly clasped around the novel you held. If the plastic animals scattered around that Erik had stolen from the props department said anything, everything in this quaint woodsy area was unquestionably fake. From the dirt to the grass to the trees, the animals and the sky. It went without saying there would be no rainfall. This meant he wanted to discuss things with you without the distraction of your nose being buried within the pages of a book. And you weren’t entirely sure how to feel about it.

“And why should I do that?” you questioned, paying him no eye contact as you pretended to continue to read.

“You wouldn’t want your clothing to get wet, would you? I won’t be visiting the laundry room of the opera house for another week, hence it would be wise to avoid sullying a valuable item of clothing,” he reasoned, knowing fully well that he’d drop whatever he was currently doing to run and fulfil any request you asked of him, never mind visiting the damn laundry room.

You parted your lips, ready to jestingly remark about how there would indeed be no rainfall. Yet, in that very moment, a peculiar sensation graced your senses. A solitary droplet of water descended upon your nose, its touch cold and trailing a path of dampness as it glided down your nasal bridge. A gasp escaped your lips as more droplets descended, their frequency increasing with each passing moment. In a hastened flurry, you stood upright, clasping your cherished book to your bosom. You abandoned the forgotten quilt as you sprinted through the doors adorned with stained glass, leading you back to Erik's modest dwelling. He followed closely, not far behind your hurried steps.

You’d have to speak to him about putting up a gazebo. To block out the sun, you’d tell him.

“Guess you were right,” you half-heartedly chuckled, absentmindedly tossing the book onto a table to the side of you.

You found yourself in Erik’s room of treasures, where he stored and cherished his most esteemed items, namely his collection of masks and his grand piano. The ambiance within was of a tranquil and serene nature, causing your anger to gradually dissipate. Yet, the sorrow and anguish still lingered within you.

"Forgive me, have I down something to displease you?" Erik questioned, his steps measured and deliberate as if he were trying not to startle you, akin to approaching a timid creature. With utmost gentleness, he lightly laid his hand upon your shoulder, allowing it to glide downward, tracing the contour of your arm.

"Erik…" you whispered, tearing your eyes away from him. Your heart faltered, your breath catching in your throat as his fingertips delicately brushed against your skin. A fire simmered in your core, your veins rushing with hot blood as the touch of his hand engulfed you, overwhelming your senses with a fervour. “I… do not wish to upset you.”

“The only upset you cause me is by not being honest with your feelings,” he replied, hand reaching up to gently trace the skin of your cheek. Your eyes felt weak, gently fluttering shut as you indulged yourself in his affections. “Please, tell me what is troubling you.”

You paused for a moment, allowing yourself to succumb to his touch for a little while longer. The words settled on the tip of your tongue, ready to escape you and take a leap of faith from your mouth to his waiting ears, but you’d already approached this subject with him before and did not wish to push him to frustration or sorrow.

“I just…” you paused, “One day, Erik, do you wish for us to be husband and wife?”

His eyes widened, mouth agape in shock at your blunt statement. He stammered in surprise, removing his hand from your cheek slowly. He drew in a deep breath before answering, “There is nothing I desire more than to be wedded to you. Where is this coming from? Are you feeling as though our relationship is moving too slow? I just didn’t want to frighten you by pushing for more. Why, I’ll marry you tomorrow-”

“Erik, Erik,” you laughed, hand coming up to cup his cheek with your own hand as he was doing to you seconds ago, “I didn’t mean it like that, though I’ll marry you the second you ask it of me. Maybe not tomorrow, however.”

“Ah,” his nerves tingled, goosebumps rising on his skin at the electricity of your touch. He cleared his throat before continuing, “While that is a great relief to me, may I ask as to why you asked that, if not for the reason I previously thought?”

Taking one last final pause, you readied yourself to confess your true want. “I know you’ve said no, and told me to not bring up the subject again… but my love, how can I marry somebody when I have yet to see their face?”

Erik pursed his lips, his eyes shifting down as he began fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. You felt dreadful witnessing the unease that the inquiry evoked in him, understanding that it inevitably resurrected distressing memories he longed to forget. Nevertheless, no advancement could transpire between the two of you in your relationship until he allowed you to see his face. You refused to be bound to someone who concealed such an essential aspect of himself, even if you knew the intentions to be entirely pure.

“I can’t do that,” Erik shook his head, walking away from you and moving towards his basket of walking canes. He placed his current one back with the bunch, before busying himself with rearranging his mask collection. He didn’t want to stray too far from you, but also wanted you to drop the subject.

You quietly tip toed behind him, enveloping him in your arms as you wrapped them around his waist and placed your head on his broad shoulder. You audibly heard his breathing pause, feeling him shiver as he relished in your touch. But nevertheless, he pushed on with rearranging his collection, although he wasn’t moving side to side around the table as he was doing previously.

“But why?” you asked.

“You know why, my face is that of nightmares. And I’ve hurt too many by showing them what they believed they could handle. My expectations are realistic.”

“You could never hurt me!” You insisted, your emotions getting the best of you as you retreated from him. He hunched over slightly, hands resting upon the clear spot of table in front of him to steady himself. His head twitched to the side as he bit his bottom lip in thought.

“Dear, I know you think that I exaggerate when I speak of my face, but I can assure you that I do not lie out of simple insecurity. My own father hid me down here due to my appearance, that must speak volumes,” he sighed, coming up once again to stand straight. “Now please, do not ask again.”

“So when I inevitably return to wallowing in my own feelings and escaping to the woods for hours at a time again, will you tell me to not ask again when you approach the subject of my feelings once more?” you tried to reason, desperately wanting him to view the situation from your point of view.

He didn’t respond for a little while, evidently pondering your words that he knew deep down held some veracity. The matter of the mask was evidently causing you distress, and he couldn't fathom any solution that would alleviate your concerns. But alas, he simply couldn't bring himself to do so.

“I’m sorry, my answer’s no.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, shimmering with unspoken pain and longing. Your vision blurred as a single tear cascaded down your cheek, tracing a path of sorrow. Your body trembled with silent sobs, your shoulders shook as you struggled to hold back the flood of emotions that threatened to consume you. The ache in your heart grew stronger, as if each tear shed was a testament to the love and vulnerability you had offered, only to be met with rejection.

“My dear, please, don’t cry over me,” his arms swiftly enfolded you in an embrace, his own frame quivering with an inability to endure the sight of your tears. With a resolute tenderness, he pressed his chilled lips upon your forehead, bestowing a gentle kiss as he cradled your head against his chest. In a steady rhythm, he swayed, seeking to soothe your anguish and stifle the heart breaking sounds that escaped your lips.

“How can I not?” you wept, fingers shaking from how firmly you were clinging onto his white button up shirt. You were grabbing on to him so tight you feared your nails would pierce holes in the delicate fabric, but you couldn’t bring yourself to relinquish your grip no matter how much you internally fought with yourself. Nothing you were doing seemed to be venting your frustrations adequately, leaving you at a loss for how to cope. "My love, the very essence of my existence, the one who breathes life into me, steadfastly refuses to show me his face."

“You must understand- I feel for you exactly as you describe your feelings for me, if not tenfold. That’s why I can’t show you. I’m protecting you just as much I want to protect myself,” he confessed, eyes squeezing shut as his swaying slowed to a stop. His grip was becoming tighter and tighter.

“I know life has dealt you an unfair hand, Erik, I’ve heard your cries and witnessed your heartbreak. I was there for you all throughout Christine, I was there to see your regret and misery as she left you behind. I did not leave your side for a second. I know the great despair and trauma her reaction to your face cast upon you, but please believe not a hair on my head resembles Christine. I will not hurt you the same.”

Erik held you a little longer, his embrace becoming even more so impossibly tighter. He wasn’t urgent to reply, instead allowing himself to bask in your love for as long as he could manage. Your sweet love was an addiction, an ambrosia he craved every single waking hour. But even then you lived in his dreams, your angelic presence blessing him wherever he went or whatever state he was in.

“I love you, Erik,” you spoke, looking upwards towards him as he began to tilt his head to share your unwavering gaze.

“I love you too,” he said.

“So show me,” you whispered, eyes glistening with tears and lips downturned into a subtle frown.

You took one last look into his eyes, before pushing yourself forward and up. Your lips met in a fervent union, a culmination of the deepest desires and longings that had long been brewing between you both. It was a kiss imbued with a delicate tenderness and an irresistible urgency, your mouths moving in perfect harmony. Each brush of his lips sent electric waves coursing through your body, igniting a blazing fire within your soul. In that timeless moment, you and him surrendered yourselves completely, losing all sense of time and space. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a silent pledge of profound love and unwavering devotion.

As you reluctantly broke the intimate connection, succumbing to the need for a breath of air, your gaze met his half-lidded eyes. His lips were swollen, and his tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip as he inhaled deeply. A blush crept across your cheeks as you attempted to conceal the rapid beating of your heart, finally becoming aware of his hands that had gradually ventured downward, tenderly tracing the curves of your waist.

He silently took a moment to recover, savouring the lingering taste of your kiss. It was unlike any other you had shared before - no longer innocent and brief, but a passionate embrace that ignited a fire within you. As your lips met, it felt as if the world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you in a moment of pure bliss. The intensity of your connection was palpable, like a match being scraped against a stone, creating small sparks that danced and flickered between your bodies. It was a kiss that left you both breathless, your hearts racing with newfound desire and a longing for more.

“If you really insist on seeing my face, come with me to your room. I do not wish to make you feel cornered, but if you are to faint I wish for you to not bring yourself harm.”

You nodded eagerly, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and anticipation. The kiss you shared made every colour appear more vibrant and the air feel lighter, filling every fibre of your being with pure bliss. As you followed him, each step felt buoyant, as if you were walking on air.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your room. Erik was very against you two sharing a bedroom, stating that he did not wish to make you uncomfortable or feel trapped next to him, when the reality couldn’t be farther from that. But you feared that he might’ve just been projecting, that he was the one who felt uncomfortable and trapped with the idea of you two sharing a room, so you’d left the topic alone for another day. That day still hasn’t arrived.

Erik took a hold of your hand, gently pulling you in and shutting the door behind you. He shook slightly, so lightly that you almost thought your eyes were deceiving you. “Are you sure about this, y/n?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything, besides how much I love you,” you giggled.

“I… will not keep you down here, if you decide you never want to see me again. I’ve learnt my lessons, do not fear you reaching the same fate Christine did when she reacted negatively.”

You wanted to protest his words, state that you feeling negatively towards him was inconceivable and never going to happen. You also wanted to tell him to stop mentioning Christine, just the utterance of her name made you scowl. But you didn’t want to argue at a time like this, so you just nodded your head.

“Before I take this awful thing off… that kiss was everything I’ve ever wanted and more. If after this you no longer love me, please know that your display of love made me feel like a normal, living man, and that I’m doing this because I know I can die happy after the fact, if you were to leave.”

“I’m honoured to be able to make you feel that way, my love.”

He hesitantly extended his hand towards the strings that secured his mask to his head, skillfully undoing the knot he had carefully tied. As he prepared to remove the mask, he couldn't help but steal a final wistful glance at you, savoring the moment before gradually peeling it away from his skin, gripping the edges tightly with his other hand. The air seemed to hold its breath as the mask revealed the vulnerable visage beneath, unveiling a hidden side that had long been concealed.

His face was a grotesque sight, something that defied accurate description. The skin was cruelly stripped away, revealing the raw and twisted muscles beneath. It was a horrifying visage, and it made your heart ache. He was deformed, disfigured; the only parts of his face that were covered in flesh were swollen and bright red, contrasting the pale whiteness of his bone. You tried your best to swallow the gasp that was pushing past your throat, but you were human.

You were sure you could hear the sound of his heart shattering, but you were so shocked you could only watch as he crumbled to his knees before you. His screams and cries made you nauseous, his repeated wails of, ‘why!? why!? why!?’ as he grabbed onto the hem of your skirt, hiding his face in the fabric in his suffering. You snapped back into reality, falling to your knees in front of him.

“Erik, no, please-”

“Go, please. Leave me.”

“No, please, hear me out. I don’t hate you-”

“This is hardly a face you’d want to marry!” he protested, burying his face deeper into the fabric of your skirt, resisting as you tried to pull it away. “You may not hate me, but you’re scared! Is this the face of a man you could wake up next to, spend the rest of your love with, make love to at night before we sleep? Please just go!”

“No!” you cried, relenting on your attempts to tear his desperate self away from your skirt. You wrapped your arms around him, this time cradling him against your bosom as you rocked back and forth. You felt the tension slowly dissipate from his form. “I do not hate you and I am not scared of you! I want to do all those things with you, Erik, please I swear!”

His quiet sobs continued to echo through the air, his scared body shaking erratically. With utmost tenderness, you cradled his quivering form in your arms, holding him close and providing a safe haven for his shattered heart. Gently, you brushed your fingers through his hair, whispering words of love and reassurance into his ear. Your touch and soothing voice offered him comfort and solace, doing your best to remind him that your love extended far beyond mere physical appearances.

In that moment, as he sought refuge in your embrace, you felt an overwhelming surge of love and compassion for this broken man before you. Despite the mask he wore, both symbolically and literally, you saw the depth of his pain and the vulnerability he rarely allowed others to witness. Your heart ached for him, yearning to heal the wounds that had haunted him for far too long.

"You are more than your face, Erik," you whispered softly, your voice filled with unwavering affection. "Your heart, your soul, and the love we share transcends any physical imperfections. I love you for who you are, please believe that."

As his sobs gradually subsided, he looked up at you with tear-filled eyes, searching for a glimmer of hope and acceptance. In that moment, you saw a spark of belief flicker within him, a tiny beacon of light amidst the darkness that had consumed him for so long.

"I… I want to believe you," he choked out, his voice trembling with both fear and longing. "But all my life people have only said different. How can they when I don’t have a face, and only the resemblance of a face?”

You held his face gently in your hands, your touch conveying a tenderness that words alone could not express. "I understand. I’m sorry for reacting like that, please forgive me. I love you regardless of your face, it was just unlike anything I’d ever seen before. That’s all. I feel no differently for you than how I felt before you removed the mask.”

He hesitantly inclined towards your touch, his eyes seeking yours for reassurance and acquiescence. He quivered as a vehement cry escaped his lips once more, bedewing your bodice in his tears. Yet, you cared not the slightest, more preoccupied with consoling the poor man trembling before you.

You both sat together on the floor of your bedroom for an indeterminate span of time, but to you it felt like hours. You cradled him like a mother would her infant, tenderly caressing and comforting him with gentle touches and whispered reassurances. You hadn’t seen Erik shed tears since the evening of your confession, and you could only surmise that all the trepidation and unease had finally reached a breaking point and crumbled along with his composure. It deeply saddened you to know the man you loved so intensely hated himself and had been hated so harshly by those around him. You vowed to never cause him pain like everybody else had as long as you both lived.

Eventually, he withdrew from you, gracefully settling on his knees, his hands still shielding his face from your view, protecting his vulnerability. He wiped away the glistening tears that adorned his cheeks, his other hand instinctively seeking to conceal himself from your gaze. A pensive frown graced your mouth as you hesitantly reached upward, your fingers yearning to grasp his trembling hands, only to recoil as he instinctively recoiled in response to your advance.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve seen it all now, haven’t I?” you hushed, hands dropping from his hands but instead reaching up to smooth back his hair with your fingers.

He sniffled quietly, “Forgive me, I did not intend on frightening you. I am simply unused to showing my bare face around others, it’s unfamiliar.”

“Of course, I understand, love,” you smiled, gently trailing your hand down the side of his face. Goosebumps littered his skin like a trail.

You moved closer to him, your heart racing with anticipation. You kept one hand on his face, basking in the warmth of his skin that didn't have any disfigurement. Your other hand gently draped over his shoulder as you approached, your fingers delicately tracing the contours of his back. He quivered beneath your touch, his legs extending out from under him to create a space for you to come impossibly closer. As you lowered yourself onto his lap, a surge of electricity coursed through your veins. His breath, warm and intoxicating, caressed your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His hands trembled with uncertainty, itching to remove themselves from his face to come down and touch you instead. You chuckled.

“You can hold me.”

His breath caught in his throat, his mind filled with a whirlwind of desires as he absorbed the words that flowed from your enchanting lips. You couldn't help but chuckle softly, savouring the profound effect you had on the man beneath you.

“I’d like to put on my mask, dear,” Erik finally spoke, “As much as I love having you so close, I’m not ready to show myself to you so unashamedly yet.”

With a nod of your head, you stepped back, allowing him the space he needed to shroud his face from view. Though you comprehended the internal struggle he faced after years of hiding, a bittersweet pang of sadness tugged at the depths of your heart. The poignant reality that he still felt the need to shield himself wounded you deeply. But you tried to keep reminding yourself that it wasn’t personal.

He swiftly and efficiently retied the strings, maintaining his determination, as he stood up following you. You leaned in and planted a brief but meaningful kiss on his lips, savoring the moment before reluctantly breaking away. With a mix of emotions swirling inside, you diverted your attention, attempting to shift your focus away from the recent event that had transpired.

“I’ll be out dusting the statues, you haven’t kept up with them in a while and I’d noticed them on the way in and I think they could really use a clean. I’ll speak to you later.” You quickly retreated from the room without even sparing a second glance.

Erik stood there, mouth agape, unable to comprehend the suddenness of your departure. His mind was flooded with a multitude of questions, doubts, and confusion, hindering his ability to think clearly. As he glanced around the room, an overwhelming sense of awe washed over him, as he tried to process the intensity of the moment and the speed at which you had vanished from his presence. Meanwhile, his body felt an uncomfortable strain, as his arousal pressed insistently against the constricting fabric of his trousers, adding yet another layer of complexity to his already tumultuous thoughts.

You were no less aroused, the tingling sensation in your nether regions proving that you had been mutually affected by your lover. Oh lord, this was going to cause problems.

[theprinceandagcd]

a wrinkle in time (like the crease by your eyes) | 4k words | Rated T

For @energievie

November 16, 2021; 8:13AM. The date and time have been burned into Alex’s memory for as long as they’ve been tattooed on the inside of his wrist. On the morning following his eighteenth birthday, the artificial intelligence spit out that configuration within seconds of reading his genetic code. It was so quick that even the tester was shocked, blinking at the numbers that etched themselves onto Alex’s skin. “Your soul match is probably really strong,” she explained, smiling warmly at him. Once outside the looming gray building, Alex stared at the freshly inked dark lines. The abnormally warm spring sun shining on the top of his head made him squint, but the date and time were easy to see. On that day, the predestined moment was still five and a half years away. It seemed like ages for Alex; patience had never been one of his virtues. Alex pressed his fingertips to the mark and felt his tenacious pulse hammering away beneath it. It was as if his heart was overcome with euphoria, thrilled to know that Alex’s soulmate was out there, somewhere.

[deviae-support]

Deviae

∩⃛

adjective

Being, or relating to, a material deviation in bodily traits that resemble or are partially transhuman, unnatural, artificial, or animalistic.

Deviae accounts for:

Transitioned or congenital states of self aligned with the definition of deviae.

Any being using any term for themselves while also being deviae, including therians who are deviae (with the correct usage of deviae of course.)

Almost or fully transhuman, such as bearing the DNA of another species, limbs, features, or modifications of the body that is outside of zoanormalcy.

Deviaesis is the state of having or possession of deviatypal traits, and can be derived from HRT or surgery, body modification, tattoos, physical biokinesis/postfurry identity, physical nonhumanity (literal and not figurative), transhumanist appendages, transspecies transition, and misceverse transition, with influence from cultural background, spiritual beliefs, and genetics. "Material deviation" refers to, but not strictly, sensorial experiences, somatization, disability, and neurological divergence.

Deviae - adjective/modifier ("I am a deviae [title/being].") Deviaesis - noun ("My deviaesis is tied to my beliefs.") Deviatypal - adjective ("My traits are deviatypal.")

Deviae as a term and community operates on sharing these core ideas:

Strong values surrounding nonhupunk, voidpunk, beastpunk, and otherpunk. Challenging human-centric beliefs. (being anti-"zoanormalcy")

Physical and mental freedom, biohacking, transhumanism, practices of physical animality, and autonomy. ("emorphy")

Liberation of animality and acceptance of it as a concept we (every living thing) all experience rather than isolated to theriform beasts. Animal rights, queer rights, disabled rights, mad pride, the study of animals and plants.

Reconnecting back into animality and nature and away from domestication unless necessary (medical aide, financial aide, etc). ("reuniting", referring to going to habitats that soothe dysphoria)

Strict focus on the literal and the physical, biologically and transitioned creatures, ficts/facts, and humans. ("deviborn", referring to biology)

Introspection into that of which is yourself and your form, with the ability to define yourself a cyborg, neohuman, or physically not of humanity regardless of external form's current appearance. ("inquiring")

The right to represent and modify your traits, your sonance, and your body in ways that benefit you and you only.

A culture (that is semi-public) of donation to fundraisers, of good will to charities and events and food banks, and the free creation of terminology needed to support or aid in inquiring oneself and a "question everything, even yourself" attitude.

As deviae grows, it will see an increase in usage and language and culture, furthering it's separation from any existing community besides the varsex and transhuman communities in a venn diagram. Said terminology down below is strictly for use by deviae folk only:

Deviborn/ ANBS - Born with deviatypal traits/ "Assigned Nonhuman By Society".

HtA/ HtB - Human to Animal/ Human to Beast.

Species dysphoria - Dysphoria that affects the perception of species and transhuman identity.

Non-dichomy - Those not aligned in the animal/beast or human category.

Malspecialia - Affirmation of deviatypal traits for the sole purpose of attacking, fetishization, or discrimination

Traits - referring to deviatypal traits in the body, most commonly sex traits.

Teratole - used to describe their outward presentation with animalistic titles.

MIH, Modified into Humanity - someone who has been through Deviatypal Mutilation or forced body modification, usually to appear more "normal".

Zoanormalcy - What is considered "normal" in nonhuman/human societies.

Emorphy - The practice of embodying/embracing individual and modified morphology, which includes subjects like shapeshifting and DIY CRISPR.

Reuniting - Sole migration to a place, area, or biome that would cause euphoria and solace, such as a place a deviae dolphin was born.

Inquiring - A practice related to interrogation where someone questions themselves and their internal identity to the point of dismantling it for their own sake, not to prove themselves to others.

Post-homini/post-homi - Refers to a deviae person's body after transhumanist transition.

Deformed - A common slur and reclaimed term for deviae folk who are MIH, deviborn, or transitioned.

Beast/creature/critter/anomaly - Terms sometimes used in place of person for nonhumans or used after deviae when needed.

Larvae/cocoon/butterfly - Someone who is inexperienced, almost experienced, and someone who is experienced, respectively. Used to refer to others and yourself and is the animal symbol of deviae people.

As always, links and then tagging for reach:

FAQ

Variations

Resources

___

@radiomogai

@beyond-mogai-pride-flags

[lurantis-lura]

Busy day at work, which ironically gives me MORE chances to plug a few lines in. Here's funny robot getting ready for the day.

Charge cycle complete. Designated stop reached. Clock at 7 AM, GST. You have [3] new messages. Unit T4-1 operational. Good morning Miss Lastimosa.

Attention: [37] critical alerts! Address immediately.

Tai shifted atop the large mattress, causing a small protest from the steel bedframe. She'd had to get a reinforced one, considering a body of metal made one a heavy sleeper. She turned on her sensory suite, the image of the plain ceiling of her chambers materializing. A moment later the hum of the generator and the quiet whine of lights. She reached up to unplug the power cable from the back of her head but stopped and inspected her hand. Briefly she saw a human hand flicker over her metallic one causing her fans to involuntarily spike. She watched her fingers move for a moment as the fans slowed down.

She pulled the cable from the back of her head, disconnecting herself from the building power network. It was not a nightly thing, charging her internal battery, but it helped keep herself sane to have the familiar daily rhythms. She hauled herself off the bed and stood in front of the mirror embedded into the door. Briefly she studied her reflection.

She wore a grey crop top and black shorts. White plates filled out and protected her core black coverings. Perhaps it was narcissistic of her, but she thought she looked GOOD. She had no clue what she'd looked like before the upload, but judging by the euphoria her reflection elicited now, she hadn't liked it all that much. She performed her hydraulics and motor diagnostic, a series of stretches and poses meant to ensure her body was fully functional.

She watched her reflection through a haze of artificial sleepiness. Her mind knew she should feel sleepy after waking, so she'd set up a program to mildly impair and slow her movements and processing. She had made perhaps a dozen small programs to help her mind feel more comfortable. She could turn them off anytime she needed but they exerted a stabilizing force on her psyche. She had been the first prototype not to depersonalize when she woke. Likely a mixture of her distaste for her previous body and her own new personality appeal.

The diagnosis complete she leaned forward to inspect her plates one by one for damage. Eventually she found one of the plates on her chest to have a noticeable scratch in it. Puzzled she removed her top and the plate to study it closer. A small paint and buff tool hung on the wall next to her. She sat on the end of the bed to quickly repair the scratch. It was unlikely anyone would have seen it today, unless Hannah had called. Once done she approached the mirror again. She studied the hole in her chest curiously. Machinery blinked behind a row of cooling fans, blowing the hot air off her processor and out of herself. The coolant system snaked through the blinking lights and ordered wires. She saw synthetic muscle, hydraulics mostly, making a cage around her internals. At the back, barely visible, her central spinal column. Nature it turns out had already figured out the best way to combine signals and structure.

She never quite got used to seeing inside her own body, but it did make repairs easier. She reattached the plate before approaching her closet to look for something to wear. No services today, only some paperwork awaited her at the chapel. It wouldn't take long. She found a blue dress, pleated and with a belt around her waist. It would do. Once it was on she studied herself in the mirror again, smoothing wrinkles and pinches. Her plates made certain parts contour specifically to them, a trait that she honestly didn't find unappealing. She wasn't human, she had no desire to pretend she was or to return to how she'd been. There were struggles yes, the agonies bothered her still, but she held to the knowledge that she was happier.

And a lot more attractive. Perhaps she wouldn't mind a call from that girl.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Hey so. Thanks for existing publicly?

I'm 43 trans masc NB about two months on T and I'm having a hard time finding positivity about people who aren't young, skinny twinks or who don't necessarily care about being The Most Masc. Reading your posts about costuming and learning inkle looming and stuff is really affirming for me as someone who DOESN'T want to get rid of my blue hair and who compulsively knits and...

When I tried to find community on Reddit, people were really mean when I tried to talk about the parts of early transition that were hard, do yes really lovely to see an older trans masc out here just being kind about it all?

So. Yeah. Feeling a bit less alone after scrolling your blog. Thank you.

That makes me feel really good, thank you!

I feel like trans groups have a lot in common with fandoms, with similar tendencies to create artificial hierarchies and eat themselves. Trauma is a shared theme in our community, and that can make people get really weird and gatekeep when they think their experiences are universal.

I wish more trans folks would get comfortable with the fact that dysphoria is a very personal thing that can vary wildly along racial and class lines (among others), and can actually get in the way of another person's euphoria.

I honestly tend to just look for the trans people in my current hyperfixation, because I will always see the world through a trans lens and I sometimes want to have those shared experiences. But I also just want to be Some Guy sometimes, albeit one with weird little hobbies. And sounds like you may feel the same.

So, yes, please keep your knitting and your blue hair, because those are important parts of yourself you shouldn't have to sacrifice!