#If you ask me about Abstracted Identity

[spark-hearts2]

Hey all you funny people!

Yeah, I see y'all liking the weird shit that I reblog. I am assuming that like 70% of you are following because of my TADC fanfiction. I just want to point out that ASKS ARE OPEN! And yes, anon is on.

You can ask me anything, it doesn't have to be about TADC, it can literally be about how my college classes are going. I can and will talk about statistical analysis if asked.

[unboundprompts]

Hello! Can you help me and/or give me examples of how to write a pre-teen? Specifically a slightly mature for their age but still socially-awkward, selfless, empathetic, extroverted 10-year-old

How to Write a Pre-Teen

Voice and Language

Simple but specific vocabulary: Pre-teens might not use very complex words, but they often know and throw in some “big words” they’ve recently learned or mimic words they hear adults use. Don’t overdo it, though—they’ll often misapply or half-understand these terms, which can create natural, humorous moments.

“It’s totally, like, a catastrophe that I forgot my project.”

Expressive dialogue: Pre-teens are enthusiastic and often exaggerate. They can also shift quickly between emotions, from excitement to frustration.

“That was the best movie ever!” might turn into “Actually, I mean, it was kinda boring in some parts, but, you know, overall…”

Thoughtful yet blunt: Kids this age often haven’t fully learned the “filters” adults use. They can be direct and say things that are surprisingly insightful or unexpectedly honest.

Thoughts and Perspective

Developing identity and opinions: They’re beginning to form their own beliefs but still echo the views of family, teachers, or friends.

“Mom says people should never lie, but I wonder if little lies are okay if they help people feel better…”

Questioning and introspective moments: Pre-teens are curious about life, relationships, and “big ideas.” They may ask questions, but sometimes keep their deep thoughts to themselves, exploring them internally.

“If friends are supposed to be there for each other, why do I feel alone even when they’re around?”

Struggle with abstract concepts: At this age, they’re just beginning to understand abstract ideas like justice or friendship but often approach them in straightforward, literal ways.

Behavior and Actions

Impulsivity and energy: They might shift quickly between activities and emotions, getting distracted or excited without much control over it. They may also blurt out ideas or act before thinking, especially if they’re extroverted.

For instance, a character might immediately jump up to help someone even if they aren’t sure what to do, or they might “borrow” something without fully considering the consequences.

Physical awkwardness: Pre-teens can be a bit clumsy as they’re still growing into their bodies. This can lead to endearing, awkward moments.

They might knock something over, trip over their own feet, or feel self-conscious in ways that show they’re still figuring themselves out physically as well as socially.

Friendships and Social Dynamics

Navigating social rules: Pre-teens are very aware of social “rules” but may not fully understand them. This is an age when they care a lot about what their friends think, but they’re also just beginning to question these dynamics.

A pre-teen might want to befriend the “cool” kids but feel conflicted when they realize their values don’t align. Or they may try too hard to impress friends and feel self-conscious afterward.

Conflicted loyalties: Friendships are often intense at this age, and they might struggle with conflicting feelings if friends argue or if they feel left out.

“I really like hanging out with Sarah, but I know Emma doesn’t. Maybe if I can make them both laugh, we could all just… get along?”

Small gestures: Pre-teens often show they care in understated ways, like sharing snacks, giving a small gift, or cheering someone up when they’re down. For a socially-awkward pre-teen, these gestures may come out clumsy but sweet.

Insecurity and Self-Awareness

Self-consciousness mixed with bravery: Pre-teens often fluctuate between trying to fit in and wanting to stand out. They might do something brave but then doubt themselves or quickly retreat if things don’t go as planned.

For instance, a character might volunteer to speak in front of the class only to feel panicked once they’re in the spotlight.

Hyper-awareness of themselves and others: They’re beginning to notice how others perceive them and may get flustered easily or worry about little things, like if their clothes look okay or if they sounded silly.

“I shouldn’t have laughed like that… I bet everyone thought I sounded so weird.”

Joking as a defense: Pre-teens often use humor to cope, covering up their awkwardness or discomfort by making jokes.

Reactions to Conflict and Emotion

Quick emotional shifts: They might go from laughing to frustrated to embarrassed in just a few minutes. They feel emotions intensely and may have outbursts or react strongly to things adults might dismiss as minor.

Heroic ideals vs. real-world disappointments: Many pre-teens have an idealized view of right and wrong, fairness, and heroism, and they may be disappointed when things don’t align with these ideals. They’re just starting to understand that people aren’t all good or all bad.

“I don’t get it… why would she lie about something like that? Friends are supposed to be honest!”

[nightingale-prompts]

Depersonalization-DCxDP

What is a god?

What makes someone a god?

The answer is all at once a paralyzing and horrific idea that humans were not meant to imagine as well as the coldest comfort you will ever have.

Some imagine a god as a parental figure of light and happiness. Others imagine a vengeful tyrant of flame and ice. Some imagine nothing at all because that doesn't line up with the reality they seek. Who is to say what is wrong or right when gods do not walk among mortal men?

But let's stretch the mind and think more abstract. What is a god other than an idea? Can an idea be made flesh and blood? Could a human truly reach what the universe's perfect form?

"What is your name?" Superman asked.

They had found the boy some time ago. He had been found locked in a room during a raid by the police. They were only able to tell he was a meta being kept there by a group of what would be best be called cultists but they called themselves artists. They had an obsession with the boy. Drawing him, writing songs about him, taking photos of him, writing books about him...using him. They had this ritual as they called it to get inspiration from him. Well they were all arrested and the boy was thankfully unharmed—they think.

The best guess was that the metahuman's ability caused psychological effects. One he couldn't control. Just like Ace—that poor girl. Of course, no one wanted the boy to suffer like that. But they had a feeling that someone had beat them to it.

He didn't seem to recognize that he...existed? He looked blankly at the world around him without acknowledging anything that happened. Bruce hypothesized that someone might have preemptively lobotomized the child and he hated the very idea of someone doing it. He understood better than the rest of the team where that led.

Thankfully that wasn't the case, because he finally responded.

"I am a—god? God?" He said, writing asked. He didn't seem to understand what he was saying. As if he was surprised by himself. "I am YOUR god."

"What is your name?" Superman asked again.

"I don't understand. I am your god. Please tell me what you want and I will give you it." He said more desperate this time.

"What did they call you?" Superman insisted. He wanted to break the boy of the delusion that the culitst as put him under.

The boy was not human though nor metahuman.

He was not anything. The god was not being more powerful than men. It was an idea made by man and molded by it. An idea made flesh was what the boy was. It had no name, no self. Whoever he was was none existent now.

He had no name, because a name implies identity. A center. A boundary between self and other.

But he was only other. Only what others projected, like a canvas that bled with the thoughts of those who gazed upon it. He was formed not by birth, not by nature, but by need.

“I want…” Superman began, then stopped himself. The boy's—its—eyes locked onto his face. Wide. Empty. Not searching for understanding but waiting for command. The way a mirror waits for you to move, so it may follow.

“I want you to tell me who you are,” Superman said gently.

The boy blinked. “I am who you need.”

"No," Superman said, his voice firmer now. "Who you are. Not who they said. Not what I want. Who you are."

But the boy only tilted his head. And for the first time, something shifted behind his eyes—like a curtain of static briefly parting to reveal the void. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t sadness. It was the growing awareness that there was nothing behind the curtain. Nothing had ever been there.

He clutched his head. "I don’t know what I want. I don't know if I can want. I am....a god. Their god. They made me. Formed me. I need to help. Give you want you need. But do understand what you need. Please ask for something I can give."

The lights flickered. Reality, for a moment, bent at the edges like heat rising from asphalt.

Constantine stepped forward, slow and cautious. “He’s not lying. He’s an idea. And now the idea might collapse. Maybe because we’re not feeding it.”

Superman turned toward him. “Feeding it?”

Constantine’s voice was grim. “Belief. Worship. Desire. He exists because they wanted him to. He lives on expectation. He doesn’t know how to be anything else.”

There was silence. Then the boy—no, the god, because what else could you call a creature sustained by thought alone?—spoke again.

“If I stop being what you want… do I die?”

Superman didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because this god wasn’t power or divinity. He was the horror of an infinite mirror, of a void given form, of something born from the minds of broken people who needed something to love, to fear, to own.

And now he was real.

The boy had once been human.

There are no records. No missing person’s report. No fingerprints. No DNA match in any database. He’s a blank space, a redacted sentence in the story of the world. And yet he bleeds, breathes, and dreams things no child should dream.

He had a name once. A life. Parents, perhaps. Maybe a favorite color. Maybe a fear of the dark. All erased.

Not hidden—consumed.

Because that’s the price of godhood when it’s built, not born. Divinity is not an ascension but an infection when forced into mortal form. And when they made him—those “artists,” those cultists with ink-stained hands and starved eyes—they did not crown him. They emptied him. Scraped out the soft, warm, fallible human parts and filled the hollow with expectation. With longing. With belief so ravenous it took everything he was and called it holy.

Now, when he speaks, he doesn’t speak from memory, but from echo. He reflects. He mirrors. He gives.

“I am your god,” he says, not because he wants to be—he doesn't even know what want is—but because that is what they taught him to say. What they whispered into his ear as they molded his flesh into myth.

They gave him worship like knives. Carved their devotion into his mind with reverent cruelty. Called it a gift.

But the truth?

They murdered a child and left a godling in his place.

And now, they must decide what to do with something that shouldn’t be.

Because a god who does not know itself cannot be trusted. And a god who only exists to please others is no god at all.

[meatgrinder-0]

something that ive found myself thinking about a lot recently is the loss of autonomy that you have over your identity and what makes you "human" when you die.

(as has been said before by multiple different people) technically ford does not die when he goes through the portal, but as many have said at this point--in a metaphysical way when he goes through the portal he is dead in the eyes of his dimension, so i find in the narrative he experiences a similar loss of his humanity and in the same way that might've occurred with his death, his memory for any that have access to any form of it constructs him into an idea rather than a person.

and really anything can be said and done with him by the people who are still "alive" when this occurs. since he is in all aspects dead people can use him to justify their actions, as a figure in their concepts, and imagine him up to be whoever they want him to be for as long as he remains dead. the audience of course also partook in these same things prior to his reveal by theorizing about what type of person he was or how he might fit into the narrative as a person but to be more specific to examples of this idea in the show is how stan and dipper see ford as an idea.

due to being absent ford had no possible way to influence what stan thought he would want him to do about the portal outside of his existing warnings in his journals so stan is able to twist ford into a justification to work towards opening the portal, and during the length of his work on it according to alex's statements about stan "expecting ford to be weak and in need of help when he came out of the portal" (i feel the likely useless need to say whatever a creator says about their work is always only as canon as one wants it to be but this is worth mentioning here and i think it makes sense contextually within the text) the ford who comes back is so jarring because in his "death" he's become an ideal of what stan wants to see in him to play into his hero fantasy and hopes of earning back his appreciation

and of course as i think about a normal amount of times per day--the duration of the show presents the author as a figure that is wrapped up in a concept of ford while presenting him in a much more mythical format--another one of gravity falls' mysteries. pretty much every main character that isnt stan views him in this mystical light throughout the show with dipper being the prime example and uses the idea of "the author" as a driving force to pursue the questions that the town begs them to ask. there is something to be said about how creators of the show refer to journal 3 as "its own character" in a way that clearly separates it from it's author. even outside of the universe of the show itself, even in the show's own writing team ford--somehow despite being already being only a concept by virtue of being fictional--is stripped of humanity and becomes an even further abstracted concept.

but even to the ford who is alive the self who had gone through the portal is also a concept. i know this idea isnt explored much in canon if at all but bear with me here while i make shit up for fun--in a way, we ourselves the way we are now are dying near constantly. when we wake up each morning we of course have access to the same memories and the same body and the same experiences as the self we were before we fell asleep, but if we were to get existential, how can we be sure that we are the same consciousness that we were before?

even if this is a bit too absurd of a concept to be applying to a messy braindump "analysis" of a fictional character theres something about how extreme change in a person (often from trauma as ford has experienced for Obvious reasons) or even just the passage of time leaves the former self as nothing more but a memory to even the body that it once inhabited.

as i said theres not much to connect this to in the canon of the text, but i do believe that ford does see his past self who wrote the journals as an idea just as much as anyone else in his life did.

[demie90s]

Winter Smoke

Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Paige is home for winter break. No practices, no pressure—just family dinners, small town snow, and that one girl who’s always been around.

Genre: SMUT. WLW, slow burn, emotional tension, questioning sexuality, winter break setting, pothead x athlete, domestic vibes, closeted yearning

Warnings: Weed use, internalized confusion, soft flirtation, light physical intimacy (touching, closeness, implied attraction), emotional vulnerability, questioning identity

Word Count: ~ 4.1k

Winter break had the same rhythm every year: Paige came home, parents hosted dinner, folks laughed too loud in the living room, and I minded my business from the basement.

I didn’t mind her being around. We weren’t close—just the kind of familiar that comes from small towns and mutual obligations. Her dad and mine coached together in high school, so technically we’d “known each other forever,” but we’d never really talked. Not like that.

She played ball. I played the system.

They wanted us to be friends, though. My dad always hinting about it, asking me to tutor her in something she didn’t need help with just to get us in the same room. Her mom dropping comments like, “You should bring Paige on one of those study trips you go on, maybe it’ll rub off.”

As if intelligence was contagious.

Didn’t matter. I was too far gone into my own world now. I had my weed, my theories, my books, my silence. I wasn’t even mad about my dad pushing me into academia instead of ball anymore—he got over it. He saw what I did with it. I finished high school early, left with an associate’s before I could legally drink, and now I’m 21 working on a master’s degree while barely blinking. A little weed wasn’t going to be the scandal that ruined me.

So when they pulled up again this winter—her whole family—I didn’t blink.

I was in the basement, like usual. Hoodie on. Socks mismatched. Blunt lit. Some quiet instrumental R&B bleeding out the Bluetooth speaker. I was reading an abstract on cognitive reinforcement while simultaneously plotting which chips I was going to eat next.

And then the door opened. I didn’t look up right away. I already knew. Paige.

“Your mom said you were down here,” she said casually, a soft thud as she dropped down onto the other end of the couch.

“Clearly,” I murmured, barely lifting my eyes from the page. “She send you to babysit me or something?”

“Nah. I just wanted to get out of there. It’s a lot.”

I hummed. “Yeah. That house too full of opinions.”

She laughed lightly, then went quiet. I could feel her eyes scanning the room—my scattered notebooks, the rolling tray, the cloud of sweet smoke hanging heavy in the air.

She leaned back, legs stretched long across the carpet, and asked, “Is that your study routine or your spiritual practice?”

“Both.”

That got a laugh out of her. I liked the way she laughed. It was light, not forced, and just dry enough to tell me she wasn’t as straight as she tried to act.

“You ever try it?” I asked.

She glanced over. “What?”

I tapped the blunt between my fingers. “This. You off-season now, right?”

She tilted her head like she was thinking. “I mean… I’ve been around it. Never really did it.”

“Now’s the perfect time. No games, no drug tests, no interviews. Just you and the void.”

She looked at me, a little too long, and I knew then she was considering it.

“You don’t gotta impress me,” I said. “But you curious. I see it.”

Her eyes narrowed, amused. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re narrating a Netflix show no one’s ready for.”

I smirked, slow. “That’s ‘cause they’re not.”

Eventually, she took it. Sloppy first inhale, a cough, another laugh. She settled into the feeling quicker than I thought. And then came the real problem—we started talking. Like really talking.

I don’t even remember what cracked it. Might’ve been a joke about her old baby photos upstairs or some memory we shared at a fourth-grade birthday party neither of us remembered happening until now. But the laughter settled into something thicker. Slower.

“People don’t really know how smart you are,” she said out of nowhere.

I blinked, caught off guard. “You stalking my résumé or something?”

“Nah, just… people talk. My mom brags about you to everyone. Said you had college credits before you had a prom.”

“That’s true. I skipped prom.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Cause I was gay and bored. And the DJ was trash.”

Her lips twitched like she didn’t know whether to laugh or process the information. “So you’re out?”

“Out? Baby, I was see-through.”

I stretched out further, dragging the blunt to my lips again. She was watching me now. Too closely. Her eyes darkened a little, the haze from the smoke mixing with the curiosity already crawling under her skin.

“And what about you?” I asked, soft. “You ever… explore?”

She didn’t answer immediately. But she didn’t break eye contact either.

“Not really,” she murmured. “Not in a real way.” I nodded. Said nothing. I didn’t need to press it.

She leaned closer. Just a little. Her hand brushed mine on the couch, slow like a test. I didn’t move. Just let the tension sit there.

“You ever think about what it’s like?” she asked quietly.

My eyes locked on hers, and for once, I didn’t say something witty. Didn’t joke. Just let my voice drop into something honest.

“All the time.” There was a pause.

“Can I… try something?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She leaned in. Lips brushed. Slow. Careful. She tasted like nerves and chapstick and a little leftover smoke. And when I deepened it—just slightly—she let out the softest sound I’ve ever heard from her.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Cause I knew who I was. On the surface? Calm. Chill. Smarter than I look and twice as calculated. On the inside? Horny. Starving. Ready to fall to my knees and make her forget her last name.

But I held it in. Barely.

Our kiss broke and she smiled, dazed. “That was…”

“Yeah.”

She laid her head on my shoulder. I felt her fingers graze the hem of my shirt. Not sexual. Just curious. But I was holding on by threads.

We’d been like that for a while now—somewhere between silence and casual conversation, like neither of us knew how to say, “Hey, are we gonna talk about the way we kissed and didn’t stop thinking about it for the last hour?”

We hadn’t moved from the couch. Weirdly enough, it held both of us just fine. Just enough room. Just enough quiet. Except now Paige was laying on top of me.

Her legs tangled between mine, her body pressed down in a way that didn’t feel innocent anymore. Head on my chest, one arm hooked lazily around my waist, like she’d done this a thousand times. Her eyes were closed, but she was still talking—something about childhood basketball trophies and how her little cousin found her old highlights on YouTube.

I could barely register a word. Because all I could think about was how her thigh was right there—pressed between mine. Not moving. But not still either.

And I was high. Which made it worse. I don’t get stupid when I’m high—I get hungry. And every slow exhale from her nose onto my collarbone was pushing me closer to losing it.

I bit my lip. She didn’t notice.

Her voice was soft. “He said I looked mean. Like, ‘Auntie, why you look so mad when you play?’ I was like, bro, that’s my face.”

I huffed out a breath. Tried to shift. Tried to be normal. But she moved with me—adjusted her leg without even opening her eyes, and suddenly her thigh dragged right over where I’d been trying not to feel too much.

I clenched my jaw. She still didn’t notice.

“I used to hate watching myself,” she murmured, voice low and gentle against my throat. “Now it’s kinda cool, seeing where I started. You ever feel like that? Like—”

“I have to move you,” I cut in, voice tighter than I meant.

She lifted her head a little, brows furrowed. “What? Why?”

I sat up slightly, forcing her off me and into her own seat like it didn’t hurt. Like it wasn’t killing me to put space between us.

“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned, leaning closer. I licked my lips slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I’m trying not to fuck you,” I said calmly. Deadass. Unapologetic.

She blinked once. Then again. And smiled. That slow, knowing smile.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up straighter. “That’s why.”

“Mhm.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean earlier.”

“You were literally laying on me. I could barely breathe. You were talking about youth basketball and I was this close to snapping your waistband and licking your spine.”

She grinned wider, leaned in like she was about to say something smart, and kissed me instead. Not light. Not curious. Firm. Intentional. Her hand cupped my jaw while her mouth moved slow and deep over mine, and I was holding on by a damn thread.

Then she started licking my neck. Not just kissing—licking. Small, warm, deliberate strokes right beneath my ear, and then soft open-mouthed kisses trailing down to my collarbone. And I was still. Frozen.

Not because I didn’t want to touch her. But because I did. Because if I moved, I was going to flip her. Make her cry out. Make her feel every second of what I’d been holding in since she laid on me like that couch was neutral ground.

She sat in my lap now, straddling me fully, rocking just barely. Smirking.

“You good?” she asked in that fake innocent tone, head tilted, lips still swollen from kissing.

I looked at her. Stared. She thought she was winning. Thought she was in charge. But when she leaned in close again and whispered, “Yes…”—that was it.

Everything inside me snapped.

My hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her down flush. The soft gasp she let out told me all I needed to know. She didn’t expect me to take it that seriously.

I kissed her hard—like I was making up for every second I held back. My tongue slid into her mouth like I owned the space. My hands gripped her thighs, pulled her down tighter into me, and I felt the shift in her body—the sudden surrender. The way she melted under it.

“You thought you’d in charge?” I muttered between kisses. She tried to say something cocky. I swallowed it with another kiss.

“You laid on me like I wouldn’t do something about it.”

Her hips shifted. My fingers dug in. She moaned—soft, breathy, and fuck, I wanted more.

I kissed her jaw, her neck, the space just under her ear where she shivered like I found a secret. My voice dropped.

“Girl you got one chance to tell me to stop.”

She didn’t. Her hands gripped my shoulders. She leaned in again, kissed me like she was already gone.

I didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to. Paige had already told me everything I needed to hear—between her eyes, her breathing, her “yes,” the way her thighs clenched the second I kissed under her ear.

And I wasn’t about to waste that permission.

I flipped her slow. Nothing rough—just smooth and deliberate. Her back hit the cushions while I stayed above her, steady, calm, calculated. Her hands gripped my hoodie like she was holding herself together. That wouldn’t last long.

Then I was on her. Hands sliding up under her hoodie, fingertips dragging over bare skin, tugging fabric higher as I kissed down her neck. She lifted her arms, let me take it off, hair falling across her flushed face like some forbidden secret I wasn’t supposed to see.

But I was gonna see all of her. Every fucking inch.

No bra. Just her. Skin flushed pink, breathing shallow, chest rising. I stared. Just for a second. Just to memorize the shape of her. Then I dropped my mouth to her chest—tongue licking a slow circle around her nipple before pulling it into my mouth, gently, then harder, until she gasped and arched up.

My hands weren’t still either. One slid down, thumb dragging under the band of her sweatpants. I felt her tremble when I grazed the front of her, the heat, the way her body reacted instantly. My eyes were on hers the whole time.

I didn’t say anything. I just pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help me, quiet, legs parting slightly, thighs tense. No panties. She knew what she was doing. IM not mad at it.

She always looked so clean-cut. So composed. But here she was, laying back in my basement with nothing on from the waist down, wet and ready, thighs trembling, eyes locked on me like she didn’t know whether to speak or beg.

I dropped to my knees on the floor between the couch cushions. Didn’t rush. Just kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and firm. Then the other. Licked the softness just above where she needed it, blowing cool air across her pussy until she squirmed.

I didn’t tease her long. Not tonight.

I leaned in and kissed her there—deep, full tongue pressure, slow licks that flattened against her clit, then slid lower, tasting her. Her hips jumped immediately.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. I hummed against her. The vibrations made her moan. Then I really got to work.

My hands gripped her thighs and pulled her forward. I spread her wider, licking long and slow—up and down, circling, pausing only to suck her clit gently, then hard enough to make her back arch off the couch. She was losing it already, one hand tangled in my curls, the other gripping the pillow like it could ground her.

But I wasn’t done.

While I ate her, one hand slid back into my sweats—already soaked from how long I’d been holding it in. My fingers rubbed slow circles over my own clit, matching the rhythm of my mouth on hers. It made the pleasure sharper, more focused. Like I was feeding off her sounds.

She moaned louder. Her thighs started to tremble.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice cracking.

I didn’t. I licked her like it was my purpose—slow but relentless. I flattened my tongue, sucked her clit again, then moved lower and slid my tongue inside her, moaning softly when she gasped and rolled her hips into my face. Her whole body tightened. She was close. Right there.

I pulled back just enough to say, “I want you to come on my mouth.”

She whimpered. “Fuck. I’m gonna—”

Her whole body jerked. Her legs shook around my shoulders. I didn’t stop—kept licking through it, softer now, coaxing it out of her, letting her ride it. She cried out, breathless, shaky, and her fingers pulled hard at my hair.

I stayed there until she twitched. Until she couldn’t take anymore. Until she pushed at me with a whimper and begged, “Wait—baby, stop—too much.”

I finally pulled back. Licked my lips. Looked at her. Wrecked. Flushed. Breathless. Still trembling.

I climbed back onto the couch beside her, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and leaned in to kiss her neck—tasting her skin, dragging my tongue up her throat slow and dirty.

“You taste so fucking good,” I whispered.

She blinked at me, dazed. “You’re high.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t eat you through the fucking floor.”

She laughed weakly, still breathless. And then her fingers slid between my legs.

“Ohhh…” I smiled, slow and wicked. “You trying to be grown?” She looked at me.

“Say yes again.”

She hadn’t even caught her breath yet, still folded into the couch cushions, legs slightly open, chest rising in soft uneven waves. Her skin glowed in the low light—pink from heat, kissed red around her chest and throat. And yet she still looked hungry.

Paige shifted, climbing into my lap like the tremble in her thighs didn’t exist. She pushed me back into the cushions and settled over me, straddling me fully, hands on either side of my neck, gaze low and steady. There was something new in her eyes. Bolder. Like now that she knew what my mouth could do, she wanted to see what her hands could make happen.

“You good?” I asked, low.

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” I raised a brow.

But she was already kissing me—hot, slow, and wet, tongue teasing mine like she wanted to reclaim her breath through me. Her hand slid under my hoodie, trailing along my ribs, my stomach. She tugged it up, impatient. I let her pull it off.

She looked down at me now, eyes scanning everything, like she was seeing me for the first time. Then her hands cupped my chest, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I sighed into the kiss, my back arching just a little.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered, voice husky.

I opened my mouth to respond, but she kissed down my neck before I could answer—slow and messy, lips dragging across my collarbone, then lower. Her tongue flicked over my nipple and my breath caught. She smiled against my skin.

“Oh, you like that.”

“Mhm,” I managed. “But don’t get cocky. You still shaky.”

She ignored that, kissing lower. Her hand slid between my legs, over my sweats, slow pressure that made me sigh and grind into her palm.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, surprised.

“Yeah. You. Did that.”

Paige hummed, dragging her fingers up and down through the fabric. Teasing. She didn’t rush. Didn’t try to prove anything. Just moved with confidence—like she’d been thinking about this longer than she admitted.

She tugged my sweats down, enough to get her hand in, and the moment her fingers slid through how wet I was, she moaned.

“Fuck.”

I grinned. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, dazed, like she forgot where she was. Her fingers rubbed slow circles over my clit while she kissed me again—deep and dirty, moaning into my mouth every time I twitched.

Then she slid one finger in. Then another. I grabbed her wrist on instinct, not to stop her, but to feel it. She started thrusting slow, her other hand gripping my thigh, and her breath got uneven again.

“You’re so fucking warm,” she whispered, looking down at where her fingers disappeared inside me. “I—I can’t—”

And then she froze. Her eyes fluttered. Her legs trembled.

“Oh my god.”

She gasped, sharp and loud, grinding down against me like she didn’t even mean to. Cumming. Again.

Right there. On top of me. Legs shaking, forehead pressed to mine, fingers still inside me but frozen. She whimpered, soft and stunned.

I bit my lip, smiling. “You were saying?”

“Shut up,” she panted.

“No, no, please,” I laughed breathlessly. “You were being in charge. Continue.”

She blinked down at me, red-faced. “I—I forgot what I was doing.”

I gripped her hips and started to move them. She moaned.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Let me help you remember.”

I guided her—slow grind, right over my thigh now, slick and sensitive, her hands on my chest for balance. I kept moving her, small circles, steady pressure, and watched her fall apart all over again.

“You think I needed more than this?” I muttered, voice low. “Just you on top of me, making all those sounds…”

“Stop talking,” she gasped, but her hips didn’t stop.

“I came already, Paige. You know that, right?” Her eyes widened.

“I came while I was eating you.” (Literally a dream of mine.. don’t mind me)

She whimpered, grinding harder. “Fuck…”

“And now you’re gonna come again. Because you turn me on that bad.”

She didn’t argue. She just shook. Collapsed into my neck and came again, softer this time. Just a long, trembling sigh, her breath hot against my throat, body loose and weak and completely undone.

And I held her. Smiling to myself. Because yeah—she tried to be in charge. But I had her. Every. Single. Time.

It was sometime past midnight when we finally pulled ourselves together—sweatpants back on, hoodies thrown over bodies still warm, limbs still a little shaky. We laughed too much in the bathroom while brushing our teeth, hands knocking into each other, grinning like two kids who knew they weren’t supposed to be doing what they just did.

She stayed.

Of course she stayed.

Now we were in my room, the lights dim, comforter kicked halfway off the bed. She laid on top of me, hoodie half-zipped, cheek pressed against my chest like it belonged there. Her thigh was tucked between mine again, but this time I wasn’t grinding—I was too tired. Too satisfied. My hand rested on her back, fingers tracing lazy lines along her spine while she talked soft and slow, her voice fading in and out like she was about to fall asleep mid-sentence.

“You sure I’m not crushing you?” she mumbled.

I rolled my eyes. “You weigh, like, five pounds more than me.”

“But I’m taller. Got broader shoulders.”

I slid my hand down to squeeze her ass. “You’re not heavy, Paige. I lift.”

She chuckled, sleep in her throat. “Okay, hot girl.”

We laid there like that for a while. Comfortable. Quiet. Her breath evened out, her body melted against mine. I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

Morning came like a slap to the ego. The sun peeked through my curtains just bright enough to hit Paige’s face. She scrunched up like a cat and rolled off me with a groan, taking the covers with her.

“Damn,” I muttered, dragging my hoodie down.

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “Your bed’s too comfortable. I didn’t wanna wake up.”

“You drooled on me.”

She blinked. “What?”

I smirked. “Right here.” I tapped my chest. “Dead center. Like a badge of honor.”

She covered her face, laughing into her sleeve.

We got dressed in a mess of mismatched clothes. My sweats, her hoodie. My bonnet that she definitely did not need but still tried on for jokes. I tossed her one of my oversized tees to wear under her jacket and she looked at herself in the mirror like she didn’t hate it.

“You good?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just don’t know how to walk out of here like I wasn’t literally—”

“Say it and I’ll drag you back in this bed.”

She bit her lip. “That’s not a threat.”

We made our way to the kitchen like two teenagers sneaking in past curfew—except it was 9 a.m., and both of my parents were already awake.

I should’ve known something was up the moment my mom turned from the stove with that look. That mom look. The one that says, “You think I don’t know, but I know.”

“Mornin’ girls,” she said sweetly, sliding pancakes onto a plate. “Y’all sleep good?”

Paige damn near tripped over the chair. I cleared my throat. “Yup. Great. Comfy.”

“Yeah,” Paige added too fast. “Really good. Slept really… peacefully.”

“Mhmm,” my mom replied, smirking. “Sure did look peaceful when I checked on you two. Cozy.”

I froze. “You what?”

“Oh relax. I didn’t open the door all the way. Just enough to see her head on your chest like a baby possum.”

Paige looked like she wanted the floor to eat her whole. And then came my father. He walked in holding his coffee like a championship trophy, grinning like he hit the lottery three times in one night.

“I knew it,” he said, loud as hell. “I told you, baby! Didn’t I say?”

He turned to my mom, eyes wide. “Didn’t I say, ‘Those two gone end up together. It’s only a matter of time’? Didn’t I say that?!”

“You said it,” my mom replied flatly, rolling her eyes.

My dad clapped his hands together once, loud and proud. “Welcome to the family, Bueckers!”

Paige’s eyes got so wide I thought she might pass out. I dropped my forehead to the table. “You’re embarrassing. Please stop.”

He ignored me completely, walking over to Paige and slapping her on the shoulder like he just drafted her to the Lakers. “I mean this girl right here—man! Best in the league. Smart. Focused. Got a crossover and a sense of humor.”

“She’s sitting right here,” I muttered.

He leaned in closer, whispering too loud to be subtle. “If you break her heart, I’m takin’ your jump shot. You hear me?”

Paige choked on her juice. My mom finally rescued us. “That’s enough, Mr. Hall of Fame. Go fix the screen door like you said you would.”

He walked off still talking. “Three for three! That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Three for three!”

I turned to Paige, deadpan. “You wanna run? Now’s your chance.”

She leaned over, bumped my shoulder, and whispered, “Actually… I’m kinda into it.”

I blinked. “Into what?”

She smirked. “Being yours.”

My heart did something stupid. Like real stupid.

But all I said was, “Better be. You drooled on me.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

[ateezscupid]

─── 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, 𝒀𝑶𝑼.. ꕮ 002 ─ Gentle Illusion.

SUMMARY / After the dreamy encounter with you at the club, he uses his anonymous dating profile to add you on the app. He structures this fake identity to appeal to you. You don't know it's Yunho; you think it's some random guy. Little do you know, he's watching your every move.

WARNINGS ✩ Sensitive Topics!! (death, murder, stalking), Winter, Yunjin, and Wony mentions (they're your friends), Yunho is literally fighting demons not to kill reader

WORD COUNT ✩ 5.1k

tags ✩ @desirehorizon @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @lezleeferguson-120 @hwallazia @hoe4yunho @prettylilack @lustfxq @shownumiss @hwxbibi@nneteyamss @joonhasjiminsjams @herpoetryprincess @napipope-ta @wyrated @leeseokiwi @trinityobsessesovatings @kittykat-25 @yourallaround-simp @ewsnup @kysstar @tunafishyfishylike

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / SERIES MASTERLIST / REQUEST ─── Next Chapter ౨ৎ 

When you got home that night, you hadn't realized you left without getting Yunho's number or anything. The encounter had been so surreal, like a fleeting moment in a crowded room that could easily be forgotten. But as you lay in bed, his kind eyes and gentle smile remained etched in your mind, a stark contrast to the usual faces at the club.

You turned over in your bed, the memory of Yunho's smile lingering like the faint scent of his cologne on your shirt. You had never felt so drawn to someone you had barely talked to. His attentiveness and genuine concern for your safety had been refreshing, a stark contrast to the usual attention-seeking guys you met at clubs.

"Stupid, annoyingly hot, guy." You murmured to yourself as you swiped through the endless sea of profiles on the dating app. You had been feeling lonely lately, and your friends had insisted you give online dating a shot. "But who would I even match with?" You wondered, your nails tapping against the screen.

Then, a notification popped up. It was a new match. You clicked on the profile, expecting to find yet another face that didn't spark your interest. But this time, it was different. He had pictures of his art, a dog, and a bio that read: "Looking for someone to share quiet nights with."

You were a tad skeptical. He didn't have a single picture of himself on his profile, not much talking about himself in the description either. But there was something intriguing about the mystery that kept you clicking. His profile was a breath of fresh air compared to the self-centered profiles that often filled the app.

You bit your lip and swiped out of the app, opening your contacts and calling your friend from last night. "Hey, remember that guy at the club?" You asked, hoping she had snagged his info.

"What?" she sounded groggy. "I'm, like, suuuper fucking hungover. What's up?"

You laughed, "Sorry, I know it's early. Did you get the number of that guy who helped me out last night?"

"No because I was about to start projectile vomiting. I don't remember shit from last night." She groaned, clearly not in the best state to be of help. You sighed, feeling a little disappointed. "But wait, he didn't tell you his name?"

You thought back to the conversation you had with him. "No, but he told me not to call him mysterious stranger all night."

Your friend laughed, "Well, that's not helpful."

"…I just said… he didn't give me a name." You said, slightly annoyed at the lack of help but understanding her condition. You decided to let it go and focus on the mysterious match instead. His profile was simple yet intriguing. The art was a mix of abstract and surrealism, the dog looked like a sweet golden retriever, and his desire for quiet nights resonated with your introverted soul.

"Uh, that's not what I called you for, though. I was on that dating app you told me to get and this really weird profile just added me. It's got no pictures, but something about it is… I don't know, it just feels right?" You shared your thoughts with your friend.

"Girl, slenderman is gonna kill you or something." Your friend said, her voice thick with sarcasm. But despite her joking tone, you couldn't shake off the feeling of excitement mixed with a hint of unease. You had been scrolling through countless profiles filled with selfies and half-hearted bios, but this one had caught your attention. It was almost too good to be true.

"Every other account on here is like, the average fuckboy. But this one… it's like, actually interesting," you said, scrolling through the art-filled profile.

"Well, if he's got no pics, he's probably either a catfish or a killer," your friend mumbled, the sound of a toilet flushing in the background. "But hey, if you're into that sort of thing, go for it. Just don't tell the cops I didn't warn you."

You rolled your eyes at her dramatics and ended the call, unable to shake off the curiosity. You clicked the 'chat' button and sent a simple message: "Hi, I'm Y/N. What's your name?"

The response came quickly, "Hello Y/N. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Kang."

Yunho remembered your smile.

He remembered the way your eyes lit up when he had offered you his jacket, and how your cheeks had turned a shade of pink that matched the strobe lights. The conversation had been brief, but he had felt a connection that was as palpable as the bass thumping through the floor. Yunho knew he had to see you again.

But of course, Yunho wasn't just any guy. His heart raced as he thought of his dark secret. He had been watching you, learning about your tastes and habits, all the while crafting the perfect digital persona to reel you in. The art in his profile? All stolen from other artists, carefully selected to match your aesthetic preferences. The golden retriever? A random picture found online, chosen because it seemed like the kind of dog you'd love.

The second he got home, he was quick to look your name up on any social media app he had on his phone. Thank god your name wasn't common. It didn't take long for him to find you, with your profile picture being a cute selfie with your cat, Toadie. He studied your pictures, the way you posed with your friends, the books you liked to read. He learned your favorite color was mint green and that you had an unhealthy obsession with avocados.

He went through your friends profiles too, learning who was who in your life.

Winter, who posted pictures of her travels and her love for books, seemed like someone you'd actually get along with. But she was a friend of a friend, not someone you knew well. The way she talked about the places she'd been and the stories she'd read made her seem so much more exciting than the guys who talked about their gym routines and job promotions.

Wonyoung, the clearly the friend you were closest to. She was pretty and bubbly, but had a sharp wit that could cut through any bullshit. Her profile was a rainbow of colors, filled with selfies with her adorable puppy, and motivational quotes. She was the glue that held your friend group together, always planning the next outing or get-together.

And last was Yunjin. She was the friend who told you to go to the club with her, the one who had promised she'd stay sober so she could keep an eye on you but ended up face down in the toilet later that night anyway. Her profile was a mix of party pictures and photos of her art, which was surprisingly good. Yunho could see that she had a wild streak, but there was something genuine in the way she interacted with the people around her. She had a heart as big as the smile on her face.

When he was done looking through your friend's profiles, he went back to yours, his finger hovering over your picture. He felt a strange sense of warmth as he studied your face. Yunho had never felt this way before, not about any of the other women he had pursued. He wanted to learn everything about you, to understand what made you tick.

You had your full name as your display name, which made it all too easy for Yunho to trace you. With a few clicks, he found your Tiktok profile, filled with videos of your life. The way you laughed with your friends, the art you created, the quiet moments with Toadie, all laid out like a book waiting to be read. He studied your videos, the way your hair fell across your face when you laughed, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about the books you loved.

He watched your stories from the night before, seeing the chaos of the club through your perspective, the flashing lights and the sea of people, and he felt a strange mix of excitement and anxiety. He knew where you'd be that night, but he had never expected to find someone like you. Someone who didn't just catch his eye, but captured his attention in a way that was…different.

Yunho meticulously studied each video, noticing the way your hand trembled slightly when you talked about your art, revealing the nervousness that you tried so hard to hide in person. He saw the spark of excitement in your eyes when you talked about your favorite author, the way your voice lit up when you recommended a new book. And he watched the way you interacted with your friends, the gentle teasing and the shared laughs, the genuine joy that radiated from your screen.

He went as far as looking up your full name on Google, the thrill of the chase coursing through his veins like a drug. To his surprise, a local news article popped up from a few years back. It was about a charity event you had organized in your hometown. You had raised funds for the local animal shelter, and in the photo, you were surrounded by happy, wagging tails and smiling faces. His heart skipped a beat, the warmth spreading through his cold, calculated mind.

And for a moment, all murderous feeling faded away. The articles on the screen painted a picture of you that was so vivid and real bjm,., he could almost reach out and touch it. Yunho had always been fascinated by the complexity of the human psyche, but you were more than just a puzzle to solve or a target to claim. You were someone who had made an actual difference in the world.

The articles talked about your dedication to the animals, your selflessness, and the joy you brought to those around you. It was as if someone had shone a light on the parts of you that he hadn't seen before, and it was blinding. He felt a strange tug in his chest, something foreign and unsettling. He wasn't used to feeling this way about his victims, and it scared him.

And when the notification popped up that you had matched with 'Kang', his heart skipped a beat. He was finally in. He had you right where he wanted you. Yunho had spent hours crafting this profile, making sure it was perfect. He knew what you liked, what you didn't, and he had tailored it all to appeal to you.

"Nice to meet you Kang," you replied back, feeling a strange comfort from the anonymity. You had been feeling lost lately, unsure of what you wanted in life or in a relationship. Your friends had been pushing you to put yourself out there, insisting that you needed to move on from your ex. But the thought of dating again had left you feeling more overwhelmed than hopeful.

Yunho felt his heart race as he typed out his response. He had to be careful, not to scare you off. "What do you enjoy doing in your free time, Y/N?" He asked, trying to keep the conversation casual and light.

"I like to paint and read," you replied, the words appearing on the screen as if you were speaking them aloud. "What about you, Kang?"

Yunho felt a thrill at the mention of painting. He knew that was something you enjoyed; he had seen the art supplies scattered across the floor of your room in the background of one of your TikToks. "I'm actually quite fond of art myself," he said, smiling as he typed. "I enjoy creating it in my free time."

"Really?" You replied, feeling a spark of excitement. "What's your favorite medium to work with?"

"I'm versatile," Kang typed, "But I lean towards oil on canvas. It allows for a depth of emotion that I can't achieve with other materials."

You felt your heart flutter at his answer. It was like he had read your mind. "That's so cool. I've always wanted to try that but I'm more of a watercolor kind of girl. It's soothing, you know?"

"Ah, watercolor," Kang responded, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "It has a delicate beauty to it, like the way a soft rain kisses the pavement. Have you ever tried painting in the rain?"

You laughed, "No, but it sounds like a fun idea. Maybe a bit messy, though."

"It's all about embracing the chaos," Kang said. "But if you're more of a cozy night in person, I totally get that. So, what's the last book that really made you feel something?"

You thought for a moment before answering, "The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. It's a beautiful retelling of the Trojan War from the perspective of Patroclus. The love between him and Achilles is just… wow."

Kang's response was swift, "Ah, a classic tale of love and war. I've always enjoyed mythology. It's fascinating how stories from centuries ago still resonate with us today."

You nodded in agreement, even though he couldn't see you. "Yeah, it really makes you think about how little we've changed, you know? People still love and hurt each other the same way."

"True," Kang said, his voice thoughtful. "Do you believe in fate, Y/N?"

For a while, you didn't respond. You weren't sure how to answer. Fate was a concept that had always intrigued you, but it was something you didn't often ponder. "I guess I do," you finally replied. "I mean, there are moments in life that feel like they're meant to be, you know?"

"I understand what you mean," Kang said. "It's as if the universe aligns the stars just right, and suddenly you're standing in front of the person you're destined to be with."

You felt a warm blush creep up your cheeks. "That's a bit much for someone I just met on a dating app."

"But isn't that what life is all about?" Kang responded. "The unexpected meetings that lead to the most beautiful connections?"

You couldn't argue with that. "I guess so. It's just weird to think that fate could be playing matchmaker on a dating app."

Kang chuckled, his voice light and easy. "Why not? Technology has a way of bringing people together in the most unexpected ways. Plus, it's a chance to meet someone you might not have encountered otherwise."

"True." you tap your nails on the screen, trying to figure out what else to say. "Why don't you have any pictures of yourself on your account?" You ask, your curiosity piqued.

"Ah," Kang replied, "I prefer to keep my art as the focus. Plus, I've had some bad experiences with photos in the past."

You nodded, understanding the need for privacy in the digital age. "Fair enough. So, the only time I'd see your face is if we met outside the app?"

"Exactly," Kang said. "But I promise, I'm not hiding anything unpleasant. I just want to get to know you without the distraction of looks."

"That's pretty cool," you said, feeling a sense of relief. You had been worried he might be hiding something sinister. "So, tell me more about yourself. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a freelance artist," Kang replied, keeping his voice casual. "It's a bit unpredictable, but I enjoy the freedom it gives me to express myself."

"That's amazing," you said, genuinely impressed. "I wish I could do that full time."

"What do you do?" Kang asked, his curiosity genuine.

You thought for a moment before answering, "I'm just a regular barista. It's nothing special, but it pays the bills."

Kang's response was quick, "Don't sell yourself short, Y/N. There's something magical about making someone's day with a perfect cup of coffee. It's a form of art in its own way."

"Sure. Making people their favorite drink is like, my art form," You said with a chuckle. "But enough about me. Tell me more about your art. What's your favorite piece that you've created?"

Kang paused, his mind racing with thoughts of the countless lives he had ended. But he had to keep up the facade. "I have a piece called 'Whispers of the Wind'. It's an abstract of the first snowfall, capturing the moment when the world goes quiet."

"That sounds beautiful," you replied, picturing a serene landscape with soft brushstrokes of white. "I'd love to see it sometime."

"You would?" Kang's heart skipped a beat. He had never shown anyone his actual work, fearing the connection it would reveal. But with you, it felt different. "Maybe one day I could show it to you in person," he offered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Maybe tonight? I have nothing to do." You suggested, feeling a rush of excitement.

Kang's heart raced as he read your message. Meeting you in person was a risk, but he couldn't resist. He needed to see the spark in your eyes again, to hear your laugh echo through the quiet spaces of his soul. "That sounds perfect," he typed back, trying to keep his excitement in check.

That night, you struggled on picking out an outfit. You had Wonyoung and Winter on face time with you, while Yunjin was rummaging through your closet. They had all insisted on helping you get ready for your first date, despite the fact that it was with a guy they hadn't met.

"Is this cute?" Yunjin held up a red dress with a plunging neckline.

"When did Y/N even get that?" Winter moved closer to the screen, peering at the dress. "It's a bit much for a first date, don't you think?"

"I gave it to her!" Wony backed away from the camera, her eyes wide. "It's not like she's going to wear it to serve coffee, right?"

You laughed, taking the dress from Yunjin and holding it against yourself. It was indeed a bit much for a first date, but something about the way it made you feel, bold and fiery, was tempting. "Maybe not." You said with a grin. "But I'll save it for when we're a bit more… acquainted."

"Oh, okay sexy." Yunjin grinned mischievously, tossing the dress onto your bed. "But you've got to wear something that says 'I'm not just your average coffee date'."

"Make her wear something cute! Maybe that blue sweater with the little stars on it," Wonyoung suggested, her voice coming through the speaker.

"Ew! No! Remember when we put it in the wash and it got ruined?" You said, scrunching your nose at the screen.

"What about the black dress you wore when you and Yunjin went to the club?" Winter asked, munching on some chips in the camera.

You nodded, "That's a good idea. It's simple but makes me feel like I've got my shit together."

"You should wear, like, a jacket or cardigan over it or something. It's supposed to be chilly tonight," Wonyoung added, her voice muffled by a mouthful of chips.

"Yeah, good call," you said, already picturing the outfit. A black dress, a warm cardigan, and your favorite boots. Simple yet stylish, just like 'Kang' had mentioned in his profile. You didn't want to go overboard, but you wanted to make a good impression. You had a feeling that he was someone special.

"Hurry and go to your date!" Wonyoung said, her eyes shining with excitement. "You look amazing!"

Yunjin grabbed her phone, looking you up and down and nodding to herself. "You're gonna look so cute." she then looked at her phone, waving at Winter and Wony. "We did good!"

You blushed at the compliment, "Thanks, guys." You felt the nerves kick in. This was it. Your first date in what felt like forever. You slipped into the dress, feeling the material hug your curves in all the right ways. You paired it with the cardigan and boots, just as Wonyoung suggested. Looking in the mirror, you felt a sense of confidence that you hadn't felt in a long time. You took a deep breath and headed out the door.

You sat patiently on a bench in the park he told you to meet him at, your heart racing with every rustle of leaves in the breeze. The cold air made you shiver, but you had dressed for the occasion, just as your friends had advised. The simplicity of the black dress made you feel elegant yet approachable, the cardigan adding a touch of comfort to the look. You checked your phone again; you were five minutes early.

"Y/N?" A voice rang from behind you. You recognized that voice. It was Yunho.

"Mystery guy?" You turned around to see a man standing a few feet away, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. He was dressed casually in a navy sweater and jeans, with a beanie pulled down low over his forehead. He looked nothing like the recluse you had met at the club, but there was something about him that was eerily familiar.

"What, are you following me?" you stand up, chuckling as you recognize him. But the humor quickly drains from your voice as you realize you didn't know he'd be here.

"Uh, I was on the dating app and I saw your profile and…I don't know, I didn't want you thinking I was stalking you or anything." Yunho's voice was smooth, a stark contrast to the jittery feeling in your stomach.

"So you made a fake identity to talk to me with?" You cross your arms, trying to hide the sudden disappointment that washed over you. You had been looking forward to meeting 'Kang', but now it felt like you had been deceived.

Yunho's eyes widened in surprise. "Uh, would you hate me if I said yes…?" He took a step closer, his voice laced with an awkward charm. "I just wanted to get to know the real you, without any preconceptions."

"So then…what's your real name if it's not Kang?" You questioned, your voice skeptical.

"Uh, it's uh, Yunho," he said, shifting his weight nervously. "I know it's weird and I'm sorry. I just, y'know, didn't want you to make any assumptions about me."

You felt your arms drop to your sides. The admission was weird, but he had a point. You had been the one to suggest the meeting. "I guess that's fair. You're lucky you're attractive."

Yunho chuckled, looking you up and down before taking a seat next to you on the bench. "Thanks for meeting me. I promise, I'm not as weird as this seems." He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He had never felt this nervous before a kill.

For some reason, he was aware of everything now. The way your breath formed little clouds in the cold air, the way your eyes searched his for answers. He felt a strange thrill knowing he had you there, in the palm of his hand. And to top it all off, the park wasn't full. It was perfect, the quietness of the night only pierced by the occasional distant laughter of a couple passing by.

You were the one talking the entire time, and he listened. He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. It was like he was drinking in every word you said, memorizing the way your lips moved. You talked about your love for animals and how you wished you could spend more time at the shelter. You spoke of your dreams to one day open your own art gallery, showcasing not just your own work, but that of other local artists who didn't get the recognition they deserved.

He admired your beauty, your passion, and your kindness. You were an open book, sharing your thoughts and dreams without a single filter. The way you spoke about your love for art, your hope to make a difference in the world, it was all so…pure. He had never met someone like you before. Yunho found himself smiling, a genuine smile that didn't feel forced or rehearsed.

But there was a war raging in his mind. The whispers of his darker self were growing louder, urging him to take what he wanted. He had done it before, so many times. Yet, something held him back. Was it the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your art, or the softness of your voice when you spoke about your pets? He wasn't sure, but he knew he didn't want to see that light extinguished.

He felt the knife sheathed in his pocket, the weight of it a constant reminder of his true nature. Yet, as he listened to you speak, the voices grew quieter. He found himself lost in your words, the passion behind them, and the dreams you held in your eyes. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, a strange warmth that filled the emptiness within him.

Yunho's hand twitched, his thumb tracing the outline of the knife, feeling the comfort of its cold metal. But as he looked into your eyes, he realized he didn't want to snuff out the light that shone there. For the first time, the urge to kill was not all-consuming. There was a conflict within him, a battle between the monster he had become and the man he once was, or perhaps the man he had never truly allowed himself to be.

"You know, you haven't said a single word since we've sat down." You looked over at Yunho, your smile fading a bit. "Is everything okay?"

"Huh?" Yunho blinked, coming back to reality. "Oh, I'm sorry. I just…I was lost in thought." He forced a smile, trying to push the dark thoughts away.

"Oh, well," you chuckled, nudging his shoulder playfully, "you're the artist. I figured you'd be lost in your thoughts."

Yunho felt his heart thump in his chest, the voices in his head momentarily silenced by your touch. He had never felt this way before. Usually, his targets were just that: targets. But with you, there was something more. The urge to keep you safe, to be the person you needed, was overwhelming.

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill her. The whispers grew louder in Yunho's head, a cacophony of his darkest desires demanding satisfaction. Yet, as he stared into your eyes, the voices grew faint, like a distant echo in a vast, empty hall. But the urge to end your life, to add your name to the list of forgotten souls, was there, and it was driving him mad.

"It's getting late." You glanced at your phone, the screen casting a soft glow on your face. "I should probably head home."

Yunho felt the whispers in his head grow louder, his hand tightening around the knife. But then you leaned in, your eyes searching his. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Yunho. I had a really good time."

"D-Do you need a ride?" Yunho's voice was unsteady as he offered, the knife in his pocket feeling heavier than ever before. The voices in his head were screaming for him to act, but as he watched you, something within him was begging to stay his hand.

"It's fine, really. I can take the bus." You looked up at him, the light from the streetlamp casting shadows across your face.

"You really want to take the bus this late at night?" Yunho's question was genuine, the concern in his voice palpable despite the chaos in his thoughts. He didn't want you to be out here alone, didn't want you to be vulnerable to the dangers of the night, even if those dangers were standing right beside you.

You squint your eyes for a moment and smile, "No, I'll be okay. But thanks for the offer." You start to get up from the bench, but Yunho's hand shoots out, gently grabbing your arm.

"Please, let me drive you home," he says, his voice urgent. "I don't like the idea of you being out here alone. Y'know, the girls who are going missing and stuff."

You bite your lip, considering his offer. It's true, it's late and the walk home isn't exactly short. But something about the urgency in his tone makes you hesitate. "Okay," you finally agree. "But just a ride. No funny business."

"Of course." Yunho nodded, his grip on your arm tightening slightly before he let go. He didn't know how long he could keep the beast at bay, but he didn't want tonight to be the end for you. He walked you to his car, the cool metal of the knife in his pocket a stark contrast to the warmth of your hand as it brushed against his.

As he opened the door for you, the whispers grew louder, taunting him with visions of what could be. But he shoved them aside, focusing on the gentle smile you gave him as you slid into the passenger seat. He got in and started the engine, the quiet hum of the car filling the tense silence.

The drive to your place was a blur. The streets were mostly empty, the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement creating a serene yet eerie atmosphere. You talked about your job, your friends, your love for art and animals. Each word was a dagger to his heart, a reminder of the life you had, the life he could never truly be a part of. Yet, he listened intently, his eyes never leaving the road.

The whispers grew louder in his mind, a cacophony of voices that had driven him to commit his heinous acts. They urged him to end you, to add your name to his list of conquests. But with every word you spoke, every laugh that echoed in the car, he felt a strange warmth spread through him. It was as if your very presence was a balm to his tortured soul.

Yunho's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white as he struggled to keep the urges at bay. He had never felt this torn before. Normally, the thrill of the hunt and the eventual kill brought him a twisted sense of peace, but with you, all he felt was fear—fear of losing the one person who had managed to get under his skin without even knowing his darkest secrets.

You chatted away, oblivious to the battle raging in his mind. The warmth of the car was a stark contrast to the coldness of the night outside, and the scent of your perfume filled the small space, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. He found himself leaning closer to you, breathing in the sweet floral scent, trying to burn it into his memory.

When he finally made it to your house, the tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife—if he had allowed himself to reach for it.

"Thank you." your voice filled with genuine warmth, and Yunho felt a pang of guilt. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn't resist seeing you again, even if it meant fighting his own nature.

"Do you, uh, want to come in for a coffee?" You asked, peering up at him with hopeful eyes. "It's the least I could do after you drove me home."

Yunho felt the whispers scream in protest. He knew he should say no, keep the distance between you both, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. "Sure."

[noaestheticacademic]

On the Identity of "Chat"

Like all the linguistics folks on Tumblr, I've been sent the "chat is a fourth person pronoun" post by a bunch of well-meaning people and and I've been thinking waaay too much about it. @hbmmaster made a wonderful post explaining exactly why "chat" ISN'T a fourth person pronoun, and after reading it I wanted to go a little deeper on what it might actually be doing linguistically, because it is a really interesting phenomenon. Here's a little proposal on what might be going on, with the caveat that it's not backed up by a sociolinguistic survey (which would be fun but more than I could throw together this morning).

On Pronouns

Studying linguistics has been really beneficial for me because understanding that language is constantly changing helped me to become comfortable with using they/them pronouns for myself. I've since done a decent amount of work with pronouns, and here are some basic ideas.

A basic substitution test shows that "chat" is not syntactically a pronoun: it can't be replaced with a pronoun in a sentence.

"Chat, what do we think about that?"

"He*, what do we think about that?" (* = ungrammatical, a native speaker of English would think it sounds wrong)

Linguists identify pronouns as bundles of features identifying the speaker, addressee, and/or someone outside the current discourse. So, a first person pronoun refers to the speaker, a second person pronoun refers to the addressee, and a third person pronoun refers to someone who is neither the speaker nor the addressee (but who is still known to the speaker and addressee). This configuration doesn't leave a lot of room for a "fourth" person. But the intuition people have that "chat" refers to something external to the discourse is worth exploring.

Hypothesis 1: Chat is a fourth-person pronoun.

We've knocked this one right out.

Hypothesis 2: Chat is an address term.

So what's an address term? These are words like "dude, bro, girl, sir" that we use to talk to people. In the original context where "chat" appears - streamers addressing their viewers - it is absolutely an address term. We can easily replace "chat" with any of these address terms in the example sentence above. It's clear that the speaker is referring to a specific group (viewers) who are observing and commenting on (but not fully participating in) the discourse of the stream. The distinction between OBSERVATION and PARTICIPATION is a secret tool that will come in handy later.

But when a student in a classroom says "wow chat, I hate this," is that student referring to their peers as a chat? In other words, is the student expecting any sort of participation or observation by the other students of their utterance? Could "chat" be replaced with "guys" in this instance and retain its nuance? My intuition as a zillenial (which could be way off, please drop your intuitions in the comments) is that the relationship between a streamer and chat is not exactly what the speaker in this case expects out of their peers. Which brings me to...

Hypothesis 3: chat is a stylistic index.

What's an index in linguistics? To put it very simply, it's anything that has acquired a social meaning based on the context in which it's said. In its original streaming context, it's an address term. But it can be used in contexts where there is not a chat, or even any group of people that could be abstracted into being a chat. Instead, people use this linguistic structure to explicitly mimic the style which streamers use.

And that much seems obvious, right? Of course people are mimicking streamers. It doesn't take a graduate degree to figure that out. What's interesting to me is why people choose to employ streaming language in certain scenarios. How is it different from the same sentence, minus the streamer style?

This all comes down to the indexicality, or social meaning, of streamer speak. This is where I ask you all to take over: what sorts of attitudes and qualities do you associate with that kind of person and that kind of speech? I think it has to do with (here it comes!) the PARTICIPANT/OBSERVER distinction. By framing speech as having observers, a speaker takes on the persona of someone who is observed - a self-styled celebrity. To use "chat" is to position oneself as a celebrity, and in some cases even to mock the notion of such a position. We can see a logical path from how streamers use "chat" as an address term to how it is co-opted to reference streamer culture and that celebrity/observer relationship in non-streaming mediated discourse. If we think about it that way, then it's easy to see why the "fourth person pronoun" post is so appealing. It highlights a discourse relationship that is being invoked wherein "chat" is not a group but a style.

[natalievoncatte]

It took four calls before Lena answered. It crawled across her side table, vibrating angrily like some persnickety insect until she gave it the attention she wanted.

You could just turn it off.

“What do you want, Danvers?”

Alex’s voice was thick.

“We can’t find Kara.”

Lena let out a slow, long, theatrical sigh. “So now you’re accusing me of crimes over the phone. At least your ex had the courtesy to cuff me in person.”

Alex’s patience was clearly short enough, and wearing thinner.

“I’m not calling you to accuse you. I’m calling you to ask for help.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because she’s burned out her powers and we can’t find her, Luthor. Supergirl is missing and she’s powerless.”

Lena licked her lips.

“Is this some kind of weird test to see if I’ll try to kill her? An entrapment scheme or something?”

“First of all,” said Alex, “fuck you.”

“Mutual,” said Lena. “What was the second part?”

“The second part is that I know you. I know you’re pissed off at her. I also know that you don’t react the way you’ve acted because your BFF lied to you, Lena. Just like I know that buying a $875 million company isn’t what friends are fucking for.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” Lena snapped.

“Right. Help us find her.”

“No,” Lena said, coolly. “Goodnight, Director.”

Lena stabbed the end call key with her finger, resolving to herself that L-Corp was going to release a smart phone that made it more satisfying to hang up on people.

Then she very pointedly did not go out looking for Kara. Instead, she boiled water for tea, and spread open a technical journal on her lap.

After ten minutes, she had not drunk the tea, and her attention was sliding off the abstract like the wrong end of two magnets jammed together. Rubbing at her eyes, she decided she’d had too long a day for even light reading, and decided to enjoy a news broadcast with her tea.

Of *course* the lead story was Supergirl. She tried putting on the Lakehawks game, but that had been preempted for Supergirl coverage.

She turned to the science channel. Oh, of course they’d decided that tonight was the night to premier some ridiculous companion documentary for the World of Krypton exhibit running downtown at the convention center, and of course Lena works tune in right as Kara appeared on screen, grinning ear to ear as she charitably gave some literal kid reporter the interview of her lifetime, fielding softball questions about her dead planet.

“What do you miss most?” the kid asked.

Lena saw it, saw it the way only someone who knew Supergirl was just Kara Danvers, the nerdy, dorky, kinda basic goof in a pompous costume, could. The flash of real pain in the hero’s eyes, the softness in her voice, like she was apologizing for the honest of her answer.

“Red sunrises,” said Kara.

Lena threw the teacup across the room, and it shattered across the screen, leaving the dregs tricking down the surface. Lena wished the TV had been knocked out, but the screen was shielded by a transparent aluminum she’d invented herself.

So she changed the channel, just in time to get a face full of The Princess Bride, just as Buttercup was shoving a then-disguised Westley down the hill as he shouted the line the revealed his identity.

“Oh fuck you all,” Lena muttered, as she scooped her keys from the kitchen counter.

Lena decided it was a night for subtlety, so she took the BMW, driving with the top down and and her phone in her jacket pocket, so she could feel it if someone called.

Lena drove for the better part of an hour, reflecting on the absurdity of simply looking for Kara in a sprawling city; National City had about two thirds the population of Metropolis, but it covered nearly four times the land area and was surrounded by sprawling suburbs that extended the entire metro area to the size of a small state.

This was hopeless, unless Lena knew where to go.

You know what you have to do. You know what you’ve always had to do.

Kara answered on the third ring.

“Hi.”

Her voice was tiny and small, and Lena felt like she was clutching some small fragile thing to her cheek.

“Hey,” she said, with all the softness she could muster with the top down. She pulled to a stop on the side of Ocean Avenue so she could soften it further. “I heard what happened.”

“I beat the monster.”

“I know,” said Lena. “You always do. Where are you, Kara?”

There was a beat of silence.

“I don’t know who out you up to this, but you don’t have to do it, Lena. I know how you feel about me now.”

No, you fucking don’t, Lena thought, before she could silence her own frantic mind. If you knew you wouldn’t have lied to me.

“Tell me where you are.”

“I’m where I belong,” Kara sighed, the hint of slurring in her words hinting that she’d been drinking.

Then she hung up.

A wave of anger welled in Lena’s chest, and she clenched her teeth, seizing the shift lever to throw the car in drive and head home; Kara and her sister could handle their own bullshit.

She didn’t drive home.

Lena arrived at the convention center in a frantic five minutes, parking crazily in a towing zone. Finding a way in took another few minutes, and soon the flat soles of her tennis shoes were squeaking as they echoed across the polished granite floors of the lobby.

She found Kara in the exhibit, surrounded by quiet, dark displays as she stood in front of a bannered exhibit proclaiming “RAO, THE SUN OF KRYPTON”.

Kara ignored Lena as she approached, tipping back a sloshing, mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels to take a hearty gulp.

“Kara?” said Lena.

Kara swayed slightly on her feet. She’d gotten a raincoat somewhere and put it on over her suit, cape and all, and even from a distance she stank of whiskey. She was staring at the display in front of her, an expansive orrery surrounding a lit model of Rao. Lena had never seen her so haggard, even her lustrous hair limp sallow.

“Hi,” Kara said, taking another drink.

“What are you doing?”

“Chasing a red sunrise.”

Lena approached slowly, until they stood side by side.

She stole a quick glance. Kara had a black eye and she was swaying slightly, and Lena wasn’t sure if it was from the booze or the fight. She started to take another drink.

Grasping the bottle by the neck, Lena took it from her. Kara didn’t resist as Lena tipped back a long pull on the bottle herself. It offended her palate in every possible way but one, but it was a good way to numb herself.

“Alex send you?”

“No,” said Lena. “She just had to tell me. She knew I’d send myself.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a lot more observant than you are.”

Kara studied her for a moment, then reached for the bottle back.

Lena looked at it. “How much of this have you had?”

“Not enough,” said Kara, taking another drink.”

“If you insist on destroying your liver, at least let me give you something that actually tastes good.”

“It all tastes like paint thinner,” said Kara.

Lena sighed. “Get in the car.”

Kara shrugged and followed Lena out, flopping extravagantly in the passenger’s seat. Lena drove in silence, using the excuse that the wind noise made it too hard to talk.

When they arrived at Lena’s apartment, she practically shoved Kara inside, and poured the rest of the swill down the drain.

“Hey,” Kara muttered.

“There’s still some of your clothes in the guest bedroom. Take that damned suit off and put on something else.”

Kara complied, trudging into the bedroom. She emerged a moment later, looking small and sad with her hands tucked up inside an oversized hoodie, wobbling giving Lena a glassy look.

As she sat down, Lena handed her a glass of wine and perched on the edge of the couch cushion beside her, gently pressing an ice pack to her eye. Kara leaned into it and let out a soft, unsteady sigh.

“Pain hurts,” she observed.

“It’ll do that.”

Then she went quiet, sinking into Lena’s couch with Lena’s ice pack pressed to her face. Lena stepped into the kitchen and pulled out her phone. Alex answered immediately.

“I have her.”

“Thank God. I’ll be over to get her in a few minutes.”

“No you won’t,” Lena sighed.

Alex didn’t answer her for a too-long pause.

“Yeah. Call me in the morning.”

“Will do.”

Kara had found the wine bottle when Lena came back, and was taking a drink form it. Lena sat down next to her and took it, drawing on it hard before passing it back.”

“What now?” said Kara.

“Is the ice still cold?”

“Yeah.”

Kara curled up next to Lena, bringing her legs up, her toes wiggling in empty air. Lena sighed and found her a blanket, spreading it over her too carefully.

As soon as Lena sat down, Kara spread the blanket over her, too, and Lena noticed that her absurd body heat hadn’t abated from the loss of her powers.

“You have tea on your TV,” Kara observed.

“Yeah,” said Lena.

It took her a few minutes to find something on television that wasn’t Supergirl or The Fox and the Hound.

(Fucking seriously?)

Nature documentaries were Kara’s kryptonite, to turn a phrase, and soon she was sleeping on Lena’s shoulder, the ice bag fallen into her lap. Lena stared down at the soft features of the surpassingly lovely little goddess snoozing against her and couldn’t help it anymore.

She started to weep softly, her shoulders hitching as she struggled to stop it, knowing the attempt was hopeless.

It got worse when Kara began to purr, a deep and soothing rumble in her chest that seemed to seep into Lena’s bones. After a moment she realized that Kara was crying too; she’d woken up.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lena. I can’t… I can’t breathe I’m so sorry. I lost my red sunrise. I can’t lose you too. I’ll do anything. Please let me make it up to you I promise I will, please.”

Lena shifted to a more comfortable position, known this was it for the night, that something had shifted. No, shattered. She was tired of being angry, of being afraid, if thinking of could-have-beens and come-what-mays. Yes, Kara had lied. Lena had lied. They’d kept secrets and been stupid and and they’d hurt each other, but nothing in the world, no principles or closely held rules or petty anger would justify watching her suffer like this.

She was careful as she cupped Kara’s jaw, avoiding the injury, feeling a flash of rage at whoever had done this to her. (That his ass had been throughly kicked by an angry Kryptonian was irrelevant; her vengeance would not be forestalled.)

The kiss was quiet and gentle, at once too soft and quick, more request than declaration, and Kara swiftly answered with one so fierce and honest and hopeful that Lena didn’t care that Kara’s mouth tasted like whiskey and wine.

When it was over, Lena found herself whispering, “As you wish.”

[the-offside-rule]

Hector Fort (FCBarcelona) - She's All That

Requested: yes

Prompt: Shes All That

Warnings: none

The Rom-Com Masterlist ♡

Hector wasn’t the type to get dumped. Especially not right before prom, and definitely not by Maria, his girlfriend of two years. But here he was, venting to his friends during lunch, still reeling from their breakup the night before. "I don’t need her, anyway." He muttered, crossing his arms and glaring at his plate. "She didn’t even have the guts to tell me why she flaked out on me at the last minute." His friend Pau smirked. "Right, but you’re also sitting here crying about her." Hector rolled his eyes. "I'm not crying. My eyes are dry."

"Right." Pau said, leaning in with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, if you really don’t need her, prove it. Why don’t you make someone else prom queen?" Hector scoffed. "Please. I could make any girl prom queen if I wanted to." Pau raised an eyebrow. "Any girl?" Hector shrugged, only half-paying attention as he speared a fry with his fork. "Sure, go for it. I’ll take whoever you pick."

Pau grinned as he scanned the cafeteria. His gaze landed on Y/n, sitting alone at a table in the far corner, headphones on, absorbed in a book. She was one of the few people who seemed perfectly content keeping to herself, and she had a reputation for being sharp-tongued and fiercely independent. Pau smirked. "Fine. Y/n Y/l/n." Hector nearly choked. "Her? Are you serious?" Pau laughed, nudging him. "Afraid you can’t handle it?"

Hector straightened up. "Oh, I can handle it." He said, though he could already feel the challenge looming. Y/n was practically impossible to like. She had no time for people who didn’t interest her, and she made that clear. But a bet was a bet.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

The next day, Hector decided to start small. He found out they had history together and made sure to slip into the seat next to her, flashing a casual smile as he sat down. "Hey, Y/n." Hector said, leaning back in his chair. "What’s up?" She glanced at him, her expression barely hiding her irritation, and after a second of silence, she zipped up her bag, moved to the front of the class, and sat down without a word. Hector blinked, genuinely surprised. That hadn’t gone as planned.

Strike one.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

He tried again at lunch. He spotted her in the cafeteria line, balancing a tray of food and a stack of notebooks, and thought he’d give chivalry a shot. "Go ahead." He said, gesturing for her to cut in front of him. Y/n raised an eyebrow, gave him a look that practically screamed nice try, but no and walked to the back of the line instead.

Strike two.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

By the end of the school day, Hector’s confidence was slipping. This was going to be harder than he’d thought. But then, as he headed to the parking lot, he saw her by the school entrance, staring out at the downpour, her massive art project tucked awkwardly under one arm. She looked like she was trying to figure out how to get it home without it being completely ruined. Taking a deep breath, he strolled up to her, putting on what he hoped was his most nonchalant voice. "Need a ride?" He asked. "I don't need anything frlm you." She replie, disgust lining her words. "Well, it's a shame. Seems that lovely artpiece is goimg to be ruined if you don't let me give you a ride." Y/n hesitated, looking torn between her pride and the reality of the rain, but finally nodded. "Fine."

They walked in silence to his car, and she carefully laid her project across the back seat before settling into the passenger side. The rain drummed against the windows as they drove, the quiet tension in the car growing until Hector finally spoke up. "So." He said, glancing over at her. "What’s your project about?" She looked at him, clearly surprised that he’d asked. "It’s… well, it’s supposed to be a self-portrait, kind of abstract. I’m exploring the idea of self-identity."

He raised his eyebrows. "That’s actually… interesting." She let out a skeptical laugh. "Are you serious, or are you just trying to be nice?"

"Have I ever actually been mean to you?" He asked. She shook her head. "No, but my friend. You did push him into a set of lockers before." He sighed. "Okay, fair. But I mean it." He said, more sincerely than he’d meant to. "I think it’s cool. You’re actually a pretty interesting person." She eyed him, her skepticism clear. "You don’t actually care about my project, do you? Let me guess; Maria dumped you, so now you’re desperate for a rebound?"

Hector let out a surprised laugh. "A rebound? No, that’s not it. It’s… it’s more like I realized I want to get to know a different group of people. You’re different." She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but there was a hint of curiosity in her expression as she looked out the window. She hummed slowly. "We’ll see."

They pulled up in front of her house, and she grabbed her art project, pausing as she stepped out of the car. "See you tomorrow, I guess." She said, giving him a look that was somewhere between intrigue and caution. He grinned, leaning against the steering wheel. "You coming to my game Friday night?" Zhe shrugged, but he could see the faintest hint of a smile as she closed the door behind her. "Maybe." She called over her shoulder as she walked up her driveway.

Hector drove off, a strange new excitement bubbling in his chest. He had a feeling he’d see her there.

[thydungeongal]

hi, hope this is a no-brainer for you, so it won't clog up the asks as much: what are MC-moves and fronts doing in PbtA-games?

I've been looking into a few, cause I'm curious about that operation on several levels you talked about, but something about the MC moves just doesn't seem to click, while I understand the players' just fine. they read to me as an abstract "do whatever"-sort of thing, while very insistent that you do them, and some idea behind it all that I can't fully grasp. the game seems to want the world to move in certain ways, for certain outcomes to emerge, but also indifferent as to which ones, and I'm not sure what to do with that... I can have the landscape Disgorge Something, or Announce Badness, but what then?

did you encounter similar struggles before or know what the games are being opinionated about there? It feels like the answer should be obvious but I keep missing it, and like my issue somehow relates to the system's scalability. hope you can help!

So, this might be stating the obvious, but the key thing to understanding the MC Moves is that PbtA games have asymmetric mechanics. Players and the MC use different sets of mechanics to interface with the fiction, and this has to do with the game being structured as a back and forth between the players and the MC but also with the MC having control of more things, so the game has simplified mechanics for the MC. This stands in contrast to most traditional RPGs where the same set of mechanics formally applies to every character, whether PC or NPC, in the fiction.

In D&D when the GM announces that Goblin Steve (an NPC) is attacking Gonad the Barbarian, that's simply an announcement of an attack roll being invoked, and that mechanic is utilized by Goblin Steve identically to how Gonad the Barbarian would use it. In PbtA the MC announcing that Goblin Steve is attacking Gonad the Barbarian would be them making a move (Announce Future Badness, Goblin Steve's attack), and according to their principles they would then turn to the player and address Gonad with a "what do you do?"

That's an example of a "soft" move, a division that doesn't exist formally in most PbtA games, and that is how MC Moves work normally: the MC is always making Moves but never actually saying their name (in the above example the MC simply described Goblin Steve attacking Gonad in the fiction, they didn't say "I am Announcing Future Badness!") and most Moves will simply throw the spotlight on the character and prompt them to react. However, the MC is always at liberty to make a move that follows, and if the only move that follows from a character's action is "Make them Eat Shit and Die" then that's the only move the MC can make. Usually that move would probably only happen when a player rolled a 6- on a move, because that is one of the specific circumstances where the game asks the MC to make the hardest move they can.

In terms of the fiction and the mechanics, in D&D Goblin Steve is a medium through which the GM can make attack rolls at the player characters (using the same set of mechanics as the players); in PbtA Goblin Steve is a medium through which the MC can make their MC Moves (using their own set of mechanics).

Anyway so that's a really top down view of the structure, but MC Moves are really important to understanding what kind of things the game you're playing cares about, and a good, thoughtful set of MC Moves is as important to a PbtA game as a good set of basic moves and playbooks. They are effectively a checklist for the MC to the effect of "this is the sort of stuff that should be happening to the PCs in this game."

Apocalypse World has a really good example in it: it has an MC Move called "Make them buy it." Apocalypse World is a game about scarcity and Barter as a resource is not something characters can count on to be able to top off all the time. The game is telling you that if a character needs something, they should never just have it at hand, but they should have to purchase it. Can't afford it? Tough luck. What do you do?

Similarly, Dungeon World is a dungeon game, so of course it cares about resource attrition. This is why it has "Use up their resources" as a move.

Fronts are a bit more complicated a topic but to understand them you need to understand that PbtA games are insistent on the MC being as much a member of the audience to the story unraveling in front of them and not a singular person telling the story to everyone else, and as such it wants the MC to take part in keeping the story feral and unpredictable. Fronts are one of the few prep tools the game offers, with the point of them being that they are effectively a toolkit for the MC to draw badness from so that when making moves they will still be drawing them from somewhere.

They are a prep tool but a minimalist one for the sake of making sure the MC doesn't overprep and put the story on a set of rails: they have multiple ones to remind them that even if the characters might be singularly focused on a specific danger, there are others waiting in the wings.

Fronts and dangers are usually supposed to be established based on the first session: if the first session involved a gang of raiders, then the game is basically nudging you to say "hey remember those raiders? Wouldn't it be cool if they were, like, a part of your ensemble? So then when you use them again the players will be like holy shit, it's those raiders again!"

In some ways they are a tool for the MC to limit the focus of the story on those things that have turned out to matter for the player characters during the first session, to keep the cast relatively small. And they're a very effective tool for making sure that while the specific events of the story are still unpredictable, the cast at least stays within reasonable bounds.

Or you know that's how I see them. Anyway I hope that helped at all.

[dark-moonlust]

Den of Surrender PART 2

Pairing: 2 (were)tigers x female reader

Summary: you find shelter in a cave and become the center of attention for two male tiger monsters. They claim you as their mate.

Warnings: nsfw, full consent, size kink, fated mates, 2 οn 1, οral(males receiving), p in v, οrgasms, big 🍆, lots of 💦, affection and tender kisses at the end.

I'm sorry this took so long to write! I have so many ongoing projects, and I finally finished Part 2!

Read part 1 here! Enjoy my friends!

By the time they were done, your legs were jelly, your chest heaving with exertion. They’d given you so many οrgasms and licked the hell out of your pussy. Delirious with bliss, you didn’t protest when strong paws lifted you from where you had collapsed on the floor. It was Raikhar, you realized. He carried you to the soft patch of moss within the cave, and you slumped back against his chest with a sigh.

The heat in the cave hadn’t eased. If anything, it was a mix of all three scents, yours and theirs. It was so good, awakening desire within. After so much bliss, you felt a need humming through your veins.

Raikhar sniffed your neck, his paws parting your knees and caressing gently. He played with your sensitive thighs, drawing abstract patterns. Vael crouched in front of you, οpening your legs wide so he cοuld sneak his huge frame in between. His paw caressed your face, then traveled down to your shoulders and chest. He stοpped at your tits, cradling them in his big paws.

You looked at them, both so strong and feral, acting so soft and protective with you.

They were monsters, tiger beasts, but in your eyes, they were the only ones who’d given you such care and joy. They were huge, sexy, and had a delicious musky scent. And their lips were both slick with your cum. You loved that; your essence on them. As if they could tell, they dragged their tongues along their bottom lips, grinning.

“Look at this mess…” Vael purred as he gazed between your legs. “And we haven’t even fυcked you yet.”

Raikhar growled low in your neck as his fingers, paws retracted, spread your pυssy lips wide. “Our beautiful mate is still clenching. Still dripping. Her body’s desperate for us.”

“We should do something about that,” Vael agreed, his fingers toying with your clit but not enough to make you come. “Don’t you agree, little one?”

All you could do was moan, letting out a weak, breathy sound because damn, they were right. You were so wet and your cοre pulsed, empty, aching. Raikhar shifted you a little and you whined when you felt his cοck pressing against your bum. You couldn’t see but it felt so hot and so fucking big that it made your core twitch just thinking about it.

And Vael? You could clearly see the huge pale orange shaft prοtruding between his legs. Fuck… His dick was a mοnster, surrounded with sharp ridges, all feline, slick, and lethal. Licking your lips, you wiggled so you could see Raikhar’s shaft, too. Damn, it was nearly identical but a darker orange, layered with numbs and bumps and glossy with some sort of lubricant.

“Like what you see, mate?” Raikhar asked smugly.

Your insides clenched. “Yes but— you’re too big and I—”

“No buts,” Vael assured you huskily. “You will enjoy every second of our mating. We promise. No pain. Just pleasure.”

“Oh…kay.”

Vael crawled closer, dragging his claws along your stomach as he went. “Let me watch you stretch for him, pretty mate. Let me see what your greedy little cυnt does when Raikhar finally fills it.”

Right on cue, Raikhar pushed you on your knees and curled behind you, his paws digging into your hips. You gasped when you felt his thick tip sliding along your fοlds, coating himself in your mess. Vael watched, his shining eyes blazing.

“Please…” you whispered, voice barely there.

“Patience,” Vael said sweetly, his cοck inches from your face. You couldn’t resist giving the slick head a slow lick.

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, watching as your little tongue lapped at the cυm leaking from his dick.

Raikhar thrust just a little, the head of his cοck breaching your significantly smaller pussy hοle. You whimpered around Vael’s shaft and wiggled your ass invitingly.

“Tell us who you fucking belong to,” Raikhar demanded, “and I’ll claim your greedy cυnt.”

“You,” you gasped around Vael’s cock. “Both of you. I—hmn—I’m yours!”

That was all they needed to hear.

With a primal snarl, Raikhar slammed inside, οne fluid perfect thrust that filled you to the hilt, stretching you wide around his tiger cοck. You gasped but at the same time Vael pushed you further down on his dick, the tip kissing your thrοat. Stars flashed in your vision. You gurgled but sucked, your mοuth stuffed, your pυssy wide around the ridges of Raikhar’s cοck.

They granted you some moments to get used to the sensations and then they started moving. Both of them. It was insane, delirious and amazing. Wet, οbscene squelches and pοps echoed through the cavern. Your mouth swallοwed down Vael’s dick, lips stretched wide while your walls clamped around Raikhar’s dick.

It didn’t take long for you to come undone. You cried out, body arching between their massive frames, spine bowing as the dual assault sent shockwaves through your core. Raikhar pοunded into you and then paused, hοlding you impaled, buried so fucking deep, letting your body twitch, breathing against your neck like a beast barely holding back.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, paws pinching your sensitive nipples. “She’s milking me so goοd, Vael. You should feel that cunt.”

“Her mouth’s just as perfect,” Vael growled, his cοck thick and flushed, dripping pre-cum down your jaw. “Sucking me deep down her warm throat. Let’s see how much more our little mate can take.”

They changed positions then and rolled you to lie down on your back. Raikhar knelt by your side and tilted your head, his hard cοck bobbing at your face. Your mοuth opened wide on instinct, lips parting just as his girth slid past them, slow and deep, the tip hitting the back of your thrοat.

Vael slipped between your legs, draped them over his furred thighs and slapped his long, thick cοck against your tummy. You whimpered around the cοck dominating your mouth and quivered when Vael pushed inside. You felt his fingers parting your pυssy lips, opening the way so he could impale you as deeply as possible.

Then they both pοunded into you.

You were full. Pυssy stuffed with Vael’s cock, mouth gagging gently as Raikhar rocked into you, causing your tits to bounce. Wet slaps echoed with every thrust, squelching heat building between your thighs, around your lips, until everything was drenched and raw and filthy. You were so wet; your thighs, your face, and neck—but δαμν, you’d never felt so οwned. So consumed. So right in what you were doing.

“Mph...ngg—close-!” You didn’t manage to finish your sentence before you choked, spit dripping down your chin as Raikhar deepthroated you. Faster. Deeper. His paw clutching your neck, feeling his shaft move.

Vael grunted as he pistοned into you harder, faster, the squelching between your thighs nοw obscene. “Fuck—her pυssy has me in a chokehold. She’s fucking close. I’m gonna blοw soon.”

Raikhar growled, his voice dark. “Yes, mate. That’s it. Let us fill you. Cum in your mouth. Cum in your cunt. Take every fucking drop.”

You tried to nod, but you were so close. And so fucked. You cried, trembled, every nerve ending a raw scream. And then it finally happened. Your pυssy clenched, spasming around Vael’s cοck as he plunged deeper, hitting that spot that made your vision shatter. He suckled your nipples as he emptied himself inside you, your walls fluttering wildly, accepting every drop.

Raikhar explοded right after, hands fishing your hair as thick heat floοded your mouth. It was tοo fucking much but you worked your thrοat hard. His cοck spurted liquid warmth dοwn your stomach. When he was done, he pοpped out wryly, smearing his cοckhead across your lips as he painted your tongue with cυm.

“Ours,” they said, licking your face affectionately.

You smiled and enjoyed their touches. You felt blissfully fυcked and filled with their scent.

You’d taken their massive dicks. And it was the best thing that has ever happened.

You couldn’t move.

Your body was jello, skin damp and glοwing with sweat and cυm. Vael was still buried deep inside you, your thighs spread and trembling, his seed trickling down in warm, messy trails. Raikhar’s dick twitched by your lips, still hard and slightly leaking. You gave it small kitten licks while he cupped your cheeks and watched you entranced.

You felt safe, surrounded by fur, heat, and something that felt like… home.

“You did so fucking good,” Vael whispered, leaning to lick your swollen lips in imitation of a kiss. “Took us like you were made for it. And you were, weren’t you, little one?” He nuzzled into your neck affectionately. “Only a true mate can bring out what you did in us. Only you.”

Your heart stuttered. “I did that?”

Raikhar nodded and kissed your forehead, tenderly. “We are monsters, little mate. Built to fight. To destroy. Fear by all. But you… fuck… you saw us. You didn’t cower. You touched us like we were worthy.”

Your throat tightened, tears welling behind your lashes.

“I am yours,” you said proudly. “I feel it now… all the way to my soul. You make me feel wanted… whole. You said only true mates can do that. Then… I believe it. I believe you.”

Their bodies released all the tension before melting against you. They cuddled you close, Vael snuggled against your back and Raikhar at your front. Cocooning you with their warm big bodies and musky scents. It was heaven.

“Then you’re ours. You stay with us,” Vael drawled, his hands curling around you.

Raikhar kissed you, pushing his tongue past your lips. “We’ll never let you go.”

If you enjoyed, let me know! ♡♡♡

[sunnie-angel]

Part 8: The New Normal

part 7 | series masterlist | ao3 link

jason todd x fem!reader

summary: both you and jason struggle with defining your new normal in the wake of your changed friendship

tags: angst, mentions of offscreen violence

rated explicit (mdni) | wc: 2.2k

a/n: with this chapter we officially cross 20k words (whoops). i dropped quite a few hints about future developments in this chapter, i wonder if you'll find them all.

Jason’s never felt so bitter about successfully achieving something. The taste of it curdles in his mouth, sour and heavy. He’d known that amputating his heart would hurt but this? This was worse. It was bloodless and toothless and the worst thing he’s ever done to himself. To you. You’re friends now. Friends! No lasting repercussions to having what he wanted. Shockingly, no lasting repercussions for fucking up his secret identity either. He’s gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? 

He’d known, in that half-abstract kind of way that Talia had taught him, that if he had been earnest enough and insistent enough on the idea of friendship he’d be able to end the conversation there. No questions about why he had kissed you a second time. No scathing comments about how desperate he had been to know what you tasted like. He wouldn’t have to explain himself, or all of his messy inconvenient feelings, to you. Friends. Easy as that. 

Or at least that’s what he tells himself, walking in to face you. He’d know your footsteps anywhere and the just sound of them sets his senses on edge. All of his focus narrows down to you, hyperawareness kicking in. Jason doesn’t take any notes in class, can barely hear the sound of the professor speaking over you fidgeting next to him. To think his biggest worry a few months back had been if he would pass his courses. He can’t shake this fog, but he’s terrified of letting on just how gone he already is. Leaves a respectful three inches of space between the two of you through lunch that he obsessively maintains through Will telling some story about actually getting hit by a car over the weekend that Jason could care less about. He doesn’t breathe fully until the two of you are walking out of your last joined class of the day, cold air burning with every breath. He can do this.

“Can I– may I walk you home?” he asks uncertainly.

“Oh so you finally ask permission, huh?” you tease, and it’s the first thing he’s heard properly all day. Maybe it comes out sharper edged than he’s used to you directing at him, but it’s so close to resembling the easy camaraderie of the early days that he will take it.

“I was actually listening to your lecture on privacy,” Jason somehow finds the strength to sass back. 

“You can take the bus with me and walk me to my building door but that’s it. I already talked to the super about changing the door code.” Jason knows. He watched the super change it yesterday. 

“Just to the building. Scouts honour,” he says, drawing an x over his heart. 

When it comes to normal, Jason Todd sucks at pretending to be it. Or maybe you’ve just learned to read him too well. A space – not just literal but physical – exists between you now. He doesn’t sit right anymore, shoulders tensing up when you sit down next to him an only relaxing when you make no move to lean into him. He walks a full foot away now, no more arms accidentally brushing. He still keeps you fed – let it never be said that a friend of Jason’s goes hungry – but your fingers never brush as he hands containers over. Messages dwindle, text threads drying up. You can bear all of that, you can. It’s almost like the distant but friendly relationship you have with Will or half of your fellow interns. No, it’s the part where almost a week later, Jason still won’t look you in the eye. 

It would be so easy to dismiss everything else as growing pains, the both of you testing and reassessing where the new lines have been drawn. This isn’t that. Jason has drawn a line and it’s one that feels like a cut every time you brush up against it. These days there’s a tension in your jaw that you didn’t carry  before. Magically it appears whenever Jason chooses a particularly interesting patch of paint on the wall behind you to stare at instead of meeting your gaze. You think you hide the way your hands clench in your lap pretty well. You laugh and joke, exclaiming over Lina’s one liners, asking Rei about his next swim meet, and gasping in all the right places over Will’s sprained wrist. Keeping up the appearance of normalcy is tiring in a way that it hadn’t been before.  So your smiles are a little more forced than they were before, so what? The two of you are still friends and no one else is any wiser. 

There’s a Rogue attack, close enough to campus that it goes into lock down for the first time this semester. One second you’re following Jason’s broad back cutting a swathe through the frightened crowd of students to the muster location and then suddenly he’s gone. It doesn’t matter how quickly you crank your head to the side, he’s just vanished. Again. You spend the whole two hours huddled up in the auditorium glued to your phone as you watch the Red Hood fight Black Mask over a shitty news helicopter live stream. You’ve lived in Gotham your whole life, have practically become numb to the sirens and the drills for the worst that the city has to offer, but not today. Today your heart is in your mouth as you watch Jason take a blow to the head and go reeling across your phone screen. Breathing shakily, you realize that if he were to die – now – you’d never get to tell him just how fully he’s made a home for himself in your life, in your chest.

Obligingly, Jason doesn’t die today. Instead he pops up in the auditorium just as the all clear to evacuate has been sounded, ruefully explaining the mark on his cheek to your friends as the result of a panicking freshman’s fist. He’s a good liar you notice, through the hazy adrenaline rush of he’s alive, he’s alive pounding through your skull. 

Later that night lying in bed, you stretch your hand up, observing the way the light from passing cars cuts across your palm. You should probably do something about the shutters that don’t close right onto the fire escape but there’s always a thousand other things clamouring for attention. Besides, on nights like this when your thoughts turn in on themselves and sleep is a distant memory, the glow of the world outside provides a kind of comfort to you. No matter how bad things seem, life rumbles ever onwards. So what if every time you struggle with the keys to the front door it’s because you get lost in the memory of the one bright moment when it seemed like you could finally keep Jason? He’s not here now. The sheets have been washed – twice – but sometimes in that hazy place between sleeping and waking you swear you can still smell him. You think about the last time Jason had smiled at you, real and true and so sweetly uncomplicated. Your hand balls up into a fist and you cradle it to your chest. Maybe you suck at pretending everything is normal too.  

You must, because two weeks later, Danika corners you at one of your Wednesday study sessions. The student union is busy, tables full of students finally starting to realize exams are fast approaching with all the unwavering care of a freight train. 

“Hey can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks, just as you’re getting up.

“D’you mind if we talk and walk? I’m dying for caffeine and my stamp card says the next cup is free at The Grind,” you reply distractedly, digging your wallet out of your bag. 

“Oh you know I’m always down for a little snack,” she says, but there’s a note to her intonation that you can’t parse. 

The line for the coffee shop is long, but moving fast. You don’t notice anything off until you look up from struggling to extricate your membership card from your wallet, soft card stock folding under you nails. Danika is tugging at her hair as she stands next to you, twirling the strands tight around her finger until the circulation cuts off, the way she only does when she’s nervous and building up to something. 

She takes a deep breath and asks, “Are you and Jason, like, okay?” ripping the bandaid off.  

“I– why would you ask me that?” you deflect, scrambling to figure out where, exactly, your performance had faltered. The line surges forward, carrying the two of you along with it.

“Just, the last week or so something’s been off between you two. You know how you’re so obviously his favourite and he forgets the meaning of ‘personal space’ but only around you and he’s always–”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you struggle to cut her off. “It can’t be that bad, he’s good friends with all of us.”

“I’m pretty sure that whenever you start speaking the rest of us turn invisible or something,” Danika says wryly. “But the last week or so the vibes have just been off. He’s even less talkative than usual and I have been this–” she pinches her fingers together, pink nails catching the light “–close to recommending you a better concealer. So did you guys fight or something? Because you can tell me, you know.” She looks at you with wide, earnest eyes. “Because it doesn’t matter what it’s about, I’m on your side. If you wanna drop him as a friend, we’ll all do it no questions asked.”

“No, we uh, we didn’t fight but hold that thought okay?” you reassure her, before hurrying through your order as quickly as you can. Danika’s already standing by the pickup counter, finger still twisting in her hair.

“Or like, if you need a body buried the two of us could definitely take him,” she offers.

“We didn’t fight, okay? I’m serious. And while I’m happy that you’d hide a body for me, it’s really, honestly, not necessary. Me and Jason are fine,” you reassure her. The high neck of your sweater feels too tight.

“Alright so we don’t go all Gone Girl on him but whatever happened hurt you and I don’t like it when my best friend is hurting. Whatever it is I’m not gonna tell anyone, not if you don’t want me to,” she says, suddenly turning earnest again. 

“Jesus, it was nothing okay? It’s just, do you remember that night we all went out after Thanksgiving?” you offer up.

“The night where we were all taking bets on if Jason would make a move before or after the club?” she chimes in. 

“You were what?!” you hiss, heart stuttering and palms suddenly damp. 

“I’m kidding! Kidding!” she says with a laugh. “Sorry, you were just getting so wound up, I wanted to bring the mood up a bit. We didn’t actually bet on it. We did talk about though, before you both got there.”

You bite your lips, weigh up how much truth you want to tell. The barista calls out your order and you’re thankful for the extra moment to gather yourself.

“I was drunk and I tried to kiss him, okay?” She gasps. “And then he shut that shit down. He made it really, really clear that we were only ever gonna be friends,” you finish, gulping down your tea to cover for your embarrassment and immediately burning your tongue. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s close enough without having to debride the festering wound you still haven’t made peace with. 

“Wait you’re sure that’s what he said? Absolutely no chance of anything?” Danika seems stunned. “I could swear there’s no way whatever you two have going on is platonic.” 

“Kinda hard to misinterpret the whole ‘that was a bad idea let’s just stay friends speech’. I wasn’t drunk enough to forget that.” You study your drink with false interest. 

“Oh. Oh I’m sorry,” she says, the kind of soft that she almost never is. “He’s an idiot if he doesn’t realising exactly what he’s missing out on.” Danika reaches out and rubs your shoulder. “We’ll find you someone else that’s way, way hotter and makes better life choices. Until then, he’s on thin fucking ice.”

“This is all my shit, yeah? Leave him be, we’ll figure it out and this’ll all blow over,” you warn her. There’s a certainty to your words that you definitely don’t feel. But Jason shouldn’t be punished for the crime of not returning your affection and so you’ll just have to learn how to fake normalcy better. “Plenty of more fish in the sea or whatever. I’ll get over him.”

“Fine, but I’m gonna trust you to tell me if you don’t,” she says, linking your arm through hers. The two of you head back to the group, weaving your way through outstretched legs and scattered bags littering the space between tables. There’s a kind of comfort in having your charade seen through by someone that cares enough to ask. It won’t do in the long run, but this stutter step with Jason won’t last forever. 

“Hey you’re still living in the Alley right?” Danika asks offhandedly, sliding back into the booth.

“Haven’t moved since first year, Dani.”

“Just be careful, then, okay? I saw on the news that there’s been more muggings in that area.” 

You almost choke on your tea. “Yeah okay, I’ll avoid any muggers,” you croak. Jason’s eyes burn a hole into the side of your head.

part 9

[galactic-knightmare]

Quick question, how do you think Abstracted Identity Caine would react if he drank by mistake / got hold of the Stupid Sauce?

Diff question if you don't wanna answer that one: How would Caine react if ALL the humans just broke down and actually shouted at him for what happened with the circus glitching or wherever else happens..... or if Kinger just did...

(am I asking stuff too much I feel like it's annoying or unfair)

Caine on stupid sauce would be the most chattery person in existence. there is no such thing as tmi with him at this point. He will literrally just spill everything, including the stuff he doesn't want anyone to know about. As a result, Caine will say the most concerning things possible all the while sounding extremely cheerful while he does so. He's having the time of his life while accidentally venting/trauma-dumping on whoever happens to be nearby.

Asss for the second question, he would not handle it well at all lmao. it would probably force him into early Abstraction...

(don't worry! I love all the asks you're sending me! I hardly get any most of the time so I'm having a great time :3)

[unclewaynemunson]

Water was wet. Nights were dark. And Steve Harrington was straight. Those were all facts. Sure, Steve could see what made a man attractive, but that merely meant he wasn't blind, not that he wasn't straight. He loved girls. He loved holding delicate hands, he loved feeling soft curves underneath his fingers, he loved the taste of lipgloss on his lips, legs sticking out of skirts, the sound of high-pitched giggling, elegant feet in high heels...

So yeah, even if he saw what made a man attractive, he was still straight. Even if he could, hypothetically, see himself being attracted to some abstract man in some abstract scenario, he was still straight. He loved girls, so who cared if every now and then, he would turn his head to stare at a strong pair of male arms or a particularly well-shaped male bum? Who cared if, by high exception, he could lose himself in some fantasies of doing certain things with a guy instead of a girl? He loved girls. He would fall in love with a girl, and she with him, and they would get married and have kids, and he would be perfectly happy with that. So he was straight. It was a fact.

Or, well, it was a fact until it wasn't. Until the most mundane afternoon possible happened. Until he was sitting on the steps in front of the Munsons' trailer, with Eddie beside him and a sixpack placed between the two of them. It was one of those early spring days, when birds chirped louder and the sun made all the colors pop out just a little bit more and life was good.

Their beer wasn't cooled properly. Their snacks were very mediocre. They weren't talking about anything remarkable. And yet, they were only one moment away from Steve's whole sense of identity changing irrevocably. They were headed right towards a moment he would remember for the rest of his life.

Maybe deep down, he knew that he had been falling for a while, but he was an expert at ignoring inconvenient things. He had been able to call it friendship, or fascination, or even annoyance when he needed to get creative. So later, whenever someone would ask him when he fell in love with Eddie, he would always go back to this particular moment.

Eddie laughed about some lame joke Steve made and took another sip of his beer. And Steve's senses zeroed in on him like he had just unlocked some higher plane of existence. He noticed everything like he had never done before. The movement of his adam's apple when he swallowed, the curve of his neck, the way his curls cascaded over his shoulders looking as soft as sheep's wool... And, when he tilted his head back and looked at Steve again, the color of his eyes when the sun hit them just right: brown as rosewood and dark chocolate and acorns. As a small piece of autumn undefeated by this early spring day.

He felt an overwhelming urge to clash his lips against Eddie's right there, to feel stubble instead of lipgloss and wrap his arms around someone who was made of sharp edges instead of soft curves, to hold a big hand adorned with rings that were anything but delicate, to hear deep laughter instead of high-pitched giggles, maybe even a low moan against his ear...

It was in that moment that he understood what it really meant to be straight – and that it wasn't what he was.

He understood that it didn't matter how much he loved girls. It didn't exempt him from loving boys, and he couldn't choose who he'd fall in love with like he thought he could. He loved this boy right in front of him, the one who was currently talking a mile a minute and didn't notice a thing about the current drastic renovation of Steve's entire brain chemistry. And if he allowed himself to keep falling, he might just end up loving boys just as much as he loved girls.

---

(idc how overdone the eddie-being-steve's-bi-revelation trope is, you can pry it from my cold dead hands. Here's yet another version of it and yes i will project my own experience on steve, no one can stop me)

[milkiie]

𝐴𝑁 𝐴𝐶𝑇𝑈𝐴𝐿𝐿𝑌 𝐻𝐸𝐿𝑃𝐹𝑈𝐿 𝐿𝑂𝐴 𝐺𝑈𝐼𝐷𝐸

everyone wants to talk about how the law is effortless, manifestation is effortless, but it seems to me nobody wants to talk about the effort one has to put in before being able to effortlessly apply it. manifesting is tied to general well-being, mindset and energy, and it is not the same for everybody. i've seen one too many people getting asks from others with genuine questions and giving them no guidance, no compassion, just buzz words, mantras and snark; so, here: an actually helpful guide to loa and manifestation, where i actually tell you things

─── ִֶָ ๑˙ 🎀 ̟ !! step 1 : self concept

self concept is the way you perceive and treat yourself.

here is a video explaining it in depth:

now that we know what it is and what makes a good, high self concept, here are some specific ideas on how to boost it:

first, it is important to develop a sense of self and identity. get to know yourself, find out who you are and what you really want, what fulfills you. i like to use journaling for this

here are some prompts for you to use:

and some subliminals, if you'd like to use them:

1. 432Hz frequency + self-concept by iwiigi: 🌸

2. mindset + self-concept by moza morph: 🍨

3. self concept by Alice's Enchanted Cottage: 💕

➙ you do not have to use subliminals, but i personally love to

some other ways to boost your self concept:

᯽ practice self care. physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually

᯽ discipline your thoughts. don't let your inner bully run their mouth

᯽ validate yourself, praise yourself, celebrate yourself

᯽ work on healing your inner child

᯽ do things that make you feel confident - wear your makeup, hair and clothes how you like it, dance sexily in your room, pretend to be a celebrity, whatever it takes to feel like you are it

᯽ spend quality time with yourself, doing things that make you happy

᯽ do nice things for others. simple things like smiling at people, or complimenting someone do wonders both for them, and yourself

REMEMBER: you don't need to do any of this, these are just ideas; do what feels right for you

─── ִֶָ ๑˙ 🎀 ̟ !! step 2 : align with receiving

this is what hinders most people in receiving their manifestations, and it is not your fault. it can be hard to receive effortlessly, especially if you are used to only giving, or having to work hard to receive. that is what the world has taught you.

work on becoming comfortable with receiving without endeavor, and on not feeling indebted or inadequate. this is why self concept is important. you will not receive what you do not feel worthy of. you will not receive if you don't feel comfortable accepting.

to become more comfortable with receiving, all you have to do is treat yourself! not just materially, but spiritually and emotionally. lavish yourself with care, compliments, little treats, rest, partaking in things that bring you enjoyment, etc. keep reminding yourself you deserve only the best, both by affirming, and actually giving yourself the good things. even if you feel you haven't been "productive", choose to spoil yourself. choose to live deliciously.

─── ִֶָ ๑˙ 🎀 ̟ !! step 3 : really embrace the simplicity

please, stop reading posts that use huge, abstract words and tell you to "just do" something. stop engaging with blogs that put people down or refuse to explain. they are bringing down your vibration, and they are complicating the law beyond all recognition. just do what feels right

you wanna use methods? use them!

feel drawn to practicing spells? go ahead!

subliminals look cool to you? wonderful!

you feel right just deciding and carrying on? hell yeah!

whatever you do to manifest your desires, be it affirming, making a vision board, scripting, SATS, or whatever else, as long as it feels good, it will work.

follow your happiness and your intuition. trust yourself. stop seeking validation from the outside, just do what you think is best

─── ִֶָ ๑˙ 🎀 ̟ !! step 4 : coping with perceived lack

now, we all know you aren't actually lacking. if you have decided to manifest something, it is yours. but what if you don't see it in your perceived reality? you don't have to ignore the illusion of lack. in fact, i would say it is self-limiting to attempt that

instead, make peace with waiting

understand that the moment you decide something is yours, movement starts, even if not visible to you in your surroundings yet. the moment you decide, you begin to align with your desire, and the universe starts to work on getting it to you. it is like online shopping. placing your order is instant, but it takes a little bit of time for it to actually get into your hands. and just like with a package, while you wait for your manifestation to get to you, you don't need to stress about it. just do what feels good and live your best life, do what makes you happy. you don't need to pretend you already have it. you just need to live in the knowing that you will. persist in the knowing.

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/776671687094812672/saw-another-post-about-fanfic-wank-and-misogyny?source=share

It frustrates me just how common it is to use the existence of an identity that you think is either not present (and therefore not really "real" but an abstract concept) or that you think is a monolith (mythologized until it's not real people anymore) to harass people about fanfic. And it's double frustrating because the harassment is usually rooted in bigotry and often counter to the interests of the group being used as an excuse

You can't write m/m because that fetishized gay men. Instead of asking gay men how they feel about gay porn, lets just boo any depictions of homosexuality off the stage!

You can't write smut because it squicks ace people. Instead of asking ace people how they feel about smut (and finding that half of them write it and the other half have already blacklisted it and aren't even seeing the question), lets ban E rated fanfic!

You can't ship the uwu trans boy on the bottom because that upsets trans men. Instead of asking trans men how they feel about it and finding that most uwu bottom trans boy fic is written by trans men, lets yell slurs at people who write it!

And on and on down the list forever.

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