#changes must be made folks

[iridescentis]

random question for the people who have dabbled in some future soy luna aspects, who do we think gets engaged first?

purely because im thinking of writing a lil fic that takes place during the first engagement party and i cannot decide whose party it is

[myrkar]

Lucius Evander, Aasimar Order of the Scribes Wizard

Marcus got resurrected. I got to see what he saw in the beyond. This is a man after witnessing reincarnations, some of them as not even humanoids, and if that's not the best therapy he (me too tbh) could have ever had I don't know what is.

[letteredlettered]

feedback and fic in fandom (3 f's of our own)

This conversation about feedback on fic says everything I’ve been wanting to say better than I could say it. But I’ll go ahead and try anyway.

Over the last five years or so there have been some great discussions around the rise of commodification of fanworks and decline of fandom community. This commodification looks a bit like enshittification of the internet: a cool site exists; its popularity makes someone realize they can get money from it; it has more and more ads; the site adds features to drive engagement, including The Algorithm; the things that made the site cool start to fall away. The site exists now as a vehicle purely to get clicks, and the people on it are on it solely to get clicks—to make money, to be successful, for some kind of social cachet.

AO3 doesn’t have advertisements. It’s not making money. But what is happening to fandom is proof of concept that enshittification changes the way we as humans engage. A cool website in 2004 was often a community space where you could meet people, have conversations, find cool things, and make cool things. A cool website in 2024 is either a content farm that will continually feed you enough content to hold your attention, or a social media site where your participation will come with stats to show you whether you are holding the attention of others.

AO3 wasn’t built to be a community space. It doesn’t have great functions for meeting people and having conversations. The idea was that, because fandom community spaces already existed, AO3 would serve the part of that community where you can find the cool things and store the cool things you made. It was meant to be a library in a city, not the whole city itself.

But it was also never meant to be a website in 2024, a content farm constantly generating content solely for your clicks and eyeballs and ad revenue, or a social media site where the content creators themselves vie for your clicks and eyeballs.

The most common talking point when people discuss the enshittification of fandom is the folks out there who are treating AO3 as that first kind of enshittified website: the content farm. This discussion is about how people treat fanfic as a product for consumption.

The post that kicked off the discussion on @sitp-recs’s blog was about someone who wasn’t getting very many kudos or comments on their fic, and was feeling pretty demoralized about it, then joined a discord server and found an entire channel dedicated to people loving their fic. But those on that server had never come to share that love with the author, which the author found really discouraging.

There are more and more stories like this. Someone on tiktok pulls a quote from a fic on AO3 and makes a 10-second video with them staring at a wall, the quote pasted at the bottom, music playing over it. It has 100,000 hearts, and 100 comments with people gushing over the fic, which has 80 kudos on AO3. Overall, people notice more and more hits on their fics, but fewer and fewer comments or even kudos. Fewer and fewer people seem to feel the need to interact with the author, instead treating the fic like a product to be used and discarded—which the enshittified internet (a stunning feature of late-stage capitalism!) encourages. The fandom community is dying, these stories conclude.

I agree. 100%. Both of the stories above have happened to me—viral tiktoks about my fic, secret discord channels to follow and discuss my fic—and let me tell you, it fucking sucks.

But from these observations about fandom enshittification, the discussion continues in a very odd direction. The solution to the death of fandom community is our favorite enshittification buzzword: engagement. We should engage the authors. They’re producing these products for free. We consume them at no cost. We must demonstrate our gratitude by paying them back.

It’s as though the capitalist consumption that the enshittified web encourages is so ingrained within us that we must think in terms of payment, in terms of exchange, transaction. Or as though, by forgoing payment, authors are some kind of martyrs defying capitalism, and the only way to honor their great sacrifice is comments and kudos.

Indeed, the discourse around this sometimes does veer away from capitalist rhetoric into something that smells almost religious in desperation. Authors are gods who bestow us mere mortals with the fruits of their labor benevolently, through love; the least we can do is worship them. Meanwhile the authors adopt the groveling sentiment of starving artists: I produce great art; I only humbly ask that you feed me in return.

These kinds of entreaties make my skin crawl for a number of reasons. I’m not a god. I’m not writing because I love you. I don’t expect your worship or even your praise.

I think the thing that disturbs me the most about it is that it suggests that authors (or, if the OP is feeling generous fan work creators) are the most important people in fandom. I’ve even seen posts stating that without creators, fandom wouldn’t exist—as though readers aren’t just as important. As though conversations where people discuss characterizations and plot points and randomly spin out interpretations and ideas and thoughts related to canon are meaningless. I’ve even seen people scramble to include folks having these discussions as “creators,” as though realizing that these people are necessary and integral to fandom communities but unable to drop the idea that the producers are the ones who are important. As though that person who just lurks can never count.

Is this what community is? When you join the queer community, are you expected to produce a product of your queerness? If not, must you actively participate and give back to the queer community in order to be considered a part of it? Or is it enough that you are queer, that you exist as a queer person and want to be around others who are queer, you want to be a part of something? What is community, anyway?

The problem with people raising the authors above everyone else in the community and demanding that tribute be paid is that they are decrying the “content farm” style of 2024 website out of one side of their mouth, but out of the other side are instead demanding that AO3 become a 2024-style social media website. Authors are influencers. “Engagement” and clicks are the things that really matter. They are in fact suggesting that the way to solve the commodification of fanfic is by “paying authors back” with stats.

Before anyone comes at me with the idea that comments aren’t just “stats,” I will clarify what I mean. There are literally hundreds of posts on tumblr alone claiming that any comment “helps” the author. Someone replies that they are shy to comment. Someone else replies that incoherent keyboard smashes, a single emoji, or the comment “kudos” are all that is required to satisfy the author, all that is required as tribute—all that is required as payment to keep this economy healthy.

I’m not condemning the comments that are keyboard smashes or emojis or a single kind word. I receive them. They make me happy. If anyone wants to leave such a comment on my fics, I’m really grateful for it. But this is not community-building. This is a transaction. In @yiiiiiiiikes25’s excellent response in the post linked at the beginning, they point out that “you have a cool hat” is something that is “perfectly nice” to hear from someone—and it is! We all want to be told we have a cool hat! But as they go on to say, what builds community is interactions that are deep and specific, interactions that are rich in quality, not in quantity. A kudos or a comment that says only ❤️are lovely things to receive, but they don’t build community.

My reaction, when I see people begging for kudos and comments as the only means by which to keep fandom community alive, is very close to @eleadore's. I want to say, “No. Readers do not need to comment or kudos. Believe not these hucksters who claim to know the appropriate method of fandom participation. Participate as you feel able, or not at all; nothing is required of you.”

I’ve been told before (several times) that I’m not qualified to participate in such discussions because I am an established author who has some fics with very high stats. It doesn’t matter that I have also been a new writer with almost no one reading my fics. It doesn’t matter that I still write in new fandoms where no one in that fandom knows me. It doesn’t matter that I, like any human being, still care about receiving recognition and attention and praise.

And maybe that’s correct. I personally don’t think that billionaires have a place in deciding the direction of the economy, and--if we're really going to consider fandom an economy--in fandom terms, if I’m not a billionaire, or even a millionaire, I’m definitely in the infamous “one percent.” So, just as no one wants to hear Elon Musk say “money isn’t everything,” maybe it’s not my place to say “kudos isn’t required, actually.”

That said, I’m not the only one who has a problem with the stats-based discourse around fandom community. However, the main counter-response to this discussion I see goes something like this: you shouldn’t be writing fic for validation. If you’re writing for attention, you’re doing it for the wrong reason. Authors should write fic because they love it without any expectation of return.

This is, in my opinion, missing the point of what is meant by fandom community.

I wrote fanfic before I knew that fanfic, as a concept, existed. I read books; I wanted them to be different; I wrote little stories for myself with new endings, with self-inserts, with cross-overs, with alternate universes. I did it for myself in the 90s. It never occurred to me that anyone else would do this, much less that people would share.

As @faiell points out—creating and sharing are two different things. I created fics for myself, but I decided to share them in the early 2000s because other people might like them, too. And of course, I wanted to hear whether other people liked them. How could I not? I might decorate my home just for me and not for anyone else’s preferences, but when people come over and say my house is nice, how can I not enjoy that? And if a lot of people think my house is nice, which encourages me to post pictures of it online, isn’t it understandable I might do so with the hope that more people will say my house is nice? And, honestly, if no one is appreciating my pictures, I probably won’t continue to go through the trouble of taking them and posting them. I’ll just enjoy my house that I decorated without sharing, the end.

When I found out there were whole fannish communities where people discussed canon and tossed ideas around about it, made theories and prompts and insights into the characters, fics they had written and recs for other fics and analyses of fics and art based on fics and fics based on art—I wanted to be a part of that, too. Now, sometimes, I write fic not out of an internal need to do so but out of a desire to participate in that community.

The idea that we write fic only for the love of it, then post it only because we possess it, is a process entirely centered on the self. It’s fandom in a vacuum. The idea that we share this thing, that we feel pleasure if someone likes it but feel nothing at all if no one says anything about it, that it’s completely okay to be ignored and unseen—that’s not what a community is either. That’s some weird sort of self-aggrandizement through self-effacement—because yes, there is often a weird kind of virtue-signaling in this kind of discourse.

I say this as someone who has virtue-signaled in that way: “some people write for stats, but I write for myself.” It’s bullshit. Sure, I write for myself, but why post it on the internet? Honestly, said virtue has a whiff of the capitalist machine, which would like you to produce for the sake of production, work for the sake of work. The noblest among us expect no recompense for that which they give!

The reason that I’m bringing this back around to capitalism is that capitalism actively works to dismantle community. The reason that folks are out here pleading for “engagement” in order to “pay back” authors for the products they give us “for free” is because people no longer even have the language to discuss how to participate in meaningful community. And frankly, how to build back fandom community, in the face of enshittification, is getting harder and harder to see.

But I do think that if we value fanfic and the fanfic community, it’s really, really not constructive to judge whether someone’s reasons for writing fanfic are valid. It’s also weird to me that it would be considered wrong that someone’s reason for sharing fanfic is because they would like to receive some recognition for it, when in fact that seems to be the most natural reason in the world for sharing something so private and vulnerable with the world.

Let’s go back to that idea of how hurtful it is to find out your fanfic is trending on tiktok without anyone from tiktok saying anything to you about your fic, or how it can be painful to find out there’s a secret discord channel dedicated to your fic. The people who respond to that with, “Ah, but you shouldn’t be writing to get attention!” are missing the point. The fic did get attention. It got lots. Attention obviously wasn't why the writer was writing--they were writing to participate, and they didn't get to. At all.

However, if your conclusion is that the author was upset because these particular stats were not accruing under this author’s profile, thereby preventing them from achieving the vaunted status of BNF and influencer—I don’t know, maybe you’re right. But I don’t think that’s why I, personally, have been hurt by these things, and I doubt it’s what hurt the people in these posts either. They’re hurt because they want to participate, and they have been systematically excluded by the very people they thought were part of the community they thought they could participate in.

Sure, if those folks from tiktok and the discord server all came and showered the author with kudos and comments that said “kudos,” the author might have felt satisfied enough with the quantity of this recognition that they would continue writing. But in the end, this still does nothing to address the problem of fandom community, in which the deep, meaningful recognition, interactions, and relationships in fandom are getting harder and harder to have and to build, as a result of how people now expect to engage in online spaces.

So, how to address the problem of fandom community? You probably read this long, long post hoping that I had an answer, and for that I must apologize. I don’t have solutions. My intent was to be descriptive, rather than prescriptive. I wished to outline the problems that I’m seeing in what was hopefully a slightly new or at least thought-provoking way, rather than offer solutions.

But, now that I’m talking about being prescriptive, maybe I can offer one suggestion, which is—maybe the solution to this isn’t about prescribing behavior. I do understand the irony in writing a prescription saying we shouldn’t prescribe people, but I’m going to write it anyway:

Maybe we shouldn’t be telling anyone the appropriate reasons for writing fanfic or for sharing it. Maybe we shouldn’t be telling readers they need to kudos or need to comment. If we’re going to go pointing fingers, we should be pointing at the institutions of capitalism that have made the internet what it is today—but I don’t think that’s going to solve the problem either.

But I do think that describing this problem, understanding what it actually is, not blaming readers for it and not blaming authors for it—I do think that helps. The discussion I linked at the beginning of this post is what I think of as the fandom I miss, the fandom that's now harder and harder to access, the fandom that is dying. That fandom was a social space where people had opinions and disagreed and went back and forth and gazed at their navels and then talked about Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

In the words of @yiiiiiiiikes25, it was a fuckin’ discussion about hats. And we’re hungry for it.

[saltomortal]

maybe i should make a masterdoc. we used to have a ff nilex masterdoc and that was fun

[imstillalexcomic]

When I first decided it was time to transition, I didn’t think I’d be wanting to change much other than my body.  I already dressed the way I liked, there were no plans to alter my wardrobe.

I’d experiment, sure, but there was no strong desire to suddenly go wild with my clothes.

Like the HRT process itself, other changes take time.  Maybe I want to change my wardrobe now that my body is taking on a new shape that’s suited for different outfits, maybe I want to do it for fun, maybe it’s a bit of both.

Ultimately, the most important thing is that I’m making these changes at my pace.  Being comfortable in my own skin is a goal of mine and the reason I started HRT in the first place.  Being comfortable in my own clothing is an extension of that and shouldn’t be rushed.

I’ve had a hurtful instance of folks who I trusted with my insecurities of not being “trans enough” try to speed up elements of my transition regarding presenting feminine with makeup and clothing. 

It was extremely painful and preyed heavily on the fears that I shared with them.  They made me feel like my transness wasn’t “enough.”

I was afraid that my approach must have been wrong; I was being told by people more experienced in transitioning that I that I “should” be doing things differently.

Half a year later, I feel as though my approach, slow as it may be, was right all along. 

It was the right approach for me because it was my approach.

If you’re someone who wants to mix up your look to more accurately reflect your preferred gender immediately, go for it!  If you’re someone who wants to take it slow like me, go for it!

There’s no one size fits all answer that’s right for everyone.

The only “right” way to do it is the way you’re comfortable with. 

Be you, never let anyone tell you otherwise.

[loveinhawkins]

ao3

Robin’s double-triple-quadruple checking that Steve is okay—well, okay as he can be, gritting his teeth as Nancy wraps hastily made bandages around him—when she sees Eddie turn away out the corner of her eye.

She follows the movement unconsciously, but then she really looks, and at first she thinks it’s just this god-awful place draining the colour out of everything, but wow, he looks bad.

“Hey,” she says as brightly as she can, “you just checking out the scenery over here or…?”

Eddie shakes his head, and that immediately seems like a bad idea because his face gets even paler, which Robin didn’t even think was, like, possible.

“Just needed to—” he says faintly.

And that’s all he gets out before he weaves where he’s standing, and Robin reaches for him instinctively, grabs a hold of his hand; his palm is cold with sweat, and she suddenly finds herself thinking that the rumour going around a couple years ago, that Eddie passed out in the middle of a dissection in Biology, must have some truth in it.

“Okay, we’re okay!” she says quickly, and holds on as tight as she can. “We’re just gonna stand here and breathe.”

She says it a few more times, “We’re just gonna breathe,” and she’s got no idea if it’s the right thing to do or not, whether it’s just deeply annoying or making everything worse.

Eddie closes his eyes, and she worries about that initially, but the grip of his hand gets stronger, and he doesn’t sway again, and when he opens his eyes and looks at her, they’re clear and focused.

He squeezes her hand twice. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t let go, and he looks embarrassed about it, so Robin says that her sense of balance is so incredibly shit, and this is very helpful of him, thank you.

It works at least a little bit; he almost laughs. Then he swallows, and she can feel his urge to look back over despite himself. He stops the motion just in time.

“Is he—” His fingers twitch uneasily. “Is he okay?”

“Yes,” she says immediately.

She really hopes it doesn’t sound like she’s pacifying him. It’s just, she knows by now what to watch out for, she doesn’t even really need to be looking; an awareness of Steve in her periphery is enough.

She rushes to try and clarify, “Like, I know it seems like I was panicking with the rabies thing, I mean, I kinda was super panicking, but I got it all out my system, like I’m a worrier first and foremost, that’s my secret default emotion, you’re welcome, so when I say there’s nothing to worry about, obviously there are plenty of things to worry about, look where we are, but I promise nothing major currently in the Steve department, and I can tell you, like, instantly when that changes, it’s a sixth sense.”

Eddie blinks, looking slightly stunned. Shit, she forgets sometimes that it’s only really Steve who’s used to these monologues.

A big breath. “And I know it seems like I’m panicking because I’m rambling which—okay, that’s sometimes true, but in most cases—this one included, I swear!—me talking way too much just means I’m comfortable with whoever’s listening.” Eddie’s eyes widen. “So, um. Congratulations? Sorry? Take your pick. Does that, um, make sense?”

There’s a pause before Eddie replies—he’s probably still processing just how many words were thrown at him.

“I don’t think you talk too much,” he says in a taken aback kind of way. Then, “And yeah, sure, that makes sense. Just, uh, questioning your judgement.” A slight self-effacing smile. “I’m not typically the kinda guy folks are comfortable around.”

“Is it really so shocking?” Robin says, meaning it as a tease but—

“Yes,” Eddie says, and while he matches her tone, the word teeters between a joke and something vulnerable.

They both turn at a sudden grunt of exertion—Steve’s standing up, supporting himself with one hand leaning on the rock he’d fallen against. Nancy watches his movements with an anxious intensity; Robin follows her eyeline and notes with relief that the bleeding’s stopped.

“We can go to my house,” Nancy says like she’s trying to convince herself it’s a good idea. “There’ll—there must be some bandages or something just. Just in case.”

Steve lets go of the rock and stands up to his full height. It’s a deliberate show of reassurance, Robin thinks, as much for himself as it is for Nancy.

“Sure,” Steve says. “And guns too, right?”

Nancy’s startled into a laugh. For a second, the weight of concern leaves her face. “And guns,” she repeats.

Eddie catches Robin’s eye with an air of bewilderment. “Guns?” he mouths.

Robin nods.

Eddie looks, if possible, even more lost. Then his eyes slide away from Robin’s, and his expression changes; he starts to frown. At first Robin can’t tell what he’s noticed except that there can’t be any more blood, thank God, because he doesn’t look away. Then she sees it too as Steve takes a step forward with a nonchalant, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go,” like the determined normality of his voice can somehow hide the fact that he’s shivering.

Nancy bites her lip, looking like she’s come to the same unwelcome conclusion as Robin: that no matter what they say, it’ll just result in Steve arguing against it.

There’s a rustle off to the side. Robin glances over only in time to see a blur of denim; Steve catches it against his chest. Eddie’s vest.

“For your modesty, dude,” Eddie quips like it’s no big deal, but Robin can instantly sense the care he’s taken in how he’s said it, that he’s guessed intuitively about the kind of person Steve is: the kind who, when Robin once forgot her umbrella, shared his and made sure she was fully covered, despite him getting soaked in the process.

It’s like she can physically see the path that Eddie’s flippancy has opened up. This way Steve accepting the vest is just continuing the joke; he doesn’t need to admit that he actually needs it.

And it works. Steve expertly sidesteps around the vulnerability and shrugs on the vest, echoing Eddie’s levity right back at him.

“Oh, my modesty, sure. Well, in that case, don’t wanna offend you, dude.”

“You know me, propriety is my middle name.”

Steve laughs. He fiddles a little with one of the buttons on the vest then says lightly, as if an afterthought, “Didn’t know you cared.”

It still walks the line of a joke, but Robin can hear his sincerity, and from the look of surprise on Eddie’s face, so can he. And it’s not like Steve being genuine is a surprise to her, but—

The ground gives way beneath her feet; her stomach lurches as she loses her balance, and it’s only when she accidentally catches Eddie’s shoulder that she realises she’s not going to fall through an endless chasm, that the world is just shaking violently—still not a comforting prospect, but she’ll gladly take it over the alternative.

She barely has time to feel the relative relief before another shudder sends her straight to the ground; she’s too caught off guard to even protect her face with her hands. But her landing isn’t nearly as painful as it should be—as everything finally grows still, she finds the reason why: Eddie, who from the awkward twisted position of his legs looks like he was caught equally off guard, and yet he’s still managed to fling an arm around Robin, bracing to keep her from the worst of the impact.

“Did anyone touch the vines?” Nancy asks breathlessly.

Robin and Eddie shake their heads.

“Any, uh, particular reason why?” Eddie says in the tone of someone who’d really rather not find out.

“It’s a hive mind,” Steve and Nancy say simultaneously, in a very hive mind like way.

Robin hums the theme to The Twilight Zone; everyone laughs, some pressure finally released.

“So killer demon bats weren’t enough, we’ve gotta deal with booby traps too,” Eddie says.

Steve snorts. He glances childishly to Robin as if looking for approval; she rolls her eyes with an irrepressible smile. Seriously?

There’s a split second of disbelief before Eddie just grins in delight. “Real mature, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry, man,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just providing what Dustin would’ve done.”

They sober slightly at the reminder that their group’s been split.

“You think they’ve figured out that we’re…?” Eddie wiggles his fingers vaguely. He’s slower at getting to his feet than everyone else had been—he’s still hunched over slightly, rubbing at his knee.

“They will,” Nancy says with conviction.

“Don’t underestimate them,” Steve says mildly.

“Oh, I’m not, believe me. They’re kinda terrifying.”

“Terrifying?” Nancy echoes, laughing again, right as Steve says, “Exactly.”

As if in response to their laughter, there’s a distant growl punctuated with ominous clicking. Steve and Nancy both go rigid, and Robin thinks of the night after Starcourt, when Steve stayed over at her place because neither of them wanted to be alone; and he told her how everything started for him, his voice tripping over the words like he was reliving it all over again: running back to Jonathan Byers’ house, hearing the snarl of a monster.

“Yeah, I’m all for going to the Wheeler sanctum,” Eddie says weakly.

But he doesn’t move initially, so Steve and Nancy end up leading the way. Steve repeatedly sweeps the beam of his flashlight back and forth, making sure that the path is lit up for everyone, and Robin wonders whether he’s so focused on that that he hasn’t yet noticed—

“You’re hurt,” she tells Eddie softly. She’s up and looped her arm through his without thinking—which is kind of a big deal considering she nearly threw up with nerves when dancing with a boy at her middle school Snow Ball—and she realises that, for once, she forgot to be nervous about it.

“It’s not that bad,” Eddie says dismissively, but she can feel him leaning on her so it must be at least a little bit bad. “Hey, we kinda even each other out like this, huh? Your balance is pretty good, actually.” He pauses, then, “I’m okay, promise, just didn’t wanna…” He shrugs, nods towards Steve. “Gotta prioritise, y’know?”

Robin doesn’t push back on it for now, just slows her pace so Eddie isn’t jostled. “Thank you,” she says instead, lowering her voice. She nods toward Steve too. “For the…”

“Style improvement? Yeah, you’re welcome.”

This time Robin only lets him get away with belittling it for so long; it’s important, she thinks, that he knows.

“I mean it. He wouldn’t have taken it if you hadn’t—he’s…” She sighs. The greatest Tammy Thompson impersonator. Stupidly funny. Serious, when he has to be. Caring. Selfless. My best friend. “Stubborn.”

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Oh, and you’re not? What the hell was that back there?” He drops into a gently mocking impression of her voice, “I made that shit up.”

“I was just being honest!”

“Way to give me a heart attack.” She feels him squeeze the crook of her elbow. “Don’t do it again.”

And there’s that balancing act again, joking but not. Robin hears it for what it is. Don’t leave me alone. She squeezes back.

“I won’t.”

She expects Eddie to change the subject quickly. Instead he laughs—smaller, sadder. “Shit, sorry. You must think I’m—”

“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t.”

Eddie looks down like he’s just watching his step, nothing more. But his hold around Robin’s arm tightens again. He clears his throat.

“Thanks, Buckley.”

“Hey, Robin, Eddie,” Steve calls; Robin feels Eddie jump. “There’s vines up ahead, like…” He turns around and indicates where with the flashlight. Then he catches Robin’s eye, knits his eyebrows slightly. You okay?

She smiles in reassurance before subtly tilting her head towards Eddie, wrinkles her nose. 

Steve’s forehead relaxes. The tiniest nod. Yeah, I know. Got my eye on it.

Because of course he’d noticed the hurt knee despite Eddie’s attempt to hide it; Robin recalls now one of Steve’s rants about his time at school, how he’d often clock injuries during basketball games before the borderline neglectful coach.

And then she realises that Steve’s been walking backwards throughout their silent conversation, alternating between lighting the way for Nancy, and for her and Eddie.

She rolls her eyes, briefly draws a circle in the air with her finger. Now you’re just showing off.

Steve grins, waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. Oh, yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?

But he obligingly turns around, as Nancy gives him a sidelong, questioning look. He answers, too far away to hear, points behind him with his free hand like he’s explaining something. Then his hand goes to the vest, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over the denim near the collar; Robin smiles.

“So, uh, how likely is it that I’m gonna get that back?” Eddie asks. He sounds amused, like he’s just noticed the same thing as Robin.

“Like, out of ten?” She pretends to think about it. “Two point five.”

Eddie snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

It’s a compliment, Eddie, she thinks, recalling the select few sweaters that Steve fiddles with in winter. He only does that with clothes he really loves.

“You’re not the first. He steals my sunglasses all the time.”

Eddie bursts out laughing. “Figures. He’d look good in anything, it’s so unfair.”

And it doesn’t sound serious; it’s said off the cuff, like it doesn’t have to mean anything. But Robin’s growing more certain that she can hear what’s hiding underneath—that, however hesitantly, she’s being tested.

“Yeah, but we’re not supposed to actually tell him that, he’ll never shut up about it.” As Eddie laughs, she elbows him gently, reaches across to tug at one of the zippers on his sleeve. “So are you providing a permanent service with your clothes? Cause I call dibs on your jacket.”

Eddie laughs again; the mix of disbelief and joy in the sound is familiar—Robin’s heard it come from herself not all that long ago. It takes a while to sink in, that friendship can be found so easily—an uncomplicated, earnest type of love once thought lost to kindergarten; it doesn’t have to hurt.

(“I didn’t need the truth serum to say it,” Robin had confessed during a terminally slow day at Family Video. “I think, deep down, I trusted you.”

“Oh,” Steve said softly and watched the rest of the movie they’d thrown on dewy-eyed.)

There’s a spring in Eddie’s step now despite the limp. He calls out like he’s on a summer hiking trail, “Are we there yet?”

Nancy chuckles. “No. Are you five?”

“Wheeler, I’m shocked that you’d repeat the baseless lies of the school faculty.”

Steve turns, his grin caught by the flashlight—and he looks younger suddenly, Robin thinks, like he’s in class, sneaking a look at someone in the seat behind.

“Wow, dude, I’m so sorry. Are you bored? I forgot to book the entertainment.”

“Did you, Steve?” Eddie asks, all innocence. “I thought you were the entertainment.”

And as they go back and forth, it’s as if the darkness of the woods can’t reach them anymore—as Steve starts a game of I spy, and Eddie encourages Nancy to come up with equally outlandish guesses, the two of them barely keeping their giggles under control, violets, vixen, velociraptor?

“Vines, you losers!” Steve says, still grinning, walking tall like he’s totally forgotten about his injury; and Eddie turns to Robin like that had been his aim all along, “Your turn, Buckley.”

Oh, you’ll fit right in, Robin says to herself before jumping into the game—as they all, at least for a little while, leave fear behind.

[strangerexee]

Okay so I was thinking about Bo Chow like usual but like just imagine if you’ve been trying to find husband for years now and nothing has changed, being dumped left and right and ultimately abandoned, because you grew up with the twins and so the few eligible men, don’t want much to do with you, but Bo does and he’s been pursing your forever, always making promises to marry you, but what if you take him serious one day?

ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀʀʀʏ ʏᴏᴜ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝚂𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒, 1932 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙱𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚠 (𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 | 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢 | 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 | 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ : ᴀɴᴏɴ…ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴜᴘ ɴᴏᴡ!

ᴡᴄ : 1.6ᴋ

You’d been trying to find a husband for years now. It was embarrassing, honestly…

And not just trying. Not flirting here and there or batting your lashes at the Sunday socials. You’d prayed. You’d fasted. You’d begged God, begged the moon, begged your own reflection for someone who’d take you seriously. For someone who’d take you home.

But all you’d gotten was abandonment.

Not once. Not twice. But over and over.

Same story every time — they’d look at you, smile at first, then freeze when they remembered. Remembered that you were the girl who ran wild with The Moore twins. Smoke and Stack. The trouble boys with blood on their boots and hearts that didn’t work right. They’d say your name like it had something dirty attached to it. Like it was too close to theirs.

You didn’t sleep with both of them.

Not at the same time, not even back-to-back.

But what folks thought…was enough.

And so every man who took you out once, never came back for seconds.

Except Bo Chow.

Bo owned the only real grocer in town.

Right off Main, past the post office, across from Grace’s white grocer shop. His store was never quiet — he ran it like clockwork. He knew how much flour was on the shelf before he turned the key in the front door. He had a head for numbers, a body made for lifting sacks of rice and crates of apples, and a voice that made you forget what time it was.

He’d been in town almost his whole life now.

Long enough to earn a grudging respect from the older men and more than a few stares from women who never bought groceries until he was behind the counter. Long enough for everyone to know that when he said he was gonna do something — he did it.

Which made it all the more confusing that for years, Bo Chow had been telling people he was gonna marry you.

“Y’all hear Bo Chow said he gon’ wife that girl?”

“The one that was always at that Moore house?”

“Lord have mercy, he must be lonely.”

It started out as gossip.

Then a punchline.

Then a…rumor with weight.

He’d say it like it was nothing. Casually, while weighing out pecans. While handing you exact change. While handing you your groceries and brushing his thumb over your wrist longer than he needed to.

“Don’t let nobody waste your time,” he’d say with those dark eyes low on you. “Told you I’d marry you, didn’t I?” He’d brush his thumb over your bottom lip.

You’d roll your eyes. Smile like it was a joke.

But it never sounded like one.

One morning, after another man — a preacher’s son — dropped you with no warning, saying his mother “had concerns,” you found yourself standing outside Bo’s store, holding nothing but a paper list and the weight of your own shame.

You’d stayed up all night crying into a pillow you didn’t own. Borrowed sheets. Borrowed hope.

But there you were.

Again.

And when Bo saw you through the storefront window, he came out front like he always did — wiping his hands on his apron, already reaching for the list in your hand.

“Let me guess. Flour. Sugar. You want the good honey or the regular one?”

You just blinked at him.

He didn’t ask why your eyes were red.

Didn’t ask why you were trembling when he brushed your arm with his hand, careful, always careful.

He just took the list and nodded.

“I’ll bag it myself. Come inside, stay cool. Got fresh peaches today.”

You walked in like a ghost.

And then sat behind the counter. And watched him work.

And for some reason, that day…you saw him clearer than you ever had.

His rolled-up sleeves, arms veined and golden from sun.

The subtle way he smiled when an old man thanked him.

The careful way he handled a child’s nickel — didn’t take more than what he had to.

The way he moved. Steady. Strong. Full of intent.

You watched Bo Chow lean down to grab a jar from the bottom shelf, and it hit you mid-breath — he wasn’t playing with you.

He meant every word.

Every promise.

Every time he said you deserve better.

Maybe he’d been waiting.

Maybe you were the one who hadn’t believed him.

Later that afternoon, you didn’t say much when he drove you home with a brown bag on your lap, filled with peaches, ribbon candy, and flour you hadn’t paid for.

When he parked in front of your steps, you didn’t get out right away.

He didn’t rush you.

Bo just rested his arm over the steering wheel, turned to look at you, and said — soft, not shy —

“You ever gon’ take me serious?” He didn’t sound like he was tired of you.

So you didn’t answer right away.

Your heart was thudding like it was afraid to get the words out. Like it was remembering all the other men who’d walked away. All the times you’d been left holding hope with both hands, just for it to slip.

But when you looked at him — really looked —

You didn’t see someone waiting for you to be perfect.

You didn’t see someone measuring your past.

You saw a man who meant to stay.

And right there, in the heat of that car, hands trembling in your lap, you said:

“I might.”

His lips twitched. His hand found yours.

“That’s good enough for me.”

He didn’t press you after that.

Didn’t grin like he’d won. Didn’t lean over and steal a kiss like a man who knew the answer before you gave it. Bo Chow just squeezed your hand — once — and let it fall back into your lap like it was sacred. Like it had done enough.

“You sure you wanna go inside?” he asked, voice low.

You looked at your porch. Looked back at him.

And suddenly, the house you’d been trying to make into a home felt hollow. Not because of its emptiness — but because it wasn’t his.

“Not really.”

Bo reached for the key in the ignition, but didn’t turn it just yet.

He looked at you again — and there was something in his eyes you hadn’t let yourself see before. Not fully. Something slow and rich and full of patience. The kind of look a man gives when he’s already made up his mind about you, and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

His house wasn’t far. Not that far from your place. Not that far from the store. Tidy. Warm.

The kind of place that had rice in every cabinet and a garden out back that didn’t need much tending. The bed was made. The floor swept. There was a jacket hung over the back of the only armchair. The scent of wood and salt and faint cigarette smoke clung to the walls like it belonged there.

He didn’t lead you in. He just unlocked the door and stepped aside.

“Ain’t fancy,” he muttered. “But you’re always welcome.”

You stepped over the threshold like you’d been there in a dream before.

The inside of Bo Chow’s home looked exactly how you thought it might. Like him. Like someone who doesn’t waste words. Someone who buys quality, not quantity. Someone who meant every damn thing he said when he looked you in the eye and promised you something better than what you’d been given.

And that night — without a single word — you helped him take off his shirt and folded it.

You brushed your hand down his chest like you had every right to.

And when he kissed you — cradling your face ever so gently, like you were fragile and made of glass — it didn’t feel like a beginning.

It felt like you’d arrived.

It wasn’t sex. Not really.

You didn’t even get that far. Just your lips and his hands and the heat of his breath on your neck when he pulled you into his lap like something breakable and precious and his mouth brushed against the hollow behind your ear like a confession.

You didn’t ask what it meant.

Didn’t have to.

It was in the way he held the back of your head when you shifted on top of him.

In the way he looked at your mouth like a holy thing.

In the way he kissed you between the eyes before he whispered—

“I told you I’d take care of you.”

And God help you, you believed him.

You woke up to the sound of him boiling water the next morning.

He was already dressed — a clean shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar slightly askew. He had a lighter in his hand and his back to you, standing in the kitchen with a cigarette on the sill and steam curling through the sunlight. His body filled the doorway.

And in that moment, something in you settled.

Like the ache that had been in your chest for years just quieted.

Because this — he — was not something you’d stumbled into. He had been there.

He had been choosing you longer than you’d been brave enough to notice.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, pulled your arms around his waist, and pressed your cheek against the middle of his back.

Bo didn’t startle.

He just turned the stove down and reached for your hands.

“Been waiting so long for this,” he said. “Told you I was gon’ marry you.”

You buried your face into his shoulder and whispered—

“I know.” You said. “Sorry for making you wait so long…”

The man only shook his head.

But the way he smiled?

That was the moment you figured it out.

You didn’t need to find a husband.

You just needed to stop running from the man who’d already been one all along.

Mannnnnnn I wouldn’t had that man waiting for YEARS….thats crazy work — imagine making BO CHOW WAIT…nahhhh I would’ve said yes the first time he asked.

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 07.1 Duke and (Name)

 07. An explosion of emotions trigger warnings: mentions of past abuse, cursing, shouting, medical + emotional + physical neglect, mentions of wanting to die (name), mentions of anger, spoilers for chapter 7 of nobody's child. Main m.list         series m.list

Duke and you have a complex relationship. When it came to school you always made sure to use your last name, but somehow he still found out you’re technically a Wayne.

He promised to keep it a secret, as long as you would be his lab partner in chemistry, a subject he didn’t need help in. You never understood his reasoning. You never understood his actions, in fact you became confused the closer you two got. At first you thought it might be that he wants to get closer to your family, but then it seemed like he wanted to be your friend. He was interested in you, interested in who you truly are. So slowly you began to trust him, you began to share information you had yet to share with your family. You explained that you never felt like you, that everyone calls you them but that you have yet to tell your family. ‘Why?’ he had asked and your answer shook him to the core.

“I don’t trust them,” you said at first, a simply statement that holds no value but then you continued, “I was attacked in my own home, and Bruce refused to let me press charges because I had to understand the attackers circumstances.”

Duke remembers falling silent, shaking as tears fill your eyes. “When I woke up from that attack I learned that my family is to not be trusted. Not when it comes to safety and health, so who says I can trust them with anything else?” He remembers a chuckle leaving your mouth. He remembers how hollow it sounded. “It doesn’t matter I will get away soon enough.”

That day he learned the truth about the bat family, but the next day he finally learned your truth as well. You had been hunched over the teacher’s toilet as he walked by, the teacher trying to get you to calm down. You were puking your guts out, the teacher spotted him staring from the hallway. “You!” she had shouted. “You are friends with (name) right?” He had nodded without thinking. “Come hold their hair back as I get the nurse!”

He did just that, and that day he learned that you were chronically ill. “Don’t worry,” you had said. “I’m not dying, it’s quite usual for the folks in my family to get chronically ill.” when you said the words ‘my family’ he knew you were talking about your mother’s side. He also knew that you thought those words would comfort him, but they did not. It made him worry, especially with the fact that your father is Batman. Not like you knew, and that made him even more worried. How did the Batman not know that his child is ill?

“Does Mr. Wayne know?” he remembers asking.

“No,” you had said with a grin. “I’m medically emancipated, knowing how to forge a signature is quite handy.”

At the time he had wondered if you were joking, but the more time he had spend with your family without you ever being mentioned the more he realised that you had made the right choice. If he tried to ask about you, they would quickly change the subject. Telling him to not mention you, that you made it clear that you aren’t one of them. But truthfully, it was them that made you an outsider. It was visible to even him, an outsider, that the fault does not lie with you. It lies with them.

The longer he knew you the more he started to resent the Wayne family, with the days that your pain clouded your judgement and you begged for death his anger rose. But when he found that the Wayne family are the bats, he knew exactly what to do.

He would accept the invitation to be adopted by Bruce, to protect you, you might hate him at first. You might believe that he used you, but it will be something he must do. He had spoken to your other friends.

Friends you were arguably closer with, they admitted to him that you were fading away in your journey for freedom. That you need an ally in that cursed manor. And he will be that ally, sure it also means that he will be able to be a vigilante. Something he wants to do with all his heart, but at this point that was just an advantage that came with his need to help you.

You are a victim. A victim of a family that has become so tuned out to trauma inside their own family that they cannot recognise what they’ve done to you.

And when he walked through the manor doors, sure that you were at your work, just to be greeted by you screaming at Jason. It froze Duke death in his steps, but when Jason touched you, something snapped in him.

“Step away from them,” he had said, trying to control his tone, but when he took in the state you were in his control flew away. “before I knock your teeth out.”

Jason had stepped back. ‘Good he can listen,’ Duke had thought, tuning everything out as he turns his full attention to you. “(Name),” he had whispered, trying to place his hands gently on yours to stop your scratching. “I am here, it’s Duke, your lab partner, what can I do for you?” He had never seen you this distressed, he had never known that your pain could do this to you. If he did he would have stepped in sooner. He would have thought of a different plan, but he’s too far in to go back now.

“I need to die,” you had whispered, your eyes snapping to his as his heart broke at your words. “can you kill me?”

You were terrified of death, that’s why you are asking him. At least subconsciously you still knew you wanted to live. “You know I can’t,” he had said as he attempted to carefully brush your hair out of your face. You hate having your hair be touched in this state, but having your hair touched also brought you comfort. And at this point Duke would have done anything if it had meant calming you down. “But I can and I will listen.”

Those words always had a big impact on you, Maria had told him so. But in that moment those words meant everything to you. You were crying, but at least you had stopped scratching your skin off.

‘A win is a win,’ Duke had thought.

“You promise?” You had asked, your voice sounded so small and fragile. Your eyes were unfocused, and Duke feared that you could pass out any second.

“I promise.”

taglist: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch

[catt-nuevenor]

A Brief Guide on Uploading ChoiceScript Demos to Itch.io

Since Dashingdon is shutting down, and there will be a lot of folks wanting to host their ChoiceScript demos elsewhere, I thought it'd be a good idea to provide a brief guide on how to do so for itch.io.

This is for Windows in the folder actions, but it shouldn't be too difficult for folks to translate for Mac. This also assumes you haven't changed any of the files within your game folder other than those found under 'scenes'.

Within your game folder, locate the 'web' subfolder, right click it and select 'Send to' then 'Compressed (zipped) folder. Name your newly compressed file something sensible, and I recommend moving it to a new folder outside of your game files, just to keep everything neat and tidy.

2. Assuming you already have an itch.io account, navigate to your dashboard, and click the 'Create New Project' button.

3. Name your project as you like, and under 'Kind of project', select the 'HTML' option.

4. Set the 'Pricing' to 'No Payments', you cannot use ChoiceScript for profit unless it is with the Choice of Games or Hosted Games publishing labels. No one wants to get in trouble unnecessarily here.

5. In the Uploads section, upload your newly zipped file we made in step one. After it's finished uploading, you'll be given one drop down and two tick boxes. You need to tick the 'This file will be played in the browser' option.

6. I've found so far that 'Viewport dimensions' work quite well for desktop at 1080 x 640. Either use these numbers or experiment and find what works best for you.

7. You must tick the 'Enable scrollbars' option for your game to display properly, otherwise options, text and buttons can be clipped off the bottom of the viewport.

8. Continue filling out the rest of the form, or skip it for now and scroll all the way to the bottom to the 'Visibility & access' section. Here make sure you have 'Draft' selected. This prevents others from finding your game until you're ready, and I always recommend play testing things before you make your work public.

9. Finally, hit the 'Save' button, then go and have a look at your creation by hitting the 'View page' link. And there you go! When you're ready for public release, just change the option in section 8 to 'Public'.

---

A few things to bear in mind about hosting on itch.io:

There isn't currently any way for your readers to save their game. I'm sure someone could write in a plugin similar to Dashingdon's at some point, but as for right now, this isn't available. See addition/edit below.

Make sure you properly tag your game with the 'choicescript' and 'interactive-fiction' tags. There are an awful lot of games on itch.io and it's easy to get lost in the crowd. Make sure folks can find you by having the right tags.

I hope this brief guide was useful to folks.

Best of luck to you with your writing!

---

Addition/Edit:

Thanks to @hpowellsmith for bringing this to my attention. You can add save functionality to your game by using this addon:

The ChoiceScript Save Plugin

Just tried it out on my own game and it works perfectly.

Rather than run through the addon author's own tutorial here, I'll just forward you to the Readme on their Github page.

One small note I would add is when it asks you to make the two small additions to your index file, make sure you right click the file and open it with your coding program, don't double-click it as this will just open it in an internet browser, and it won't give you the access to what you need to change.

[thebusybumblebee]

You Thought You Were So Clever

You'd heard whispers of great riches for those willing to take the risk. Make the right deal with the fae in the forests, and one could walk away set for life. You go when the sun starts to dip just below the horizon. Summer heat is just cooling down. A pleasant breeze kisses your face. Fireflies are already bobbing between bushes and branches. There's so many despite the season coming to a close soon. In fact, there are almost too many. They surround you, the bio-luminescent bugs creating a trail for you to follow. The trails turn and twist deeper and deeper into the woods. The sky grows darker, the air colder. When you're finally in a clearing, even the breeze has stopped. The fireflies disappear, leaving only the moonlight for the shadows to flicker in. Silence is all-consuming. The ringing in your ears grows until you think you might turn tail and give up this venture. "My, my," a voice whispers on the wind. "It's been so long since we've had a visitor." You turn this way and that, straining to find the source of the voice. Another voice, closer, muses, "much too long. Poor little lamb seems lost." Before you can think better of it, you call out, "I came to make a deal." A cacophony of sounds pick up with the sudden return of the winds. You cover your ears trying to block it out. The wind settles in one final gasp. You open your eyes. What was an empty, dark clearing has been transformed. You find yourself in the midst of a party. Lanterns are strung from the trees. Fae are dancing and mingling by fires. In the center, there is a table heavy with food and drink. It's a miracle the legs aren't bowing under the weight of it all. A fae, tall and lithe, strides over. "Welcome, little lamb." You begin again about deals and bargains. "Hush," they coo. Their nails trace up your neck until they hold your chin. "We've so missed having a human to entertain us. In exchange for your company, we will send you off with more gold and riches than you can walk away with just as soon as the feast is over." You nod. It's a simple deal: spend time with the fae and you'd be made. The fae smiles wide and leads you to a seat. The chair is sturdy, lavish even. A golden plate is pressed into your hand. All kinds of food fill the surface. You can't quite recognize some of it, but you're tantalized all the same. Fruit juices coat your mouth, the flavor blooming across your tongue. Hot, yeasty rolls in butter help sop up the many sauces you try. Bread pudding and liquor cut some of the savory flavors before you return to the cuts of meat laid out for you to try. Fae-folk flit in and out of conversation. They're charming and polite, always smiling and refilling your plate and cup. You can't say how much time has passed or how long you've been at the table. There's a point where everything seems warmer. Sweat drips down your face. Why were you breathing so heavily? You pull at your shirt collar to try and loosen it. The fae simply disrobe you. "It's a party," they say. "Don't think so hard." So you don't. You must get tired at some point too, because it's getting harder to lift your arms. It seems like it'd be hard to leave this seat, even if it is more cramped than you remember. You try to lean forward to grab your cup again. Though, try as you might, your fingertips can hardly reach it. The cup topples over. The clatter awakens you from your stupor. It’s as though a veil had suddenly been lifted.

Whatever cotton was dulling your senses can no longer hide what has happened to you. Your arms have plumped up like the hams on the table with fingers resembling sausages. Your hips must have spread across the seat too, because you can feel the arms of the chair gripping your love handles more surely than any lover ever has. You try to look down, but your thicker neck and double chin have to fight for space. A plumper chest greets you. The largest change was the heavy belly that crested beyond your knees. It was burgeoning with all the delicacies you��d been plied and stuffed with all evening. With a small hint of dread, you realize you’re still hungry.

“How long have I been here? When will this end?” You fret and try to rise from your seat. The fae that greeted you puts a hand to your belly. Their touch is appraising, paired with a gaze filled with a hunger of their own.

“It seems our lamb isn’t so little anymore,” they tease. Already, other fae start preparing more plates for their guest.

“When is the party over?” You ask again. You’re met with smirks and snickers all around.

“Oh, darling,” their voice drips with faux sympathy. “Here, in this realm, the party is never over.” You feel a cold chill down your back, but don’t fight the cup being brought to your lips again. As the spiced, warm cider flows down your throat, you find your thoughts flowing away too. The last realization you have is that any gold would be too much to walk away with when soon you won't be able to walk at all. You thought you were so clever.

[bit-b]

About a trending Discord warning:

TL;DR: Discord is NOT making "Find your friends" enabled by default. You're probably not giving Discord your contact information without your knowledge. Their UI choices just suck.

There's a warning post going around by a person I'm not going to name, as I don't want people to dogpile on them. That is NOT the goal of this post, and if you DO harass anyone because of what I write, then you're a garbage person with garbage habits that needs to throw those habits in the garbage.

Rather, my goal with this post is to educate about a Discord feature that's not being represented properly.

-------------------------------------

Supposedly in the new mobile update, Discord added this ""NEW"" feature called "Find your friends", and then they enabled it by default. This feature allows users to use their smartphone contacts to search for their friends on Discord. It also enables others to be able to find you in the exact same way.

Obviously, this would be MASSIVELY dangerous from a privacy perspective.

Imagine if someone had relatives that use Discord. In a scenario like that, those relatives would have an easy way of finding the accounts of family members. And in some home situations, online anonymity from relatives could mean the difference between having an outlet and not having an outlet.

I'm also pretty sure I know some folks with alt accounts (you know who you are). And if Discord was somehow able to cross-reference all your contacts with the Discord accounts you're logged into, that would be DISASTROUSLY EMBARRASSING, to say the least.

So I totally understand how concerning this would be if it turned out to be true.

The thing is, it's not.

The person who made that warning misinterpreted THIS page:

This is the new "Add Friends" page for the Discord mobile app. Obviously, a page to help you add friends. There's a big 'ol window at the bottom showcasing Discord's "Find your friends" feature.

Now, this feature is actually NOT new. It's been around for a long time. But there's a very subtle change that happened with the new update. Take a look at how "Find your friends" used to look:

It starts by giving you a banner at the top of your friends list, telling you that this feature is available. Then when you click on it, it takes you to a page with UI elements that look awfully familiar.

It's pretty clear what happened. In an effort to condense down their friend-finding functions into one menu, Discord took the "Find your friends" setup menu and tossed it in with all the other ways to contact friends.

But by doing this, Discord has made this setup window confusing. It's not immediately obvious if the "Find your friends" feature is ON and running, or OFF and waiting to be activated.

Maybe it would have helped to make the blurple button read something like "Sync contacts" instead of "Find friends". At least then, you could tell at a glance that nothing has been sync'd yet. (Or y'know, maybe just stick to "Grant Permission". That was working just fine before.)

So it seems the OP:

Looked at the "Find your friends" setup menu that Discord hastily slapped into the "Add friends" page

Noticed the checkbox that read "Allow contacts to add me"

Saw that it was already marked

Then assumed that it must be some kind of tucked-away setting that was left ON by default.

To make this abundantly clear, "Find your friends" only works if you opt-in.

That checkmark allows you to tell Discord you are okay with people finding you in this manner. Unchecking it makes it possible to use "Find your friends" without others being able to find you the same way.

It doesn't get set up on your device until you press the big blurple "Find friends" button. Even then, you still have to add your phone number to your account and verify it via a 6-digit code sent via SMS.

After that, you have to give Discord permission to access your contacts via whatever phone OS you use.

You have to be pretty deliberate for any of these functions to start.

I won't say it's impossible to set it up on accident. It's a strange world, and stranger things have happened. If you want to, go check your app permissions to make sure you don't have contact permissions enabled for Discord. It's always good to be sure. But rest easy knowing that you probably don't have to worry about it.

-------------------------------------

In my opinion, I think that anyone who reblogged that warning should consider reversing those reblogs.

Honestly, I also think the OP should just delete their post instead of repeatedly adding amended reblogs to it. At the end of the day, the core of that post was misinformation and misguided assumptions. There's no real reason to keep it up.

Besides, I'd rather pin Discord on things they're ACTUALLY guilty of. Like designing a new UI that's widely mocked. And making things 10x more confusing for the end-user.

Here's Discord's official "Find your friends" FAQ page:

https://support.discord.com/hc/en-us/articles/360061878534-Find-Your-Friends-FAQ

I hate to beg, but I'd appreciate if people would reblog this post. I fear that the warning post is gonna steer a LOT of people to believe a lot of things about Discord that are logically and functionally not true.

[ms-demeanor]

My mom has gone full on Youtube Woo "natural cures" and I have no idea how to get through to her. Literally sitting at home in front of the tv playing video after video of pseudoscientific bunk and lapping it up... She's diabetic and a cancer survivor and I fear she's gonna do irreparable damage in her forays into the deep end...

Do you have any tips on reaching folks that are in this deep?

Regular reinforcement of evidence-based medicine as kind as you can make it whenever it comes up.

"Oh I heard about this coffee enema thing..." "There's not really any evidence to back that up, mom, and besides, it sounds pretty unpleasant."

"Oh I heard about how nightshades are poison" "That book doesn't have a lot of great evidence, plus here are the kinds of micronutrients that you can get from nightshades, they're important in your diet."

"Oh I'm not sure about vaccines anymore, the new ones are so scary" "Mom, I'm so glad you got me vaccinated, I think about how kids younger than me are at risk of measles and other issues because of vaccine hesitancy and I worry so much for them, I think you made the right decision when I was a kid and I'm grateful for it."

"Oh, but fluoride in the water can cause IQ losses in young children," "Mom, those studies aren't in areas where fluoride is added, they're in areas where it's naturally high and are way, way above what gets added here, plus look at you and me, we have been drinking fluoridated water and we're both smart."

IDK, it's miserable. Basically you go on natural news and learn about all the lies, then spend twenty times as much time learning about the debunkings for all the lies and then try to be nice when you tell them they're wrong.

Since your mom has had previous successful treatment from allopathic doctors call back to that; "but mom I'm so glad they were able to take care of your cancer - I know it was hard but I think you might not have survived if you hadn't trusted your doctors." "but mom, look at how much the medical science on diabetes has improved in your lifetime; i'm glad it's easier to manage now than it was when you were younger, and that there are better treatments being developed all the time; I don't think they're hiding things from us otherwise they'd still treat diabetes and cancer like they did in the 50s, and things are so much better than that."

Just. Try to be nice. Try not to attack her. Try to keep it light and offer cheerful arguments before changing the subject.

You don't want her to get defensive, you want her to consider you to be someone she can ask for information who won't make fun of her and doesn't think she's stupid.

Anyway. Life with my mother in law has been fun recently. She watched a youtube video and decided she must have gone into ketosis after fasting for twelve hours so she ordered a bunch of protein strips and I'm cooking for her a few times a week to guarantee that she's eating something other than canned chili beans.

So. You know. I feel you.

[angelsfat3]

꽃.ㅤㅤ( 𝒥𝔲𝐬𝑡 ) ／ㅤ𝔘𝓼ᆞᆞᆞ𝔉𝓸𝓇𝑒𝔳𝔢𝒓.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖻𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌.ㅤ／ㅤ 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒!𝑌𝑢𝑛𝒉𝑜, 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑝 (4𝑦), 𝑜𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒, 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒.ㅤ٭ㅤ危险──𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔(𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡), 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠, 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑖𝑑, 𝑌𝑢𝑛𝒉𝑜 𝑠𝒉𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝒉𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑠—𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑛.

Summer had just ended when you moved with your parents to a private neighborhood—again. A quiet place, with pristine streets, neighbors walking their dogs, elderly folks jogging, and houses that all looked eerily similar. It wasn’t the most exciting place in the world, but at least you had your own space, and the university wasn’t as far away as the others had been. Not bad.

Your parents, on the other hand, seemed thrilled about this so-called “fresh start” and, as expected, wasted no time striking up conversations with some of the neighbors.

That’s how you met him.

At first, it was just a few glances from the corner of your eye as you hauled heavy boxes from the trunk of the car. He was tall, dressed in a neatly pressed shirt, with a calm expression as he spoke to your parents at the entrance. You wouldn’t have paid much attention to him—until you heard him call your name.

“You must be [...], right?”

When you looked up and straightened, Yunho was already in front of you, wearing a... friendly smile. There was something about him—a natural confidence that made anyone lower their guard the moment they saw him.

“I’m Yunho. Jeong Yunho. I live a few houses down... Your parents mentioned you’ll be starting university soon.”

His tone was warm, too gentle, too sweet—perfect. He wasn’t giving you a single reason to be suspicious of him, was he?

Moving had never been an issue for you. Or at least, it had never affected you as much as it did now.

Maybe it was because this time, it wasn’t just about changing houses—it was an entirely different environment. A new university. Strange people. Going from the city to a private neighborhood with spotless streets, picture-perfect houses, and neighbors who seemed to live flawless lives gave you a weird feeling. Like everything was too... organized.

Too controlled. Or rather, too perfect. Almost stupidly dreamlike.

Yunho was one of the first people to welcome you. Or, more accurately, to show up at your door the day after helping you haul what felt like a thousand boxes into your new place.

You remembered it clearly. His soft voice, his polite tone, the way your parents thanked him for offering to help you get settled. It was a simple gesture, but from that day on, he never really left your side.

You still recalled the faint creak of the fence pulling you out of your thoughts. When you looked up, there he was, leaning against the wooden frame, his expression relaxed as he watched you.

“Heey, more boxes? Need a hand with that?”

His voice was calm, like he wasn’t expecting a no.

You blinked a couple of times before glancing down at the boxes in your hands—the last ones left to take up to your room. They weren’t heavy, but after so many trips back and forth, your body was starting to feel it.

“Nah, don’t worry… It’s not much. Just my room stuff, a couple of wooden shelves,” you replied, but he was already walking toward you.

By the time you thought of refusing, he had already taken one of the boxes with ease. His fingers brushed against yours in the process, but he either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care.

“You could use an extra pair of hands anyway. You look like Bambi trying to walk,” he said with a small laugh, flashing a sweet smile.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Somehow, when Yunho spoke in that effortlessly casual way, it was hard to contradict him. Like he knew exactly how to make you melt, what words to use to make you say yes without a second thought.

You followed him upstairs, and as he set the box down on your bed, he glanced around the room with a neutral expression—almost like he was assessing it. Judging it, you thought.

“Have you settled in well? Feeling comfortable yet?” he asked casually, his gaze trailing over the still-unopened boxes.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s quiet, but I haven’t met many people yet.”

“Well... at least you know me now. That should be enough, right?”

His tone was light, playful, but the way his eyes lingered on yours for just a second too long made something stir in your chest.

“I suppose so,” you replied.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. Yunho didn’t make you nervous—not in the way someone dangerous would. There was something about him that made him too easy to be around, too easy to follow along with.

The silence between you both was only broken by small, nervous smiles and the quiet exhales you let out through your nose.

“You know, your mom invited me over for tea the other day,” he said suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You frowned slightly.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah... We talked a little. She said she wanted me to look out for you.” He smiled slightly, though his eyes seemed to be watching your every reaction as he chuckled.

“And what did you say?”

“The truth,” he shrugged. “That I’d always keep an eye on you. Even if she hadn’t asked.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, so you just let out a short laugh.

“You make it sound like I’m a little kid.”

“Nah, not exactly.” Yunho tilted his head slightly, his smile barely there. “...But you are younger than me. And you just moved in. It’s normal for someone to look out for you a bit.”

Something about the way he said it sent a strange feeling down your spine, but before you could reply, he had already changed the subject.

“So… got any plans for today?”

“Nothing special. Just lying on the floor and pretending I’m organizing my stuff.”

“That’s... charming. How about we take a walk instead? I can show you around.”

His proposal was direct, without a single hint of hesitation. In fact, it sounded more like a plan than a suggestion.

There was no reason to say no. It made sense to get to know the neighborhood, and if anyone could show you around, it was him. Him.

You nodded. Yunho smiled, though for just a second, his eyes darkened.

“Good.”

You couldn't say it was annoying. Yunho wasn’t overbearing, he wasn’t intrusive, but somehow, his presence was constant—too much so.

If you went outside to take out the trash, he was in his garden.

If you came back from university, you’d see him leaning against his fence, smoking with a calm expression.

If your mother hosted a dinner with the neighbors, he was there, chatting with her as if they had known each other for years.

That was fine, wasn’t it? It was normal for a neighbor to try to be friendly, especially when you were new to the area.

But then… the little things started happening.

At first, you only noticed that he seemed to know more than he should—things you had never told him.

"Saw you leaving early today. Literature again?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah… how did you know?"

"You looked sleepier than usual. It was the same for me when I had that class. Always so boring."

Small details. Nothing that should really worry you. But then he started showing up in places you didn’t expect.

One time, after a particularly exhausting day, you decided to take a walk around the neighborhood.

Just to clear your head. You hadn’t gone far when you felt a presence behind you, making you lower the volume of your music and take out one of your earbuds.

"Oh, out for a walk? That’s a surprise." His voice startled you.

You turned your head and saw him there, one hand in his pocket while the other toyed with his keys, his usual lighthearted smile in place.

"Ah, yeah… Were you walking around too?"

"Something like that. I live close by and figured I’d take out the trash before it got too late." He shrugged, as if that was enough of an explanation.

And, in theory, it was. But the way he kept appearing whenever you were alone started to feel less like a coincidence and more like… something else.

Something too frequent, less like fate—more like… being watched?

After that night, you convinced yourself you were overthinking things. Until the café incident.

One morning, before your only class at university, you were at a café, looking at the menu when a familiar voice interrupted you.

"You didn’t ask, but I’d recommend the Americano. I remember you like really sweet things, right?"

You turned abruptly. Yunho was there, phone in hand and a cup of black coffee in the other, his expression completely at ease.

"Yunho? Wow… heh. What are you doing here?"

"Well, getting myself a coffee? I work nearby, and when I’ve got too much on my plate, I come here for a little energy boost."

There was no point arguing about it. It was a public café, after all.

But as you placed your order, something about his comment stuck with you.

‘I remember you like really sweet things, right?’

You had never told him that.

You couldn’t recall mentioning it in any conversation. Not even during dinners at home with your parents.

And yet, he knew.

Maybe you had talked too much about your preferences at some point.

Maybe Yunho was just observant.

Maybe…

Maybe you were imagining things, and your mother had simply mentioned it to him.

You didn’t want to overthink it. After all, Yunho hadn’t done anything truly strange—at least, not yet. He had never crossed a line or said anything that made you feel directly uncomfortable.

He was just a very attentive guy. A friend who was there when you needed him.

But then you started noticing more things.

No matter what time you left the house, he always seemed to know exactly when you’d be passing by. Like that time when you finished classes later than usual and, as you got off the bus, you saw him waiting inside his car.

"What are you doing here so late?" you asked, gripping the strap of your backpack tighter than necessary.

"Huh? I stopped by the store on the corner, and that’s when I saw you get off the bus," he replied naturally. "Want a ride home? I think it’s going to rain soon."

You hesitated for a second.

It wasn’t uncomfortable to go with him. In fact, it seemed like a kind gesture. He had said it in such a calm voice, always with something interesting to say, and somehow, his presence was… soothing.

But what worried you most wasn’t how he made you feel when he was with you. It was the lingering sensation afterward. As if his presence never really faded, even when he wasn’t around.

Like the lingering warmth of a hand on your skin—you could still feel it long after it was gone.

You accepted the ride that time. And then again. And again. Before you knew it, you couldn’t remember the last time you had walked home alone.

Things settled down for a while. You still saw him, but the visits and conversations became less frequent. You assumed it was because of his job, which was… a little strange? There were nights when he came home really late, sometimes past 4 a.m., looking slightly disheveled—his hair messy, his suit and shirt somewhat wrinkled.

Hmm…

Anyway… then there was another—yet another—somewhat ‘comical’ situation. Something about your phone, which had gone missing for nearly a day.

One morning, while searching for it at the bus stop, Yunho rolled down his car window, watching you.

"Looking for something?" he asked with his usual smile, holding up your phone.

Your stomach twisted.

"What. Where did you find it?"

"It was near your mailbox. I think you dropped it when you got out of my car. Your mom called me to give it to me so I could hand it back to you."

You took it with a quiet thank you, but as you checked your notifications, something stopped you.

There was a recent call in your log.

Emergency call—1 minute ago.

Your skin prickled.

You didn’t remember dialing an emergency number. You didn’t even have one saved.

You didn’t say anything, but the thought stuck with you all day.

Was it an accident? Had your mom tried to call you?

Or had Yunho checked your phone before giving it back?

The worst part was that, even if you wanted to suspect something, you couldn’t say it out loud. You couldn’t suddenly raise suspicions. There were… no real proofs.

Because Yunho had only returned your phone.

He had only been kind. As always.

As always.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ──

A few days after that incident, you tried to go on with your routine as if nothing had happened. You didn’t want to obsess over something that, in theory, didn’t make sense. Maybe you had accidentally dialed the emergency number…? Maybe Yunho really had gone to your mother to return your phone. Maybe…

Maybe… perhaps… it was all just a string of oddly coincidental events. That is, if it weren’t for the fact that his visits and conversations started increasing again—too much. It felt like he was practically living with you and your parents.

Because, seriously—God. No matter what time you left or came home, Yunho always seemed to be there. Like that time you went to the small supermarket on the corner, and as you turned past a house, there he was, holding a plastic bag with some bathroom disinfectants.

"Out again? What a surprise," he teased with a smile.

Or that time, just a day after you had casually mentioned how much you liked certain sweets that were hard to find, they suddenly appeared in your mailbox.

With a note: "Thought you’d like these. I spent so much on them, but they’re worth it. Enjoy."

There was no way he could have found them without searching through several expensive stores.

And then… there was the phantom clothing incident—at least, that’s what you decided to call it.

One morning, as you went to grab a hoodie from the basket of freshly washed clothes, you noticed it was missing.

You didn’t think much of it—until later that day, when you were heading out for a quick walk and, from a distance, you spotted Yunho on the street. He was wearing something strangely familiar—a gray hoodie, identical to yours. Too identical.

You wanted to ask him about it, but you felt ridiculous. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe he had owned it for a long time.

Everything was just a bunch of fucking coincidences.

So when Yunho invited your family over for dinner at his place, you didn’t have an excuse to refuse.

"It’s nothing formal," he said in that ever-charming tone of his. "I just… well, I wanted to thank you all for being so good to me. You’re like parents to me, and... [...] is like my little brother."

Your parents agreed without a second thought. They always spoke so highly of him—saying he was hardworking, kind, a young man with a bright future ahead. You didn’t mind going, but you weren’t exactly thrilled, either.

Because deep down, you knew: the more time you spent around Yunho, the harder it became to ignore that faint tingle of unease at the back of your neck.

And then, the night of the dinner arrived—in the blink of an eye.

A few minutes before leaving, you decided to take a quick shower. The warm water cascaded over your skin, easing the tension in your muscles, quieting your thoughts. The way it fell over your ears muted all outside noise, making it impossible to be distracted. You closed your eyes, reveling in the stillness of the bathroom.

For the first time in days, you finally felt like yourself again.

No worries.

No nagging questions.

No frustration.

Until you heard it.

Once. Then again. And again.

A continuous, sharp, but subtle noise.

Click.

Your body went rigid.

It was a small sound, but unmistakable.

You hastily wiped the remaining soap from your face, blinked, and turned toward the fogged-up window. Through the blurred glass, you saw nothing but the silhouettes of trees and the fading evening light.

You waited.

Hoping—praying—to see someone. To catch the faint glow of a red recording light.

... Nothing.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you yanked the curtain shut and rushed to finish up. You didn’t want to stay there a second longer—not when you knew someone was waiting for you to turn around.

You took a shaky breath and forced yourself through the rest of your shower—though every second felt like an agonizing eternity.

Wrapped in a towel, you made your way to your bedroom window. Outside, the street looked as peaceful as ever. Normal. Calm.

Everything was fine.

Everything was fine.

... But the unease in your chest didn’t fade.

Because if you really had heard the sound of a camera—

Who was there to take the picture?

No one knew your bathroom had a window facing the houses in the back.

No one.

Yeah. No one.

Anyway. The lingering mix of curiosity and unease didn’t fade, not even as you got dressed and made your way downstairs to join your parents.

"Took you long enough, did something happen, sweetheart?" your mother asked with a faint smile as she adjusted the collar of her blouse. "We didn’t want to leave without you."

Your father simply slipped on his coat and grabbed the car keys.

"Let’s go. I’ve been looking forward to that turkey Yunho promised me."

You said nothing as you got into the car. The uneasiness still weighed heavy on your chest, but you knew you couldn’t mention it without sounding paranoid. Or… insane.

What were you supposed to say? "I think someone was taking pictures of me while I was in the shower."

No. It sounded ridiculous.

And yet, as your father drove through the neighborhood, your gaze kept flickering toward the street, searching for something—anything—out of place. A shift in the bushes. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. A glint of light from a camera flash.

Something to prove you weren’t imagining things.

But the street looked… normal. Cars coming and going. Kids playing, elders chatting. Normal.

Since Yunho lived nearby, the drive barely lasted a minute. When you arrived, his house was warmly lit, the glow from the windows casting an inviting hue over the façade. It was a surprisingly elegant home—bigger than one would expect for someone who lived alone and seemingly did nothing but work.

The door opened before your father got out of the car.

"Hey! You actually came. Welcome!" Yunho greeted, flashing a bright smile. He was dressed in a neatly pressed shirt and dark slacks, making him look even taller—more put together. Had he just gotten off work?

"Thank you for having us, Yunho. Your home is… lovely," your mother said warmly as she stepped out of the car.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Han." He gestured for you all to come inside.

The interior was just as pristine as you had imagined—everything in its place, not a single object out of order. Very minimalistic. You liked that. Though it felt less like a home and more like something out of a magazine.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Yunho said as he grabbed a couple of wine glasses and a bottle. "Hope you came hungry. I practically made a buffet."

Dinner was… perfect. Almost too perfect.

Every dish looked professionally crafted, each flavor rich and refined. The atmosphere was comfortable. The wine was expensive. And Yunho made sure the conversation never dulled. He talked about work, how he had bought the house a few years ago, how well things were going for him.

Your parents were charmed.

"That’s so brave of you, dear," your mother said, sounding almost proud. "I can’t imagine someone my son’s age living alone in a place this… new."

Yunho smiled, then—slowly—his gaze landed on you.

"Well, some people have to face the world early and learn to grow up fast. Besides… I think, after all this time, life has finally rewarded me with something truly… beautiful."

Your fingers tightened around your napkin.

You knew it was meant as a compliment.

To your parents, it sounded like one.

But the way he said it… the way his eyes lingered on you just a second too long…

That wasn’t normal. Not from someone who swore he saw you as his little brother.

Your eyes darted away from him, scanning the room instead—anything to distract yourself. And then, you saw it.

Beneath the television, on a small shelf, sat a camera.

A professional camera. With a large lens.

Its position was perfect.

From there, if the camera was turned on, it could capture a direct view of your house.

Your room.

"Everything okay, [...]?" Yunho asked, resting his chin on his hand, eyes locked on you. Your parents were looking, too.

You didn’t know what to say.

You just gripped your napkin a little tighter—trying to ignore the creeping realization that maybe… just maybe…

The fabric between your fingers wasn’t the only thing Yunho wanted you to feel.

Dinner continued through dessert without incident, though it was hard for you to focus on the conversation. Every time Yunho spoke, every time he laughed with your parents, every time his gaze flickered toward you between sips of wine, it felt like something invisible was tightening around your throat.

The camera was still there. It hadn’t moved an inch, but its presence weighed on you.

You tried to ignore it. You didn’t want to obsess. You didn’t want to think about the faint click you had heard outside your room while you were in the shower. You didn’t want to imagine that lens pointing at your window—possibly more than once. Possibly while you were sleeping.

But Yunho knew.

You realized it when, in a fleeting moment, his fingers brushed against yours as he passed you a plate. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear.

"You’re awfully quiet tonight. Something wrong, mmh?"

You froze.

It was a simple, harmless question. But his tone wasn’t. Neither was the way his eyes darkened, subtly shifting.

It was as if he was reminding you that he noticed everything. That he knew exactly what was running through your mind.

"Just… a little tired," you murmured, pulling your hand away and avoiding his gaze.

Yunho only smirked.

After the lavish spread of desserts, the conversation carried on between him and your parents. You barely spoke. Your mind was too busy piecing together everything that had happened in the last few days.

And then, your mother glanced at her watch and slowly got to her feet.

"It’s been a wonderful evening… but I think it’s time we head out. We’re so sorry, dear. We have work early in the morning, and someone has to go to university."

Your father nodded, thanking Yunho once again for the meal.

"You’re always welcome at our home."

"I’d love that," Yunho replied, all warmth and charm—so harmless, so polite. "Maybe… this weekend? I’ll let you know."

Your parents seemed delighted by the idea.

You, on the other hand, felt uneasy at how effortlessly Yunho was sliding back into their lives.

As he saw them to the door, his attention shifted back to you—just for a second.

"See you soon, [...]."

It didn’t sound like a suggestion. Or a farewell.

It sounded like a fact.

"See you soon..."

For the first time, you weren’t sure if it was a promise… or a threat.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ݁⠀⠀،،⠀⠀메모 ! ㅤ⸻ㅤ I'M FINALLY BACK. I'll start writing the rest of the stories. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️.︐⠀📍

⠀𝒊. ⠀─⠀ All credits to @angelsfat3 / @foschiamara⠀𝄒

. . . ₍⠀아이디어 !ㅤ⸻ㅤfeel free to leave requests! <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>⠀₎⠀ ִֶָ

˖⠀⠀ ݁⠀©⠀،،⠀If you liked it you can like, follow me or reblog!!

[rootedinrevisions]

Just...Stay

SUMMARY: When he rolls back into her life every few months, Tyler Owens brings with him all the irresistible charm and warmth that first captured her heart, leaving her breathless and hoping for more. But as the years slip by, so do his promises, and every departure leaves her with another fracture in her heart and fewer illusions about the man she loves. Caught between the comfort of the life she’s built and the pull of the only man who’s ever felt like home, she must finally decide: will she wait for him one last time, or find the courage to let go and forge a path on her own? PART 2 HERE

Inspired loosely by "All the Cowboys" by Alexandra Kay.

WORD COUNT: 4.6k

WARNINGS: Angst. Unrequited love. Mentions of/Implied Smut.

TAG LIST: SEE COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists or be tagged for a specific character please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The screen door creaked as you settled onto the back porch steps, the sun beginning to dip beneath the horizon. You held the phone close, balancing it between your shoulder and ear as you traced absent circles on the weathered wood with your fingertip.

Your mom’s voice crackled on the other end, warm and familiar. “You’ve been keeping busy out there?”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, Mama. Got a load of wash done, fixed that fence post that was leaning. Even tried to fix the gutter on the barn.”

She chuckled. “You sound like you’re doing just fine then. So, what’s got you out on that porch, calling me like you got the weight of the world on your shoulders?”

You hesitated, glancing out at the fields stretching endlessly before you, caught between the quiet beauty of dusk and the ache you felt blooming inside. “I don’t know, Mama,” you said, almost whispering. “Just feeling a little lost, I guess.”

There was a long pause on the other end, and you could almost hear her piecing it together. “You saw him again, didn’t you?”

A sigh escaped you, a mix of regret and resignation. “Yeah, I did. He was just… there, like nothing had changed.” You shook your head, remembering the way he’d looked at you, that familiar glint in his eye. “I know what you’re gonna say, Mama.”

She didn’t hesitate. “That boy’s no good. He comes ‘round whenever he pleases, but he leaves just as quick. You can’t be holding out for someone like that, honey.”

You felt your chest tighten, the truth of her words hitting harder than you’d like to admit. “I know, Mama. Believe me, I know.” You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, fingers fidgeting. “But when he’s here… it’s like I forget all that. I forget how many times he’s done this before, how I feel every time he leaves.” Your voice grew softer, thick with frustration. “And then he’s gone, and it feels like… like there’s this empty spot he left behind.”

There was a pause before she spoke again, her voice gentle but firm. “Why do you let him do this to you, sweetheart?”

You exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know. Maybe I keep hoping it’ll be different. That maybe… he’ll stay.” The words sounded hollow even as you said them.

You could feel her weighing her response, the silence heavy between you. “Honey, some people just aren’t made to stay. They get what they need and they’re gone, leaving folks like you to pick up the pieces.” She paused, and you could almost see her shaking her head. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

A lump formed in your throat as you thought of Tyler driving off into the sunset, no promises, no goodbyes—just gone. You let out a weary breath, looking down at the chipped paint on the porch step beneath you. 

“Why do they always leave, Mama? Every time things get good, he just vanishes.”

“Oh, honey…” She sighed, the sound deep and knowing. “It’s in some folks’ nature to chase what they don’t have, always looking for something else just over the next hill. Doesn’t mean you have to keep getting hurt by it, though.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the truth settle heavily in your chest. The silence stretched on, filled only by the chirping of crickets and the fading warmth of the sun. You knew your mother was right, but as you sat there, a small part of you still hoped that maybe, just maybe, he’d come back one day and stay.

The memory came back in a slow, aching wave. Just two nights ago, you and Tyler lay tangled up together under the sheets, his arm wrapped tightly around you. The world felt quiet in those moments, like the whole world had shrunk to just the two of you, his warm skin against yours, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

You tilted your head up to look at him, his face softened in the dim light. “So… how long are you sticking around this time?” you asked, half-joking, though you both knew the question carried a heavier weight.

Tyler’s gaze drifted, his lips twitching in that familiar, evasive way. “Maybe longer this time,” he mumbled, though he couldn’t quite meet your eyes when he said it. Instead, his thumb traced absent circles over your shoulder, a touch meant to soothe but only deepening the pit forming in your stomach.

You wanted to believe him, wanted to hold on to that maybe, but his tone, that shift in his eyes as he looked away—it was the same pattern, the same script. You’d been through this dance too many times not to recognize the truth hiding behind his words. He would be gone by morning. And as much as he’d tried to sell you that soft maybe, the two of you understood this wasn’t a visit that would last.

But in that moment, as you curled up against his side, you pretended you didn’t know. You buried yourself in the warmth of his embrace, letting yourself have just one night, pretending you wouldn’t wake up alone.

And sure enough, the next morning, when your hand reached across the bed to his side, it found nothing but cool sheets. You stared at the empty space beside you, that hollow ache settling deep in your chest. With a sigh, you threw back the covers and padded over to the closet, grabbing one of his old T-shirts he’d left on one of his previous stays, back when you still believed he might keep leaving pieces of himself behind to build something more permanent with you.

The shirt smelled faintly of him, a hint of cedar and summer nights that made your throat tighten. Tugging it over your head, you went to the kitchen, the floor cold against your bare feet as you filled the kettle, automatically going through the motions of your morning coffee.

And that’s when you saw it—the note, lying in the center of the kitchen table, his handwriting scrawled across the torn piece of paper.

It was a short message, just a handful of words that were supposed to feel like a promise, but instead felt like one more empty reassurance. You picked it up, reading the rushed lines that only served to emphasize his absence.

Didn’t want to wake you. Take care, darlin’. I’ll see you around.

The words felt flimsy, like the paper might disintegrate under the weight of your disappointment. You crumpled the note in your fist, feeling the familiar sting behind your eyes. This wasn’t new—this cycle of him drifting in, leaving pieces of himself in the form of old T-shirts and half-hearted promises, only to vanish before you could say goodbye.

You’d been through this so many times before, and yet, as you stood there, clutching that note, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this time was the one that would finally break you.

Your mom’s voice cut through the silence, gentle but firm. “Honey, you still there?”

You blinked, realizing you’d let the silence drag on too long, your mind caught in the weight of memories you could barely hold onto. “Yeah, Mama,” you murmured, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

“I know you love him,” she continued softly, but her words carried a strength you weren’t sure you had anymore. “But I need you to ask yourself if he’s treating you like he loves you, too. ’Cause, baby, love isn’t something you only hold onto when it’s convenient. It’s there in the hard times, in the moments that aren’t so pretty. And if he’s not showing up for you… maybe it’s time to ask yourself why you’re still waiting.”

You nodded even though she couldn’t see you, staring down at the crumpled note still clutched in your hand. The truth of her words was painful, like a splinter lodged too deep to pull out.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know you’re right.”

“I just hate seeing you go through this, time and again,” she said, her voice tinged with a sorrow that made your chest ache. “You deserve someone who’s there for you, who doesn’t keep running just because things start feeling real.”

You exhaled, forcing a smile that felt as brittle as glass. “Thanks, Mama. I… I just needed to hear that.”

“Anytime, baby,” she said, her tone softening. “You take care of yourself. And remember, it’s okay to let go.”

After a quiet goodbye, you hung up, setting the phone down beside the note. Your mom’s words echoed in your mind, a steady reminder of what you deserved, a grounding tether pulling you back to reality. She was right, of course. She always was. And yet…No matter how many times he left, or how much you knew he wasn’t treating you the way you deserved, there was still a part of you—a foolish, stubborn part—that couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he stayed. Just once.

You closed your eyes, letting the bittersweet ache of a daydream settle over you, imagining what it would be like if he stayed. Just once.

You could almost feel him there beside you, his arm still wrapped around you as you stirred awake. In this vision, his side of the bed wasn’t empty; he was there, his breathing slow and steady, a soft smile tugging at his lips as you rolled over to nuzzle closer. The warmth of his body against yours made you feel safe, grounded, as though he was finally, truly yours.

Later, you pictured the two of you in the kitchen, the early light streaming in through the window as you handed him a mug of coffee. He’d take it, wrapping his hands around yours just a second longer than necessary, his fingers warm against your skin. You’d share a quiet laugh over something simple, something easy, while the steam curled between you. And as he sat across from you, his eyes would linger like he was savoring the moment, like he was savoring you.

In your mind, you watched as he’d finish his coffee, rising from the table to head out to the fields with you. He’d tug on a worn cap and grin over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling in that way that always made your heart stumble. You’d walk side by side, falling into the comfortable rhythm of working together, your boots crunching over the soil as you talked about things that never came up in his fleeting visits. What you’d plant next season, what you’d add to the place if you had the time and the money. He’d joke about the future, and for once, you’d let yourself believe in it.

Evenings would come, and you’d find yourselves on the back porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon, casting a warm glow over everything. He’d reach for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You could almost feel the weight of his head resting against yours, his soft murmur of how he’d missed this, missed you. And as night fell, the stars would come out, and he’d pull you close, wrapping you in his arms as though he had nowhere else to be.

And then, in this daydream, he’d follow you back inside, his arm draped around your shoulders as you led him up to bed. There, tangled up in the sheets, he’d hold you close, his touch lingering and gentle, making you feel like you were the only person who’d ever mattered to him. His whispered promises wouldn’t be half-hearted or hesitant; they’d be real, as solid as the feel of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. You’d fall asleep in his arms, knowing he’d be there when you woke, that he’d finally found a place with you he wouldn’t leave behind.

But as you opened your eyes, the reality settled around you like a familiar chill. It was just a daydream, a vision of something you’d never have, as fleeting as his footprints fading from the dirt driveway. And yet, you couldn’t help but hold onto it for one more heartbeat, wishing with all the fragile hope you had left that someday, somehow, it could be real.

* * * * *

A MONTH LATER

It was a late afternoon, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows over the gravel drive as you stood on the porch, the distant rumble of an engine reaching your ears. You recognized that sound before you even saw the dust cloud rising in the distance, stirring up memories you’d been trying to put to rest for weeks. His truck rounded the last bend, and there he was, windows down, that easy, rugged grin spreading across his face as he slowed to a stop in front of the house.

Tyler stepped out, stretching his arms like he belonged there, like he hadn’t left you picking up the pieces last time. Dust clung to his boots as he walked toward you, his eyes fixed on yours with that familiar spark—one that made you feel seen in a way that was hard to shake, even when you wanted to.

He looked just the same, though maybe a little more sun-worn, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, his jeans frayed in a way that was somehow endearing, like they’d seen as much of the road as he had. He stopped a few steps away, his gaze softening as it met yours.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm and low, as if no time had passed at all.

You stayed still, hands clenched by your sides. You’d prepared yourself for this—told yourself a hundred times that if he showed up again, you’d keep your distance, guard the pieces of your heart he kept leaving behind. But as he stood there you felt the walls you’d built begin to crack.

“Hey,” you replied, the word catching in your throat.

A beat of silence hung between you, heavy with all the things left unsaid. Then his face softened, his smile widening in that way that always undid you. And, as if by instinct, he reached for you, his hand lifting to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a gentleness that felt almost like an apology.

For a moment, you considered stepping back, holding onto the anger and hurt that had filled the empty space he left behind. But as his touch settled, as his thumb traced a line just below your cheekbone, all your defenses crumbled.

Before you knew it, you were reaching back, your hand settling over his as you let yourself lean into him. It was like slipping back into a familiar dream—the one where he stayed, where he was yours for longer than a fleeting moment.

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and you sank into his embrace, feeling the weight of his chin against your hair, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. And in that moment, against all reason, you let yourself believe that maybe this time would be different, that maybe he’d come back not just to leave again, but to finally stay.

He held you close, his arms wrapped around you with that familiar, unguarded tenderness. His chin rested on top of your head, and for a moment, it felt as if the world beyond his embrace had faded away. His fingers traced slow circles on your back, a quiet, grounding rhythm that felt as real as his voice when he finally spoke, low and rough against your hair.

“I missed you,” he murmured, the words so soft you almost didn’t catch them. He shifted, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours. “I’m glad to see you again.”

You looked away for a moment, the words stirring both warmth and ache deep in your chest. It was unfair, the way he could come and go, the way he could leave you longing for more, but when he looked at you like that—with his guard down, that rugged charm softened by something raw and honest—it was hard to hold onto your resolve.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, barely able to meet his gaze. He smiled at that, a slow, almost relieved smile, as if he’d feared he might’ve lost his place in your heart.

He let his hand drift to yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a familiar gesture. “Come on,” he said, tugging you gently, “let’s make a day of it.”

With Tyler by your side, you found yourself lost in the rhythm of farm chores that felt lighter, easier, with him there. He was quick to lend a hand, reaching for the same tools you did, working alongside you with that easy, capable grace he seemed to carry everywhere.

You walked through rows of vegetables, pulling up the last of the summer crops, the sun warm against your skin. Tyler watched as you tossed a few stray weeds into a pile, a hint of amusement in his gaze.

“So,” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence, “how’s the team? Boone, Lily, Dani, Dexter?”

He chuckled, swiping a smudge of dirt from his forearm. “They’re all good. Wild as ever. Boone’s still dragging his feet over settling down, though I keep telling him he’s a fool if he lets Lily go. And Dani’s got herself a new truck she’s way too proud of. Dexter? Well, you know him; he’s just happy to tag along for the adventure.”

You smiled at the thought of his friends, feeling a pang of longing for the life he lived—a world of movement and adventure, so different from the one you held steady here. “They sound like they’re keeping you busy.”

“Yeah, they do.” He looked at you, a softness to his expression that made your heart skip. “But they’re not the only ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Been thinking about you too, you know. Wondering what you’re up to when I’m gone.” He paused, glancing around the fields before adding, “How’s your mom doing?”

You swallowed, touched that he remembered to ask. “She’s good. Stubborn as ever, trying to do too much on her own. But we manage.”

He nodded thoughtfully, reaching out to steady you when you stumbled on a loose patch of earth. “You’ve got your hands full, don’t you?”

“Guess so,” you said, shrugging with a small smile. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering, as if taking in the way you belonged here, rooted to this land and this life. For a moment, you thought he might say something more, but he only squeezed your hand, wordlessly acknowledging that unspoken divide between his world and yours.

Later, after a simple dinner you’d shared at the kitchen table, you both made your way out to the porch as the sun dipped low in the sky. He settled onto the swing beside you, letting his arm drape casually over the back of it as you leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek.

The evening was calm, the colors of the sunset stretching across the horizon in soft shades of pink and orange, and you found yourself sighing into the quiet.

“This…this is nice,” you murmured, glancing up at him.

Tyler gave a soft hum of agreement, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles along your shoulder. “Could get used to it,” he said, his voice soft, as if testing the thought aloud. “It’s different from the rush of things out there. Being here with you—it just feels right.”

The words settled between you, gentle and unassuming, but laced with a longing that you felt all too acutely. He looked down, catching your gaze, his eyes holding yours in the fading light.

“I know you’ve got your life on the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “But sometimes I wonder…what it’d be like if you stayed.”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting out over the fields that stretched into the distance. Finally, he gave a small nod. “I think about it too. More than you know.”

You fell into a comfortable silence, his arm around you, your head resting on his shoulder as the last light slipped below the horizon. And in that quiet moment, you let yourself imagine a world where he was yours—not just for today, but for all the days and nights to come.

In the quiet glow of the fading sunset, Tyler’s gaze grew heavy, lingering on yours with a kind of tenderness that always seemed to pull you in too deep, too fast. And in a heartbeat, he was scooping you up, lifting you effortlessly into his arms as you laughed, breathless and already feeling the rush of surrender. He carried you down the hallway, his eyes never leaving yours, each step filling the space with anticipation you could feel in every beat of your heart.

The bed was cool beneath you as he laid you gently on the sheets, his body following close, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of any distance between you. His hands were careful yet urgent as he traced familiar paths along your skin, murmuring against your ear, his voice low and rough with want. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he whispered, his breath warm against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his voice wash over you, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your chest. “I’m lucky,” he murmured, his lips brushing your collarbone. “I’m the luckiest damn man alive that you’re mine.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to cling to those words and tuck them away, to let them soothe every doubt he’d left behind. But you pushed the ache aside, banishing it to some quiet corner of your mind where it couldn’t reach you now.

Instead, you let yourself get lost in him, in the way his hands knew every inch of you, how his touch left you dizzy, breathless, like you were the only thing that mattered in his world. Every whispered word, every gentle kiss pressed to your skin, they all felt like a spell you couldn’t break. And for that one perfect night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth.

Afterward, as you lay tangled together in the sheets, your body pressed close to his, his arm wrapped around you, it was almost easy to forget. To ignore the hollow ache in your chest and pretend that this time, he wouldn’t slip away with the sunrise. And so, for those last quiet hours before dawn, you let yourself exist in that fragile, fleeting moment, letting go of everything but him.

The soft sound of Tyler stirring pulled you from the haze of sleep. You opened your eyes to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, already reaching for his clothes. The early morning light filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over his figure as he moved quietly, carefully separating your clothes from his in the pile by the bed. For a moment, you wanted to reach out, to pull him back, to press your face into his shoulder and beg him to stay. But something in you had finally had enough.

He noticed you were awake, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile that you’d once let yourself believe was meant just for you. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hand brushing over your shoulder. 

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured. “You need the rest.”

But you couldn’t—not anymore. Watching him move through the room, watching him get ready to leave again as if it were just another morning, you felt something inside you finally shift, that last fragile bit of hope you’d clung to finally snapping.

Sitting up, you took a steadying breath. “Tyler,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. He looked over, a hint of surprise in his eyes at your tone. You struggled to keep your voice even, the words tangled in your throat. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep waiting for someone who always leaves when things start to feel... real.”

He stilled, the easy expression on his face fading as the weight of your words sank in. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the same struggle you’d seen a dozen times before, but this time you weren’t going to let it end with an unspoken understanding. You were done with the quiet promises, the hope that somehow, one day, he might change.

“Stay,” you whispered, feeling the tears prick at your eyes. “Just... stay. I’m not asking you to give up chasing. I just want you to come home—to make this your home. To choose me.”

He looked at you, something like regret flickering in his gaze, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you wanted. 

Instead, he let out a shaky breath and looked down, and when he looked back up, all he managed was, “I’m sorry.” And you knew, in those two words, he’d already made his choice.

As he turned and started for the door, you found yourself following him, your steps echoing in the silence of the house as you trailed him through the hallway, the kitchen, the living room—all the way out onto the porch. You watched as he opened the truck door, throwing his bag into the backseat like he had a hundred times before.

“Don’t come back,” you said, the words escaping before you could stop them. Your voice wavered but held firm, steady with a finality that startled even you. 

He froze, his hand on the truck door, then turned to look at you. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—shock, maybe even hurt—as he crossed the driveway and came back up the steps, stopping just a few feet away.

“You don’t mean that, darlin’,” he said, his voice low and careful, as if he could talk you back from the edge. “You’re upset, I get that, but... you don’t mean it.”

But you shook your head. “I do, Tyler. I can’t keep doing this. If you’re not choosing me, then... then don’t come back.”

He held your gaze, searching for something, as if hoping to see the softness he’d come to rely on. But when he only saw your resolve, he let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly. 

“I’ll call you later,” he murmured. “We’ll talk.”

And just like that, he’d told you everything you needed to know. You didn’t need a call. You didn’t need another apology. You’d waited long enough.

You stood on the porch, watching as he climbed back into his truck. He didn’t look back as he drove down the driveway, the morning sun casting his truck in a halo of light as he disappeared into the Kansas countryside. You watched until he was just a speck on the horizon, your heart breaking and mending all at once with the realization that this was truly goodbye.

You’d loved him with everything you had, but you knew now that you couldn’t keep waiting for him to choose you. And when the phone finally rang, you knew you wouldn’t pick it up. Not this time. Not ever again. Because the next time he came back, you’d be moved on, ready to start again without him.

[winwin17]

I want to talk about Legolas and singing. (Hang in there, because it starts out a little silly but turns meaningful.)

How many times do you think he just broke off into song during the Fellowship's quest? Well, one time he's like, "Let me sing you this song about Nimrodel!" He also sings to himself in the middle of the night when he's on watch. When the Three Hunters reunited with Merry and Pippin, they relax and smoke their pipes - except for Legolas, who lounges next to them, looking at the sky and singing softly to himself.

He sings to the horse of Rohan when it freaks out about the Paths of the Dead. He stops in the middle of recounting a story to the Hobbits, breaking off to sing a song about the lands they passed through, which feature in the account he's telling. When he goes to see Merry and Pippin in Minas Tirith, people watch curiously, not only because it was odd to see an Elf and Dwarf at ease with one another, but also "Legolas was fair of face beyond the measure of Men, and he sang an elven-song in a clear voice as he walked in the morning...." And then later he mentions that he hopes to bring some of his people to the region - but he gets distracted thinking about the river, which leads to the sea, and he wanders off singing to himself of the sea.

We know singing is important to all Elves, but it seems to me that Legolas randomly sings more than maybe the average Elf does. Maybe it's just because we get to see so much of him compared to some of the other Elves - but either way, I like to think this is his way of keeping his hope up.

Legolas is from Mirkwood, and not only that, he's a prince. He possibly remembers when his home was still called Greenwood, before the shadow of Sauron came over it. Being that Mirkwood was one of the last Elven realms preserved in Middle Earth, it must have grieved and angered the inhabitants to watch this evil befall. Years were spent trying to fight back the Shadow over Mirkwood. It stands to reason that Legolas had a significant role in that. No doubt he took this very personally, trying to defend and preserve his people and their beautiful realm. At times it seemed that the Shadow was driven back, only to return again. Among the Wise, it was highly suspected that Sauron would make another comeback and the age of the Elves in Middle Earth would be over.

And yet Legolas keeps singing. He sings folk songs from his people, he sings of beautiful lands far and wide, of ancient heroes who gained renown fighting the enemy. Maybe he even made his own songs, too. And in the face of the darkness, when it seemed the Shadow would swallow everything up, the only thing he could do to keep his courage was to keep singing. I'd like to think that's part of why he's developed the habit of just singing to himself sometimes. That, and the fact that he just likes to sing and express himself in song, and he possesses a buoyant spirit. But where did that come from? Is it just a personality trait, or something more, something fine-tuned in the Shadows of Mirkwood in defiance of Sauron?

When Legolas sings, it comes from a hard-bought hope cultivated by years of trial. Greenwood may become Mirkwood, but the Greenleaf is still green, and he's not about to let that change, though it takes him to a battle against all odds at the Black Gate itself. He, too, sings to remind himself that the Shadow is only a passing thing. It cannot vanquish the joy and hope and wonder at the beautiful things of the world that overflows at random moments. And that's why we love him, silly moments and all.

[skyscrapergods]

has being fucking Massive and Immortality changed the alicorns’ perspective on regular ponies? I imagine they’d get more condescending and distant and stuff

You are surrounded by flies. If you pause, and look closely, you realize the flies are iridescent, with deeply colorful eyes, and beautiful wings like stained glass. It cannot see the colorful windows of your world, but you can try to describe them. But know that doing so take up the creature's precious time. Years to them is mere hours to you. In a long conversation about the stars, you and the fly share ideas and perspectives. You come away delighted with a new view on constellations and what they mean to the common folk.

The fly comes away dazzled, haunted, and halfway to the grave. What was to you a wonderful conversation was years of study, communion, and dedication on the part of the small creature. He gave up any other pursuits, he constructed his life around this cause. He lost his friends, family, and home. You lost your lunch break.

You love this creature. You love the small being that you once were. You want to talk to him again. You want to tell him of the stars, of dreams... but to speak with him twice, at least meaningfully, would take from him the rest of his life. Could you demand that from him for the sake of your own curiosity? Years passed for him already. In the time it took you to draw a breath, his childhood ended. Do you summon him again? Or do you let him go to live his life, what's left of it?

It is painful for everyone. It hurts something in your chest, it breaks the heart of a god. It wounds his family to watch him leave them behind for the sake of what? A mere whim? He had ambitions! He had a story! It's all gone now. Rewritten for your musings.

You leave him. He cries for you but he needs not a goddess. He needs to live, to turn from the sky to his fellow bugs.

That's what he is. A fly. A mere insect to you. To hold him down is to pin him through his soft center, and display his corpse as a record of his extinction.

So look away. Forget the color of his eyes, the sound of his voice, and the intelligence that stirred you to pluck him out his world and keep him in yours. There, he would be a wildflower with a cut stem. He would be beautiful, but he is so small, and so quiet. He would be just a decoration on your table; made to dance and sing for your amusement and then tossed out with the rubbish when he breaks.

You miss him. You love him. But he is a crawling worm and you are the rain. There are many others like him, but you must be careful to only speak a few words to each. Or better yet, say nothing at all. Let them fade and mix into a writhing blur without name, stories, or opinions on stars.

You are surrounded by flies.