#not even for the money just to have Less Things

[haunted-80s-arcade-game]

So I’ve seen some posts going around saying things like “boycotting doesn’t work, don’t bother boycotting Eurovision because they’ve already been paid. The only thing you can do to help is donate to organisations.” People are only saying this to absolve themselves of guilt. Don’t let them make you think that boycotting doesn’t work. It does.

Boycotting means that Eurovision will have a much harder time finding advertisements who want to partner with them, which means less funding overall. Boycotting means that they receive less money from televoting, ticket sales and merchandise. Boycotting means that their view count drops significantly and puts pressure on them to change their current practices. Boycotting means you won’t let Eurovision distract you while bombs are falling on Palestine. And most importantly: boycotting means sending a clear message that you will not stand for their support of Israel.

Eurovision is not staying apolitical. They have taken a political stance by letting Israel compete, just like they took a political stance when they banned Russia from competing. They are perfectly capable of banning countries for committing war crimes, so allowing Israel to compete shows that they are accepting and excusing Israel’s genocide. They are also sponsored by an Israeli company (MoroccanOil) so if you’re wondering how Eurovision could POSSIBLY side with Israel, there’s your answer: money.

Don’t give them any of yours. Don’t give them your viewership. Boycotting works, and if you’re feeling guilty for watching Eurovision, good. Feel bad. People are being killed, tortured, families torn apart and houses being bombed as we speak, so forgive me if I’m not sympathetic over you not being able to watch your fucking song contest. Not everything is about you. You’re going to have to feel uncomfortable sometimes when there’s a fucking genocide going on.

Lastly, not everyone is able to donate. Boycotting is a great way of helping if you’re not able to help financially. The Palestinian BDS National Committee and pro-Palestine organisations are encouraging people to boycott Eurovision, so even Palestinians themselves and Palestinian organisations are telling you that boycotting will help.

Eurovision is not worth it. You can find something else to do. Stream Hind’s Hall by Macklemore since all proceeds go to UNRWA. You can also help for free by starting your daily clicks on Arab.org.

And if you are able to donate, then great! Do that too:

And dear god, if you’re really not able to go without Eurovision then find a fucking way to pirate it. I am also begging people not to hate-watch Israeli’s entry because all that does is stop the boycott and make the viewerships spike again. The best thing you can do is fucking ignore them.

[ithebookhoarder]

Special Delivery (Spencer Reid x F!Reader)

Description: Something's different about Reid and no-one knows what. However, a surprise delivery to the BAU may just have the answer...

Warnings: Food references, mentions of mental health, mentions of medical procedures, references to smutty behaviour, Spencer being adorable

Masterlist

“Ok. Am I the only one who’s noticed something’s different with Reid lately?” Morgan remarked, watching as the said boy-genuis made his way across the bullpen and over to his desk. 

“Yeah,” Emily hummed, watching the young agent over the rim of coffee cup. She had to admit it - as much as it annoyed her - Morgan was right; Spencer has definitely been acting different. If anything, she was surprised it had taken them all this long to say anything. 

Normally, they were all over each other the moment they noticed anything even remotely different about each other. Hell, she’d barely taken a step off the elevator, after getting an extra few inches cut off at her latest haircut, before the team were quizzing her about possible life changes and whether or not they needed to be worried about her. 

It was a hazard of working with profilers for a living; it was almost impossible to keep anything a secret. No wonder they were all intrigued and slightly confused by the fact that none of them had been able to pinpoint what was going on with their friend. 

The most notable difference was the gradual disappearance of the dark circles under his eyes. Reid also seemed happier in general, less quiet and reserved when talking to others, and it was starting to make agents talk. 

Morgan and Emily stood up straighter as JJ walked over to join the unofficial gossip session. She took one look at the pair and knew immediately what they were whispering about. 

“Are you talking about Reid?”

“Oh yeah,” Morgan grinned, “my money’s on him having finally found someone.”

Emily choked, seemingly as a result of inhaling her coffee at the grand statement. “What?”

“Oh, come on, Miss ‘super spy’. Just look at him,” he teased. “He’s been distracted. He’s all goo-goo eyed and he’s been leaving this place at a normal hour. Like… tell me that doesn’t scream ‘I got a date’.”

“What? It could be loads of things. It doesn’t have to be a date, right JJ?”

“He’s probably just happy. We’ve all been getting more sleep lately and our paperwork is non-existent at the moment,” JJ murmured, reaching past the pair of them to grab for the coffee pot. She was clearly doing her best to try and put this line of questioning to rest. She’d always been the first to protect the younger agent she now saw as a little brother. “Besides, we all know he’s not interested in dating, he hasn’t been since…. Well, you know.”

Morgan groaned. “But what about the secret texts, JJ!” he protested, ignoring the look Emily shot him in return. “He’s been glued to that phone of his and keeps giggling like a school kid. Then there’s the lunches! I know he’s always been organised and likes things a certain way, but damn. His lunches have been like next level - and actually healthy? And I swear he’s had jello like every day.”

JJ rolled her eyes. “You’re basing your profile on jello? Is that it?” 

“Well, no I mean… did you not hear the part about the texting and the taking secret calls and the fact he didn’t come out for drinks last night-”

“-Can’t we just be glad for him? Whatever is going on, it’s good for him. Let’s just drop it, ok? He’ll tell us when he’s ready if there’s anything to share.”

“JJ’s right,” Emily echoed. “Reid’s just … happy. End of.”

By the way Morgan frowned it looked like it definitely was not the end of this conversation, but he never got the chance to argue. In fact, he was interrupted as the main doors opened next to them and a rather lost looking receptionist hurried through. 

Normally, this wouldn’t have been worth noticing but all three of them spun around at the sound of him calling out the name, “Agent Reid? uh… Is Agent Reid here?”

“Oh, uh, here!” Spencer shouted, soundly vaguely like he was taking roll call. It didn’t help that he shot his arm up in the air too, almost falling off his desk chair as he lurched to his feet and hurried over. “That’s… that’s me - and it’s Dr Reid, but it doesn’t matter. How can I help?”

“Oh, uh, there’s a Y/N at reception for you,” the unfortunate messenger managed, gesturing back the way they’d came. “I told them to wait whilst I came to check with you as they’re not on your visitor list-”

Spencer didn’t even let the poor man finish. He was already racing for the door before the man had even made it to the end of the sentence. Needless to say, the others were quick to follow, with Morgan smugly boasting “told you soooo” as he went. 

There was no way on earth they were missing this and considering Hotch and Rossi hadn’t arrived yet it wasn’t like they were about to get their asses handed to them for missing their briefing either. 

Despite the amount Spencer had told you about the BAU, you were still surprised by how different the FBI offices were to what you’d imagined. 

The offices were larger and the sheer number of people walking about in suits and carrying a side arm made you feel even more nervous, and that was already a problem considering you were stood there wearing neon blue scrubs, embroidered with jungle animals on the pocket. 

You were like a walking, flashing sign, screaming ‘outsider - does not work here’.  Thankfully, you weren’t going to be there long. You were only swinging by on your way to work, hoping to catch your utterly perfect - and utterly forgetful - boyfriend, before the start of your shift. 

Speaking of Spencer, you had only been standing there for possibly five minutes when you saw him barreling through the doors towards you. 

“Hey, Spence-“

“Y/N? Honey? What’s going on?” he gushed, hurrying over and taking your face in his hands. You could see his wide eyes frantically scanning every inch of you, looking for some kind of problem or sign that you were not ok. “Is everything alright? What are you doing here?”

You felt your cheeks warm at the sudden display of concern, very much aware of the scene your wonderful boyfriend was making. Spencer wasn’t normally the most affectionate in public, preferring to save those rare moments for when the two of you were alone. The fact he was so worried about what might have brought you to the FBI on a Tuesday morning was touching and made your heart swell. 

“I’m fine, Spence. Don’t worry-” 

“Then what are you doing here?” 

“You forgot something,” you soothed, pulling back and reaching into your satchel. It was impossible to miss the way his face reddened as you pulled out a neatly labeled Dr Who Tupperware by way of explanation. “I’m here because you were in such a rush this morning that you forgot your lunch.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’,” you teased. “I couldn’t exactly let you go hungry so I thought I’d drop it off on my way to work. I don’t start till later as I’m covering Amelia’s shift as she’s visiting her sister in Boston, so I thought I’d swing by.”

Sure, Spencer was an adult and you could have let him just buy something from the cafeteria or order something in for lunch, but considering how much effort he had gone to to cook with you the day before you felt bad letting it go to waste. 

He’d been so proud of the way the recipe had turned out, following the instructions and your guidance with extreme precision and care. The result had been a rather tasty looking dish - and it had the added benefit of being healthy too. You were always worried that Spencer seemed to think fast food, like Pizza, was a food group. Then again, he had been forced to be an adult pretty fast and had been in college so young that it wasn’t a surprise that no-one had been there to teach him about cooking and eating right. He had been too focused on his studies to even think about anything else.  

It was something he had been working on since you’d got together and now cooking had become one of your favourite date night activities. It didn’t hurt that you often ended up spilling food all over yourselves and needing to shower together - it was just a lovely bonus. In fact, your screensaver was now a picture of you and Spencer, covered in flour, and beaming ear to ear. 

“Thank you, that… that’s so nice,” Spencer stammered, “but I feel bad. You didn’t need to go out of your way and bring it to me.”

“As I say, it’s on my way to work. It’s no trouble.”

“Well, still-“

“Hey, pretty boy!” 

Spencer froze. 

“You gonna introduce us to your friend, or what?”

Spencer opened his mouth but instantly closed it again. You knew by the way he rolled his eyes and began muttering under his breath that whoever had shouted that had definitely been talking to him. 

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Pretty boy, huh?” 

“Don’t ask,” he whined, taking a deep breath as you looked over his shoulder and saw a small group of people now making their way towards you. “I should probably mention that I wasn’t sure how comfortable you were with me mentioning you, so I haven’t told anyone about us yet and those idiots are some of my team and I would say ‘run’ but they’re all faster than me.”

“Ah… I see. So I’m guessing that one is Morgan?” 

“Yes.”

“Well, no time like the present,” you cheered, turning and waving at the approaching trio. “Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N - Spencer’s girlfriend.”

“Wow. A girlfriend?” cooed Morgan, reaching over to pull you into a hug before the other two could stop him. To their credit, they looked slightly embarrassed by the display but they were clearly too interested in your identity to care. “And a doctor to boot? Didn’t know he had it in him. I’m Derek Morgan.”

“Oh, I worked that out. It’s good to finally meet you all.” 

The others were quick to echo the sentiment, with JJ and Emily quickly introducing themselves in tandem. They were also quick to invite you inside the office for some coffee, but thankfully you weren’t lying when you said you had to get to work. 

“You know how it is. People to take care of, medical cases to solve, lives to save - same old, same old. All I’m missing is a snazzy badge and I could be an FBI agent.” 

“Ha ha.” Spencer’s smile was genuine as you stole a kiss before making a dash for your car. However, you could see the nerves in his eyes at being left alone to face the great inquisition that now awaited him following the discovery of your existence. You were pretty sure the entire BAU would know about you before it even hit lunchtime. “I’ll see you later, ok?” 

“Of course. Just let me know if you’re coming home or if you’re off saving the world in another state - otherwise I can’t promise I won’t eat all the leftovers before you get back.” 

He chuckled. “Will do.” 

With that, you bid the others goodbye, making sure to agree when they asked (more like insisted) that you came to their family dinner on Friday night at none other than Rossi’s house. The rest of the team were going to be begging to meet you after this, and they were all bringing their families along too. 

If Spencer wasn’t comfortable with you going you were pretty sure the team would believe it if you said you’d got called into a last minute surgery, but you’d check later when you both returned to the apartment you now called your home. Either way, you were going to have to make something to take with you, just in case. 

As your grandpa had always said, there was no quicker way to someone’s heart than through their stomach. Or, as in Spencer's case, with an unlimited supply of Jello...

[wannab3-writer]

Country Club Rivalry

PATRICK ZWEIG X CHILDHOOD FRIEND READER (some Art x reader)

NOTES : GOD, how I tried to make this an Art x Reader because I'm an Art GIRLIE, but Pat just had to come out on top for this one, truly…"

WARNINGS — 18 + content mdni, fem!reader, not proofread

wc: 5.3k

description:

When three friends work at the same country club, things are bound to get messy—especially when they have a bet about who can win over the reader first.

The Oakridge Country Club was bustling with its usual summer energy. Guests lounged by the pool, chatting under the striped umbrellas, while golf carts zipped along the winding paths. The sun blazed overhead, casting sharp shadows on the clay tennis courts where Patrick and Art were finishing their morning lessons.

You stood at the server station near the patio, jotting down drink orders on your notepad. It wasn't your first summer at the country club, but you still enjoyed the easy rhythm of the job—the way the breeze rustled through the trees, the laughter of kids playing by the pool, and the familiar faces of the regulars.

Patrick waved at you from across the tennis courts, his hair tousled from teaching. He was grinning like he always did when he'd just finished a good session. Art stood beside him, spinning his racket in his hand, looking relaxed and effortlessly charming.

"Hey, how's your section?" Patrick called, jogging over with Art trailing behind. He was wearing his usual tennis gear, white shirt, and shorts, with a blue visor to keep the sun out of his eyes.

"Pretty good," you replied, glancing at your notepad. "Mrs. Anderson is on her third mimosa, so I'm expecting a big tip."

Art laughed. "Better watch out, she's got a mean backhand when she's tipsy. I saw her smack a golf ball into the pond last week. Her caddie still hasn't recovered."

Patrick chuckled, shaking his head. "Classic Mrs. Anderson. Did you know she was a tennis champion back in the day? She could probably still give us a run for our money."

Art leaned in, lowering his voice. "Speaking of giving people a run for their money, I heard you've been racking up the tips lately. What's your secret?"

You shrugged with a playful smile. "Just being nice to people, Art. You should try it sometime."

Patrick laughed and nudged Art's shoulder. "Yeah, Art, maybe if you focused less on flirting with every guest and more on your job, you'd make some tips, too."

Art feigned shock. "Me? Flirting? I don't know what you're talking about." He turned to you with a charming grin. "Do you think I'm a flirt?"

You raised an eyebrow. "A little, but that's your thing, right? I mean, it's not like you're betting on who can get the most milfs phone numbers or anything." Clearly sarcastic.

Patrick shot Art a look, then quickly turned to you with a smile. "Yeah, nothing like that. We just... like to keep things interesting."

Art nodded, but you noticed a brief flicker of guilt in his eyes. It was subtle, but it made you wonder if there was more to their competition than met the eye.

"Well, whatever it is, just don't bring any drama into my section, okay?" you said, playfully tapping your notepad against Art's chest. "I've got enough to deal with without you two causing trouble."

Patrick raised his hands in mock surrender. "No drama, I promise. We'll be on our best behavior."

Art winked. "Scout's honor."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but smile. Despite the teasing and the occasional competitive streak, you knew they meant well. It was just another summer at the country club, where the days were long, the sun was hot, and anything could happen.

Anything.

---

The Club had settled into its evening rhythm by the time you reached the bar. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, casting soft glimmers on the stone patio. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly cut grass. A live band played classic rock covers, the gentle strum of guitars mingling with the murmur of patrons relaxing after a day of golf and tennis.

Patrick was at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He looked up from his phone and waved you over, a broad smile lighting up his face. He'd changed out of his tennis instructor uniform into a casual blue polo and jeans, his hair still damp from a quick shower.

"Hey, there you are!" he said, using his foot to pull out a chair for you. "I was starting to think you forgot about me."

You shook your head with a grin. "Please, I could hear your bad jokes all the way from the kitchen. Had to come and see what was so funny."

Patrick laughed, setting his phone aside. "You know I'm hilarious. You just pretend not to appreciate my sense of humor."

You took a seat and glanced around. The bar was lively but not overcrowded. A group of older couples was playing cards at a nearby table, and a few teenagers from the tennis program were playing darts in the corner. It felt like the perfect end to a busy day.

"So, what are we drinking tonight?" Patrick asked, gesturing to the menu. "I've got whiskey, but I hear the margaritas are pretty good."

You considered for a moment. "Let's go with the margaritas. I need something fruity after today."

Patrick flagged down the bartender, who quickly mixed up a pitcher of margaritas with a generous splash of tequila. He poured you a glass and handed it over with a mock bow. "Your drink, my liege. May it bring you all the fruitiness you desire."

You raised your glass with a chuckle. "Thank you, William,” you turn towards the brunet “To Patrick, who somehow managed not to break any tennis rackets today. It's a new record!"

Patrick clinked his whiskey against your glass. "And to you, for not spilling any drinks on Mrs. Anderson. She's still mad about last summer's 'mimosa incident.'"

You rolled your eyes, remembering the time you accidentally spilled a tray of drinks on Mrs. Anderson's white dress during a particularly hectic brunch. "Don't remind me. I had to run for cover like I was in a war zone. I thought she’d have my head.”

Patrick laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "You should've seen her face. It was like you'd ruined her entire day. But hey, at least you got to keep your job."

As the two of you shared stories and relived old memories, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across the patio. The band transitioned to a slower song, adding a mellow vibe to the evening.

Art arrived a little later, his tennis gear replaced by a button-down snap back and jeans. He had a confident stride and a smile that seemed to draw attention wherever he went. He slid into the seat next to you, his presence bringing a shift in the energy at the table.

"What's up, party people?" he said, his voice smooth and inviting. "I hope you saved some margaritas for me."

Patrick handed him a glass. "Of course, wouldn't want our little Arty to feel left out.”  He added leaning into Art smirking. “What took you so long anyways,  Shelly needed some one-on-one time to work on her underhand? Or what. ”

You smirked. "You really think He’s that charming, huh?” she turns towards Art looking into his eyes “What’s your secret hmm? Is it the cologne?"

Art leaned in with a grin. "It's all about confidence. And maybe a little bit of cologne. But mostly confidence."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Right, because confidence is what you exude. You should've seen Art on the tennis court today. He was so confident he almost hit a kid with a tennis ball."

Art raised an eyebrow. "Almost. That's the key word. No harm, no foul."

The banter continued, the three of you falling into an easy rhythm. Art's charm contrasted with Patrick's laid-back, cheeky style, and you found yourself enjoying the playful back-and-forth.

As the evening progressed, you noticed Patrick watching Art with a hint of unease. It was subtle, like a flicker in his eyes whenever Art made you laugh a little too hard or leaned in a little too close.

---

"All right, we're here. Try not to break anything, okay? Last time you were here, my mom couldn't find her favorite vase for a week."

Art smirked, stepping inside. "That wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know it was on top of the fridge? Who puts a vase on the fridge, anyway?"

Art dropped his bag in his Patrick’s room and looked around. The place had an eclectic charm—walls lined with tennis trophies, faded concert posters, and family photos. A stack of video games sat beside the TV.

Patrick led the way into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge. He tossed one to Art, who caught it with ease. "So, what are you in the mood for? I was thinking pizza, but we can order something else if you're not into it."

Art popped open the bear and took a sip. "Pizza sounds good. Just no anchovies, okay? That stuff is nasty."

Patrick laughed, opening his own soda. "You're missing out, man. Anchovies are a delicacy." He grabbed the phone and dialed the pizza place, ordering a large with pepperoni and sausage. "There, something a bit more your speed. Happy now?"

Art nodded, leaning against the counter. "Yeah, that'll work. So, you ready for tomorrow? Two-on-two is serious business. We can't afford to slack off."

Patrick waved a hand dismissively. "Please, I'm always ready. Besides, we've got the advantage. I mean, have you seen the other teams? Half of them can't even hit a backhand."

Art chuckled. "You're so modest, Patrick. What would you do without me to keep you humble?"

Patrick shrugged with a grin. "Probably win more matches.”

Art threw a punch at Patrick's shoulder, and Patrick pretended to wince. They both laughed, the kind of easy camaraderie that came from years of friendship and shared jokes. But there was also a subtle tension in the air, like they were both aware of the unspoken rivalry that had been growing between them.

"So," Patrick said, leaning back against the kitchen island, biting his lip "you and […] seemed pretty chummy tonight. What's the story there? You trying to make a move, or what?" The familiar smirk making its way to his face.

Art raised an eyebrow, his expression guarded. "We're just talking. Nothing wrong with getting to know someone, right?" He finished wetting his lips.

Patrick smirked. "Sure, nothing wrong with that.” He shrugged.  “But you're not just getting to know her. You're flirting, and we both know it." He took a couple steps forward “Basically eye fucking her, to be honest” He only smiled.

Art shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Oh, come on Pat, maybe, She's just fun to be around, you know. No need to be gross." Art gave him a wry smile. "You know me. I just go with the flow. If she likes hanging out with me, who am I to complain?"

Patrick leaned in, lowering his voice. "Or maybe, you think she's interested in you. Is that what this is about? You think you've got a shot?" His eyes scanning arts face.

Art met his gaze, his expression calm but with a hint of challenge. "I don't know, man. Maybe I do. What does it matter to you huh? You think you've got the inside track because you've known her longer?"

Patrick grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I mean, it doesn't hurt. We've got a lot of history. I'm charming, good-looking, and I've got the best jokes. What's not to like?" he goes back to lean on the counter. “Besides, I’ve seen the real her, all of it, kinda gives me a little advantage don’t you think.”

Art halts, stops chewing his gum, straitening himself up. “What’s that supposed to mean Patrick.”

“Exactly what it you think.” He kissed his teeth, kicking off the counter and going back to looking inside the fridge.

Art chuckled, but there was a hint of envy in his laugh. "Well, if you're so confident, maybe we should make it interesting. How about a little bet? See who can win her over first?"

Patrick waved his hand dismissively. "Little Arty wants a bet he’ll lose?” He chuckles. “No games. Just a simple bet. May the best man win."

Art held out his hand, and Patrick shook it with a grin. The bet was sealed, but there was an underlying seriousness in Art's eyes. As they waited for the pizza, the two friends continued their banter, but there was a new edge to their jokes—like the stakes had just gotten a little higher.

---

A week after their doubles match, the annual Oakridge Country Club gala was in full swing, the ballroom bustling with elegantly dressed members and guests. The chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting warm light onto the neatly set tables, while smooth jazz played in the background. You stood near the entrance, surveying the glamorous crowd, your fitted dress drawing approving glances from a few partygoers.

Art was the first to spot you, leaning against a wall with a cocktail in hand, chatting up club regulars. He was dressed in a sharp suit, but he carried himself with a boyish charm. His grin was wide as he motioned for you to come over, his eyes moving from your head to your heels in a way that felt like a visual undressing.

"Wow," he said, raising his glass, "you clean up nice. I was expecting you to show up in your waiter outfit or something. I'm glad you went with the dress, though. Much more... appealing."

You gave him a playful smirk, stepping up to the bar. "Thanks, Art. I do my best to impress." You glanced at his drink. "Are you trying to get a head start on the partying? We haven't even hit the dance floor yet."

He took a sip, his gaze lingering on your lips. "Hey, I like to loosen up a bit before the main event. Keeps things interesting. Besides, you can't blame a guy for wanting to enjoy himself, right? You gonna  help me enjoy my night and keep me company?"

Patrick, who was laughing with a group nearby, walked over just in time to catch Art’s comment. He gave Art a look of mild disapproval, then turned to you with a sly smile.

"Don't listen to him. He's just trying to get you alone so he can talk your ear off about his latest tennis game.” Patrick shrugged, looking at Art with a smirk. "So boring. I was thinking we could have some real fun; you know? A little adventure never hurt anyone." He leaned closer, his voice barely audible over the music. "Besides, I know all the best spots around here. Private spots. You'd love it."

Art shook his head, clearly not amused. "Come on, Patrick. We're here to enjoy the gala, not to sneak off like we're in high school. Why don't we all just enjoy the party and see what happens?"

Patrick grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Sure, sure. Whatever you say, Art. But if you change your mind,” he turn towards her. “You know where to find me. I'll be the one having a good time." He turned to you with a suggestive wink while walking backwards to god knows where.

Art rolled his eyes, then smiled at you in a more relaxed manner. "Sorry about him, he’s not really allowed to leave the house. He's a good guy, but he doesn't always know when to tone it down. If you want, I can keep him from getting too out of hand. I wouldn't want him to scare you off." He says mocking Patrick as he walked away.

You laugh full heartedly glancing at Patrick, who was already chatting with a couple of other guests, his flirtatious demeanor on full display. " Thanks so for watching out for me. It can get a little overwhelming with him around." You continued smiling.

Art nodded smiling, his expression kind. " I was thinking we could get some food, maybe hit the dance floor. What do you think?" Art suggested, leading the way. "I'm sure Patrick will join us once he's done charming the entire room."

Patrick shot Art a mischievous look but didn't follow immediately. You could tell he was reveling in the attention, his flirtatious behavior attracting more than a few curious glances from the other guests.

The band switched to a slow, romantic melody, and Art extended his hand to you with a charming smile. "Care to dance?" he asked, his eyes warm and inviting.

You nodded, accepting his offer, and he led you onto the dance floor. His touch was gentle yet confident as he pulled you close, swaying to the music with practiced ease.

As you danced with Art, you felt yourself relaxing into his embrace. His presence was comforting, his movements smooth and graceful. You couldn't help but smile as you looked up at him, feeling a somewhat new sense of closeness.

Halfway through the song, Patrick appeared out of nowhere, a cocky grin on his lips. "Mind if I cut in?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

Before you could respond, he swept you away from Art, taking you into his arms with a boldness that made you some type of way. His touch was hot, his body pressed close to yours as he guided you across the dance floor.

"So, you replacing your best friend with that ginger?" he asked, his voice low and suggestive. "Boring you to tears yet?" He raised a brow.

You laughed, unable to resist his playfulness. "Hmm maybe. He's actually a great dancer, unlike some people."

Patrick smirked, pulling you even closer. "Yeah, but can he do this?" With a sudden flourish, he spun you around, his movements fluid and confident. "Do I need to remind you why I’m better.” He paused.

“How, I’m better.”

You chuckled rolling your eyes, enjoying the thrill of dancing with Patrick. He was unpredictable, to say the least, his smile contagious. But as much as you were drawn to him, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for leaving Art behind.

Patrick reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering you one with a sly grin. "Care for a smoke?" he asked, lighting his own with practiced ease.

You just shook your head with hesitant smile. “I really shouldn’t, Pat. You know I’m trying to quit.”

He looks you up and down with a seductive look.  

“We’ve all got our guilty pleasures, darling.”

As the song came to an end, Patrick took your hand, leading you away from the dance floor and out onto the club’s private beach. The cool breeze off the ocean felt refreshing against your skin, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soothing.

You hesitated for a moment, then accepted the offer, taking the cigarette from him and inhaling deeply. The nicotine hit you like a rush of adrenaline, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration as you exhaled a cloud of smoke into the night air.

"So, what do you think?" Patrick asked, his eyes searching yours. "Having fun yet?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of liberation wash over you. "Yeah, I am. Thanks for... you know, stealing me away." You added motioning to the cigarette.

Patrick grinned, leaning in closer. "Anytime, sweetheart. Just say the word, and I'll whisk you away to paradise."

You laughed, feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest.

Patrick decided to sit down in the sand, his cigarette glowing in the darkness as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. You sat beside him, savoring the familiar scent of his cologne.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, then shot you a sidelong glance. "You know, I was just thinking about that first summer at tennis camp," he said, his voice low and playful. "I mean, it's where it all started, right? Just a couple of kids swinging rackets and making trouble."

You smiled at the memory. "Yeah, it's crazy to think about how much has changed since then. Who would've thought you'd actually make it big in tennis? Meanwhile, I could barely keep the ball on the court."

Patrick laughed, a warm, hearty sound that cut through the night air. "Yeah, well, I guess I had a little more motivation to stick with it. You were off climbing trees and playing in the woods, and I was stuck with a bunch of coaches yelling at me to hit harder."

"Hey," you replied with a smirk, "it's not like I was useless. I remember showing you all the best spots to hide when you wanted to skip practice."

Patrick nodded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, I remember. You were the queen of avoiding responsibility. If it weren't for you, I'd probably have become a strait-laced tennis prodigy. Instead, you dragged me into the wilderness to make forts and find weird bugs."

You both chuckled, reminiscing about those lazy summer days when tennis camp was more of a suggestion than a requirement. But then Patrick's expression turned sly, and he leaned in a bit closer.

"Speaking of weird things from our past," he said, his voice dripping with playful insinuation, he nudged you. "You remember that bet we made? The one about if we were both green by the time you turned 16, we'd, you know, be each other's first?"

Your face grew warm at the memory. It had been a silly bet between two best friends who figured they'd never find anyone else in their small circle. But the fact that you followed through with it made it more than just a joke.

"Yeah," you replied, pretending to be nonchalant, "I remember, Pat we’re not that old. It was a dumb bet, but I guess we kept our word, didn't we?"

Patrick nodded, a cheeky grin spreading across his lips. "We sure did. And you know, I wasn't expecting it to be so... memorable. I thought we'd just laugh about it later, but it was kind of nice. You know, like a rite of passage or something."

You laughed, trying to deflect his innuendo. "A rite of passage? Yeah, right. More like a hilarious disaster. I mean, you had no idea what you were doing."

Patrick raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wider. "Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad. Besides, you were just as clueless. At least I managed to keep my cool, mostly."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help but smile at his cockiness. "Mostly, huh? If I remember correctly, you tripped over your own shoes and nearly fell face first."

Patrick groaned, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Okay, maybe I was a little clumsy. But you have to admit, it was an experience neither of us will forget. And hey, we did it together. That's gotta count for something, right?"

You nodded, feeling a mix of nostalgia and fondness. "Yeah, it does. I'm just glad it didn't ruin our friendship. It could've been awkward, but it wasn't."

Patrick leaned in, his gaze locking with yours. "Of course it wasn't. We were best friends. We still are. And besides, even if it was a bit awkward, it was worth it. You know, just to say we did it." He flicked the ash from his cigarette, then added with a wink, "And hey, I was your first. That's something not everyone can say."

You laughed, pushing him lightly on the shoulder. "Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head. You still have a long way to go before you become a pro. But if you need any advice on how to avoid tripping over your own shoes, I'm here for you."

Patrick grinned, taking a final drag from his cigarette before tossing it into the sand. " If you ever want to make another bet, I'm always up for it. " He Looks at you seductively, his eyes full of mischief. " I think if you were to give me another chance, you’d find that I’ve improved quite a bit. " He gives you his signature smirk.

You scan his face trying to find sincerity in his words, not sure how you’d feel if he was. “What are you trying to get at Patrick?”

“Nothing at all.” He raised his hands in a surrender, cigarette in mouth looking away. “I’m just saying, I feel like I deserve a redemption arc,” He takes his cigarette putting out in the sand. “I wasn’t the most…giving you can say.” He looks back at you, under his brows. “And I just want to show you that I’ve changed, for the better.” He offers a smile.

You just nod your head in fake agreement. “Uhh, how much have you had to drink tonight pat?  Is it time to call you a cab?” You questioned with a week smile.  

“Oh, shut up, I’m dead sober.”  He said leaning in.  He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Besides, what's life without a little adventure?"

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his touch. It was a simple gesture, but there was something in the way he did it that made your heart skip a beat. Patrick had always had a way of pushing boundaries, but tonight, he seemed more deliberate, more intent.

"Adventure?" you replied, your voice slightly breathless. "Are you planning something?"

Patrick's smile grew, his eyes locking with yours. "Maybe. But you know me—always full of surprises." He stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on your waist. "But I promise, it'll be a good one."

You felt a rush of heat at his touch, the closeness between you stirring something deep within. Patrick leaned in, his lips just inches from yours. "So, do you trust me?" he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "No I don’t, Patrick, because I know you. Why? What are you up to?"

Patrick's gaze grew more intense, his eyes fixed on yours. "I just wanted to try something." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. It was gentle at first, a teasing touch that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

The kiss deepened, the heat between you building as Patrick pulled you closer. His hand slid around your waist, holding you firmly as he kissed you with a newfound intensity. The sound of the waves seemed to fade away, replaced by the pounding of your own heart.

Patrick's other hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle yet assertive. His kiss was slow and deliberate, each movement a carefully orchestrated dance that left you breathless. As his lips moved against yours, you felt a rush of desire, a connection that seemed to transcend words.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with emotion. He looked at you, his lips slightly parted, as if he was trying to read your thoughts.

“Show me.” You said looking him deep in his eyes barley a millimetre away from his lips.

“Show you what darling?” He question with a smile gracing his lips

“How you’re better than Art.”

That’s not what he was expecting at all. Maybe a ‘show me how you’ve improved.’ But certainly not you using his own words against him, That’s for sure.

That didn’t stop Patrick's smile from getting bigger though, as he moved his hands all over you, bringing you in for another wet and sloppy kiss. He slowly laid you down into the sand using his teeth to slide up your dress around your waits.

He slowly kissed your stomach stopping at the hem of your thong. Moving it to the side, he slides one of his digits up and down your slit.

Looking up to you with a sly smile, he lets out a contented sigh. " Give me some of this sweet pussy." With the excited flattening of his tongue, he dives right in, right there, on the beach. Before you even having a chance to fully lay down, Patrick slides his arms beneath your legs and pulls you in. 

As you begin to grind into him and yearn for more of his tongue, you play with one of your tits. Suddenly too shy to look him in the eye, you reach down and tug on his hair. You can feel your cheeks getting hot with shame at how quickly you folded for him.   “Tongue fuck me, please, Pat. When did you get so good at this?”

 he consumes you. his hands are playing with your ass and thighs. He kneads the skin and spreading you out. He trust his tongue into your entrance and explores your pussy.  Less than a minute later, your walls start to twitch around his tongue. He takes in all your cum. When he looks up back at you, he just gives you a sly smirk. 

Patrick rolled onto his back beside you, his chest heaving slightly from the intensity of what just happened. You try to get your breathing back to normal when suddenly you let out a random laugh.

Patrick turned his head, raising an eyebrow. "What's so funny?" he asked, his voice low and smooth, but his face still wet from your essence.

You shrugged, trying to stifle your laughter. "I don't know, it just hit me—how did we end up here? One minute we're at the gala, and the next we're... well, doing this." You gestured at the beach, and your unruly appearance.

Patrick grinned, rolling onto his side to face you. "Maybe it's fate," he said, his voice soft and playful. "Or maybe it's just because I couldn't resist pulling you away for a little... private time." He winked, his cheeky grin only growing wider.

You rolled your eyes, but there was no denying the warmth that spread through your chest. "Or maybe it’s because you and Art have a weird little bet going on, and for some reason, I’m in the middle of it." you replied, a teasing edge to your tone.

Patrick frowns sitting up to look at you properly. " You know about that?" He’s confused.

You let out a chuckle. "Patrick, I’m not a dumbass, like i said, i know you. And i know Art, you guys have been total try hards for the last week, sure, you’re just a whore and will flirt with anything that has a vagina, but even Art was over doing it." You swatted at his shoulder, trying to hide your smile. "Patrick, seriously," you said, though your tone lacked any real reprimand. "You always push your luck, you know that?  You leaned in a little closer, your eyes locking with his.

Patrick's grin softened, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Yeah, well, sometimes you need a little excitement," he replied, his hand resting on your hip, a gentle reminder of his presence. "And you can't deny that you like it when I take charge. Right?" His fingers traced a light pattern along your hipbone, his touch both playful and suggestive.

You sighed, the subtle tension between you becoming more palpable. "Maybe," you replied, your voice low and teasing. "But don't think I'll always let you get away with it. Sometimes, you need to earn it."

Patrick laughed, a deep, rich sound that seemed to carry on the breeze. "Oh, don't worry," he said, his eyes narrowing with that familiar mischievous look. "I'll work for it. You just let me know when you want me to turn on the charm." He leaned in again, his lips hovering near yours, the warmth of his breath a tantalizing invitation.

You closed the gap, letting his lips meet yours in a brief, soft kiss. It was playful but laced with an underlying intensity, a promise of more to come. When you pulled back, you saw the surprise in his eyes, followed by that trademark grin.

"Consider it a preview," you said, giving him a gentle nudge. "But don't get too cocky, or I’ll make sure you lose this bet."

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

Thank you for reading! Please leave comments, likes, and reblogs; all are appreciated! Also, feel free to send requests!

[violent138]

Accountant: "Where's all this money even going? Burning cash by the handful would cost less than this. I mean, your records don't even make sense! Like this factory order for three crates worth of... masks?"

Alfred: "Master Bruce accidentally added a zero or two for a masquerade party order."

Accountant, in disbelief: "Custom made. Out of some material, I can't even pronounce."

Alfred: "He's highly specific about these things."

Accountant: "You know, Mr.Pennyworth, it's Gotham, just level with me if it's something we don't need to know about."

Alfred, sighing and playing it up: "I'm afraid so, he's in the habit of making dangerous friends."

Accountant: "Whatever, let's just discuss something that we can sort out without him. Like the upkeep on the Manor."

Alfred: "We recently renovated."

Accountant: "What exactly? I'm seeing costs for construction materials, submersible pumps, and scaffolding. But the property's valuation hasn't changed, at all."

Alfred: "To the untrained eye, it looks unchanged, but I can assure you, the very foundations of this place have been altered."

Accountant:

Accountant, exasperated: "Moving on, let's discuss your salary. I'm not trying to insult you, but I honestly don't know what to make of this amount--"

Alfred: "I set my own salary, actually."

Accountant:

[steddieas-shegoes]

You deserve every single one of these 3000 followers!! You deserve to have ALL the followers.

and for the prompt. I just thought of something silly. 😂😂😂

"Eddie, why are all of my shirts cropped??!"

I am so happy you sent something in, and that it's silly. Thank you so much my lovely friend! 💖

👕👕👕👕👕👕👕👕👕👕👕

Unpacking was the worst thing in the world, Steve decided.

It didn't help that their AC was barely functioning and the only fan they had was in the bathroom so the air would circulate and they could avoid mold until the window was fixed.

Who even decided to move during the middle of summer?

Eddie had already promised he'd unpack the books because he was so picky about organization, but the rest for their bedroom was up to Steve. He unpacked the bedding and bedside table stuff earlier, but the clothes. God, they had so many clothes.

He managed to work through most of Eddie’s easily. He had a lot, but most of them were already folded and could be put in drawers. Steve’s required more hangers.

Steve cut open the next box, pulling out his favorite sweater. All his sweaters needed to be hung up. God, why did he even have this many sweaters?

When he was done with that, he moved onto the next box: his shirts. Most of them were his t-shirts, things he wore around the house or when they were hanging out with the kids.

And every single one he pulled out of the box was shorter than he remembered.

After six of them, he decided to try one on and see if he was going crazy from the heat or if they actually were shorter.

Cropped. It was fucking cropped.

All of them were.

“Eddie!” He yelled, trying not to let his anger turn this into something more than it was.

“Yes, my love?” Eddie called back from the end of the hall.

“Why are all of my shirts cropped?”

He wasn’t given an answer, which was an answer in itself.

He stormed out of the room and nearly ran into Eddie, who was walking into the room, piece of hair already in his mouth.

“You look great, sweetheart,” he tried to say.

Steve held a finger to his lips before placing both hands on his hips.

“You did this to all of my t-shirts?”

“Not all of them. But a lot of them.”

“Why?”

Eddie at least seemed like he was regretting doing it, at least a little.

“Well, the first was a dare from Robin. And then I did a couple more because you only wear them when we’re home alone so I figured it wouldn’t matter.”

“And then the others?”

“I got carried away.”

“And?”

Eddie sighed. “I wanted to see your body! Sorry for being so in love with you?”

Steve couldn’t help the laugh he let out at that.

Eddie was nothing if not absolutely infatuated with his body: his scars, his freckles and moles, the way his hips fit perfectly in Eddie’s hands, his happy trail. It made sense that he’d find an excuse to see more of it.

And Steve couldn’t even be mad. It’s not like he ruined anything, and none of the cropped shirts were expensive. Plus, it was the hottest summer Steve could remember and having less clothing on as much as possible seemed ideal.

Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s neck and kissed his forehead.

“I could’ve just found some crop tops at the store, you know.”

“Why waste the money? You’ve got perfectly croppable clothes here.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Steve sighed, but smiled.

Eddie’s hands drifted to Steve’s hips, squeezing bare skin.

Yeah, Steve was definitely okay with the crop tops.

“I know I am.”

[shegetsburned]

❝ somethin’ stupid like i love you ❞ w. shiu kong ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .

.nsfw.

• — content. shiu realizes he’s slowly falling for you and absolutely hates it. • — author’s note. coming back of hiatus with this! part of my fwb shiu content. feel free to send suggestions for this trope btw <3

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who genuinely thinks this whole thing is suspicious. it has never happened before. there’s no way he’s thinking about you this much. you must be playing a game he isn’t aware of.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who after a few months, made many more calls and asked for you more often than the usual one day a week. it has come to three to four days and even when you were busy he found ways to clear your schedule and have you all to himself.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who has gotten rougher and less patient when he fucks you. as soon as he steps through the door his hands are all over you and his warm breath covers your neck like he had been waiting all day to finally get a sample of your addicting scent.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who has a habit of “forgetting” his jacket or his pack of cigarettes at your place just to call you a few hours later to pass by and get his items back. little did you know it was just to see you some more.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who stays longer and doesn’t leave you as soon as he’s done. to your surprise, he stays until you fall asleep or sometimes when you’re lucky, shares a bath or a shower with you. nothing sexual, he just prefers to stay clean and helps you in the process.

you two have easy conversations about anything and everything without being scared of the other’s judgment. shiu likes to talk about anything as long as it doesn’t involve work and you love it when his deep chuckle resonates in your ears.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who has asked himself several times why he always needed to come back to you. he never realized how much he looked forward to these intimate moments which contradicted the whole accord you guys had made. this was supposed to be temporary and, now, he couldn’t go two days without the touch of your skin against his.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who begins to open up more about his work and clients. how uninteresting and full of cash they are, how good the pay is and how easy it is to fool scared millionaires. more importantly, he had told you in total confidence that he thought about quitting his job. it may have been easy money but it wasn’t the most morally fulfilling job.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who, for the first time, has stayed the night, sleeping in with you. you thought you’d awoke to an empty side of the bed, like always, but here he was, peacefully sleeping. needless to say, you had never seen him reveal this side of himself. he looked so comfortable, you were the one to leave first that morning.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who cursed himself for falling asleep in your bed, but it felt so good and he was so tired that his body had just given out. he made sure to gather everything before leaving in a hurry. no jacket or packs forgotten, only leaving his fresh and rich smell of smoke all over your apartment.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who was distracted at work. his thoughts diverged to his hands trailing your curves and your perfect lips he wanted to taste so badly. the feeling pierced his heart. did he actually miss you?

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who tried to dismiss his feelings by taking a small break from you and hooking up with different girls. despite his best efforts, nothing felt right when he was fucking them. he was quick and uninterested. it was so boring without you.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who, determined to not fall into your meaningless trap, has finally decided to give you one final call. he’d explain everything to you in person.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who got lost in time and ended up pussy drunk, between your legs, once again squeezing his soft tongue into your tight pussy. after all these sessions, he came to be the best at eating you out and knowing precisely how you wanted to be touched and handled.

“god- i fucking love you, [y/n].” he murmurs against your sloppy entrance, heavy breath itching at your skin and you can’t quite discern his sentence before panic finally sets in.

it comes out so easily out of his mouth, between two pants, like praise he had said over and over again. he doesn’t even notice, but you do. oh, yes you do.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who continues to place wet kisses on your inner thighs but you had stopped clenching the sheets to stare at him, eyes wide open. shiu was so strict about following the rules he had personally set, to maintain this kind of relationship and here he was saying that he loved you. what a fool.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who’s so mesmerized by your euphoric scent that he hasn’t yet become aware of the fact that he accidentally confessed to you. you can feel your heartbeat fasten and your pulse through your ears when he pronounces the words. your pink-tinted cheeks betray how flustered you are.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who brings you back to reality with a guttural groan as he dives back against your dripping folds, his nose pressing against your clit. his hands open up your legs more as you give out the meaningless fight and fall deeper into his delicious embrace.

“f-fuck.. wait- aaah- shiu..”

your mind’s hazy from the pleasure but you’re still thinking about his words. you wonder if it was only in the heat of the moment or a true confession he couldn’t have hidden much longer.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who had promised to never kiss you in fear of his emotions getting the best of him, but this night was different. your puffy pink lips were looking particularly pretty and captivating. he wasn’t one to break promises but his self-control was hanging on by a thread when he was so drunk over you. he moved upward, parting with your needy cunt to place a trail of light kisses along your chest, from your belly all the way to your neck.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who doesn’t hesitate further. his whole body’s covering yours when he leans into your neck, nibbling at the skin before capturing your lips in a hot and steamy kiss. he’s breathing the amount of air you have left, causing you to stop him abruptly, your fingers pushing his lips away. he’s taken aback, his eyes questioning yours with your skin still blocking his lips.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who looks perplex, like he missed an episode. what were you so tense all of a sudden? wasn’t he doing enough? you always loved the way he ate you out, so what’s changed? of course, he had forgotten about the kissing rule, but the flustered gaze you were wearing told him something else bothered you the most.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu whose gaze goes from your wet lips to your eyes. he knows what he did wrong but the memory of his confession is still blurry. delicately enough, he wraps his hand around your wrist to free his mouth. you whisper his name, panting, but he cuts you off almost immediately.

“don’t read too much into what i say when we’re fuckin’, angel.”

he’s trying to defend himself. truth is he was almost ashamed of slipping out to you like that. exposing his buried feelings to you made him want to disappear, especially considering the face you were wearing right now.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who’s reluctant to talk about it, he doesn’t want to talk about his feelings, he just wants to fuck you. had he forgotten why he came here in the first place? he had never gone this far with any of the girls he was fucking before and here he was, almost completely naked and so drunk over you that your pussy wasn’t enough for a taste. wasn’t he supposed to talk to you about terminating this affair?

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who was embarrassed to be so vulnerable when it came to you. he quickly regains his senses, moving away to give you enough space to sit up and wrap your sweating figure with the sheets.

“why are you so ashamed of it, shiu?”

he shakes his head frenetically. god. you didn’t understand anything did you? being obsessed with you wasn’t in any of his plans. he needed to get out of this situation quickly, otherwise he’d simply betray himself further.

“we can’t do this anymore. I’m ending our deal.” he says, skillfully putting his belt back with his clenched back muscles exposed to your sight.

his words were frustrating. was it your fault? was it you that he was so ashamed to love? “you were the one to break the rules, shiu.”

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who brushes it off, buttoning his white shirt back on. his hands travel inside his pockets, desperately searching for a cigarette. it was so annoying. it was so annoying that you could see right through him and that he had no power over it. he had no power over his feelings for you and it was infuriating.

˗ˏˋʚ fwb!shiu who refuses to explain any further. the last thing he said before leaving your place was that you didn’t have to expect anymore calls or texts from him.

what he didn’t say was that he wanted to stay so badly. he wanted, without shame, to tell you how you made him feel but his pride inevitably got the best of him and he left without another word, leaving you naked in your bed, wondering how the hell you were so hang up on such a confused man.

© shegetsburned 2024 please do not repost/edit/or claim my writing as your own.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Algorithmic feeds are a twiddler’s playground

Next TUESDAY (May 14), I'm on a livecast about AI AND ENSHITTIFICATION with TIM O'REILLY; on WEDNESDAY (May 15), I'm in NORTH HOLLYWOOD with HARRY SHEARER for a screening of STEPHANIE KELTON'S FINDING THE MONEY; FRIDAY (May 17), I'm at the INTERNET ARCHIVE in SAN FRANCISCO to keynote the 10th anniversary of the AUTHORS ALLIANCE.

Like Oscar Wilde, "I can resist anything except temptation," and my slow and halting journey to adulthood is really just me grappling with this fact, getting temptation out of my way before I can yield to it.

Behavioral economists have a name for the steps we take to guard against temptation: a "Ulysses pact." That's when you take some possibility off the table during a moment of strength in recognition of some coming moment of weakness:

https://archive.org/details/decentralizedwebsummit2016-corydoctorow

Famously, Ulysses did this before he sailed into the Sea of Sirens. Rather than stopping his ears with wax to prevent his hearing the sirens' song, which would lure him to his drowning, Ulysses has his sailors tie him to the mast, leaving his ears unplugged. Ulysses became the first person to hear the sirens' song and live to tell the tale.

Ulysses was strong enough to know that he would someday be weak. He expressed his strength by guarding against his weakness. Our modern lives are filled with less epic versions of the Ulysses pact: the day you go on a diet, it's a good idea to throw away all your Oreos. That way, when your blood sugar sings its siren song at 2AM, it will be drowned out by the rest of your body's unwillingness to get dressed, find your keys and drive half an hour to the all-night grocery store.

Note that this Ulysses pact isn't perfect. You might drive to the grocery store. It's rare that a Ulysses pact is unbreakable – we bind ourselves to the mast, but we don't chain ourselves to it and slap on a pair of handcuffs for good measure.

People who run institutions can – and should – create Ulysses pacts, too. A company that holds the kind of sensitive data that might be subjected to "sneak-and-peek" warrants by cops or spies can set up a "warrant canary":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warrant_canary

This isn't perfect. A company that stops publishing regular transparency reports might have been compromised by the NSA, but it's also possible that they've had a change in management and the new boss just doesn't give a shit about his users' privacy:

https://www.fastcompany.com/90853794/twitters-transparency-reporting-has-tanked-under-elon-musk

Likewise, a company making software it wants users to trust can release that code under an irrevocable free/open software license, thus guaranteeing that each release under that license will be free and open forever. This is good, but not perfect: the new boss can take that free/open code down a proprietary fork and try to orphan the free version:

https://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=39772562

A company can structure itself as a public benefit corporation and make a binding promise to elevate its stakeholders' interests over its shareholders' – but the CEO can still take a secret $100m bribe from cryptocurrency creeps and try to lure those stakeholders into a shitcoin Ponzi scheme:

https://fortune.com/crypto/2024/03/11/kickstarter-blockchain-a16z-crypto-secret-investment-chris-dixon/

A key resource can be entrusted to a nonprofit with a board of directors who are charged with stewarding it for the benefit of a broad community, but when a private equity fund dangles billions before that board, they can talk themselves into a belief that selling out is the right thing to do:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/12/how-we-saved-org-2020-review

Ulysses pacts aren't perfect, but they are very important. At the very least, creating a Ulysses pact starts with acknowledging that you are fallible. That you can be tempted, and rationalize your way into taking bad action, even when you know better. Becoming an adult is a process of learning that your strength comes from seeing your weaknesses and protecting yourself and the people who trust you from them.

Which brings me to enshittification. Enshittification is the process by which platforms betray their users and their customers by siphoning value away from each until the platform is a pile of shit:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enshittification

Enshittification is a spectrum that can be applied to many companies' decay, but in its purest form, enshittification requires:

a) A platform: a two-sided market with business customers and end users who can be played off against each other; b) A digital back-end: a market that can be easily, rapidly and undetectably manipulated by its owners, who can alter search-rankings, prices and costs on a per-user, per-query basis; and c) A lack of constraint: the platform's owners must not fear a consequence for this cheating, be it from competitors, regulators, workforce resignations or rival technologists who use mods, alternative clients, blockers or other "adversarial interoperability" tools to disenshittify your product and sever your relationship with your users.

he founders of tech platforms don't generally set out to enshittify them. Rather, they are constantly seeking some equilibrium between delivering value to their shareholders and turning value over to end users, business customers, and their own workers. Founders are consummate rationalizers; like parenting, founding a company requires continuous, low-grade self-deception about the amount of work involved and the chances of success. A founder, confronted with the likelihood of failure, is absolutely capable of talking themselves into believing that nearly any compromise is superior to shuttering the business: "I'm one of the good guys, so the most important thing is for me to live to fight another day. Thus I can do any number of immoral things to my users, business customers or workers, because I can make it up to them when we survive this crisis. It's for their own good, even if they don't know it. Indeed, I'm doubly moral here, because I'm volunteering to look like the bad guy, just so I can save this business, which will make the world over for the better":

https://locusmag.com/2024/05/cory-doctorow-no-one-is-the-enshittifier-of-their-own-story/

(En)shit(tification) flows downhill, so tech workers grapple with their own version of this dilemma. Faced with constant pressure to increase the value flowing from their division to the company, they have to balance different, conflicting tactics, like "increasing the number of users or business customers, possibly by shifting value from the company to these stakeholders in the hopes of making it up in volume"; or "locking in my existing stakeholders and squeezing them harder, safe in the knowledge that they can't easily leave the service provided the abuse is subtle enough." The bigger a company gets, the harder it is for it to grow, so the biggest companies realize their gains by locking in and squeezing their users, not by improving their service::

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

That's where "twiddling" comes in. Digital platforms are extremely flexible, which comes with the territory: computers are the most flexible tools we have. This means that companies can automate high-speed, deceptive changes to the "business logic" of their platforms – what end users pay, how much of that goes to business customers, and how offers are presented to both:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

This kind of fraud isn't particularly sophisticated, but it doesn't have to be – it just has to be fast. In any shell-game, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/26/glitchbread/#electronic-shelf-tags

Under normal circumstances, this twiddling would be constrained by counterforces in society. Changing the business rules like this is fraud, so you'd hope that a regulator would step in and extinguish the conduct, fining the company that engaged in it so hard that they saw a net loss from the conduct. But when a sector gets very concentrated, its mega-firms capture their regulators, becoming "too big to jail":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

Thus the tendency among the giant tech companies to practice the one lesson of the Darth Vader MBA: dismissing your stakeholders' outrage by saying, "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

Where regulators fail, technology can step in. The flexibility of digital platforms cuts both ways: when the company enshittifies its products, you can disenshittify it with your own countertwiddling: third-party ink-cartridges, alternative app stores and clients, scrapers, browser automation and other forms of high-tech guerrilla warfare:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

But tech giants' regulatory capture have allowed them to expand "IP rights" to prevent this self-help. By carefully layering overlapping IP rights around their products, they can criminalize the technology that lets you wrestle back the value they've claimed for themselves, creating a new offense of "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

A world where users must defer to platforms' moment-to-moment decisions about how the service operates, without the protection of rival technology or regulatory oversight is a world where companies face a powerful temptation to enshittify.

That's why we've seen so much enshittification in platforms that algorithmically rank their feeds, from Google and Amazon search to Facebook and Twitter feeds. A search engine is always going to be making a judgment call about what the best result for your search should be. If a search engine is generally good at predicting which results will please you best, you'll return to it, automatically clicking the first result ("I'm feeling lucky").

This means that if a search engine slips in the odd paid result at the top of the results, they can exploit your trusting habits to shift value from you to their investors. The congifurability of a digital service means that they can sprinkle these frauds into their services on a random schedule, making them hard to detect and easy to dismiss as lapses. Gradually, this acquires its own momentum, and the platform becomes addicted to lowering its own quality to raise its profits, and you get modern Google, which cynically lowered search quality to increase search volume:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

And you get Amazon, which makes $38 billion every year, accepting bribes to replace its best search results with paid results for products that cost more and are of lower quality:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

Social media's enshittification followed a different path. In the beginning, social media presented a deterministic feed: after you told the platform who you wanted to follow, the platform simply gathered up the posts those users made and presented them to you, in reverse-chronological order.

This presented few opportunities for enshittification, but it wasn't perfect. For users who were well-established on a platform, a reverse-chrono feed was an ungovernable torrent, where high-frequency trivialities drowned out the important posts from people whose missives were buried ten screens down in the updates since your last login.

For new users who didn't yet follow many people, this presented the opposite problem: an empty feed, and the sense that you were all alone while everyone else was having a rollicking conversation down the hall, in a room you could never find.

The answer was the algorithmic feed: a feed of recommendations drawn from both the accounts you followed and strangers alike. Theoretically, this could solve both problems, by surfacing the most important materials from your friends while keeping you abreast of the most important and interesting activity beyond your filter bubble. For many of us, this promise was realized, and algorithmic feeds became a source of novelty and relevance.

But these feeds are a profoundly tempting enshittification target. The critique of these algorithms has largely focused on "addictiveness" and the idea that platforms would twiddle the knobs to increase the relevance of material in your feed to "hack your engagement":

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/mar/04/has-dopamine-got-us-hooked-on-tech-facebook-apps-addiction

Less noticed – and more important – was how platforms did the opposite: twiddling the knobs to remove things from your feed that you'd asked to see or that the algorithm predicted you'd enjoy, to make room for "boosted" content and advertisements:

https://www.reddit.com/r/Instagram/comments/z9j7uy/what_happened_to_instagram_only_ads_and_accounts/

Users were helpless before this kind of twiddling. On the one hand, they were locked into the platform – not because their dopamine had been hacked by evil tech-bro wizards – but because they loved the friends they had there more than they hated the way the service was run:

https://locusmag.com/2023/01/commentary-cory-doctorow-social-quitting/

On the other hand, the platforms had such an iron grip on their technology, and had deployed IP so cleverly, that any countertwiddling technology was instantaneously incinerated by legal death-rays:

https://techcrunch.com/2022/10/10/google-removes-the-og-app-from-the-play-store-as-founders-think-about-next-steps/

Newer social media platforms, notably Tiktok, dispensed entirely with deterministic feeds, defaulting every user into a feed that consisted entirely of algorithmic picks; the people you follow on these platforms are treated as mere suggestions by their algorithms. This is a perfect breeding-ground for enshittification: different parts of the business can twiddle the knobs to override the algorithm for their own parochial purposes, shifting the quality:shit ratio by unnoticeable increments, temporarily toggling the quality knob when your engagement drops off:

https://www.forbes.com/sites/emilybaker-white/2023/01/20/tiktoks-secret-heating-button-can-make-anyone-go-viral/

All social platforms want to be Tiktok: nominally, that's because Tiktok's algorithmic feed is so good at hooking new users and keeping established users hooked. But tech bosses also understand that a purely algorithmic feed is the kind of black box that can be plausibly and subtly enshittified without sparking user revolts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

Back in 2004, when Mark Zuckerberg was coming to grips with Facebook's success, he boasted to a friend that he was sitting on a trove of emails, pictures and Social Security numbers for his fellow Harvard students, offering this up for his friend's idle snooping. The friend, surprised, asked "What? How'd you manage that one?"

Infamously, Zuck replied, "People just submitted it. I don't know why. They 'trust me.' Dumb fucks."

https://www.esquire.com/uk/latest-news/a19490586/mark-zuckerberg-called-people-who-handed-over-their-data-dumb-f/

This was a remarkable (and uncharacteristic) self-aware moment from the then-nineteen-year-old Zuck. Of course Zuck couldn't be trusted with that data. Whatever Jiminy Cricket voice told him to safeguard that trust was drowned out by his need to boast to pals, or participate in the creepy nonconsensual rating of the fuckability of their female classmates. Over and over again, Zuckerberg would promise to use his power wisely, then break that promise as soon as he could do so without consequence:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3247362

Zuckerberg is a cautionary tale. Aware from the earliest moments that he was amassing power that he couldn't be trusted with, he nevertheless operated with only the weakest of Ulysses pacts, like a nonbinding promise never to spy on his users:

https://web.archive.org/web/20050107221705/http://www.thefacebook.com/policy.php

But the platforms have learned the wrong lesson from Zuckerberg. Rather than treating Facebook's enshittification as a cautionary tale, they've turned it into a roadmap. The Darth Vader MBA rules high-tech boardrooms.

Algorithmic feeds and other forms of "paternalistic" content presentation are necessary and even desirable in an information-rich environment. In many instances, decisions about what you see must be largely controlled by a third party whom you trust. The audience in a comedy club doesn't get to insist on knowing the punchline before the joke is told, just as RPG players don't get to order the Dungeon Master to present their preferred challenges during a campaign.

But this power is balanced against the ease of the players replacing the Dungeon Master or the audience walking out on the comic. When you've got more than a hundred dollars sunk into a video game and an online-only friend-group you raid with, the games company can do a lot of enshittification without losing your business, and they know it:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/5/10/24153809/ea-in-game-ads-redux

Even if they sometimes overreach and have to retreat:

https://www.eurogamer.net/sony-overturns-helldivers-2-psn-requirement-following-backlash

A tech company that seeks your trust for an algorithmic feed needs Ulysses pacts, or it will inevitably yield to the temptation to enshittify. From strongest to weakest, these are:

Not showing you an algorithmic feed at all;

https://joinmastodon.org/

"Composable moderation" that lets multiple parties provide feeds:

https://bsky.social/about/blog/4-13-2023-moderation

Offering an algorithmic "For You" feed alongside of a reverse-chrono "Friends" feed, defaulting to friends;

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

As above, but defaulting to "For You"

Maturity lies in being strong enough to know your weaknesses. Never trust someone who tells you that they will never yield to temptation! Instead, seek out people – and service providers – with the maturity and honesty to know how tempting temptation is, and who act before temptation strikes to make it easier to resist.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/11/for-you/#the-algorithm-tm

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

djhughman https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Modular_synthesizer_-_%22Control_Voltage%22_electronic_music_shop_in_Portland_OR_-_School_Photos_PCC_%282015-05-23_12.43.01_by_djhughman%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[llamagoddessofficial]

Le gasp..

Mafia Bad Sanses’ HCs

Mafia Bad Sanses’ HCs?

Horror likes bashing in heads. He likes that his job means he gets paid to bash in a lot of heads. He doesn't really care that he's considered one of Nightmare's top enforcers, that even the hardest criminals tremble in fear at the mention of his name, that he's called things like the beast and the monster... he just likes that he gets to take out all his worst frustrations on whichever face Nightmare points him to. As a nice bonus, the money he makes means his brother and surviving friends live in safety and comfort.

... But he also likes pretty things. Pretty, soft things, that make him feel fuzzy and warm. You're all three. You find out pretty quick that his frightening face hides a softspoken, sensitive creature, who keeps appearing at your door with flowers (when did you give him your address?) and homemade food. It's bizarre, how such a violent man can equally be so gentle, getting flustered just from you looking at him too long. He wants to do to you what he does with everyone he cares about - use his money to make it so that you never have to worry about anything in life again.

Probably for the best that you let him. He famously doesn't have great control over his temper.

Dust doesn't appear too happy about working for Nightmare. It's clear to anyone watching that Nightmare has something over him; whatever it is, it must be pretty bad, because Dust never questions Nightmare's orders - no matter how terrible or violent. He does exactly what's asked of him, no more, no less. And it's obvious why Nightmare might want to force someone like Dust to work for him... there's no job this silent demon can't do.

Dust, with you, is a different man. He almost becomes his old self again. When you're alone together, he actually smiles. He desperately wants to keep you away from the world he's become trapped in, and he'll probably spend the first few weeks of knowing you trying as hard as he can to separate you from him and the other skeletons. But... he's in love. He can't help it. He's always drawn back to you again, no matter how many times he tells himself he has to let go.

You're his escape. You make him forget the things he's done, and the things he has to keep doing. He's addicted to that feeling.

Killer is Nightmare's right hand. The moniker 'Nightmare's dog' is often used, mostly in an attempt to offend him, but it just makes him laugh. Much like Horror, he very much enjoys his job... he enjoys the power, indulging in his violent desires and getting paid for it. Killer is just about the closest thing Nightmare has to someone he trusts; Killer is privy to many of their 'family's deepest secrets, partly because of his position, but also partly because Nightmare knows Killer genuinely has absolutely zero interest in these massively important secrets. Killer just wants to stab things.

For some reason he seems intent that you trust him. It's really hard to tell what he wants, behind that smile... you're cautious with him, given his clear loyalty to Nightmare. But maybe that loyalty isn't as unshakeable as it seems. It starts with little things... casually lying through his teeth and fully taking the blame for something you did. Conveniently 'forgetting' to mention you around Nightmare. Failing a mission you expressed horror at. Lying about the nature of your personal information, pretending (in front of the guys) that he doesn't know stuff he very much knows.

It's impossible to tell what he wants. But it seems like, whatever it is, he wants it more than all the power he's got now.

Nightmare will obviously want to learn the identity of the person who's somehow managed to completely disarm his three most valuable and violent soldiers. Despite all of them doing their damnedest to keep you out of Nightmare's crosshairs, you can't be hidden forever.

Nightmare is supposed to have everything - there's no luxury he can't afford. But he's always had this... void inside him. It's the very void that pushes him to keep expanding his territory, to keep killing and taking, maybe if he has just that little bit more he'll feel complete. Maybe if he just has that one last shiny thing, he'll be happy. But it's never been enough.

Then he finally meets you. And something clicks.

Dust, Killer and Horror tried so hard to keep you away from Nightmare, because they were terrified of what would happen to you if Nightmare decided he didn't like you. Instead, something much, much worse happened.

Nightmare likes you.

[beloved-nyx]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 “𝐁” 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 !

ᝰ.ᐟ Why does it feel like someone’s following your every move?

જ⁀➴ STARRING: 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 (𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍) 𝐱 𝐆𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

જ⁀➴ CONTENT: stalking, suggestive, reader is in college, reader is insecure, nothing to bad ??, not proofread (we die like kings), soft yandere (?), nothing graphic, mentions of jealousy and clinginess

જ⁀➴ FORMAT: 1.3k words, full fic

જ⁀➴ AUTHORS NOTE: This is my third time writing yandere ahhh! Anyway, it's been so long since I wrote something!! Um enjoy <33 also damn...reader really going through it.

“There,” You mutter under your breath. “Finished.”

You balance precariously on a wobbly stool, hands parting from a sleek, black camera. A security camera, to be precise. 

You would have never thought of putting a camera in your apartment, not because you were naively dumb, but because you had thought you lived in the safer part of the city. Friendly neighbors always alerted you when suspicious people even lingered next to your doorstep, but also because you were broke. Broke, broke, broke. 

Your rent was taking up more of your money than your groceries were. It had taken weeks of splurging on food to even be able to afford a security camera, much to your disdain. You were living on leftovers, and you were getting sick of week-old Chinese takeout. 

Stepping off the stool, you admire your handiwork, cringing at how gaudy it looked in your minimalistic (or in much harsher words, bare) apartment room. 

Your phone dings softly, and as you pick it up, you grin at the name displayed on your notifications. Caelan. 

Caelan is your crush. Your cheeks seem to grow hotter at even admitting it in your thoughts. You felt like some highschool kid, even using the word “crush.” But Caelan did that to you, you guess. Make you feel childish and absolutely hopeless, and sometimes you wish he knew that. But then again, if he did, you would probably self-destruct on the spot. You were fine with admiring Caelan from afar. 

Heard what happened U ok?

Ahh. That. 

The very reason you put that gaudy camera in your apartment in your first place. 

It had been a month ago, when you first saw the signs of someone breaking into your house. You were doing laundry, a perfectly normal thing to do on a Friday night while your friends were getting drunk and partying at a local club. Some of your underwear was missing, but you had chalked it up to your own clumsiness.

But then you saw the note, and everything changed. Written sloppily, penmanship atrocious. You had thought that the person was just bad at writing-but in hindsight, he must have used his less dominant hand to write it. Biting your cheek, you read it, and you wished you hadn’t. 

It was the most perverse, disgusting thing you had ever read. That night, you couldn’t even sleep, scared that the unknown intruder-stalker would come.

The next day, the stalker sent you pictures of you doing the most mundane things. Sleeping, eating, studying, doing laundry, and even changing.

You immediately called the police on the next day, when a bouquet of roses showed up on your doorstep. The police had said, “We’ll look into it.” 

They never did. 

It led you to ask for help from a friend, and you instantly regretted it. Because the next day, the whole campus learned of your supposed stalker. And even though their sympathetic, “You okay?” made you feel a little bit more safer, a little more secure in your tiny world, it still made you embarrassed, scared too. 

You type in a quick, I'm fine! And then wonder if you should put an emoji after that. After spending an embarrassingly long minute of deciding if you should, you just send it with no emoji. 

That’s good.  If you need anything just call me.

…

A few days pass by, and still no stalker appears on the camera footage. At first, you’re elated. But then another few days pass, and you feel silly. Maybe there was no stalker, maybe you were being overdramatic-but even then, those pictures? The note? You shiver. You hear a knock on the door, and turn to the noise, a small hum escaping your lips.

Must be the delivery man. You had ordered some new textbooks for college. You walk towards the door, and twist the knob. 

Caelan smiles, pale fingers holding a bouquet of roses. He wears a black turtleneck, gray pants and a black dress coat. You, on the other hand, were wearing your pajamas. 

If you could melt in a puddle, you would have. You wished you were buried in a pit. You wanted to be flung into space. Your cheeks were burning hot. You must look like a mess. Is it too late to be flung into space? 

“C-Caelan. What brings you…uh, here?” You cringe at your words. 

“For you, of course.” He laughs, taking a rose from the bouquet and putting it behind your ear. “I just wanted to check up on you. I hope I wasn’t intruding on anything, like your beauty sleep,” He muses, eyes wandering towards your pajamas. 

You never wanted to turn into a puddle so badly. 

“Hah-no, I just woke up!” You lie, ignoring the way he cocks his head to the side skeptically. Ignoring the fact that it's three p.m. 

“You should’ve called…I would’ve,” You gesture towards your clothes, “y’know, prepared.” 

“Oh shit!” His eyebrows furrow, a hand yanking at a loose black strand of hair that escaped his braid. “I’m sorry, I was just so worried–”

“No, no it’s fine!” You hate the way you sound-so, so desperate. “Um, do you want to come inside? I’ll go change and then we can talk.” 

You lead him inside, ignoring the fact of how oddly happy he is to be inside your home. 

…

After Caelan and you became official, he started to change. Slowly, like how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly. 

He became more clingy, and at first you thought it cute. You loved the way he doted on you, liked how he curled up into you in the mornings when he stayed at your home (more often than not) and begged you to stay in bed for just a few minutes. 

But he also became more jealous. Whenever you were next to someone, he always hovered close by, a suffocating presence that almost drowned you. Always insisted on going wherever you went. 

You sit on the couch, nestled closely next to Caelan. He hums softly, hands nestled under your shirt as you watch some shitty rom-com. A masterpiece. You called it. Caelan had raised a brow at that, but didn’t say anything except for a snort. You had elbowed him in the stomach after he jokingly (?) insulted one of your favorite moments. 

“‘m gonna get some water,” he mumbles, hands retracting from your body and making you feel cold. You whine at the sudden coldness, complaining about how you might die of hypothermia if he doesn’t come back soon. He scoffs at that, planting a kiss on your temple as he walks into the kitchen. 

And leaves his phone. 

You pick it up, grinning. Your intent was clear. Take a silly photo of yourself and make it his wallpaper. A perfect, opportune moment. 

You open the camera app, successfully taking a horridly candid shot of yourself, before curiosity takes a hold of you. You open the photo app, scrolling through his photos. Most of it was just pictures of landscapes, before you stop. 

A picture of you sleeping, drool leaking from your mouth. 

You stop, before groaning. Did you really look like that when you slept? You scrolled some more, before stopping again. Blood running cold. 

Was that a picture of you changing?

You frantically scroll through more photos, and with horror realize that most resemble the photos that your stalker took. You would never forget how disgusting you felt, at how you felt like your privacy had been breached. 

You choke down a scream, eyes wide and hands shaking. 

And then you feel something-a hand, on your shoulder. Tight enough to bruise, and tight enough to secure you in place. 

“Oh.” A single word escapes Caelan’s lips, and you turn. You can see your own, frantic expression in his black eyes. Black eyes that you thought were beautiful. 

“So you saw them, hmm.” It wasn’t stated as a question. No, it was a statement. A fact, indisputable. The most horrible part was that he wasn’t even trying to deny them. 

“Well, isn’t this cute?”

©beloved-nyx. do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[thegildedbee]

Secret: May 11 Prompt from @calaisreno

Martha Hudson has a secret.

Well, she is a keeper of many secrets – those of others, as well as her own. She’s logged quite a number of years on the planet, after all, lived amongst “colorful” people, and experienced an event-filled life. It would be rather odd if she had no secrets.

This secret is neither earth-shaking nor weighty; it is a secret because she would quite prefer that others not think her to be a maudlin old lady, a somewhat pitiful headcase, as she fears they might if they knew.

The secret occurs on the 20th of each month: the 20ths are the only time when she goes upstairs to 221B, to spend some time in a solitary visit. The flat is empty, John not coming home in the days after the Fall, and then moving in with his sister after the funeral. She's not clear whether or not he is still there; all she knows is that this is where he is not. He had been reluctant to drop by, and it would be several months before she saw him again. Nearly all of Sherlock’s possessions are still in place as they were the last time he was present (minus the Stradivarius that Lord Stick Your Umbrella Up Your Arse had seized near the end of November). In the flat, it is as if Sherlock’s life is suspended in time; no one seems concerned with boxing up his things (perhaps it is because his disappearance from their lives was so unexpected and abrupt; perhaps it is just that the idea needs time to settle amongst those he left behind). The rent money is still being deposited in her account each month, which she supposes is Mycroft's doing. Perhaps the flat represents, at least in part, all of them being somewhat suspended in time.

Her visits had begun in December; at the cemetary she hadn't felt Sherlock to be near at all when she went to lay flowers at his headstone. The flat, on the other hand, feels comforting to visit, and when she's there she does feel touched by his presence.

December That first post-Fall 20th had arrived in December, on a day and an evening in which lackluster swirls of snow were dispersed erratically by the cold breezes. On a whim, she had brought up a small Christmas tree from below and set it on the table. She hadn’t been able to decide if it made the room feel more lonely, or less so; she liked it nonetheless. She had pulled a few votive candles from her apron pocket and set them on the table, and rummaged about in the kitchen until she found a box of matches (from Angelo’s, of course), and the bottle of Lagavulin a client had sent to the boys the year before, and that she guessed would still be there, inside the second shelf of the cupboard next to the fridge, likely more than half full – and yes, there it had been. 

She had poured a measure of whisky into a small glass, and brought it back with her to the main room, where she had turned off the overhead light and lit the candles. She'd begun a ritual that reoccurred on each of the 20ths: she allowed fond memories from years past to surface; turned over events from recent history in her mind, recalling what details she could; and engaged in idle speculation about alternative futures that might have been. January The next month she had visited in the afternoon, bringing her duster with her. She had fluttered silently about the sitting room as she feathered the surfaces of various objects and curios: the skull on the mantel, and the skull on the wall with the headphones; the microscope and a box of nicotine patches; a closed laptop. As she made a circuit around the room the physical sense of briefly touching each item as she scattered the dust felt something like the motion of prayer beads being turned about in one’s hands. She was strangely reluctant to dust where Sherlock’s violin case had been, its contours still clearly visible; she felt a bit silly about leaving it there, but she carried on. 

There were also some random items scattered about – the last person to have touched them being Sherlock himself, she thought, when he had set them down. She lightly touched the stereo record album covers near the turntable, wondering if they would spark memories for her of Sherlock's violin playing. But these were unfamiliar – one was a musical called Into the Woods, and one had an extremely disquieting picture on its cover, of a mirrored head on the floor, with the title in tiny type in the upper corner, Trouble Will Find Me. She shook her head, wistful -- that was certainly the truth, wasn’t it?

Underneath the two was a surprising find – an old book, authored by Groucho Marx, of all people, a cartoon picture of him on the dust jacket. She’d actually met the comic actor, back in her theatrical days; in between his bouts of wise-cracking, she’d found him to be a bit moody, and rather shy. She didn’t know if being in the flat was causing everything to remind her of Sherlock, but it occurred to her that he was very much like the funny man had been – gleefully firing off insults at the stuffy and the self-important. She was amused to see that it was a book of humor about paying taxes -- an exercise in showing he could make people laugh about the dullest of topics? -- and thought briefly about bringing it -- Many Happy Returns: An Unoffical Guide to Your Income-Tax Problems -- downstairs to read, but she left it where she had found it. She finished up with her task by dusting the coffee table, where there was a dvd case for The Day of the Jackal – with a rather distressing image of Charles de Gaulle with a bulls-eye target circle over his face – which lay on top of the soundtrack to The Princess Bride. That boy was nothing if not a bundle of contradictions, she reflected fondly.

February In February, she brought up some red paper poppies she'd found in a drawer when she'd been cleaning her flat, and she placed them in a tea cup as an ersatz arrangement. She made herself a cuppa and sat in a chair near the window, watching as the sunbeams filtered through the lace curtains, the patterns of light and dark shifting as time passed. After she rinsed out her cup, she had picked up the duster she’d left behind the last time she’d been there, and opened up the door to Sherlock’s room, lingering briefly in the door frame, letting the sadness flow gently through her chest.

Her gaze took in the neatly made bed and the nearly empty spareness of the floorspace, so unlike the sitting room -- and yet each room seemed to fit Sherlock’s personality equally well. She dusted off the dresser and then smoothed out the pillows, and then had moved to the bedside tables, picking up a set of books on the one nearest the door, and placing it on the bed while she cleaned the surface. More books, more very old books, starting to age into being antiques – such a wide range of topics caught Sherlock’s fancy! There was Tricks of the Master and Sensational Tales of Mystery Men by a Will Goldston, who apparently had been a stage performer, according to the back of the dust jacket; and M.R. James, A Warning to the Curious and Other Ghost Stories, which she herself would not consider to be bedtime reading, but then Sherlock was quite used to the macabre -- perhaps he had found it soothing.

She gave the silk dressing gown hanging from the back of the door a couple of pats, and then left, closing the door behind her, an odd feeling coming over that she was missing something, or had left something undone. She stood for a few moments, searching her mind, but nothing occurred to her, and she left to go downstairs and start making supper.

March John finally visited after she had sent him a text letting him know that quite a bit of mail with his name on it had collected; she hadn’t wanted to throw any of it away, and the accumulated items were rather bulky to post. She had been of two minds about mentioning the 20th as a possibility for him to drop by, but she decided if the date was significant in any way to him, and he’d like best to avoid Baker Street that day, that he was perfectly capable of suggesting an alternate. But he had said yes, and had, in fact, remarked that it would be something of commemorating an anniversary, and she had ageed, letting him have a glimpse of her secret.

They mounted the stairs together and gave each other conflicted smiles as they passed through the door to the flat. She had brought up a half dozen tulips -- two pairs of red and pink and one stem of yellow and one of orange. She explained about her monthly ritual, and how she preferred that to going to the cemetary; John had seemed to be pleased. He drifted along behind her as she moved about the flat, opening up the windows to air out the sitting room and the bedroom, and she chattered cheerfully about nonsense as best she could, to try and put him at his ease. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him slide his fingers across some of the items scattered about, and when they passed by the spot where the violin outline still remained, he gave her a smile conspiratorial smile.

He hadn't wanted to stay long, which was easy to see -- his posture was stiff, and when he stood in one place he shifted from foot to foot, and he'd begged off actually sitting down; that was fine, she understood.

She gave him his bundle of mail and teased him about the catalog picturing motorcycles barreling across rough terrain and snowboarders in mid-flight from a company named D30 that had arrived the week before, asking him if he was going to be taking up competitive motorsports anytime soon. She'd managed to wrangle the truest smile yet out of him, and he said, no, only cycling of the regular sort, as was manageable for stodgy middle aged men. She had hugged him tightly as he said good-bye at the top of the landing, and she had hoped it would not be so long as it had been previously, before she would see him again.

April On April 20th she brought up a bunch of dried lavender stems and set them up in a beaker, and then retrieved the tulips to toss into the bin and wash out the vase. As she held the expired flowers in her hand, she had a thought flit across her mind that something was not quite right; she shrugged, and threw them away, but then when she glanced at them before shutting the lid, it came to her -- yes, that was it, there was no yellow flower. She didn't think anyone had been upstairs; John and Mycroft would both have let her know if they were coming by, she was sure of it, although apparently one of them must have done so. Or she could just be misremembering the composition of the small bouquet; her memory wasn't what it once was, of course.

Putting the washed and dried vase back into the cupboard reminded her about the bottle of Lagavulin; today she thought she could do with a drink, and she brought it down from the other cupboard, and sat it on the counter. When she went to pour some into a glass, she was struck once more about something being odd -- was it that the level of the liquid in the bottle was lower than she had expected it to be? Had she had a larger portion than she remembered from her visit last December? It could be a memory lapse, of course; perhaps it was time to visit the doctor, although she really didn't want to be told that yes, her memory was going. Of course it had been near Christmas, and the first month after Sherlock's death -- perhaps she had imbibed more than she would customarily, because of the circumstances. Or perhaps John or Mycroft actually had been by. She decided it was nothing to fuss over.

When she walked back into the sitting room, she noticed that the door to Sherlock's room was open; she was certain she had closed it behind her the day of John's visit. She walked over and took a few steps inside; everything seemed as it had been the last time she was there. As she turned to leave, she thought she did catch a scent that hadn't been there in the months prior -- a woody scent she associated with Sherlock. Perhaps her moving about had set free some lingering molecules trapped inside some bit of fabric.

Or, perhaps her visits to the flat were becoming a bit too much for her, and her mind was having trouble letting Sherlock go. She decided it might be best to take a break, and skip her visits for the next month or so.

........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper @helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra @solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912

.............................................................................

[thefirst3chapters]

Overanalyzing the Danes family again and thinking about how they react to change:

Liz appears to have an affinity for material objects. When Luke goes to Liz and TJ's place in S7, they have lots of Renaissance faire decor, supplies for making jewelry, quite a few other decorative items, and what appears to be a sizable Beanie Babies collection. That could just be their style, but it's interesting that Luke mentions in S4 that Liz has ended up in situations where a guy leaves with her belongings and clears out her bank account. Perhaps having a lot of physical things around her that aren't very expensive and probably aren't family heirlooms makes her feel safe and gives her a sense of control when everything else changes. Those things might not be as likely to be stolen, and if they go missing she can acquire more.

In S6, Liz tells Luke after a successful run selling jewelry that she doesn't know what to do with all the money, and Luke's suggestion of putting it in a bank hadn't occurred to her. Maybe when Liz came across some money she liked going to thrift stores and getting as much as she could afford. I'm picturing her finding yet another lava lamp or doll and saying, "I feel a connection with this one, don't you think it belongs with us?" while four-year-old Jess, who has been dragging around Curious George Learns the Alphabet for months, stares at her blankly.

Most of the things Jess seems to value are sources of ideas (books and music) or have a clear practical purpose (his clothes, watch, and car). One notable exception is the bracelets he has in addition to the one he temporarily keeps from Rory. Maybe there's a story there, and it's possibly an interesting connection to Liz's interest in jewelry (cue the everlasting Gilmore Girls theme of being like your parents even if you don't realize it or try to resist it). Twice we see Jess moving out of town with just what he can carry, and it happened offscreen when he went back to New York. Luke points out that Jess doesn't have much when first gets to Stars Hollow, but he doesn't seem to mind and says that Liz will send the rest later. In that episode, Liz tells Luke it will be that Friday. When all this stuff arrives 10 episodes later, there is of course comedic value in Luke's frustration at being trapped by mountains of boxes, but it's interesting that there is so much, and Jess doesn't seem to care about most of it. Did Liz think Jess would be comforted by this in the way she might be? Even with the extra space when the addition is built, a lot of those things realistically would not have been kept. Jess doesn't seem to own much besides books when he's in his New York apartment either.

Liz is more gregarious than Luke and Jess, but she also appears less affected when people she loves are absent. Liz calls Luke to see if Jess got to town alright in his first episode but famously doesn't ask about Jess going back to New York for the holidays. In S4, Liz is happy to see Jess both times he is in town, but she doesn't go out of her way to find out where he is or if he's okay. In S6, when she projects her concerns by telling TJ that he's going to mess up their child and throws things at him, she tells Luke that TJ left her like all the guys before him, but she's calm about it because of her "new come-what-may philosophy." Luke's the one who intervenes and gets TJ to come back while Liz is busy making new friends, and then Liz is glad to reconcile with him. Maybe Liz's apparent ease with all of this and her inclination toward meeting new people is how she's gotten through all of the losses she's experienced. She's predisposed to moving on.

Jess isn't social by nature, and as a teenager he's extra resistant to being around other people. However, in the two examples we see, once he gets emotionally attached to someone, it's for life. Being estranged from Luke and Rory affects him deeply and for a long time, and when he reconciles with them he makes it clear how important they both are to him. When he's working at Truncheon, he and his co-workers are friends, and he's conversational enough to be a successful businessperson in that environment, but April still notes that "men in this family aren't chatty" when she meets him.

For Luke, the circle of people he likes being around is small, but to those people he's extensively loyal ("Once Luke Danes is in your life, he's in your life forever"). The absence of someone he cares about clearly distresses him, and he tends to seek solitude in response. His apartment isn't cluttered, but he seems to have kept high school trophies, and he has a strong emotional attachment to things that are connected to his family: the diner, the "William's Hardware" sign, the boat, and his grandmother's bedroom furniture. Luke's life has been a bit more stable because he's the one who stuck around to take care of his parents and run the family business, and he's often hesitant to accept change. When metaphorical storms uproot Liz and Jess and take them elsewhere, they have contrasting coping mechanisms that they take with them while Luke stays behind and tries to hold down the fort, and eventually Jess finds stable footing and is able to help him. Or something like that.

[teal-fiend]

curiosity sated

curiosity sated

summary: you decide to have a one-off night where you try something you've always wanted to do - eat a tiny person alive

content: pred pov, fatal vore, digestion, unwilling prey, vague mention at disposal, g/t vore, stomach pain, drug mention/use

You’d always been curious what it would be like to eat someone whole

The main reason is because you grew up in a city where the two types of people lived more or less alongside each other: tinies and humans. 

Although you lived in an area with mostly other humans - because it’s just more convenient, 

And it’s embarrassing to admit, but you’d always wondered what one would feel like in your stomach. 

It was very illegal, for obvious reasons. Murder is illegal, and eating a tiny alive definitely fit under murder. 

And you would never admit to this curiosity either, everyone would think you were a psychopath. So you kept it entirely to yourself. You didn’t express it at all, you didn’t look into it, you didn’t let it take up much space in your life. 

But you’re an adult now, and you have a car, and you have money, and you realised that it wouldn’t be that hard to drive to a tiny-person district, chloroform and kidnap a man walking alone at night, put him in a suitcase, and then drive to a human district on the other side of the state, which you also had no affiliation with, book a hotel room, and then well…

Here you are. It kind of happened on auto-pilot. And now finally after a whole life of wondering what it would be like, tonight you would find out. And then afterwards you could go back to your life, curiosity satisfied. 

You did promise yourself this would be a one time thing. Even if you really liked it, or something, you made a promise to yourself that no matter what, if you got away with it, you wouldn’t do it again. 

For several reasons. One, being that if you did get caught, your life would be over. Again, you were committing several serious crimes. If you kept doing it, most likely you would eventually be caught. You didn’t want to be a serial killer, you just wanted to be a one-off killer that no one would discover. 

And secondly, you didn’t revel in the idea of condemning someone to such a terrible fate. Obviously you were interested in the idea of swallowing a tiny whole, and then digesting them in your stomach, but not particularly because you wanted to cause them pain, but because you… well… you just wanted to know what it was like. You wanted to know if you could digest them completely, the bones and all, and you wanted to know what it felt like to have a live person inside your stomach. 

You couldn’t deny you were excited. You felt it in your chest, your stomach, and into your limbs, the giddy anxiety at doing something you weren’t supposed to, and moreso, something you’ve been waiting for, for so long. 

You put the tiny on a table in your hotel room. 

You decided several things before you started this plan. You decided that you wouldn’t talk to him at all. You wouldn’t eat anything that day, so you would be hungry enough to go through with it (and you were very hungry), and you would let them keep their clothes on, even if it might risk digestive problems, because even if you were going to eat them, you didn’t want to traumatise them more than you had to.

The tiny was groggy, from being in a bag for several hours, but you had put a small bit of tape over his mouth so he couldn’t complain about it. You didn’t spend too long looking at his face, because you didn’t want to get squeamish, but he did start to wriggle when you picked him up. 

You felt a pang in your tummy, as you imagined that soon you would feel him wriggling in there instead. 

You checked him one more time before starting. As were most tinies, he was about the size of a Barbie doll. He had ruffled black hair, he was wearing a yo-pro outfit and he looked to be around 30. Older than you maybe, but you couldn’t really tell. 

You wanted to memorise what he looked like so you could remember once he was in your belly.

After that, you put his head in your mouth. You held onto him pretty tight, but not enough to damage his bones. You did worry if he would break anything going down your throat, as it would be a tight squeeze. But it was too late now because you started to push him down deeper into your mouth, holding his arms to his sides, and holding his legs still. He was thrashing quite a lot, so the best thing was to try to get him in your throat as soon as possible. 

It was tricky, this was probably the most complicated thing you’d ever had to swallow, with all the wriggling and you having to be gentle with him. You felt his head and shoulders hit the back of your throat, and it didn’t feel great and you started to worry that you wouldn’t be able to get him down. 

Shoulders were probably the widest part of his body, so once they were going down it would be smooth sailing from there, hopefully. You felt a tingly resistance as you tried to not activate your gag reflex. It was more uncomfortable than you appreciated, but you reminded yourself that if you couldn’t swallow him whole, you were basically fucked. You made your decision, this was something you simply had to do, and your resolve helped you through it, even if it wasn’t enjoyable. 

You pushed his shoulders, and the rest of his body down your throat, until it was just his legs that you had to hold still, and then you were pushing the base of his shoes with your finger. 

His whole body was in your throat and it hurt, and it didn’t feel like he was moving down any time soon. You stroked the lump in your throat, which was tender and very sore, you swallowed a little too hard and it sent a wave of agony down through your whole body. It was nightmarish, you wanted to cry, but you steeled yourself, and kept swallowing, more gently, even though it hurt each time. 

Soon you felt the tiny body sinking down, when he reached your chest you could breathe again, and you breathed shallowly, anxiously petting your chest, begging your body to finish him off, and soon you felt the mound go lower until you felt a pressure in your stomach.

You massaged your throat, yawning, trying to console your oesophagus muscles. You still felt a great deal of pain, and you rummaged around for your pain killers. You frowned at the white pills in your hand, knowing swallowing them would hurt too, and it did, but you washed it down with water, which soothed it slightly. 

You felt sorry for yourself for a moment. You looked down at the table, processing the pain, which was dissipating. The tiny who was there just a moment ago was gone, and against all odds, he was in your belly right now. 

You stretched, feeling the tightness under your ribcage. You could feel something in there, it was harder to notice because your throat hurt so much. But you put your hand over your stomach, and you felt full. You pressed down, focusing on that area, and you felt a fluttering feeling - was that the feeling of your prey moving? 

Focused on this now, you sat down on the hotel room bed, and lay against the head frame. You poked at your stomach, trying to elicit a reaction from your prey. It felt kind of light butterflies in your stomach, even though you weren’t nervous. 

You realised you were breathing quite heavily. It was a lot for your body, a lot of meat to have in there all at once. It felt really solid, almost hard, like there was a rock in your stomach. 

You got up and went to the bathroom. There was a ¾ length mirror, you lifted your shirt and turned to the side. Your stomach looked pretty distended, and you watched it rise and fall heavily with each breath. 

You couldn’t quite see any movement from the outside, but you could feel the light tapping inside. It was funny to think that an entire tiny could barely be noticeable both by you, and from the outside. He was probably struggling with all his strength, and you could feel it a bit, but you couldn’t see it. All you could see was a full stomach, but to anyone else it would look like you just had a big dinner. Not that you ate someone. 

You smiled to yourself. This was good. Even though no one would be around tonight, if they were, there would be no evidence that you ate anyone. And after you digested him, there would be no trace at all. You felt smug at the fact that you’d just about gotten away with your crime, and you hadn’t even finished him off yet. Now you had the whole night to yourself, to digest this person, and then after that you’re good to go. 

Your belly gurgled, which echoed in the bathroom, and before you could stop it, you burped.

Did that mean your body had accepted the tiny as food? You had to admit, it didn’t really feel like you’d had a meal, it felt like you had something in your stomach, which was a different feeling. One that you hadn’t had before. You felt slightly uncomfortable, and bloated, but not sick, which was good. 

You fixed your shirt and patted your belly. You needed to go relax if you were going to digest him properly. 

You lied down on your bed, and got to massaging your stomach. You were on a high floor, so you couldn’t hear the street, and it was pretty quiet. Quiet enough that you could hear your breath, and you could hear your stomach as it started to groan and rumble, trying to figure out what to do with the person inside it. 

You encouraged your body to digest what you’d given it by carefully rubbing your belly, breathing deeply through your diaphragm. Putting yourself into a relaxed state, and showing your digestive system that you were ready for it to get to work. 

As you rubbed your full belly, feeling it gurgle under your hand, you suddenly became aware that you were digesting someone alive. You frowned and looked down at your stomach, a bit swollen. There was a person inside it though. 

You stretch and roll over onto your stomach, putting your full weight onto your prey.

When you laid with your ear on the bed, you were able to hear the vibrations of your stomach better, and you could also hear something interesting, a muffled little voice. You raised your eyebrows - your prey was yelling in there. Made sense, being digested and all, might as well yell about it.

You said you wouldn’t talk to him… on the outside. You didn’t say you wouldn’t talk once he was in your belly already. Besides, it’s hardly a conversation - it’s more like talking to yourself.

“I think I can hear you,” you mumble. There is some muffled noise, maybe in reply. 

“If you’re trying to get me to let you out, it won’t work. I don’t know if you know this, but I do plan on digesting you.”

It might be easier to notice since your stomach is squeezed against the bed, but you do notice a palpable kick.

“Oh, that was a strong one, well done.”

You belched. “Sorry about that.”

“And sorry about all this too. But don’t worry, this is my first time eating anyone, and I’m not going to do it again. You’re the only tiny who’s ever going to be inside my stomach - so you’re basically doing a service to your kind. And now that I know what it’s like to eat someone, I won’t need to do it again.”

Your tummy gurgles noisily. 

“Hmm, I’ve always wondered what this would be like. I think I’m pretty rare though - most humans probably don’t want to eat you guys. And like, I don’t think you’re like, lesser or anything like that… I’ve just always been so curious. And it feels nice, I think, you did fill up my stomach - you can probably tell, I imagine it’s pretty tight for you in there.”

You feel an uncomfortable strain in your belly, you tuck your hand in, and knead at it. your breath hitches, and you let out an uneasy belch. 

“I’m going to take a nap soon, so you’ll probably get digested while I’m asleep. I’ll remember you though, and I do promise I won’t eat any more of you guys, ok?”

The time has gone by quickly, and it is time for bed. You get changed into your robe, and get cosy under the covers. You drift off with a hand on your still-wriggling belly.

You wake up to a sharp pain in your lower belly. It feels like something is scraping and digging claws into your internals. 

You look outside and it’s early morning, before the sun has even come up. The pain hits you again.

Is it just like the bones in your intestine? Are they too sharp? Did they not digest?

Or maybe the hair? Or - right, the clothes. Eating fabric and bits of plastic doesn’t feel too good. You consider going to the hospital - but if the doctors do pump your stomach or something… and they find a tiny person’s clothes in your gut… that would be hard to explain. 

You wince and rub your lower belly, but it doesn’t help at all, if anything it makes it worse.

You take a bunch of painkillers and leave it at that. Hopefully the fabric can just pass through, but if not… well the hospital is not a great choice. So unless the pain gets absolutely life-threatening, you’ll just try to bear with it. 

You manage to go back to sleep.

The next time you wake up it’s light out, you check the time and it’s late, like midday, you slept for ages. And you wake up pain free, which is great. 

You get dressed, pack up all your things, and give your room key back to reception. 

Before you start the long drive back home in your rental car, you decide to stop at a cafe for breakfast. Surprisingly, you’re pretty hungry, you can feel hunger pangs, and your stomach is growling pretty noticeably as well. 

You would have thought the tiny you ate would have lasted you longer, but you did eat him early last evening, and now it’s like 1pm, so that’s almost 20 hours with nothing but that person in your digestive tract. And although that was a good bit of meat, it just isn’t enough to last so long. 

You go to a nearby cafe, and order a meal and some coffee. It’s a cafe for both humans and tiny’s so you see a few of them going about their lives, eating their small foods. Your lower gut rumbles. None of the people here know what you have inside you still. And no one will ever know, except you. 

They don’t know that the human they’re sharing space with ate one of their own last night. As you drink their coffee, it ends up in the same stomach that recently digested that man alive. 

This is a secret that you have to keep for the rest of your life. You realise that you need to be extra nice to tinies from now on, to make up for it.

[skiptomy]

Y'all yesterday I realized I fully would be more willing to finally get myself the mobility aid I've needed (for years at this point) because of a cosplay rather than just "for myself"

I still don't think I'll ever be able to afford a wheel chair, much less be able to deck it out to look like Hephaestus' from Hades II, but like, if I did have the money I'd be more willing to spend it on myself if it was for something... Other than just me??? It makes no goddamn sense.

This is a new form of girl math or something. (I am not a girl but y'know)

Side note, it's probably genuinely more a mix of shame/internalized ableism that has been actually preventing me from getting one (in addition to living paycheck to paycheck on an artist/dog sitter salary) because I'm "too young", have an invisible disability, and I'm fat. So people are gonna either think I'm lazy or I'm faking it which so many do already. It's hard enough when I use a cane in stores that I rarely do even when I need it. But a wheelchair for my bad days/things like conventions if I do artist's alley or even just go to one for fun would be a goddamn game changer.

Anyway this has all to say Hephaestus hot, thank you Supergiant, you've always been one of my most favorite game companies, I'm so glad you learned how to draw fat people and that you care enough to put so much love and effort into a wonderful disabled character.

Also thank you for reading this ramble, sometimes it's nice to get shit off my chest.

[twisted-gremlin]

So I wanna say

I HC Vil absolutely analyzes people based on their clothing choice, how they stylize it, if they are wearing makeup, how often they use it, how much, etc.

The man is an actor, so I'm sure he would be sure to have authentic characterization based on clothing, makeup, and how one takes care of their complexion and how often they do it.

Im sure he profiled everyone that came in for auditions.

Chapter 5 and 6 spoilers:

Ruggie profile: I feel like he easily saw that Ruggie was only in it for the money, the way his body moved, the way he acted, the way he has dressed. He was dressed for an easy escape, the rolled up sleeves and pant legs with the open jacket to easily take off. The clothing hangs off of his body, so it may be a hand me down or second hand from a previous Savanaclaw student (maybe Rook?). His gym uniform is put together quite well for speed, so for running, to do something and flee easily.

Epel profile: he appears to be feminine (maybe even born female but identifies as a male), he wore his ceremonial robes improperly. He is clearly trying to act more stereotypically masculine, aiming to be a stereotypical masculine man, physically and mentally. He doesn't like anything about his own physical form. So Vil decides to show him what true strength is, knowing ones own weaknesses and strengths, and useing them both to your advantage

Ortho profile: Ortho would dsfonately be hard to read due to him being a robot and haveing yet to fully come into himself as a liveing being. He probably saw how all the movements were just copies, not authentic, not something he could be. (He would go on to do this work with Ortho in the Second Fairy Gala)

Lilia profile: Lilia was clearly excited to take this chance and do what he couldn't have done before. Like Ruggie, his uniform is more loose and made for more speed. Except he radiates more michift than malace, or neediness. He seems to want to stand out and be his own being while being apart of something he cares about. His dancing movements were quick, elegant, rigid, hesitant, and not what he asked of.

Ace profile: Ace seems to be dressed for a mix of offense and Defence and good durability, good for a basketball player. The coat around his waist could show that if needed, he can break the rules and is very adaptable too as well as being a casual thing/takeing the sport a little bit seriously. His dancing wasn't the best but it was clear that he trained with Jamil and Kalim to do better. So he knows where to go to get what he needs to improve on and will listen aswell. He seems enthusiastic about joining the group aswell.

Deuce profile: has a bit more bulk, but dosent have the sleeves on the arms of his gym uniform so probably more ready for a fight and long distance running. He is dressed well put together, looking like a good role model (like what ortho says in the White Rabbit Fest: Deuce is the kind to dress for the job that you want) when dancing he is probably the most rigid but also went to Kalim and Jamil for help with performing so also seems to be willing to get help when needed. Witch is good for his goals

Kalim profile: so first of note would be the tattos, we have only seen him and Leona have any (so far, who knows if Deuce or someone has a secret one) so it may be a sign of status here. He has rolled up pants as to not trip on the legs while doing something, very short sleeves and a sweater. He is clearly not as miscivious as Ace in this regard, so it's much more of a casual thing for him/takeing sports seriously. His band is less frilly and has nothing hanging off of it, so it's clear that his perferd activity is breakdanceing, perfect and well adaptable for Vils means

Jamil profile: Jamil, much like Kalim is dressed for break dancing, but the arm bands also suggest he plays basket ball. He is clearly much more disciplined than Kalim while performing witch would show why Vil chose Jamil over Kalim(witch would be a first and make Jamil very happy).

When Vil has the SDC crew stay with Yuu and Grim, it's to help make them understand a poor liveing condition that could easily happen to anyone, to help engage that bit of kindness towards others who may need it. Like Yuu and Grim at that time.

I'm sure it served as a bit of a wakeup call to everyone there, including himself, and helped drive them to win in a way.

After their loss they still decided to donate to Ramshakle and repair the building.

[h-didanart]

I MADE IT

CHARACTER REF SHEETS

FINALLY I CAN SHARE THESE GUYS PROPERLY

:D

*ahem* Hello fellow fans and au makers! I am here to showcase my silly little au. Allow me to introduce you to our main characters:

These are Sunset and Moonlight, from The Sunset and Moonlight show! Close ups and info dump below

Where to start where to start, okay, a general description of the AU should be good to start with yeah? Yeah

This is a swap au, but unlike what I usually see swap AUs do, this is less of a full personality swap and more of a ‘bend the characters to a point where they change roles’ thing.

NOW. THE CHARACTERS THEMSELVES—

Sunset Rays Celestial-

Sun is a tired and apathetic guy. He would like to be left all alone in his room for the rest of his days, but that’s not really a good thing so he’s fine just living a calm and drama-free life.

His hobbies include cleaning, painting, sewing, and gaming. The cleaning has gotten embedded into his code to a concerning degree, he will clean a spot over and over for hours if he’s having a bad day. He got into art while he was undergoing “repairs”, he found painting to be a fun activity despite its messiness, and sewing has proven to be fruitful for his wardrobe. He’s gotten so good at these that he actually gets commissions and is paid very well. He prefers to draw with pastels and markers when he can. The video games are a shared hobby with his twin brother, Moon, they both play together sometimes. His favorite game is Cult of the Lamb.

He has a malfunction of sorts where his voice box will give out randomly and he’ll be unable to talk. It’s annoying but he doesn’t really mind, he has gotten really good at sign language from it. Plus, he uses it as an excuse to avoid talking to Moon whenever he gets the chance to.

The Computer absolutely hates his guts and has sent him off to various different dimensions. He’s acquainted with quite a few people and even has friends.

He has very good aim, both in video games and physically. He usually uses it to throw something at Moon to get his attention. Or to get him to leave him alone. Or to annoy him. Or just because. This has proved to be a really bad habit.

Despite being generally apathetic, he’s actually pretty good with emotions, being able to read them well on others and act accordingly.

He also knows magic.

Crescent Moonlight Celestial-

Moon is an energetic and nervous guy. He wants nothing more than to live happily with his brother. And do science, he’s a nerd.

His hobbies include science and gaming. On the side of science he specializes on robotics, programming, and inter dimensional studies, with some advanced physics as well. He’s a genius, basically. Gaming is a shared hobby between him and his twin brother, they both play together sometimes. He seems to have taken a liking to the Kingdom Hearts series, but Pokémon will forever have his heart.

The killing code is very much still in him, it manifests as heat on the back of his head and irritability. During a full kill code episode he’ll be extremely aggressive, on top of having increased physical capabilities and virtually no filter. He dreads having those and constantly checks his temperature. Independent from the kill code he has a bad temper.

He isn’t exactly a ‘people’s person’ yet due to having been the active Daycare Attendant for a few months he has grown acquainted with a few of the Pizzaplex animatronics. Montgomery took a liking to him. Because money.

Because of reasons he has a lot of bunkers on a lot of different parts of the world. He remembers them all thanks to the collection of tree branches he has picked up when he visited. These are jokingly called The Whacking Sticks (and is a genuine joke, he just likes collecting sticks)

He wanted to learn emotions better so he decided to find the code that controls emotions in himself and turned it on all the way. He’s starting to realize this wasn’t a good idea.

A master acrobat, he loves flying with the wire.

In case it wasn’t clear yet, Sun and Moon switch places in this au. Things may change, and I may come up with funny details later, but I hope you had fun reading this little introduction to my au

More stuff about them to come at some point!

[drdemonprince]

Look I understand that at the federal level we're cooked because we don't have a good third option but voting on a state and local level will help out peoples lives. We can see this with how abortion rights were enshrined in blue states and how places like Minnesota got children free lunch. We can't just decolonize the system overnight so I think it's the most practical thing to do is vote for the best change possible on levels where you're the most effected while working for more.

It's not that we lack a good or viable third option, the problem runs far deeper and more systemically than that. The system is set up such that no alternative option that is actually challenging to the status quo can exist -- the way election financing works and the structure of majority/minority leadership in houses and senates makes having a meaningful third party presence impossible.

As for the possible influence at the local election level, in some ways I am with you. I voted for an increase to funding for the forest reserve. I felt good when that passed. I voted for increased funding for homeless people -- it never materialized. Even when welfare packages pass, they rarely do materialize as promised because there is no way to hold the government accountable for carrying out the people's will.

I voted for the mayor that was less pro-cop. It hasn't kept police from brutalizing protestors all over this city all year long. He put in a few more bike lanes which I guess some people find an adequate enough reason to continue to be complicit within the present system. But my feeling is that every goddamned time that I convince myself that I should participate to try and move the needle, that I should lower my standards and accept even a modicum of improved treatment by the state, I wind up being bait-and-switched even further and having to accept even smaller table scraps than the crumbs I'd already been offered. And I see so many dedicated, passionate leftist people pouring hundreds of hours every year into campaigning for Democratic politicians who pull shit like this, and helping them raise copious amounts of funds that exist only to help them keep getting elected and doing fuck all.

if you wanna walk up to the polls on election day and pay attention to whats happening down ballot that's your business. im glad my alderwoman is the less pro-gentrification one than the other guy that used to be in office. she's still pro gentrification and building $1400 a month high rises all over the neighborhood. none of this is acceptable and the forward creep of economic displacement is still happening, it just has a happier face on it. and it always will because that's what the system is and does.

the deeper problem is that once people invest any hope in a system that is hopelessly oppressive, they tend to also funnel a lot of attention toward electoral politics and campaigning when that money and time would be a lot better spend like, just giving food to homeless people on your block or babysitting a neighbors kids or planting some vegetables or like anything else thats actually community minded.