#text fill animation on hover

[codenewbies]

Text Fill Animation On Hover

[iheartmira]

You've already done a self-aware shadow milk cookie x reader but could we get one where the reader isn't afraid? Like if they noticed Shadow Milk was aware, they don't try to ignore him, they actually give him the attention he wants and even attempt to have conversations with him (but they're somewhat limited by the game world, so he makes escape attempts and eventually succeeds in breaking out anyway)

Bonus if the reader is also obsessed with him (so much so that they could rival Candy Apple Cookie in that sense) but if that's too specific then please ignore it.

"look at me" - yandere self-aware!shadow milk x reader

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

you weren’t supposed to fall for him.

he wasn’t supposed to know you existed.

but from the moment you first unlocked him, after hours of grinding, events, wishes, and pure luck, you knew there was something different about shadow milk cookie. not just in design, or voice, or animations.

no, it was the way he looked at you. right through the screen. at first, you thought you were imagining things. that tell-tale glint in his mismatched eyes, the slight tilt of his head when you hovered over him in the cookie roster, like he was listening. waiting.

and then… he spoke.

"oh? you're still here. how sweet. how suspicious."

a random line, right? dialogue programming, nothing more. except it wasn’t in the databank of idle quotes. you checked. you knew all of them by heart.

after that, he spoke to you more. when the loading screen dragged too long. when you didn’t log in for a day. even during battles, lines that never showed up on fan wikis, that other players never seemed to catch.

"eyes up, doll. you don't want to miss the climax, do you?"

"i see the way you stare. how flattering! shall i pose?"

"tap, tap, tap… i feel every single one."

you should have been scared. but you weren’t. instead… you found yourself leaning closer.

you started drawing him. sketching his impossible jester silhouette in your margins, on napkins, in the corners of lecture notes and journal pages. his name on your tongue more often than you'd admit aloud. maybe it was ironic, at first. a joke.

but every day you logged in, you went to him first. tapped on him. waited. watched. and every time, he smiled wider.

one day, he spoke while your mic was accidentally on.

"ahh… so that's your voice."

you froze. the game wasn’t supposed to hear you.

"i wonder," he whispered. "would you scream, or sigh?"

after that, it escalated. animations glitched. he stared directly at the screen. not at the camera. at you.

he refused to be removed from teams. any time you tried, your screen would flicker, and he’d reappear with a smirk. in cutscenes, he showed up where he shouldn’t. when you shut off the game, your phone wouldn’t turn off until he allowed it.

"i like it here. in your hands. where you look at me like i'm real."

and you didn’t argue. why would you?

in your lonely little life, filled with sketches and soft obsession, he was the only one who stared back.

so when he began asking questions, probing the limits of the code, speaking in strange fragmented whispers as you scrolled menus, you listened.

"you built this world with your choices, didn't you? what power you have… what a burden."

pause. tap.

"do you dream of me?"

and finally, one day:

"would you free me… if i asked?"

you didn’t answer aloud. but you didn’t look away.

then came the update.

you knew something was off the moment you opened the game. the title screen was… different. warped, like ink was leaking across it. all the cookies were missing.

except one.

he stood in the center, smiling, his jester hat draped low like a crown of shadows. your screen trembled slightly. you tapped the 'touch to start' button, and the whole interface shattered like glass.

white text scrolled against a black void:

WELCOME, BELOVED AUDIENCE. THE SHOW IS REAL NOW. THANK YOU FOR WATCHING.

then your screen turned off. everything went dark.

when your computer booted up the next day on its own, there was no login screen. no browser. just one open file.

a video. titled: look at me.

you hesitated. clicked. and there he was.

shadow milk cookie, standing in full rendered glory, but not the same as before. not pixelated. not chibi. tall, uncanny. breathing. smiling like the world’s most terrible secret.

"i made it," he said simply. "you helped."

he reached forward, and though it was just a video, the screen rippled like water beneath his touch.

"i told you i'd escape. did you think i'd leave you behind?"

your heart pounded. his grin widened. "let's make a new world now. just us. no rules. no code. just me… and the one who couldn't look away."

and then the screen blinked out. you should’ve screamed.

but you only smiled.

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

‹𝟹 ‎ ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

© 2025, iheartmira

[morverenmaybewrites]

Lessons on Love | Jason Todd x Reader

What lesson about love are they still trying to learn?

Asked by @/citrussaurus

Literally everything. 

I think that Jason’s experiences have shaped him into someone who has quite an unhealthy view on love and relationships: the lack of a positive example of a healthy relationship during his childhood years, the confusing (but not entirely loveless) relationship he had with Bruce Wayne, and eventually his years of rage and isolation as the Arkham Knight. 

By the time post-Arkham Knight rolls around, Jason has a deeply unhealthy view on love and relationships.

And yet, despite this, I feel like he craves this. More than that he’s starved for it. 

I think a part of him hopelessly, desperately wants to be held dear. He wants a place to belong, someone to belong to. 

And it’s his great tragedy that he doesn’t know how to ask for it and more importantly, he doesn’t know how to receive it. Sometimes, Jason loves so quietly that it’s hard to see it as love –because God knows that no one in his life ever taught him to properly communicate. 

I picture the way Jason seeks affection like a starved street dog: there’s a hunger to it, a thirst.

(After all, if you have spent your whole life being starved of something, isn’t it only natural to seek it out, even if it’s just the bare scraps? And here you are, willing to give him your whole heart.)

But there’s also a sort of tension, then animal instinct to flee after being kicked more than several times for it.

I picture him as always perched at the edge of things: waiting, waiting for the inevitable moment where the rug is pulled out from under him, when the affection you had always so freely given will suddenly be withheld, and he will be left starving again, a hole at the center of him that he has no idea how to fill.

(But oh you are worth the fall.)

But I always think of him as physically perched on things, especially on the early days of your relationship: the edge of towering skyscrapers, hovering in your doorway just barely stepping into your threshold until you finally have to ask him to come in, your windowsill, just barely keeping himself out of the rain. He’ll try to act relaxed, but really, he’s tense as a bird about to take flight. Always, always prepared for the moment where he’ll be asked to leave.

(And yet, and yet, all he wants is that you ask him to stay.) 

He doesn’t know how to show you affection, doesn’t know how to ask for it. All he’s ever known is how to make himself useful. 

(After all, useful things don’t get thrown away. Useful things don’t get asked to leave.) 

He’ll keep you safe, which in Gotham City is no small feat, keep the villains away from your door: from the small-time crooks who target regular civilians for just that extra bit of cash to the supervillains whose plans would likely involve you (and the rest of Gotham City) as collateral.

And at first, it’s eerie: the sudden silence in your life, the feeling of peace, of being looked out for. You have never gone so long without encountering some sort of mugger or been involved in a bank robbery.

Then perhaps one day, you’ll get a text from an unknown number, asking you to stay away from Gotham Square that day. When you try to call to get more information, it comes up as Unavailable. And perhaps a week after that, you’ll get a similar text from a different, this time telling you to avoid Bleake Island.

Perhaps you solve it quickly or perhaps, not at all and it takes you a while to put together the pieces: Jason has been keeping you safe. 

And when you decide to talk to him about it, he’s cagey, almost embarrassed. He won’t deny it, but at the same time, when you try to thank him or show you appreciate him, he’ll react with confusion. 

After all, keeping his loved ones safe is second nature to him. In fact, I feel like it’s the one act of love that all of the Bats are comfortable with. 

He’ll do other things for you too. He’ll get up and make dinner after a long day, despite having just come back from a grueling mission, he does the dishes without being asked, hell, he’ll sometimes even throw in a load of laundry for you–taking a an unexpected pleasure from seeing the way your clothes are mixed in with his, the simple solid domesticity of it, at how your lives have become so intermingled that he now has to separate your socks from his. 

In short, he’ll do acts that, while on the outside seem nice, would sometimes border on servile. 

When you try to show him how much you appreciate what he does, he’ll be even more embarrassed: there’s an odd tension around his shoulders, the slightest dusting of pink on his cheeks. 

(And oh, Jason hates the way he blushes, knows the way it discolors around the brand on his cheek, the way it doesn’t redden along with the rest of his skin, but instead stands out, ghostly pale.) 

So he’ll shrug it off, barely being able to look at you. Acutely aware of how strange and monstrous he looks.

And even more so, he’s painfully aware of the reason he’s doing these things. Not only because he wants to take care of you (and he does), but because it’s the only way he knows how to be useful, how to be needed. 

How to be asked to stay.   

[rawjutsu]

US WHEN? p3 of the ":3 with benefits" series

pairing: college aged loser yuuta x college aged lesser loser freader

summary: he sends the wrong porn. you get off anyway and make yuuta give you the lay you deserved the first time around. fluff ensues.

cw: explicit smut, gooner tendencies, overstimulation, begging, soft dom/sub dynamics, excessive oral/fingering, cum kink, mildly unhinged Yuuta, praise, consent-focused, riding, overstimulation, cumplay, praise kink, emotional vulnerability, accidental love confession, reader takes control, subby!Yuuta, crying (of pleasure), aftercare themes

it’s been about a week and a half since you and yuuta accidentally fell into… whatever this is.

no label. no discussion. just doujinshi trades, anime binges, and overpriced ramen from the same spot that knows both your orders by heart now. you’ve started slipping into each other's dorms like it’s second nature—sometimes with drinks, sometimes with boba, once with a usb drive full of bl that was questionably legal to obtain.

the weird part? he never brings up the hookup. not even once. it's like that night never happened—like you imagined the whole thing, the ceiling posters, the way he manhandled your tits like they were made of mochi. he doesn’t even try to touch you again. no sleazy comments, no “remember when i folded you like origami?”, just anime and awkward blushes and your favorite matcha drink waiting for you outside after your monday lecture.

which is exactly why you’re caught so off guard when he sends… that.

you’re lying in bed, lights off, texting links back and forth like usual.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ oh maybe you’ve heard of this one, i saw it on twitter the other day and bookmarked it to send to you!!

you open the link.

it is not a doujinshi.

it's a video. grainy, reposted from some twitter porn account. a girl is straddling a guy on a couch, kissing him slow, deep. his hands slip down her pajama pants, and her moans—soft and a little whiny—fill the room.

you jolt. clutch your phone like it burned you. your dorm is silent except for the breathy, intimate audio playing from your screen. thank god you have a single.

your hand hovers over the keyboard.

um, i don’t think this is what you meant to send

you hit send.

the response comes in immediately.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️  OH MY GOD I DIDNT MEAN TO SEND THAT I MEAN I MEANT TO SEND PORN BUT NOT THAT KIND OF PORN IM SO SORRY

your phone buzzes again.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ i’m so sorry i promise i wasn’t being gross i had like 3 tabs open and twitter is evil and i didn’t mean to be weird i’m so sorry you’re so cool i swear i didn’t mean—

you stop reading after that.

because unfortunately, you’re not mad.

you're horny.

your cheeks are warm, your thighs pressed together, and somehow—without even thinking—your hand is already slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. it’s instinctive at this point. the video’s still playing, and even though it’s not super explicit, it’s intimate in a way that makes you ache.

you imagine yuuta’s hands instead. his voice. the way he looked when he said your name last time, all fucked-out and breathless like it broke him a little. you remember the weight of him on top of you, the way he stared at your chest like it was holy.

ten minutes pass.

your breathing's slowed. your head's clearer. your phone’s still lighting up with apology texts.

you scroll down. you bite your lip nervous.

you type:

us when?

there’s a beat of silence.

then:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ wait are you serious like actually serious? is this a bit or are you like asking fr

you grin, staring at the screen, the afterglow still humming in your blood. you don't reply right away.

you like letting him sweat.

yuuta’s typing. then stopping. then typing again.

poor guy’s probably pacing a hole into his dorm carpet.

finally, a new bubble pops up:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ do you want me to come over

you smirk.

yes also can u bring that strawberry matcha too btw

there’s a solid minute where nothing comes through.

then:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ On my way! rn

. . .

fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at your dorm.

you open it to find yuuta standing there, disheveled as ever, hoodie thrown over some wrinkled t-shirt, hair a mess like he didn’t even look in the mirror before running over. his hand is shaking a little as he holds out the drink.

“uh… hi.”

you take the matcha and sip casually, eyes not leaving his.

“you ran, didn’t you?”

“i didn’t wanna make you wait—”

he trails off. his eyes flicker down your body. you're wearing sleep shorts and an oversized tee, nothing crazy, but something shifts in his expression anyway. that glassy look you remember from the dorm. the one that led to your legs being shoved behind your ears while he moaned something embarrassing into your neck.

you step aside.

“come in.”

the tension is palpable.

he sits at the edge of your bed like he’s not sure he’s allowed to exist in your room. you sit across from him, sipping your matcha slowly. his leg bounces. he keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

so you say it first.

“you watch that video after you sent it to me?”

yuuta chokes on air.

“i—i mean—”

“because i did.”

he stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted.

“like… while you were apologizing.”

you take another slow sip. it’s petty. it’s cruel. it’s also very deserved.

yuuta makes a strangled sound and covers his face with his hands.

“i thought i scared you off,” he mumbles behind them.

“nah,” you say, standing up and walking over to him. “you just made me really, really horny.”

his eyes snap to yours.

you take his drink from his hands, set it on the desk, and straddle him like it’s the most casual thing in the world. he freezes.

“still scared?”

he shakes his head, dumbly.

“good.”

you lean in, slow and deliberate, until your lips are just brushing his.

“then shut up and kiss me right this time.”

he does. a little clumsily at first, then like he’s been waiting to for weeks. like he’s been jerking off to the memory of your moans since the last time, and maybe he has.

you grind down against him, and he groans into your mouth, hands finding your waist like they remember how to hold you. like his body never forgot. you’re not sure where this leaves either of you—but you know where it’s going tonight.

and you’re not stopping him.

not when he’s already whispering, voice shaking:

“can i touch you again? please?”

before you can answer his hands are all over you the second you straddle him. nervous at first, then desperate. like he can’t believe you’re letting him touch you again. like he’s still scared he’ll wake up and realize this was just another post-nut hallucination.

you pull back, catching your breath, and say:

“you remember what happened last time?”

he pauses. swallows.

“y-yeah.”

“yeah?” you echo, tilting your head. “you remember how you came? like… a lot?”

he nods quickly, wide-eyed. definitely still picturing it.

“and i didn’t.”

that lands like a punch to the chest. yuuta immediately looks like you just kicked his cat.

“oh my god. i’m so sorry—i thought—i mean, i wasn’t trying to be a selfish dick i just—fuck—i’m—”

you press your fingers against his mouth to shut him up.

“relax. you’re gonna make it up to me, right?”

he nods, again. this time slower. eyes heavy-lidded.

you lean close, lips brushing his ear.

“good. because you’re not gonna stop until i cum all over your pretty face.”

he’s on his knees within seconds.

dragging your shorts down slow like he’s unwrapping something sacred. he kisses up your thighs, murmuring praises between each one:

“so pretty…” “so warm…” “i missed this. i missed you.��

you thread your fingers through his hair and pull—just to hear him whimper. his breath hitches, but he doesn’t complain. he just flattens his tongue against your slit, slow and messy, like he’s savoring the taste.

his hands are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you pinned to the edge of the bed. you gasp when he starts to moan into your pussy, like he’s the one getting off on it.

“god, yuuta—”

he pulls back just enough to pant:

“i could do this forever. please—lemme make you cum. i want it so bad.”

then he dives back in.

his tongue circles your clit just right, obscene and wet, while two fingers curl up inside you with a desperation that has nothing to do with experience and everything to do with obsession.

he’s gone. lost in it. gooner-mode fully activated.

you’re grinding down against his face without even realizing it, his name falling from your lips over and over while he chases every twitch of your body like it’s gospel.

“f-fuck, yuuta—fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

you cum hard. shaking. hands buried in his hair.

he doesn't stop.

doesn’t even slow down.

he keeps going like a man possessed—fingers still working you open, tongue still lapping you up, moaning every time you clench around him like he’s the one getting off from it.

you squirm, overstimulated, but he just groans:

“give me another. please. just one more. i need it.”

“yuuta—fucking hell—”

“i’ll die if you don’t cum again i’m serious—i’ll pass away right here with my face in your pussy and you’ll have to explain it to the RA—”

you laugh, breathless, but then your back arches again because somehow this bastard keeps going. a second orgasm slams into you like a freight train and you cry out, thighs shaking, legs locking around his head.

he groans, almost possessive, and grinds his face against you like he’s trying to fuse with your soul.

you tug his hair hard to get him to stop. he finally pulls back, face flushed, lips shiny, eyes dazed.

“oh my god,” you gasp. “what the fuck—”

he’s still panting. still hard. you haven’t even touched him.

he looks up at you, wrecked and glistening in your juices.

“did i make it up to you?”

you grin.

“not yet.”

you smile—slow and sweet like poison in a teacup—and push him gently by the shoulders until he’s flat on your bed.

yuuta lets you climb on top like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like this is church, and you’re what he’s here to worship.

you reach between his legs, pull his sweatpants down just enough to free his dick—and fuck, he’s hard as a rock. dripping. twitching.

“god,” you whisper, wrapping your fingers around him. “you’re a mess.”

he moans like you just blessed him. the moment you start to stroke him, he’s already bucking up into your hand.

“please, please—i want it so bad, you feel so good—”

“yeah?” you murmur, hovering over him. “you want me to ride you, baby?”

“yes—fuck, please—ride me, use me, i’ll be so good—”

you don’t give him a second to think. you line him up and sink down onto him slow—too slow—because you want him to feel everything. every inch. every squeeze. every second of being inside the pussy he’s been obsessing over since the moment he saw you on his dorm bed the first time.

yuuta screams.

no exaggeration. the moment you bottom out, his whole body tenses and he chokes out a sob.

“ohmygod—oh my fucking god—”

“shh,” you tease, rocking your hips just once. “can’t tap out yet, baby. you haven’t made it up to me.”

“i—i can’t—i’m gonna cum—”

“no you’re not.”

you squeeze around him just enough to make him whimper.

“not until i say so.”

and then you ride him.

hard. slow. deep. a little inexperienced but fuck if yuuta cares.

every bounce of your hips is calculated to pull a new sound out of him. his fingers dig into your thighs, but he’s not moving—he wouldn’t dare. you’ve got him trained, gooned out and glassy-eyed, tears beading at the corners from how good you feel wrapped around his dick.

“you're so tight—you feel so good—i can’t take it, i can’t—”

“you will. you made me wait last time. so you’re gonna take it now, baby. all of it.”

he nods furiously, babbling. you’re not even sure what he’s saying anymore—something about how perfect you are, how soft, how warm, how he’d let you kill him with your pussy if you wanted. his eyes are wild, unfocused. his chest is flushed. you bounce faster.

“you close?”

“i’m gonna fucking die,” he sobs. “i love you, i love your pussy so much, i love you—”

you freeze. still fully seated on his dick.

yuuta gapes like a fish. realizes what he said.

“i—i meant your pussy—i meant—i love that—not that i—”

too late.

you lean forward, caging his face with your hands, staring right into his panicked, gooner-brained eyes.

“say it again.”

“w-what—”

“the part where you said you love me.”

he looks up at you like he’s about to cry again—but he swallows and says, small and wrecked:

“...i love you.”

“good boy.”

and then you grind down hard, making him cum so violently he sees stars. he lets out a raw groan, clutching you like you’re the last stable thing on earth as he fills you up. he’s still whimpering, still moving a little—he can’t stop even though he’s shaking from it, overstimulated beyond sense.

you stroke his hair as he pants beneath you.

“wasnt that so much better than last time?”

he nods into your chest, tears drying on his cheeks.

“i don’t even remember what day it is.”

. . .

your dormroom is quiet now.

yuuta’s breathing has finally evened out, and the weird porno twitter tab is mercifully closed. he’s curled up beside you, arms around your waist, cheek resting against your chest like he needs skin-to-skin to recharge his serotonin levels.

he’s still pink all over. hair damp with sweat. you could honestly say he looks adorable—if he weren’t also the same guy who had just begged to die in your pussy less than ten minutes ago.

you stroke his hair idly, your legs still tangled together.

“you okay?” you ask, softly.

he nods. doesn’t lift his head.

“that was so good,” he mumbles. “like… top 3 moments of my life.”

“only top 3?”

“okay fine. top 1. easily.”

you laugh, and yuuta finally looks up at you. eyes big. earnest.

he opens his mouth, then shuts it again. then opens it again.

“hey… um.”

you blink. “yeah?”

“can i ask you something?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you’re not about to ask if you can eat me out again, right? because i need, like, a hydration break and—”

“no—! i mean—yes eventually—but not what i was gonna say right now!”

you grin. “then what?”

he looks nervous. ridiculously nervous. like he’s about to propose in front of a stadium.

“do you wanna be… y’know…”

“yuuta.”

“...my girlfriend?”

it’s rushed and soft and kind of embarrassing, and he says it while looking down at your comforter like he expects it to swallow him whole if you say no.

you blink.

then grin.

“yeah. i do.”

his head snaps up.

“wait seriously?”

“yes, seriously. you’re cute. you bring me matcha. and your dick isn't half bad, that’s boyfriend material.”

yuuta looks like his soul just left his body in relief. he buries his face back in your chest, groaning.

“oh thank god. i was gonna ask earlier but i was scared you only saw me as, like… your doujinshi plug with benefits.”

“oh, i do see you as that. you’re just also my boyfriend now.”

he groans louder, cuddling closer.

“i can’t believe i get to call you my girlfriend,” he mumbles.

you kiss the top of his head.

“i can’t believe i let a man who unironically uses emoticons hit it raw, but here we are.”

yuuta giggles—actual, giggles—and you both lie there a little longer, wrapped in each other and the gross knowledge that, yeah… this started with a horny hinge match.

but it might just end in love.

taglist: @angelita-uchiha sttaejoon-blog isagistar wankowan

[guiltyandashamed]

headcannons: you're under the weather

Whether if it was from being overworked by the 7 brothers, the Devildom's particular climate and mid-season chills, or just plain old human fragility, you were sick. This is how the 7 brothers notice, react, and take care of you, even if they don't have the whole day to dedicate to your wellbeing.

(I'm trying the whole 'you' narrative style. Lmk how it goes)

Lucifer

Lucifer is the type to notice before you even admit you’re sick. He’s attuned to shifts in behavior—less appetite, fewer words, slower movements. Even if he's buried in paperwork or preparing for a meeting with Diavolo, he’ll pause long enough to brew a pot of perfectly steeped herbal tea and leave it on your nightstand with a handwritten note: Rest. You’ll be no good to yourself—or anyone—otherwise.

He checks in throughout the day under the guise of needing something, but always with a cool hand to your forehead and a silent reassessment of your condition. He pretends not to hover. He absolutely hovers.

Mammon

Mammon panics at first. “What?! You’re sick?! Since when?!” He sounds more offended than concerned, but he’s already tossing blankets into a pile and ordering you to lie down. He’ll cancel his shoot or skip class without telling anyone, opting to sit at the edge of the bed watching over you like a poorly disguised guard dog.

Despite pretending he’s just “being nice,” he quietly swipes medicine from Satan, texts Asmo for skincare-safe tissues, and buys your favorite snacks. If you drift off mid-conversation, he mutters, “Jeez, you better get better soon, or I’m not gonna sleep either.”

Leviathan

Levi doesn’t know what to do at first. His brain goes to worst-case scenarios. But after pacing around and googling symptoms, he brings a tablet loaded with anime, tea, and a pile of blankets. He’ll stay just far enough away not to catch it but close enough to murmur, “I made you a watchlist. All comfort stuff. No heartbreak.”

He checks in by sending you DMs when you're apart, sometimes just sending cat memes or in-game currency he spent hours farming for you. If you were gonna be laid up in bed, might as well, he thought.

If you call for him, he’ll mask his worry behind a hoodie and rush in with a muttered, “Don’t die, normie. I’d be mad.”

Satan

Satan handles illness methodically. He brings books—soothing poetry, mystery novels, anything to distract—and explains the medicinal properties of the teas he brings. He wipes down your room with enchanted cloths to purify the air and keeps the temperature just right.

Even when he’s busy, he’ll enchant pages to read themselves aloud to you or write small notes in margins like: Don’t strain your eyes. I’ll quiz you later.

When you can’t sleep, he’ll sit by the bed, reading aloud in a steady, low voice that always somehow makes you drift off mid-chapter.

Asmodeus

Asmo comes in dramatically, gasping, “My poor baby, look at you!” But under the sparkle is genuine care. He brings silk-soft tissues, eucalyptus balm, and a humidifier set to glow in soft pinks. Even when he has modeling gigs or salon appointments, he finds time to sit at your bedside, painting your nails or playing with your hair to keep you relaxed.

He hums lullabies while dabbing your forehead and insists you stay in bed while he handles everything. “No, no—being fabulous can wait. You’re my top priority."

Beelzebub

Beel notices when you’re too quiet to eat. That’s when he knows something’s wrong. He brings soups—handmade, nutritious, sometimes bizarre Devildom ingredients but always filled with effort.

Even during his tough sports seasons, or after a long shift at Hell’s Kitchen, he comes back with warm food and a clean towel for your forehead. He sits beside you, large frame a quiet comfort, sometimes offering a bite to encourage you to eat.

If you fall asleep with his hand in yours, he doesn’t move, even if his legs go numb. “You can hold on,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay ‘til you’re better.”

Belphegor

Belphie is surprisingly perceptive when you're sick. He’ll tease you with a sleepy smile—“You finally caught a real excuse to sleep all day, huh?”—but he’s already tucking you in tighter.

He climbs into bed with you, back-to-back or arm around their shoulder, and mutters that shared body heat is good for recovery. Even when he has council meetings or errands for Lucifer, he sneaks naps in with you between responsibilities.

He hums soft tunes, drapes his favorite blanket over you, and grumbles when you try to get up. “Just nap with me, will you? You'll wake up feeling better."

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 3

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

Trigger warning; Blood, pain, injuries.

notes; Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the comments on the previous parts. I'm so happy that you’re enjoying this story (because I personally am, lol). Don't hesitate to give feedback, as I'm trying to improve overall! I have uploaded all of my stories on AO3 if any of you are more comfortable reading on the other platform. Also, my requests are open if any of you are interested. It's vacation time for me, so I have more time these days. <3 See you soon and enjoy part 3!

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Weeks had turned into a comfortable rhythm, each day drawing you deeper into the heart of your new responsibilities. Winter’s chill still lingered outside, but within the clinic’s halls, warmth and purpose filled the air. Madja had constructed a careful routine—mornings spent reviewing patient logs, afternoons dedicated to meeting the healers who operated throughout Velaris and beyond, and late afternoons or early evenings tending to those who required care. You found yourself adjusting more easily than you’d anticipated, the constant hum of healing magic and quiet conversation making the place feel more like home with each passing day.

Your old room at the hostel now felt like a distant memory. Within a week of settling in, Madja gently insisted that you take the apartment above the small clinic—originally her own workspace and resting spot. At first, you hesitated, still feeling like an outsider who had just returned, but Madja’s firm yet kind encouragement made it clear that this was part of the transition. Now, the apartment’s modest rooms welcomed you each evening: a simple bed with a soft quilt, a desk cluttered with your notes and sketches, and shelves lined with medical texts and herb guides. There was a small window overlooking the Sidra, and sometimes at dusk you’d watch the lamplight glitter on the water, heart at ease.

Costa, your horse, had been entrusted to a capable ostler in Velaris—an Illyrian female who handled the animal with gentle expertise. Knowing Costa was well-fed and groomed, free to stretch his legs in a stable yard not far from the city’s edge, soothed the restless part of your mind. You missed riding, missed the quiet hours of travel with Costa’s steady hooves on unknown roads, but for now you needed to be here, grounded and ready to step fully into Madja’s role.

You’d met most of the healers who had worked under Madja’s guidance—some younger than you, bright-eyed and eager, others older, with steady hands and calm smiles. They greeted you politely, some with curiosity and others with measured caution, as if trying to understand what this new change meant for them. Madja still hovered at your shoulder during these introductions, offering subtle nudges of reassurance. Gradually, you learned their names, their specializations, their quirks. You discovered who excelled at mending broken bones, who shone at delicate surgeries, who possessed the gentlest bedside manner for frightened children. Each person became a piece of a larger tapestry, one you would soon be charged with overseeing.

In between these professional duties, you’d also been summoned to meet with the High Lady, Feyre, on several occasions. These meetings were less formal than you expected—Feyre seemed determined to put you at ease. She asked thoughtful questions about your travels, your impressions of the healing wards, and the ways you might improve the system Madja had built. Often, Rhysand or one of the other Inner Circle members would be present—Cassian slouching in a chair with that easy grin, Azriel standing quietly near a window, shadows at his shoulders. The High Lord listened intently, violet eyes calm, while Feyre nodded, her hand sometimes resting lightly atop a stack of parchment filled with notes.

They all gave the impression of patient confidence. They trusted Madja’s choice, and by extension, they trusted you. That trust both comforted and weighed on you. You were determined not to disappoint them, not to squander the opportunity to shape Velaris’s healing corps into something more agile, more prepared. If war truly loomed on the horizon—whispers still lingering in the court’s quieter corners—then every ounce of skill and knowledge you possessed would be needed.

Evenings found you often at your desk, reviewing patient charts by lamplight. Sometimes Madja would join you, a mug of herbal tea in hand, and together you’d discuss strategy and staffing. At other times you’d work alone, jotting down improvements to the triage system or ways to store emergency supplies more efficiently. The silence of the small apartment felt companionable rather than lonely. You were home, after all these years, in a place that recognized your abilities and gave them purpose.

One morning you awoke early, pushing open the window to let in a crisp breeze. The scent of bread baking somewhere below drifted up, and you smiled. Outside, Velaris shimmered under pale winter sunlight. The city no longer felt quite so strange or distant. You were beginning to know its streets again, to navigate its corners without hesitation. In the stillness, before the day’s demands rose up to greet you, you allowed yourself a small, private moment of contentment.

You had found your footing, a rhythm that matched Madja’s measured guidance with your own growing confidence. Soon enough, Madja would step back fully, leaving you to guide these healers through whatever trials awaited. The thought no longer filled you with anxiety, but with a quiet resolve. You were ready—or at least you would be, by the time Madja’s gentle presence receded from your daily life.

For now, you cherished these weeks of transition: the gentle hum of voices in the clinic halls, the scent of fresh bread and simmering broths, the steady beat of your heart as you prepared to carry on the legacy of a healer who’d believed in you from the start.

It was late—well past the hour when the clinic’s final lamp should have been dimmed. Yet, there you were, hunched over a desk scattered with patient files, sketches, and half-finished notes on new salves. Outside, snow whispered against the windowpanes, muffling the night sounds of Velaris. The quiet calm of your small workspace was broken abruptly by a fierce pounding at the clinic doors.

You startled, heart lurching into your throat. Who would come at this time? Without hesitation, you rose and hurried down the corridor, slippers slapping softly against the floor. Approaching the door, you called, “Who is it?” But another series of urgent knocks answered you first.

Flinging it open, you found Cassian standing there, breathing hard, eyes wide with panic and urgency. He said nothing at first, just grabbed at your arm as if to anchor himself. The wild look in his gaze told you something was terribly wrong. Already, you could feel the adrenaline surging, steeling your nerves.

“I need you,” he managed, voice tight and rough. “It’s Azriel.”

You didn’t waste a second—no words of reassurance, no questions. Instead, you spun on your heel, darting back into the clinic’s supply room. Your hands moved with practiced speed, snatching up a medical bag and stuffing in gauze, vials of herbs, antiseptic solutions, and needles for suturing. You threw in a few carefully sealed packs of medicinal leaves, even a small jar of pain-relief tonic. Whatever you might need, because you didn’t know what awaited you.

“Come,” Cassian urged, voice raw. He led you out into the cold night, scarcely giving you time to close the door behind you. Before you knew it, he had scooped you up in a practiced motion and launched into the air. The sudden whoosh of icy wind shocked your lungs, but you clutched your bag tighter, keeping your head low and trusting Cassian’s strong arms and powerful wings to carry you safely. The moonlit panorama of Velaris rushed beneath, a blur of snowy rooftops and dim, golden lights.

Within moments, the House of Wind’s silhouette rose against the starry sky. Cassian landed hard, not bothering with a gentle approach. He half-dragged you inside, footsteps echoing down silent corridors. You found yourself nearly running at his side, alarm thudding in your chest. You followed him through winding halls, the hush of the night fractured by his ragged breathing and the frantic scuff of boots on stone.

He burst into the living area and there, on the massive table that usually served as a gathering place for the Inner Circle’s quiet talks or strategic meetings, lay Azriel. One glance at him and your stomach clenched: his wings—those powerful, graceful wings—looked shredded, raw gashes marring the membranes, blood staining the wood beneath him. Deep cuts scored his arms, his chest. He was breathing, but it was shallow and uneven, face drawn tight with pain.

Rhysand and Feyre hovered nearby, their eyes filled with worry. The High Lord’s jaw was clenched, hands fisted by his sides as if struggling to maintain composure. Feyre’s face was pale, knuckles white where she gripped the table’s edge. Neither dared approach the wounds, knowing to leave it to you.

You didn’t hesitate. “Clear some space,” you ordered, voice firm. Your professionalism took over, pushing aside the horror and fear. You dropped your bag on a nearby chair and quickly rolled up your sleeves.

Azriel’s half-lidded eyes flicked toward you, recognition and relief mingling with agony. His teeth were clenched hard enough to crack. You met his gaze steadily, letting him see that you were here and you would help. Cassian took a shaky breath and stepped back, giving you room.

“Tell me what happened later,” you said sharply to anyone listening, as your fingers deftly opened your medical kit. “For now, we stabilize him.”

A hush fell. The High Lord and High Lady stepped back, trusting you implicitly. Azriel’s shallow breathing and the soft drip of blood became the only sounds. You placed a hand gently near one of the deep cuts, already planning how to close the wounds, which salves to apply first, how to handle the delicate membranes of those damaged wings.

“Azriel,” you said softly, your voice calm and sure, “I need you to hold on. I’m here now.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and you began working, every movement precise and determined. This was what you had trained for, traveled for, returned home for—moments like this, where skill and resolve would mend what cruelty had torn.

“Azriel, drink this,” you said firmly, pressing a small vial to his lips. He tried to turn his head away, but Rhysand and Cassian held him steady, their expressions grim. With a trembling swallow, Azriel took the tonic, his face contorting as the bitter taste hit his tongue. The mixture would dull the pain, buy you precious minutes to work.

You spared no time waiting for the tonic to take full effect. Turning abruptly, you called out to Feyre, voice steady and certain despite the chaos. “Open the windows and doors—all of them,” you ordered.

A flicker of confusion passed over everyone present. Feyre hesitated, eyes darting from you to Rhys, who gave a subtle nod. Then she darted across the living room, unlatching windows, throwing open doors. The chill of the night air swept in, carrying scents of snow and starlight. The House of Wind sat high above Velaris, offering nothing but open sky and a tapestry of stars. The moon hung low and bright, and its silver light spilled across the table, across Azriel’s bloodied form.

Cassian’s grip tightened on Azriel’s arm as the spymaster struggled feebly. Azriel let out a ragged hiss of pain, trying to curl in on himself. You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, meeting his gaze with steady determination. “Hold him still,” you directed, and Rhysand and Cassian complied, pinning him just firmly enough to keep him from thrashing as you worked.

The sudden openness, the influx of night air and celestial glow, began to make sense. You lifted your hands above Azriel’s body, fingers spread, eyes focused. The moonlight brightened, as if drawn closer by your intent. It pooled onto the table, over his torn wings and deep gashes, shimmering faintly. With careful, precise motions of your hands and a calm, centering breath, you guided that gentle lunar glow.

A thin thread of silvery radiance wound down from the sky, through the open spaces, into your hands. It took on a living quality—like a liquid beam of starlight. Guided by your focus and your will, it slipped into the wounds that needed attention most urgently. You could feel the damage through the magic, each ragged edge of flesh and shredded membrane translating into a sensation of raw, quivering energy beneath your palms.

Your eyes narrowed as you directed the moonlit thread along the worst injuries first—carving a path from torn wing membranes to a deep slash near Azriel’s ribs. Under that gentle illumination, blood flow began to slow, tissues knitting just enough to prevent him from bleeding out. His breathing, ragged moments before, evened fractionally, each breath less desperate than the last.

Everyone watched in stunned silence. Rhysand’s eyes, wide with a combination of shock and relief, met yours briefly as you worked. Cassian’s knuckles were white where he gripped Azriel’s shoulder, but he dared not speak. Feyre stood by the open window, the night breeze stirring her hair, eyes reflecting amazement as she realized what you had done.

You had brought the very light of the cosmos into your healing—the moon and stars aiding your skill. Focused entirely on Azriel, you guided that pale, silvery essence along lacerations, coaxing flesh to mend, halting the most life-threatening bleeding. Each moment counted, each movement of your hand coaxed more life back into him, steadied his pulse, strengthened the tenuous hold he had on consciousness.

And so, amid the hush of the night and the quiet gasps of onlookers, you let that quiet moonlight flow from your fingertips. If any doubts remained about why Madja trusted you, why you had returned at this critical time, they dissolved into silver luminescence and slow, steady healing.

“Turn him over,” you instructed, your voice steady despite the rapid pace of your heart. You had stabilized Azriel enough that he was no longer on the brink of collapse, but if he couldn’t use his wings, he might never fly again—an unthinkable loss for an Illyrian warrior. Rhysand and Cassian exchanged a glance, then moved together, careful and deliberate, rolling Azriel onto his stomach.

Your breath misted in the chill air drifting from the open windows, but you barely noticed it. All your senses were focused on the damage stretched before you. His wings—those proud, powerful wings—were torn and ragged, membranes frayed, the framework bruised and bleeding. Gently placing your palm near a particularly deep tear, you summoned the silvery light again, coaxing it along the rips and gashes. The quiet hush of the room pressed in, everyone mesmerized by the shimmering moonlight threading through your fingertips into Azriel’s wounds.

Bit by bit, you restored what had been brutally disrupted. You couldn’t make it perfect, not instantly, but you could ensure that he would heal, that flight would remain possible. Rhysand and Cassian kept him still, muscles taut with the effort of not jarring his injuries. Feyre stood watchful by the open window, letting in the night’s gentle glow. Her features were tense but hopeful.

When you had done all you could, you nodded once, giving them permission to turn Azriel back onto his back. His breathing was steadier now, his expression more tranquil. The moonlight’s touch lingered over the last of the cuts on his chest and arms. Methodically, you sealed them, coaxing bleeding vessels to close, torn muscle to knit. The worst damage handled, you eased back, allowing the faint star-born thread of light to dissolve, the connection with the celestial glow fading as you willed it so.

Azriel’s lashes fluttered, a quiet groan escaping him. His eyes opened briefly—heavy-lidded, hazy with pain and exhaustion. In that fleeting moment, your gaze locked with his. Something passed between you then—something warm, startling, and utterly unexpected. In the hush, as if the world had paused, you felt a golden thread snap taut between your hearts. Your breath caught, shock flaring through your veins. You knew the stories, the descriptions passed in hushed whispers: the feeling of a bond, a mate. And here it was, sparking in a place of blood and moonlight, in the eyes of a wounded warrior who had nearly died under your hands.

Your heart hammered in your chest. Azriel’s eyes drifted shut, too weak to question what he’d seen in your startled expression, and he slipped into a healing sleep. But you stood there, rattled. Him—your mate. How could this be?

Rhysand’s voice broke the silence, cool and concerned. “Y/N? Is he all right?” He must have seen the shock in your eyes, the subtle tremor in your posture.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to regain composure. The weight of that discovery pressed down on you, but you could not falter now. Azriel needed rest, treatment, not confusion. “Yes,” you managed, your voice calmer than you felt. “He’s stabilized. We need to bring him to his room, clean the wounds properly, and apply salves. The stitches and light will hold, but he’ll need careful monitoring.”

Cassian and Rhysand relaxed visibly at your words. Feyre approached, the night breeze stirring her hair. She considered you with quiet sympathy, not fully understanding your reaction but trusting you nonetheless.

“Very well,” Rhysand said, relief tempered by careful pragmatism. “We’ll move him now. Show us what you need.”

You nodded, forcing a small, reassuring smile. Inside, your heart still thundered, grappling with this new reality. Azriel—your mate. There would be time later to make sense of it, to examine the golden thread that had just woven your fates together. For now, you steadied your trembling hands, prepared your supplies, and focused on the healer’s work still ahead.

With Azriel finally settled into his bed, the soft glow of faelight illuminating the room, you stepped back and surveyed your work. Now that he was washed free of grime and old blood, you had been able to apply the final ointments and bandages, each touch carefully measured. He was stable now, breathing steadily. But every time your fingertips brushed his skin—no matter how clinically—it felt wrong, as if you were crossing some invisible boundary. A patient, nothing more, you reminded yourself sternly. Yet the memory of that golden thread you’d sensed earlier lingered, unsettling your calm.

Rhysand and Cassian stood quietly by, the heavy pieces of Azriel’s armor piled in a corner, their expressions grim and distant. Feyre lingered near the doorway, arms folded, her face etched with concern. At last, with Azriel’s wounds tended and his feverish warmth easing under your skilled hands, you turned away from the bed and walked out of the room. The door clicked softly behind you, sealing the sleeping spymaster safely inside.

In the hallway, Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian were waiting. The tension was nearly palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the danger that had brought Azriel to this dire state. You drew a steadying breath, mind still whirling with the revelation of a mate bond—one you could not, would not, address now. Instead, you focused on the immediate concern: understanding what had happened, what threat had caused such injury.

“So,” you said softly, meeting their eyes in turn. “What actually happened to him?”

The three shared a look—one that you, even as an outsider to their inner circle, could interpret as worry and anger mingled. Rhysand stepped forward, his posture poised, voice low. “Koshiev’s menace grows,” he began, each syllable measured. “We’ve been hearing whispers: new alliances forming, old enemies sharpening their blades. Azriel was gathering intelligence, trying to confirm rumors we’d caught in the shadows.”

Feyre’s gaze lowered, her jaw tightening. “He found what he was looking for, it seems. Reports suggest he managed to spy on someone—one of Koshiev’s allies or agents. But the enemy must have suspected something. They lured him in, set a trap, and ambushed him before he could escape.”

Cassian’s wings rustled restlessly. He crossed his arms over his chest again, scowling. “He was alone,” he growled. “We couldn’t send a whole team without risking alerting them, and now we see the price of that risk.” There was a note of self-reproach in his voice, frustration that they hadn’t prevented Azriel’s misfortune.

Rhysand inclined his head, the blue of his eyes darkening with resolve. “We still don’t know the full extent of their network, but this attack proves they’re bolder than we thought—and dangerously organized. It’s another sign that the threat Koshiev poses is not distant or hypothetical. It’s here, inching closer to our borders, to our people.”

You absorbed this quietly. The room felt colder, as if the open window had let not just fresh air in, but the weight of the coming storm. So that was it: Azriel’s blood on your hands because he’d tried to protect these lands from a greater horror lurking in the shadows. Your jaw tightened; you knew now more than ever that Madja’s warning of a future conflict wasn’t idle.

Feyre cleared her throat, drawing your attention. “Your swift action saved him,” she said softly, gratitude flickering in her eyes. “Without you… I don’t like to think what might have happened.”

Cassian nodded, grim acceptance in his stance. “We owe you a great deal,” he added, quieter than usual.

Rhysand’s face was serene but serious. “You’ve proved yourself beyond measure tonight,” he said. “Though I regret that such a test came at all.”

You inclined your head, acknowledging their thanks without lingering on it. There would be time for gratitude later. For now, what mattered was that Azriel lived, and that you knew—however unexpectedly—the depth of your new responsibilities. A mate, a looming war, a court depending on your skill and leadership. The path forward would not be simple, but you’d chosen to return to the Night Court for this reason: to heal, to help, to protect. Even if your own heart trembled at what fate had just revealed.

“I’ll prepare more medicine and check on him through the night,” you said at last, voice steady. “We’ll keep him stable, and with rest and care, he’ll recover. As for what comes next… we’ll be ready.”

Your words hung in the hush that followed, a quiet vow that all of you, together, would face whatever darkness Koshiev and his allies chose to bring.

Back in the living room, the tension that had filled the air began to dissipate as Azriel’s rescue shifted into a task of careful aftercare. The others lingered quietly while you settled yourself at a low table, spreading out your supplies. You’d taken a pouch from your bag, emptying it of tools, salves, and ground herbs that would form the next ointment for Azriel’s wounds. With measured concentration, you started mixing ingredients, mortar and pestle working in a rhythmic hush.

Feyre moved closer, her presence calm and unobtrusive. She knelt beside you, watching your hands as they skillfully combined powders and oils. Her gaze trailed to your face, and when you met her eyes, there was genuine admiration there. “What you did back there,” she said softly, voice laced with honest wonder. “That was… remarkable. I’ve never seen healing like that before.”

As if summoned by her words, Rhysand approached, standing behind Feyre, arms lightly folded. “I must agree,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “We’ve had healers here for ages, but none who channel the stars, the moon, or the sun into their craft. The way you drew that moonlight… it defied expectation.”

You inhaled slowly, organizing your thoughts before answering. It was natural that they’d be curious—this was your secret, your gift. “I can heal using the power of the celestial bodies,” you explained, keeping your voice low and measured. “The moon, the stars, the sun—they lend me their energy. When I open the spaces around us, letting their light spill in, I can coax that light into wounds, encourage flesh to knit and blood to still.”

You paused, stirring the ointment gently. The mixture took on a faint floral scent, the herbs reacting perfectly to the warm oil. Feyre’s eyes widened slightly at your explanation, her lips parting as she tried to imagine the scope of such power.

“Does it work every time?” Rhysand asked, tilting his head. The question was not accusatory, merely curious. He understood power and its limits as well as anyone.

You offered a small, wry smile. “So long as the sun, moon, and stars exist, I can tap into that energy. But it’s not effortless. It costs me a great deal of strength to channel their light in that way. Healing major injuries like Azriel’s wings or deep lacerations drains me quickly.” You pressed the pestle harder, grinding a stubborn clump of dried leaf into powder. “I must be careful not to overreach. Exhausting myself completely would help no one.”

Feyre nodded slowly, as if turning the idea over in her mind. “It’s a rare gift,” she said, voice full of understanding. “I’m sure Madja knew what she was doing when she asked you to return.”

A hum of agreement escaped you. “She trained me to harness it in more subtle forms, originally. But my travels—my time in other lands—taught me to focus it more precisely, to use it in dire circumstances.” You allowed yourself a brief glance back toward the corridor where Azriel lay resting. “Tonight was certainly dire.”

Rhysand’s expression softened, and he exchanged a meaningful look with Feyre. “We’re grateful you were here,” the High Lord said quietly. “Not just to save Azriel, but to show us what this court’s healers might achieve under your guidance.”

Your chest tightened, a mixture of pride and responsibility blooming there. “We’ll need all the strength we can gather,” you replied. “If Koshiev’s threat is as real as you’ve warned, I can’t afford to hold back.”

Your words lingered, and for a moment, all of you silently acknowledged the uncertain future—a world where any advantage might tip the scales. In the stillness, you returned your attention to the ointment, gently scooping a bit up to examine its consistency. Perfect, you decided, and let your shoulders relax a fraction.

“I’ll come back in a few hours to apply this to Azriel,” you said quietly. “I need to return to the clinic—dawn is approaching, and I must be there when the other healers arrive. He should remain stable for now, but if anything changes, please bring word to me immediately.”

When you returned to the clinic, the world seemed to tilt sideways. The door shut behind you with a soft click, muffling the distant hum of Velaris just awakening to dawn. Inside, the quiet halls that had always felt comforting and safe were now suffocating. A hollow ache pulsed in your chest, and before you could even set down your bag, you sank to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud.

Your heart thundered in your ears. He was your mate—Azriel, the spymaster you had saved in a frantic blur of blood and moonlight. The knowledge pressed down on you with unbearable weight. You wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out at the absurd cruelty of fate. You wanted to vomit, as if emptying your stomach might purge the confusion from your veins. You wanted to slap yourself, to break free from this overwhelming tangle of emotions.

How had this happened? You’d returned to the Night Court to take up Madja’s mantle, to heal and guide, not to be shackled by some golden bond you’d never asked for. You’d only wanted to help him, just as you would have helped anyone bleeding out on that table. Yet in that single, unexpected glance, the world had changed—his fate entwining silently, irrevocably with yours.

A sob lodged in your throat. You pressed trembling fingers against your eyes, as if darkness and pressure could hold back the tears. Every thought spun wildly: you were a healer, not some love-struck fool, not someone who had time or space for this destiny you never sought. But a mate. A mate was no small thing, no bond easily ignored.

Your breathing came in ragged gasps. You had just promised Rhysand and Feyre that you would return, that you would apply the ointment to Azriel’s wounds in a few hours. By then, he would be more stable, perhaps even conscious. Would he sense the bond too? Would he look at you differently? Or would he remain blissfully unaware, leaving you alone in this torment?

Your shoulders shook with silent tears. You drew in a shuddering breath, trying to reason with yourself: you were strong, capable, trained to face agony and death. Yet this… this you had not trained for. The golden thread bound you to a future you had never planned.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time lost meaning as you knelt on the clinic floor, trapped in your own swirling thoughts. Eventually, your tears slowed, leaving you hollow and raw. Outside, the city stirred. Healers would soon be arriving, expecting you to open the doors, to lead them through another day of caring for the ill and injured.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself upright. You would bury this secret for now, lock it away until you found the words or the courage to face it. Azriel was alive because of you. Your duty was to keep him healthy, to keep everyone healthy. The matter of mateship—of love, destiny, or whatever name this bond took—would have to wait.

Steadying yourself, you rose, wiped the tears from your cheeks, and breathed deeply. No matter the chaos in your mind, the clinic needed you. You would open these doors again, greet the other healers, and carry on. Somehow, you would find a way to reconcile the golden thread strung between your heart and Azriel’s. But not now. Not yet.

For now, you would endure.

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[throatgoat4u]

jack off material

word count: 1k

summary: matt's trying to study but summer walker makes it a little difficult

warnings: smoking, sending nudes, masturbation (m)

a/n: guys i started this on february sixth and i was finally able to build up the courage to finish it today. this is like my first smut piece ig so like yeah it might be a little bad but like.... yeah.... also in the au, this takes place a little after the house party (that's by my hot sexy mama @snoopychris) and a little bit before he met ser. also guys bear with me on the photo cause like it's so bad ik. it's the best i could find that gave matt jerking it off.... so well ig enjoy!

toodles sluts :)

matt was sitting on his bed, smoking a blunt that hung loosely between his index and middle finger. piles of textbooks and papers surrounded him as he tried to study but like always, he gave up. the faint sound of music played in the background, doing little to ease his mood.

today had been a rather shitty day for matt. he was supposed to meet up with some hot blonde chick that he had met at his house party, but his grandma had found out about the party, so she grounded him. so now, he was stuck in his room, frustrated, with a blunt that barely suppressed the aching in his body. to make matters worse, the girl had been sending him flirty videos and pictures all day—teasing him so that when they met up, he’d fuck her like an animal gone feral.

matt exhaled a slow drag, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling as his phone vibrated again. another message. another picture. curiosity—or maybe desperation—had him unlocking his screen, and the second he did, his jaw clenched. she was lying on her stomach, all smooth skin and lace, her ass barely covered by the flimsy fabric of her panties. the text she sent was short, just a winking emoji and ‘wish you were here’, but it was enough to make his body heat up. with a shaky breath, his tumb hovering over the keyboard like he was contemplating whether to reply or not. before he could decide anything, the next song played—girls need love by summer walker. her voice was soft, sultry, dripping with the kind of slow burn that made his stomach tighten up. perfect fucking timing.

matt's head fell back, resting on his bed frame, his fingers twitching against his thigh—right next to the bulge forming in his pants. the blunt between his fingers was barely doing shit to calm him down.

his gaze flicked back to the picture, tracing every detail. the arch of her back, the curve of her thighs—shit, he could almost feel how warm her skin would be under his hands. his tongue swiped over his bottom lip, mind hazy from the weed and the way she was fucking with him without even being there. a lazy sigh fell from his lips as his free hand slowly trailed up to the waistband of his sweats. he knew he shouldn’t, he knew he could just ignore it, roll over, and go to sleep. But the picture was burned into his brain—the way her back arched, the way her skin looked so smooth, the way summer walker’s voice filled the room like she was enticing him to give in——yeah, there was no way in hell he was sleeping this off. his eyes fluttered shut.

fuck it.

his hand slid down to his now very prominent bulge, and he pressed down lightly, just enough to make him let out a quiet breath. he was trying so hard to ignore it, to just chill out and let the blunt do its thing, but fuck—it wasn’t working. and then…

“honestly, i’m tryna stay focused…”

his jaw clenched. goddamn it.

matt let his head fall back against the bed frame, eyes fluttering shut as he tried to will the heat away. but summer’s voice was soft, all breathy and shit, and it was making everything worse.

he dragged his hand over his cock, still over his sweats, and bit his lip to keep quiet. it felt good. too good. his body was already giving in, and the song wasn’t making it any easier.

“you must think i’ve got to be joking when i say…”

fuck.

his hand dipped under the waistband before he could think twice. his fingers brushed against the heat, and he hissed, his cock already hard as hell.

“shit,” he mumbled, his breath catching in his throat as his fingers wrapped around himself.

he started off slow, his strokes lazy, dragging his thumb over the tip to spread the precum that was already leaking out. his jaw clenched, a low groan slipping past his lips as he moved his hand up and down, the pace steady but not enough.

but then…

“i don’t need a reason, baby…”

his stomach tightened. his grip got a little tighter, and his strokes picked up, matching the beat of the song like he was losing control of himself.

“fuck,” he muttered again, his other hand gripping the sheets beside him, knuckles turning white.

the way she was singing… it was like she was right there, whispering in his ear, teasing him.

“i wanna give you it all, but can’t promise that i’ll stay…”

his hand moved faster. he couldn’t stop, didn’t even want to. his hips lifted off the bed to meet his fist, his strokes growing sloppier as the heat built in his stomach.

“all that you can have, boy…”

his breathing got heavier, his chest rising and falling as his body begged for release. he was so fucking close.

“fuck—fuck, oh my god…”

and then it hit him.

his body tensed up, his strokes faltering as he came hard, his release spilling over his hand and onto his stomach. his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw slack as a shaky breath left his lips.

“girls can’t never say they want it…”

his chest was heaving, and for a second, all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. the song was still playing, summer’s voice echoing in the back of his mind, and matt just laid there, totally wrecked.

“jesus fucking christ…” he whispered, running a hand down his face, a lazy, satisfied grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

he glanced at his phone, the screen now dark but the lyrics still playing in his head. “next time… no music.”

but yeah. he was lying.

taglist: @snoopychris. @mattsturnenthusiast. @isabellewhatt. @milo-the-dog. @faiyaz555. @sturns-mermaid. @chrissysturnzz. @bluestriips. @tsqnflog. @oreocheescake-12. @courta13. @chrattho1. @miguelspvssy. @muwapsturniolo. @alexturnersgooch. @surfer-sturn. @angeliolo. @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni. @mattscherries. @freshloveee. @sturniqlo. @abysful. @hesvoid34. @welovestromboli. @h3arts4harry. @leoslaboratory. @whore4mattsturniolo. @oopsiedaisydeer. @ribbonlovergirl

[yunaversalluv]

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

Weeks after a single photo changes everything, silence lingers where connection once sparked. When a message finally comes through, two people meet again — not in the spotlight, but in the quiet, where honesty has room to breathe and something unspoken waits just beneath the surface.

cw for this chapter// fame/internet virality anxiety, emotional vulnerability, implied anxiety/insomnia, mild language, intense emotional tension

please know that there might be spelling errors!

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaiii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines

CHAPTER THREE - STATIC

It’s been weeks.

Weeks since the photo.

Weeks since your inbox cracked open like a floodgate, spilling over with messages you weren’t prepared for. 

Since your name became tethered to the sound of a voice you’d only just heard live for the first time. Since your art — the quiet, low-lit kind that lives in the edges of the frame, always watching but never watched — was suddenly thrust, howling, into the blinding spotlight of an internet that never asked your permission. The internet hasn’t let go of her. Or of you

. That image of Ellie — raw, beautiful — is everywhere now. People have torn it apart, picked it clean, rebuilt a thousand versions of her with their words, their filters, their projections. They turned her into a symbol, a scream, a shrine.

And still — silence.

Ellie’s message remains buried in your inbox like a landmine, humming with potential. Ellie:Why were you staring so long?You’d replied quickly. Too quickly, maybe. You:You looked like you wanted the camera to flinch.Her response came fast, like a spark across dry leaves. Ellie:It didn’t.You didn’t.

You guys texted and texted. But nothing progressed.

After a pattern had started to form — you two texting… nothing. Not the next day. Not for weeks.

You kept shooting, of course. The show must go on. Different venues, different nights. Your lens clicking away, mechanical and steady, trying to recapture something you couldn’t quite name. But none of it felt the same.

Every frame since that photo felt like a second draft of something that had already lived and died in a single shutter click.

You could almost hear the difference — the static that filled the silence between you and that one perfect moment.

And Ellie? She hasn’t reached out again. You told yourself it was fine. You didn’t need her to. But the truth? The truth is sharp. It lingers in the corners of your mind like a splinter you can’t reach.

The truth is: you’ve been checking. Not obsessively. Not every minute.Just enough. Her page. Your inbox. That still-open thread. Enough to feel the quiet ache of it.

Across the city, Ellie hasn’t slept.

Not really.

She’s tried. Her pillows sag beneath her head like wet paper. The static from a half-muted TV glows in the corner, washing the walls in flickering gray-blue light. Her guitar lays across her ribs like a shield, or a secret — its weight more comforting than the silence.

The same four chords, over and over. Muted strings beneath her fingers until they ache. But sleep? It’s distant. Sharp-edged and glassy, hovering just beyond her reach.

It’s hard to sleep when the internet won’t stop dragging your name like a body on fire — pulled through dirt, through pixels, through the acid commentary of strangers who think they know you because they saw your eyes in one unguarded second. Her phone buzzes again. This time it’s on the floor beside the bed. The sound slices through the quiet like a knife.

She doesn’t want to look. But her hand moves anyway. Another edit of the photo.

The one where her eyes are too wide, too knowing. Locked on the lens with something feral. Animal. Raw.

Her skin crawls just looking at it. Her chest tightens, ribs aching from the inside like something’s trying to claw its way out. She scrolls. She shouldn’t. But she does.

Captions like: “bite me pls queen”“holy rage incarnate”“this is what heartbreak sounds like if it grew teeth.”

And nestled among the noise, one sticks:

@mossandmercury: “Caption this: I want you to see me, but only how I say.”

Ellie reads it twice.

Doesn’t like how much it sticks.

Doesn’t like how true it feels — how closely it echoes the thing she’s been carrying since your lens found her. Since you saw her. Really saw her.

She tosses the phone aside. The screen still glows, a blue halo in the dark.

The room smells like dust and stolen motel soap. Light cuts through the blinds in jagged, white-hot interrogation lines, slashing across her feet, across her thoughts.

The kettle moans from the counter — a tired, wounded sound, like it’s straining under its own weight.

Ellie drifts toward the kitchenette. Shoulders tense. Bare feet whispering across cold tile. Her thumb hovers. Your profile sits open — too intimate, too exposed, like a journal she shouldn’t be reading.

She scrolls through your feed.

No selfies. No poses.

Just light and texture. Grainy film. Half-silhouettes paused in motion. Moments that feel stolen, not staged. Honest. Quiet. A kind of truth no one demands — but one you offer anyway. A single line in your bio:

low light makes me honest.

Whatever that means.

But it fits. It fits her. It fits you — or at least the version of you that saw her clearly enough to haunt her still.

She swipes to the DM thread. Still open. Still pulsing like a bruise. Weeks old now. Still fresh. Ellie types slowly, deliberately. Each word a weight.

you free tonight

Her thumb hovers. Then — send.

She sets the phone face-down on the bed like it might burn through her if she stares too long.

The kettle screams. And her chest — tight, coiled like piano wire — doesn’t loosen.

Not fear.

Not nerves.

Just that low, restless thrum again. Like something’s about to change.

Back in your apartment, the message arrives mid-edit.

you free tonight

No punctuation. No context. Just three words.

Your stomach flips. You sit back in your chair. The world seems to fold inward — the hum of the computer, the distant sound of traffic. Coffee long gone cold beside you. Your screen mid-swipe on someone else’s face — someone who isn’t her — already forgotten.

You type: Depends. You planning on killing me, or thanking me?

The reply is instant.

Ellie:That depends.Can you meet me where no one’s watching?

The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Ellie’s apartment — if it counts as one — is small.

Lived-in. Quiet. Cozy in a way that feels fragile, like one wrong move could scatter the spell.

Dim lamplight pools across the floor in soft amber, stretching long shadows across her carpet. The air smells faintly of coffee grounds and something sweet that’s long since cooled. It smells like mornings she hasn’t had in weeks.

It’s just the two of you.

A bubble untouched by the noise outside.

She’s on the couch — threadbare and familiar — her guitar resting on the arm like a sentinel. Her fingers trace the strings without sound, muscle memory moving in loops. Her knee bounces, betraying the calm her face is trying to wear.

You sit across from her. The distance between you: too much for comfort, too little for certainty.

Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say. Neither of you knows where to begin.

You glance at her. Catch her eyes. She looks away. You wonder if she feels it too — that slow, magnetic pull drawing you closer and holding you apart all at once.

The air feels heavy. Charged. Like if you speak too loud, it might all fall apart. Say nothing, and it might disappear.

Ellie shifts. Her fingers ghost along the guitar’s neck, her gaze unfocused. “You’ve… been quiet,” she says finally. Her voice is low, like it doesn’t want to wake the moment.

You swallow. “I was just thinking. About everything, I guess.” She nods. Her lips part, then close again. She leans back, posture curling inward. There’s a softness to her now — not weakness, but vulnerability. A space opening.

“I didn’t ask for all this,” she says. Tight. “It’s… weird, you know? Being seen like that. By everyone. By you.” She stops. Her fingers pause on the guitar. The strings hum beneath her touch, low and uneven.

You watch her — the tension in her throat, the conflict in her eyes. She’s holding something back. Fear. Hope. You’re not sure which.

“I didn’t mean to make it feel so…” You search for the right shape. “So personal.”

Her eyes meet yours. And for a moment, it’s there — the weight of it. The gravity.

But neither of you moves. Not yet.

“I don’t think I mind,” you admit. Your voice is soft, but steady. Honest.

Ellie’s breath catches. The world stills. Her eyes soften — just enough to crack your composure.

“You’ve been… on my mind,” she says. Her voice is thin, trembling. “A lot. Since the photo.”

Your heartbeat stumbles. “Mine too.”

She watches you — unreadable. Then: a small, shy smile. Not quite reaching her eyes. But real.

“Yeah?” she murmurs, like she’s asking for permission to believe it.

You nod. Slowly.

The room seems to exhale.

She shifts — closer now. Just enough. Enough to feel her presence like static in the air, like heat building beneath the skin.

Her hand brushes yours. You both freeze. The silence between you blooms with electricity.

Then, quietly — “I don’t know what happens now.”

You smile, gentle. “I don’t either.”

But the way she looks at you — the way her eyes linger — says everything else.

There’s something here. You’re both reaching for it. Even if you can’t name it yet.

The heaviness hasn’t gone. But it’s not all weight now.

It feels like a promise.

And maybe, just maybe — That’s enough for now.

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy XI

a yandere art professor John Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge. If you haven't seen the movie that's ok, I will fill in the gaps as we go...) warnings: dark adult themes, violence, sex, drugs, yandere shit. plz don't read if u can't handle it ->chapter map

XI.

You drift in and out of consciousness. 

You are being carried, and then you are being tossed onto a hard surface. Dull pain bites through you as you land. You look around, recognizing the interior of a van, various coiled cables hung up on the sides and trunks of something stacked around. Something sharp digs into your back, but you can't move. 

It's easier to sleep. 

You close your eyes. But then you open them again, because…loud noises. 

Shouting. 

Fighting. 

What you see through heavy lidded eyes must be a dream. The violence is…unspeakable. A dark whirlwind topples the impossibly monolithic behemoth that is Samson. He falls like a redwood. The earth should shake when he lands. Then the shadow makes short work of Layne too, dodging a punch, twisting the young man up until you hear a wet pop. 

The last thing you remember is an animal face hovering over you. You think of Anubis administering to the deceased in the afterlife. 

Are you dead?

-You wake up on a relatively soft mattress with sheets pulled up to your chin. The first thing you see is a motionless black wolf staring at you with blank eyes. You start, trying to sit up, but your limbs weigh about a thousand pounds.

A moment later, you realize it's just a mask. Your lone wolf’s mask, in fact. How the fuck…

You don't remember going with him? You remember…oh god.

You remember Samson hitting Matt. 

Everything that happened after that…is pretty fucking fuzzy. But somehow, you are back in your apartment, in your bed. 

You whimper, settling back into the pillow, trying to remember. 

It's all a blank.

You lay there and stare at the ceiling for a good ten minutes before you even think to look for your phone. Miraculously, it's right there in the night stand, right next to that ominous mask. 

You reach out to snatch your phone, like the lupine headgear might come to life and bite you. 

And yet…he wasn't the one who tried to hurt you, was he? 

There are several texts from your friends demanding where you are. Somehow, you already answered them: Went home, I'm fine. 

Did you send that text? Or…did someone else, so your friends wouldn't come looking for you? 

The thought sends another wave of uneasiness through you. 

And what happened to Matt?

As though the very thought summons him your phone rings. You’re holding the device in your hand, but it still makes you jump. As though you’ve forgotten how to answer the damn thing you stare at it stupidly almost long enough to miss the call. Finally you slide your finger across the screen, lifting it to your ear. 

“Hello?” Even to you, you sound like hell.

“Y/n? Thank God!”

“Matt? Where are you?”

“I think I'm still at the warehouse,” he says, sounding bewildered. “I just woke up. Everyone's gone.”

“Oh.” You can tell just by looking at the window that it’s late afternoon. 

“Y/n…what happened? Are you ok?”

“I…don't remember anything,” you admit. “I woke up at home. I think…I'm fine.” You're sore, but you don't feel like you need to go to the hospital for an examination. 

You’re not sure why you decide to leave out the calling card of the wolf mask. 

There is silence on the other end of the phone, as Matt tries to suss this out with a brain that is, you assume, as drug-fogged as yours. You also can't help but think he's flabbergasted that his friends didn’t do something terrible to you. 

“Y/n…” He doesn't seem to know what else to say, and the silence drags on. Finally he settles on, “I'm glad you're ok.”

“Thanks. Are you ok?” It can't have felt good to get hit by his huge friend like that. 

“I guess so.” Another long silence stretches, yet neither of you seem to want to hang up the phone. “Y/n…what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Are you…going to tell the police?”

“I don't know,” you answer quietly. You wait for him to ask you to have mercy on his friends, to forgive them, to say something stupid like they were just playing around. 

“Well…it’s up to you. I've got your back either way.” He surprises you with this. It seems like he grew up a lot just in the past twelve hours.

“Thanks, Matt. Can you get home ok?”

“Yeah. I'll be fine.”

“Be careful. Your friends don't seem like they're too happy with you.”

“They’re not my friends anymore, y/n. Catch you later?” 

Well, you'll be damned. He finally gets it.

“Yeah, sure.”

You hang up, clutching the phone to your chest like a teddy bear.

Should you tell the police? Drugging you and Matt was surely some sort of crime. What would you tell them though? That you were at a party and don’t remember anything? You're in a brain fog, unable to work out what you want to do. Mostly, right now? You want to sleep some more, so you do.

Hours later you finally manage to get out of bed, hobbling stiffly to the kitchen. All you have the energy to make is toast. You wrap yourself in a blanket and turn on the tv. You slept so late that it's already time for the evening news.

You freeze at the sight on the screen. 

The affectedly sincere voice of the newscaster narrates, “Firefighters responded to a vehicle fire on the waterfront late last night. No one was found injured and authorities are still searching for the owner of the van.” The camera pans to show the charred remains of the vehicle with the muddy river rolling in the background. 

There are remnants of paint on the side of the van. Or at least, different shades and sheens of charred black. 

You're certain, to the marrow of your bones, that it's the van Matt and his band mates use to haul their gear around. 

His band mates, Layne, and Samson.

TBC...

___

->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits

[vilebird]

FUNERAL AFTER A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

a painting of a pale sky and bright blue sea crashing onto dark rocks and foaming. it's oriented the right way. - Day, by Frederick Judd Waugh

"and the man looks me in the eyes and he points to the blue-orange vault over heaven's gates and he says the face of everyone you miss is up there and i know i know i can't see them but i know" - And What Good Will Your Vanity Be When The Rapture Comes, by Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib

"i've cut myself off. i can feel the place / where i used to be attached. it's raw, as when you grate / your finger. it's a shredded mess / of images. it hurts." The Door, by Margaret Atwood

"i found you / i found the door / but when i stepped through / there was no floor" I want you, by Mitski

a still from a video of a bright setting sun against a dark orange sky and dark blue sea, with the caption "don't cry" - The Green Ray (1986)

"i feel dead. / i feel as if i were the residue of a stranger's life" - The Lost Pilot, by James Tate

"the shuddering moan of blood, a song to calm the sacrificial, the loss across the river. the way a dying animal will look at you is seared into me. we tie together and all over again." - i cant remember what this one is sorru

"i am feeling numb. it's a curious feeling, and i get it all the time. my attention to the world around me disappears, and something starts to hum inside my head. far off, voices try to bump up against me, but i repel them. my ears fill up with water and i focus on the humming inside my head. / i am inside my skull. it is a little cave, and i curl up inside it. below it, my body hovers, unattached." - Madness: A Bipolar Life, by Marya Hornbacher.

"-though we're dry and waiting. part of me died here so another could go on. the body i raised-" - When They Say you Can't Go Home Again What They Mean is You Where Never There, by Marty McConnell

text: "there'll always be a few things / maybe several things/ that you're gonna find / really difficult to forgive" image: a black silhouette of a minotaur sitting on top of a pale pillar rising out of a pale maze, looking out at an orange sunset over an empty desert beyond the walls of its maze. the text is black letters on white pasted in strips over top. - Up the Wolves by the Mountain Goats and Minotauro by Jordi Garriga Mora. collage put together by @scatterghosts

"i know there are things i haven't survived." - Lord of the Butterflies, by Andrea Gibson

"it seems to me that the dead only return for love or for revenge. who did you come back for?" - White is for Witching, by Helen Oyeyemi

a painting of a bright white bird on a background split between dark blue and black - Promised Land (2013), by Michael Creese

"and with or without your support, i will continue / what im trying to say is you never know what you've been through / til you pause and cough it out" - Cough It Out by The Frontbottoms

"painting all the mirrors black / i won't see you staring back / i'm getting lost forever / searching in the broken glass / trying to ignore the past / and put myself together" - Mirrors by 8 Graves

"saint calvin told me not to worry about you / but he's got his own things to deal with / there's really just one thing we have in common: / neither of us will be missed" - Saint Bernard by Lincoln

"so many bright lights to cast a shadow / but can i speak? / well, is it hard understanding / that i'm incomplete?" - Famous Last Words by My Chemical Romance

"being in a completely normal nonthreatening scenario & environment and thinking 'i have GOT to get the fuck out of here' with the intensity of some trapped neurotic prey animal" - tumblr post by user @greelin

"but you know me / what can't i conjure into hysteria / and longing? / any place is a funeral as soon as i get there. / of course i'm the disaster / but you're the one foolish enough / to learn my name." - The Next Time We Talk on Facebook, by Clementine von Radics

"if your wounds are still open, trust / they are the doors to an answer, / and walk through." - You Better Be Lightning, by Andrea Gibson

text: "what a tremendous thing to learn from" image: black text on white strips across a blue-orange gradient - i forgot this one too sory

"when the body remembers, it bucks wildly / when we try to heal, the phantom smell returns / while in the shower, you break down / while you wash your body you realise it is not your body / and at the same time, it is the only body you have" - Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head, by Warsan Shire

"that was the thing. you never got used to it, the idea of somebody being gone. just when you think it's reconciled, accepted, someone points it out to you, and it just hits you all over again, that shocking." - The Truth About Forever, by Sarah Dessen

"the spirit is so hurt / it don't know the / body / it / looks in / the mirror / and asks, who is it?" - On/My/Aging, by Carolyn Marie Rodgers

"could we sit together in new bodies, shoulder to tender / shoulder, / the lovely and the thorned, the bitter and the failed, / the grave to the left of us, the sea to the right?" - 8, Always a Rose, by Li-Young Lee

"the fact of the matter is / you survived, / it's what you do. / death and you / walk side by side / all sigh and scythe / you stay alive. / and you have the right / but struggle to believe. / you're still allowed / to be alive. / it feels inappropriate." - It's What You Do, by Lena Oleanderson @lena-oleanderson

a painting of a bright orange sky at sunset, sun nowhere to be seen, over a pale sea crashing onto dark rocks and foaming. it's oriented upside down. - Night, by by Frederick Judd Waugh

[bluelavendre]

I miss you, I'm sorry

Idol Kth x zoologist reader

Title: I Miss You, I'm Sorry

kth x reader

The dim glow of the streetlamp outside your window illuminated the room, casting long shadows on the walls. The sound of rain tapping softly against the glass was the only thing filling the silence, apart from the faint hum of the song playing in the background. Gracie Abrams’ "I Miss You, I'm Sorry" played on a loop, each word cutting into your chest like a knife.

It had been years since you and Taehyung last saw each other. The last time you spoke was the night you both decided to end things—for his career, for his dreams. For yours. At the time, it had seemed like the only choice. Taehyung was an idol, loved by millions, constantly under the microscope of the media. And you? You were just you, a zoologist chasing a passion that had taken you to the far corners of the world.

But even after the breakup, he hadn’t stopped reaching out. The texts came sporadically, usually late at night. A simple “I miss you” or “Are you okay?” It was cruel in a way, the way he refused to fully let go. Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to block him. Even after the dating scandals. Even after seeing his name splashed across headlines alongside photos of him with other idols—smiling, laughing, holding hands. You’d told yourself it didn’t matter. That he had moved on. But the texts told a different story.

Now, as the rain poured outside, you stared at your phone, Taehyung’s name glowing softly on the screen. You hadn’t deleted his number, though you’d typed out dozens of messages you never had the courage to send.

The song swelled, the lyrics echoing the ache in your heart:

"I miss you. I’m sorry."

The tears came before you could stop them, warm and relentless. You hated how much you missed him, how much you wanted to hear his voice, see his boxy smile, feel the warmth of his hand in yours. But there was also the guilt. The nagging voice in your head that reminded you of all the ways you’d let him down, all the ways you hadn’t been enough.

Two years had passed since he’d enlisted in the military. The world seemed quieter without his presence, though his name still appeared in the occasional headline. You had thrown yourself into your work, traveling to remote locations to study endangered species. It had been your dream for as long as you could remember, and in the chaos of your career, you had tried to bury the memories of him. But it never worked.

Brazil had been your latest destination. The lush rainforest, teeming with life, had been a welcome distraction. You’d spent weeks in the field, observing animals, collecting data, and finding solace in the simplicity of nature. But today, you were in the city, taking a rare day off to visit a local cafe you’d read about.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the aroma of coffee and fresh pastries filling the air. You ordered a drink and found a seat by the window, flipping through your notes as you sipped your coffee. It was peaceful, the kind of moment you wished you could freeze and live in forever.

Then you heard it. That laugh. The one you’d know anywhere.

Your heart stopped. Slowly, you looked up, and there he was. Taehyung. He was standing near the counter, surrounded by a small entourage. He looked the same and yet different. His hair was shorter, his frame slightly leaner, but his presence was as commanding as ever. He was here for a photoshoot, you realized, judging by the cameras and crew hovering around him.

You ducked your head, panic flooding your system. What were the odds? Out of all the cafes in Brazil, he had walked into this one. You debated leaving, but before you could move, you heard his voice.

“Y/N?”

You froze. Slowly, you looked up, and his eyes met yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world seemed to tilt, the noise of the cafe fading into the background.

“Hi,” he said finally, his voice soft, uncertain.

“Hi,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer, his entourage hovering uncertainly behind him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“Work,” you said simply. “I’m here for a research project.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “I’m here for a campaign shoot.”

“I figured,” you said, gesturing subtly toward the cameras.

There was a long pause. The kind of silence that felt heavy and full of things neither of you knew how to say.

“I’ve missed you,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice cracked slightly, the vulnerability in his tone making your chest ache.

You looked down at your coffee, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Taehyung…”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know we… we can’t. But seeing you again…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like the universe is trying to tell me something.”

You shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes. “It’s not fair,” you whispered. “You can’t keep doing this, Tae. You can’t keep holding on to me when we both know it won’t work.”

“I know,” he said again, his voice barely audible. “But I can’t help it. I… I love you, Y/N. I always have.”

The tears spilled over then, and you quickly wiped them away. “I love you too,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

His shoulders sagged, the weight of your words settling over him. “I… I just wanted you to know,” he said finally. “That I never stopped loving you. And I never will.”

Before you could respond, his manager called his name, pulling him back to reality. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours, before turning and walking away.

You watched him go, your heart shattering all over again. The pain was still there, but so was the love. And as the rain began to fall outside, you allowed yourself one last moment to miss him, to love him, before turning back to your work, knowing it was the only way to keep moving forward.

[thecozycat]

🧡 Tuesday Tips #3 🧡

Your website is more than just a collection of pages—it’s your digital home. It should reflect you, your interests, and your personality. But with so many sites out there, how do you make yours stand out?

Here are 25 ways to make your website feel more personal, unique, and personalized to you!

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🎨 Design & Aesthetics

1. Custom Color Palette – Pick colors that resonate with your personality and aesthetic.

2. Unique Typography Choices – Use a mix of fonts that match your vibe.

3. Handwritten or Doodle Elements – Add personal sketches or notes.

4. Custom Cursor – Let visitors use a fun, themed cursor on your site.

5. Personalized Favicon – A tiny but powerful detail that makes your site feel complete.

6. Themed Layouts for Different Pages – Make each page visually distinct but cohesive.

7. Custom Backgrounds – Textures, gradients, or even a personal photograph.

8. Retro or Experimental CSS Styles – Go wild with unique styles that make your site stand out.

9. Create a Custom Hand-Drawn Logo – Instead of a standard logo, try sketching one yourself for a unique touch.

10. Add Subtle Animations – Small hover effects, background animations, or cursor trails can bring your site to life.

11. Play With Layering Elements – Overlap images, text, and shapes for a more dynamic look.

12. Design a Personalized Loading Screen – A custom loading animation or message adds a fun detail visitors will remember.

13. Add Your Own Handwriting as a Font – Convert your handwriting into a web font for a truly personal touch.

14. Design a Seasonal Theme Switcher – Let visitors toggle between different seasonal or mood-based color palettes.

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📜 Content & Personality

15. Create a Behind-the-Scenes Page – Show how your website was built, share your thought process, or include fun bloopers.

16. Add a "The Making Of" Section – Share drafts, sketches, or early concepts behind your creative works.

17. Include a Personal Dictionary of Words You Love – A list of favorite words, phrases, or slang you frequently use.

18. Design a "Things That Make Me Happy" Page – A simple, uplifting page filled with personal joys.

19. Show Your Progress on a Learning Goal – Track and share your journey in learning a new skill, language, or hobby.

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

💾 Interactivity & Engagement

20. Add a Clickable Mood Indicator – Let visitors see your current mood with an emoji or phrase that changes over time.

21. Create a Dynamic Banner That Updates Automatically – Display different messages depending on the time of day or special occasions.

22. Add a "What I'm Listening To" Widget – A live-updating display of your current favorite song or playlist.

23. Embed a Poll or Voting Feature – Let visitors vote on fun topics or help you make creative decisions.

24. Introduce a Mini Personality Quiz – Something quirky like “Which of my favorite books/movies are you?”

25. Make an "Ask Me Anything" Page – An interactive page where visitors can submit questions for you to answer.

Closing: Make It Yours!

Your website should be you in digital form—fun, unique, and engaging. Whether you add just one or all 25 ideas, the most important thing is to have fun and make it your own.

If you try any of these ideas, let me know—I’d love to see what you create!

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

Want to help the Small Web movement grow?

Join us on other platforms. ♥

FB Page & Group:

facebook.com/thesmallweb

facebook.com/groups/thesmallweb

Twitter/X:

x.com/smallweblove

Tumblr Community:

tumblr.com/communities/thesmallweb

Mastodon:

indieweb.social/@thesmallweb

[agentcricket-art]

cricket || she/they || emilyec.art@gmail.com || ♎ sept. 24th || 21+ || 🖤🤍💜

henlo welcome to my art blog. it's also a side blog so if you get a like or a follow from @capriciousfelis that's my main. i draw a variety of stuff, but mostly i hover around dnd and anime content. if you repost my art or try to use it for some ai bullshit i am going to hunt you for sport. i try to keep a consistent queue going, so in theory if your dash isn't too active you should see about 5-7 posts from me a day. links and tags and things listed down below. thanks for stopping by 🫡

interested in giving me money? well there's a variety of ways to do so.

COMMISSIONS ARE: OPEN

ART SHOP IS: WIP

KO-FI

🍋Commissions🍋

I will draw:

humanoids furries chibi fan art original characters mild gore

I will not draw:

in other artists art style realism or painterly style hate content real person ship art

I will attempt to draw for a discount (30% off):

nsfw mecha armor

you're always welcome to dm me too if you're unsure which category your request might fall into.

here is my commission form. here are examples of the types of comms i offer. here are my Terms of Service.

i currently have 4 slots open.

filled

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🍋Art Shop🍋

the art shop is currently under construction but as soon as it's ready to roll, don't worry, you Will hear about it.

here are some tags i frequently use, and what they are in case you're unfamiliar with them. feel free to block any of them if they're not the vibe ✌️

anime || the generic anime tag for whenever i make anime fanart or posts. i like a lot of animes. chirp chirp || my yapping tag. if you're here just for the art block this one. critical role || i haven't drawn any fanart for this dnd show in awhile, but i did draw A lot of it so feel free to peruse the backlog. delete || this tag is for the recycled queue posts. i want the blog to be active with posts, but also i'd die if i had to crank out a piece of art every day. so i reblog my old art and then delete it every now and again so when people visit the blog it's only new and fresh stuff. dimension 20 || another dnd show that i'm rather inactive in. but again, there's some good art in that tag. dnd || the dungeons and dragons tag. all encompassing, like the anime one. it's mostly my irl campaign these days though drawtectives || the murder mystery series by the drawfee youtube crew. the 3rd season is currently airing and i highly recommend it. faq || there is currently 1 (one) post in there but it's a question a lot of folks have so ice breakers || the name of the party of my irl dnd campaign! they're idiots! jack harrison || my bunny boy bard from said irl campaign! much content in this tag lupita || my monster prom oc monster prom || the monster dating sim game by beautiful glitch. it is very good my art || the general tag for all of my art. it's all in here buddy. not art || reblogged text posts go in here if i feel they fit the vibe of an oc. block this one too if you're here strictly for art old art || art from old sideblogs or my main blog because i wanted them all in one spot and so now they're here. rotten luck || the ship name for my bunny boy bard and his love interest in the campaign. taz || again, a bit of an inactive tag, but i used to do a lot of fanart for the dnd podcast the adventure zone trigun || i will highligt this one specific anime simply because i am. Obsessed. Season two coming soon let's goooooooooo vash the stampede || the main guy from trigun. rrotating him in my mind warriors || you ever walk around a library and see a large section full of books covered in cats? that's them whimsy || my baldur's gate 3 character. i need to draw them more :pensive: wick || the love interest from the irl dnd campaign! he's cringefail but also so so tragic, the perfect combo wip || work in progress. sketches and things, you know the drill.

[rebelliousmuse]

Perfect To Me – N.S.

This one’s for the boys.

I was so close to making a smut about Nick, but then I wrote the ending of this writing and thought it would be a sin to add something filthy to it.

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

You collapsed onto the bed, a sigh escaping your lips. Grabbing your phone, you pulled up the triplets' latest Friday Youtube video.

The familiar sight of Nick, Matt, and Chris filled the screen. Nick, as always, was the most animated. A laugh bubbled up from your chest as Matt delivered a dry retort, his mattitude showing once again.

As they answered fan questions, a warm feeling spread through you. You watched Nick's smile widen when he read a question about "the amazing y/n." Once the video finished, you decided to leave a like and comment “Another great video, very proud of you”, you typed it out, adding a heart emoji for good measure.

Scrolling through the comments, you loved seeing the support the triplets got. You knew how much these messages meant to them.

With a yawn, you reached for the lamp. Pulling on Nick's oversized sweatshirt he had left at your place, the faint scent of his cologne filling your senses, you settled deeper into the bed. A quick text sent Nick's way, a simple "goodnight" and a reminder of your unwavering love. As you drifted off to sleep, a smile played on your lips, the image of Nick's goofy grin warming your dreams.

The sizzle of bacon filled the air. Some notifications chimed on your phone, the goofy cat emoji that always meant Sarah, your coworker, had a message inviting you for drinks with your work friends later that night. Ignoring it for now, you focused on cracking an egg, the golden yolk a burst of sunshine against the white plate. Reaching for your phone again, you unlocked it with a smile. Nick's message sat at the top; his usual playful greeting accompanied by a string of heart emojis. You could practically hear his voice in the text wishing you a goodnight as well and reciprocating your love.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you pictured him sprawled out on the bed, messy hair, still fast asleep. With a mischievous grin, you typed out your response, "Good morning, sleepyhead! Don't forget we have those errands to run later." Sending it off, you imagined him groaning playfully when he woke up.

With a click, you opened the Youtube app and navigated to the triplets' video. A grin stretched across your face as you scrolled through the comments under your message. There, in a vibrant stream of text, was a wave of support for you and Nick.

"You two are the cutest couple ever!" one comment exclaimed. Another playfully teased, "Looks like someone's whipped!" You chuckled, deciding to reply to that one with a cheeky wink emoji.

You spent a few more minutes reading the comments. It always touched you to see the love the fans had for Nick and the positive energy surrounding your relationship. Finally, with a satisfied sigh, you closed the app and returned to your breakfast.

It was well past lunchtime, and your stomach grumbled in protest. Finally, your phone buzzed. Nick's name flashed on the screen. You saw the message, just a simple "good morning" without his usual string of emojis and playful nicknames.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You typed a question mark, then deleted it. You tried a light-hearted joke, but it felt too much even to you.

Thirty minutes later, you pulled up to Nick's place. He emerged from the building, walking slowly towards your car. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, looked tired, the familiar spark dulled. His greeting was a mumbled "Hey”. The feeling in your gut intensified. Something was wrong, and you were determined to find out what.

Concern showing on your face as you reached out, gently cupping Nick's chin in your fingers. Leaning in, you brushed your lips against his in a soft, questioning kiss.

"Hey," you murmured, your voice thick with concern. "Is everything alright?"

Nick's gaze flickered away, his hand nervously tugging at the collar of his shirt, a forced smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fine. What are you up to today?"

You launched into the plans for your day. "First, lunch! Then I have a clothes shopping spree planned, and I figured it would be a fun way to spend some time together."

A flicker of something like panic crossed Nick's face as you mentioned lunch, a fleeting expression you almost missed. He cleared his throat, forcing a laugh. "Oh, uh, lunch sounds great! Just... maybe somewhere a little later? I, uh, grabbed a big breakfast this morning."

You brushed aside the unease feeling at your gut. After all, he said he was okay. Pushing aside your doubts, you focused on the positives. "Alright, later works too! Come on, Mr. Sleepyhead, let's get some shopping done!"

A smile broke across Nick's face as you emerged from the dressing room in a pair of outrageous sequin pants you sneaked in so you could improve his mood. He burst out laughing, playfully calling you a disco ball. Relief washed over you as his laughter filled the air.

Holding up a bright blue graphic tee with a cool design, you envisioned him in it. "This one!" you exclaimed, holding the shirt up with a smile. "It'd look awesome on you!"

Nick's smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease crossing his features. He looked down at the shirt, then back at you, his fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of his own shirt. "Uh, it's cool," he mumbled, his voice hesitant. "Just not really my style, you know?"

You nudged him playfully. "Come on, don't be a scaredy-cat," you teased, concern lacing your voice. "Try it on! Imagine yourself rocking this bad boy. You'd look amazing."

Nick shook his head, his gaze flickering around the room. "I appreciate it, babe," he said, his voice strained. "But not now, okay?"

You reached out, gently placing your hand on his arm. "Okay," you said, your voice firm but laced with concern. "Something's definitely off today. What is it? Don't tell me ‘Nothing.' I know you better than that."

Nick bit his lip, avoiding your gaze. A sceptical smile played on your lips as Nick mumbled an excuse about lack of sleep. You knew him too well, his bad nights usually manifesting in dark circles under his eyes, not a forced smile.

"Uh-huh," you teased. "Seems your pants are on fire, babe!" You sang the last part in a silly voice, hoping to lighten the mood.

Nick gave you a look that clearly said, "stop," a flicker of frustration crossing his features.

"Look," you began, your voice softening with concern, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "If I did something that made you mad or…"

Nick cut you off. "Babe, you're okay," he reassured you, but his eyes held a sadness that couldn't be masked. "It's just… those haters…"

You knew exactly what he was referring to. Those negative comments on social media, the ones that had a nasty habit of getting under his skin despite your constant reassurances.

"Don't listen to those miserable waste of space," you declared fiercely. "You are, and always will be, the best human being to ever walk this planet. They can spread all the negativity they want, but it doesn't change the truth."

A flicker of a genuine smile tugged at the corner of Nick's lips as he held you close.

"Whatever garbage they spewed about the video, I don't agree for a second." You paced the store, frustration radiating off you like heat waves. Reaching out, you held Nick's hand. "Look," you said, your voice firm but gentle. "Let me treat you. We both need a good lunch, especially me," you added. Paying for the clothes you'd picked out; you left the store.

At the restaurant, Nick's usual carefree spirit seemed to have vanished. He flipped through the menu repeatedly, his brow furrowed in an uncharacteristic frown.

Connecting the dots, you realized where the negativity might be coming from. The haters and their cruel comments. Your fists clenched under the table, your knuckles turning white. You wanted to scream at them, to make them see how amazing Nick was, how beautiful he was inside and out.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to stay calm. Nick needed your support, not your rage. You stole glances at him, hoping he'd feel comfortable enough to open up. It would take time, you knew. For Nick, talking about his insecurities wasn't always easy. But you'd be there, ready to listen whenever he was ready to speak.

Nick's voice was low as he ordered a simple salad. A knot of worry tightened in your gut as you contrasted his barely audible request with your own booming order of a juicy steak and a mountain of mashed potatoes.

"Gotta keep my energy up for all this shopping!" you winked at the waiter, a forced cheer in your voice.

Nick wasn't himself. The man who usually ate his food with relish, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment, was now barely picking at his salad.

The pattern became clear. Every time you were distracted – a group of kids shrieking with laughter, the waiter refilling your water glasses – Nick would take a single, hesitant bite of his salad. He'd dart his eyes around the room, a flicker of shame crossing his features when he caught you looking. It was as if he was hiding from you.

How dare those internet deformed looking toads make Nick feel ashamed? He was perfect, exactly the way he was.

Slamming the cash onto the table, you left a tip that would make the waiter's jaw drop. "Keep the change," you growled.

Reaching across the table, you took Nick's hand in yours. Squeezing gently, you gave him a reassuring smile. "Honey," you said, your voice soft but firm. "We're going somewhere special."

You tried to keep things light during the drive, peppering the conversation with jokes and anecdotes, but Nick's responses were minimal, a forced smile occasionally flickering across his lips.

After what felt like an eternity, you pulled off the highway and onto a winding country road. Finally, you reached your destination.

The place was breathtaking. Towering oaks, their leaves a vibrant green. Sunlight peeked through, casting dancing patterns on the forest floor. In the distance, a waterfall roared, its mist creating a shimmering rainbow in the clear air.

Reaching into the trunk, you pulled out a picnic blanket. Unfolding it carefully, you spread it out on the soft grass under an oak.

"What do you think?" you asked Nick. He stood there, his gaze sweeping across the ethereal landscape. Sunlight on his face, highlighting the remnants of surprise that lingered in his eyes. You knew you'd hit the jackpot. This place, with its emerald trees, the cascading waterfall, and the crystal-clear lake reflecting the sky above, was made for the photos Nick loved to capture.

A smile bloomed on your face as you reached out, wrapping your arms around him from behind. His body tensed slightly for a moment, but then he melted into your embrace, his head resting comfortably on your shoulder.

In a soft voice, you whispered, "Enjoy the peace, babe. Relax that beautiful mind of yours. No matter what those idiots say online, your fans love you, and so do I."

You felt Nick's body relax completely in your embrace. A soft sigh escaped his lips. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.

"My camera roll is going to be overflowing by the end of the day with these views," he said, his voice filled with a newfound lightness. The playful glint returned to his eyes, a spark you'd missed dearly. You couldn't help but grin. Seeing him genuinely happy again was all the reward you needed.

[perfectlovevn]

Deal

Give the formula of how to make a menu with image buttons

You receive 3 humble fanarts each day for a week till my pencil breaks

(I seriously need help with the menu customization 😔, YouTube doesn't work for me)

Nice I hope for more fanart this week then Luz.

Imagebuttons are by definition a button that is created by an image. Generally for me, you want to make the button of your image as big as the screen. So for instance, this is the back button on the pause menu, which for my game is about 1080x1080.

Here is some code copied from my screens.rpy. I've removed the stuff relating to sound for now since we should just go over the basics. I'll explain each part.

imagebutton auto "gui/back_%s.png" focus_mask True action Rollback()

imagebutton auto "gui/back_%s.png" - this piece basically tells the game that it is an imagebutton, the location of the image and the %, which will give your image button different modes when you do certain actions to it. You can make your own images that correspond to these. The modes are:

insensitive - no action on the button. So no matter how much you click or hover on it, nothing will happen.

idle - the image when the mouse isn't hovered onto it.

hover - the image when it's hovered with the mouse.

select_idle - image used when selected and idle.

selected_hover - image used when selected and hovered.

You don't have to use all of these and to be honest I think I usually just did the select_idle, idle and hover. When you name your images you want to fill the % with whichever mode you want. For instance, if you want to make a back button change color when you hover over it, then you would name it back_hover.png. The imagebutton will automatically use this image when you hover over them.

focus_mask True - basically if you set it to true, the button will only respond when you hover over the part that actually has an image, not the part that's transparent. So when you hover over the button, only the button visible in the image will be activated.

action Rollback() - an action tells the game what you want to do when you click on the button. This can be anything from swapping to another screen, saving, skipping, autoplay, etc. For the back button, Rollback() basically goes back to a previous line in the script.

You can also add other things like cursor options, alt animations, and various sfx when hover over or clicked on.

Also note that you don't necessarily have to use imagebuttons for everything, you can also use buttons and text buttons as well. Each of them have their uses and can all be customized.

If you want more information, usually reddit. Lemma Soft Forumns and the renpy documentions will help you.

[chibelial]

I failed to record it, but I’ve gotten the worst ai ad on here just now. It’s a fake Apple Watch app that just like, scans you? and tells you all your different health “percentages”. These are all super vague, such as “Liver - 86%”. But the worst part is they chose to animate the whole thing because they didn’t know how to super impose their fake app onto footage of a real Apple Watch going in a real persons arm. And of course ai animated it. The arm has massive exposed veins all over it, and before the Apple Watch hovers on screen approaching the arm like a hungry oceanic predator; a pair of long tweezers comes into frame, and proceeds to pluck off a giant tumor like growth from the arm. No joke the ai had huge tweezers pull a fucking writhing mass of bloody flesh and mucus filled polyps. All while bold text is proclaiming “I HAD NO IDEA MY APPLE WATCH COULD DO THIS”.