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teaboot · 11 months ago

Note

if ur a murderbot nerd now do u have any fun opinions abt it yet?

Oh my goddd you have no idea

I really, really, really like Murderbot because it comes at life with this perspective we don't often see that is very real among people who have already been through traumatic experiences, who developed skills and abilities to suvive that were once useful but no longer have context- that search that traumatized people go through to recalibrate and reorient ourselves in a world where we no longer really need those things to survive.

A bit personal here, but my own issues personally involved a lot of psychological abuse that made it difficult to trust my own perceptions of reality, and as a result I found I was very easy to lie to and manipulate.

To handle this, I became obsessive over writing things down, cataloging details and making notes of things as they happened- I'd carry recording devices and make audio recordings and stay up late at night to transcribe what they'd picked up, read those over and over again to reassure myself of things I wasn't certain about.

While doing this, there were others close to me that I felt responsible for, who I had to protect from others and protect myself from at the same time. Life was about two things: Evidence, and defusing threats

Over time, I learned to trust myself as my memories matched what had been recorded where their narrative didn't, but I never really kicked the habit. Like Murderbot, I had added something to my own programming that reassured me I was safe, that I was in control of myself, that I couldn't be mistaken or crazy or broken or used.

I'm only on book two, but already I see myself in Murderbot again. No spoilers here, but when I left home- left that dangerous context- I didn't need to repeat these patterns to survive anymore, but I still did, because I didn't know anything else anymore. It felt safe, comfortable, knowing knowing that the past couldn't repeat itself, because I'd written that flaw- blind trust in myself- out of my programming and replaced it with something else.

Still, though, I'd become something specially suited to thrive in a very specific environment. Nothing else felt right like followinghigh-risk situations, like witnessing and watching and recording and knowing I had proof of the truth where others might not.

People took notice. I wound up in security by accident, but's an environment that I thrive in due to the same patterns and behaviours I originally developed when I had no other choice. I climbed the ladder pretty quickly, once supervisors caught on that my reports were the most accurate, most objective, most factual, detail-oriented and timely. I keep others and myself safe and prioritize public safety above all else, and I perform well under pressure

Now I'm in a position where I often wonder, do I enjoy this job, or is it just what I'm good at? I have a set of skills now, but do I have the option of choosing not to use them? What would I be, if not this? Could I be anything else? Can Murderbot be anything else?

It has a set of skills that set it apart, make it different, special. It does what it knows best. But is it free? Does it want to be? What does it want? Does it have to do what it was built to do? What if it didn't?

I know what I'm good for. The idea of deliberately leaving what I'm good for for something uncertain, that I might hate, that I might be useless at- the choice to give up what was so important to me for so long and become deliberately obsolete?

Let go of my entire purpose? The only thing I know, that I fit so well into but don't actually know if I enjoy? Now that I can choose? Now that enjoyment is a luxury I can afford to consider?

Yeah, that resonates.

I like the Murderbot series so far because it feels the way I feel: Like the most significant and formative part of my story, the part where I became what I am, has already happened

And now I have to just. Keep going

Into... what?

It feels absurd. Like a microwave giving up on reheating food and deciding to start a life around abstract dance.

So, uh. Yeah. It's really very wild to see this same philosophical-ish dilemma I've been digging over in the back of my mind and in therapy for the last forever laid out so plainly in a genuinely exciting and enjoyable story like this. I feel much less alone, and I... kind of really need to see how it resolves, I think.

So, uh. Yeah. Read Murderbot, I guess

#Murderbot #Please read murderbot #Also it's so naturally refreshing and funny #Oversharing #I guess #This is fine to reblog tho it's chill #Very much resonating with the othering sense of purpose #Like what do you mean dream job #I don't have to worry about that this is what I was made for #Or close enough to it #I don't have to worry about finding purpose #But also thinking about that kinda blanks me out #No you don't get it I'm not a person like you are I have to do what I was built for #I'm better than you at it anyway #And don't I have a responsibility to do what I'm best at since you can't #Idk #Wouldn't you be upset if your blender stopped blending and became an EZ bake oven #Like you already have an oven #You need a blender #And I'm the best blender there is #Long post #Lol #Sorry #Oh also I'm autistic and asexual and hgenderqueer so *fart noise*

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jungkoode · 5 months ago

Text

OFF-LABELS

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: January 30, 2025.

→ NARRATED AUDIO:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: plausible deniability king hoseok, subtext, dropping slight innuendo with that voice, gentle teasing, double meaning, sexual tension

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

→ A/N: So. Listen. I was out there, freezing my ass off at the bus stop, cursing my life choices because why am I even going to the gym at ungodly hours??? And then—THEN—the bus just had the audacity to drive right past me. Love that. Amazing. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: opened my notes app and started writing instead of using those 45 minutes to, idk, reconsider my entire existence. And thus, Off-Labels was born. This drabble? It’s about the kind of man who is dangerous in the most insidious way—intelligent, competent, and hiding behind a veneer of plausible deniability like it’s a damn art form. You know he knows what he’s doing to you. You know he’s aware of the effect he has. But can you prove it? No. Because he’s just so nice. So helpful. So unintentionally devastating to your nervous system. It’s honestly sick and twisted and exactly my type. Am I a menace? Absolutely. First installment in what might become a series because apparently I can't stop writing about competent men in medical settings using anatomical terms as foreplay. Will I be taking criticism? Absolutely not. ❤️‍🩹🩺

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT

PLAYLIST

You don’t believe in stories like in books.

Sure, you like to read them—disappear into them, let them pull you under like a riptide until you forget about deadlines and midterms and the existential dread of being a twenty-something who still doesn’t know what they’re doing.

But that’s all they are.

Stories.

Fantasies about tragic, fated loves and brooding billionaires and dangerous men with wings. You like them because they’re not real. Because it’s fun to pretend, for a little while, that you’re the kind of girl who’s got a winged fae warrior at her feet. Or a CEO husband who calls her darling in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows. Or—God forbid—her hot math teacher, who lets her stay after class for extra lessons.

Or your brother’s best friend’s secret hookup.

Not that you’re thinking about that one.

Not that it would even be your case.

You shift on the couch, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your brother’s old hoodie. It’s massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the faded fabric smelling like dust and detergent.

Perfect. The ideal uniform for an evening of doing absolutely nothing.

Your e-reader is dead, so you’ve resorted to flipping through some random paperback you found wedged under the coffee table, something with an aggressively shirtless man on the cover. You’re only half-paying attention, your eyes skimming over the words without really absorbing them.

Caleb should be home soon. Probably. He has class—or he says he has class, but you’re not entirely convinced. He’s in that phase of university where it’s mostly networking and group projects and going out more than actually studying.

Not that you care. He does his thing, you do yours.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you out of your haze.

You ignore it. Caleb has keys. If he forgot them, that’s his problem.

The knock comes again. Then the doorbell rings.

You groan, untangling yourself from the blanket and shuffling toward the door with all the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin. Your hair is a mess, your socks don’t match, and you’re fairly certain you have crumbs on your face from earlier. Good. Whoever’s on the other side can suffer.

Except—

It’s not Caleb.

It’s Hoseok.

Oh.

You freeze, hand still gripping the doorknob, brain buffering at the sight of him standing there, all easy confidence and warm eyes and—why does he always look so put together? It’s unfair. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, nothing special, but it fits him just right, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he just ran a hand through it, and—

Stop.

You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to act like a normal human person.

“Uh,” you say, which is a stellar start.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

He has the kind of voice that makes people listen, rich and smooth, the kind that carries even when he’s speaking softly. Which he is now, like he knows you spook easily.

“Caleb’s not here,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head, amused. “Yeah, I figured.”

Right. Obviously. Because if Caleb were here, he’d be the one answering the door.

You scramble for something else to say, but your brain is blank, completely derailed by the fact that he’s here. In your doorway. Looking at you. And you must look insane—your hair sticking up in weird directions, drowning in a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

And he’s still smiling. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

You clear your throat, gripping the edge of the door. “Um. Did you—need something?”

Hoseok shifts, rocking back on his heels. “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see if Caleb was around.” A pause. “And you, too.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot.

You, too.

You swallow. “Oh. Right. Cool. That’s—cool.”

His smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

You want to throw yourself into traffic.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, ever-polite, ever-easygoing.

You should say no. Caleb’s not here, and even though Hoseok is Caleb’s best friend—and a genuinely nice person, thoughtful and reliable and the kind of guy who remembers your favorite coffee order—something about being alone with him makes your stomach twist.

But saying no would be weird.

So you step back. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Or maybe you’re just too aware of him—his presence, the faint scent of clean laundry and something warmer, something mellow. He’s always been like this, always drawn your attention whether you wanted him to or not.

You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he’s been here a hundred times before. And he has, technically, but not like this. Not without Caleb.

Hoseok glances at the book on the coffee table. “Good?”

You stare at it, momentarily forgetting what book it even is. “Uh. Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the cover. His smile turns amused.

Heat floods your face.

"Interesting choice.”

You freeze. A slow, creeping horror slithers up your spine. Because you didn’t even look at the book before picking it up—you just grabbed whatever you had lying around, assuming it was something boring, something safe—

And now Hoseok is holding a novel titled My Professor’s Secret Temptation.

Oh.

Oh, you actually might be sick.

You scramble for something—anything—to say, but the words wedge themselves somewhere between your throat and your rapidly spiraling embarrassment.

Hoseok flips the book over, scanning the back cover with a curious hum. “Didn’t take you for the forbidden romance type.”

You want the ground to open up. You want to disintegrate.

“I—I didn’t even read it!” you blurt out, a little too fast, a little too desperate. “I wasn’t paying attention, I just grabbed something random, and—and it’s not—”

Hoseok glances at you, amused but not in a mean way, just…interested? "Oh, yeah?”

You nod. Aggressively. “Yes.”

His mouth presses into something thoughtful, like he believes you, but there’s still a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information.

“Huh.” He flips through a few pages idly, head tilting. “He’s pretty bold, huh?”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

“The professor.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

Hoseok just nods, easy, unbothered. “Some of these lines are intense,” he muses, flipping another page. “Do real professors talk like this?”

You are going to die. Right here. On the floor.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

He hums again, like he’s genuinely considering it, then—just as casually as everything else—he looks up and says, “You think he’s hot?”

Your heart stops.

Not in a teasing way. Not in a mean way. Just…like it’s a normal question. Like this is just an easy, natural conversation between two people who absolutely do not need to be having this conversation.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk, not a knowing smile—just quiet amusement, like this whole situation is genuinely kind of funny, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal at all.

“Relax,” he says, closing the book with a soft thump. “I won’t tell Caleb.”

It’s so casual. So reassuring.

Like he really, really isn’t trying to mess with you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Hoseok sets the book down with deliberate care, spine aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table like he’s arranging museum artifacts. Your traitorous eyes track the flex of tendons in his wrist—medical resident hands, steady and precise, the kind that’ve probably held beating hearts in ORs. You bite the inside of your cheek until copper blooms.

He glances at the sofa.

You glance at the sofa.

Three cushions. Two throw pillows. Seventy-two inches of fabric that suddenly feels like the Grand Canyon between acceptable and catastrophic.

“Mind if I…?” He gestures to the spot beside your abandoned blanket nest, already moving before you nod.

The springs creak faintly as he sinks into the middle cushion, thighs spreading in that effortless way men do—knees wide, elbows propped, phone balanced on his lap. You sit next to him—two cushions away—and watch his thumb scroll through messages, the screen’s blue light catching the silver ring he always wears on his index finger. Surgical steel, he’d told you once when you’d asked. Sterile. Practical.

Practical.

Practical like the way his left knee now brushes the edge of your blanket. Practical like the faint cedar-and-disinfectant scent of his cologne. Practical like the half-inch of skin exposed when his hoodie rides up as he stretches his arms behind his head.

Don’t look.

You look.

Stop looking.

He shifts, a subtle roll of his hips that has no business being this distracting. The movement pulls the denim taut across his thighs, and you try—really, genuinely try—to keep your eyes anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The stack of medical textbooks by the TV. Anything but the way his thumb now absently traces the inner seam of his jeans.

“Told Caleb I’d wait,” he says, tilting his head toward you. The motion makes his throat work—Adam’s apple bobbing, chin catching gold in the lamplight. “Movie night. You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with felt. “I—I have… readings.”

“Readings.” His mouth shapes the word like it’s fascinating.

“For… neuroanatomy.” You gesture vaguely toward your backpack slumped by the TV stand, half-buried under a sweatshirt you’ve been using as a pillow. “Midterm next week.”

He hums, low and considering. “Limbic system?”

“Hippocampus. Amygdala. All the… emotional bits.”

“Ah.” His smile softens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The parts that make you want to throw textbooks at walls.”

You blink. “You… remember?”

“Your first-year meltdown over the cranial nerves? Yeah.” He chuckles, warm and rasping. “You called them ‘twelve little traitors’ and threatened to switch to art history.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’d forgotten he’d been there that night—Caleb dragging him along for a pizza run, finding you knee-deep in flashcards and tears. Hoseok had quietly made tea while Caleb joked about selling your cadaver lab notes on eBay.

“Still think about it sometimes,” you mutter, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Art history sounds peaceful. No one dies in art history.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’d miss this.”

“Miss what? The sleep deprivation? The existential dread?”

“The way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to memorize Brodmann areas.”

Your hands freeze.

He’s looking at you now—not the performative eye contact of someone making conversation, but the kind that pins you in place. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s cataloging your reaction.

“I don’t… scrunch,” you say weakly.

“You do.” His knee nudges the blanket again. Accidentally. Probably. “It’s cute.”

The air conditioner kicks on. You count the vents in the ceiling. Eight. Eight is a safe number. Eight is not the number of times you’ve imagined him saying that word in different contexts.

Cute.

Your lungs forget how to oxygenate.

Hoseok’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sighs. “Caleb’s running late. Some study group thing.”

“Oh.”

“You hungry?”

“What?”

He’s already standing, rolling his shoulders in a stretch that pulls his hoodie taut across his chest. “I’ll make ramyeon. You like the kimchi kind, right?”

You stare.

He’s in your kitchen now, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Which he has—game nights, birthday parties, that one time Caleb got food poisoning and Hoseok stayed over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

But this is different.

This is him pulling two bowls from the shelf you can’t reach without a step stool. This is him filling the kettle with exactly 500ml of water because he knows your stove runs hot. This is him glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Soft or firm noodles?” like it’s a question that matters.

“Soft,” you croak.

He nods, turning back to the counter. You watch his hands—capable, unhurried—tearing seasoning packets with his teeth. The steam fogs his glasses when he leans over the pot, and he pushes them up into his hair, revealing the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Bike accident, he’d said when you’d asked. Twelve years old. Thought he could jump the curb like X-Games.

You’d dreamed about that scar for weeks afterward.

“Here.” He sets the bowl in front of you, chopsticks balanced across the rim. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You murmur thanks, staring at the swirling red broth. He sits closer this time—one cushion away instead of two. His knee brushes yours when he leans forward to blow on his noodles.

Accident, you tell yourself. Always accidents.

The TV murmurs in the background, some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. Hoseok asks about your classes, and you answer in staccato sentences, hyper-aware of the way his sleeve brushes your arm when he reaches for the water glass.

“—and Dr. Park’s lectures are killing me,” you hear yourself say, chopsticks hovering over uneaten noodles. “She goes so fast, and the diagrams…”

“Want me to quiz you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye—the same one he gets when Caleb challenges him to Mario Kart. “I handled multiple neuro cases last year. Could walk you through the basal ganglia.”

“You’re… busy.”

“Not really.” He sets his bowl aside, rolling up his sleeves. Your pulse thrums at the reveal of his forearms—dusting of dark hair, veins mapping paths you shouldn’t be tracing. “C’mon. Hit me with your worst.”

It’s a mistake.

You know it’s a mistake even as you fetch your notes, even as he pats the space beside him. Even as his shoulder presses against yours, radiating heat through three layers of fabric.

“Okay.” He scans your color-coded flashcards. “First question. What structure connects the hippocampus to the mammillary bodies?”

“F-fornix,” you stammer.

“Good.” His finger taps the next card. “Main neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra?”

“Dopamine.”

“And loss of dopamine here causes…”

“Parkinson’s.”

“Nice.” He shifts, knee pressing into yours. “Now point to your amygdala.”

You freeze. “What?”

“On your head. Show me where it is.”

“I—it’s—it’s medial temporal lobe, so…” You hover a hand near your right temple, acutely aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “Here? Ish?”

His chuckle vibrates through the couch. “Ish.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

You glare at him. He grins back, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and something in your chest cracks open.

“Medial,” he says softly, reaching over to adjust your hand. His fingers graze your wrist—brief, clinical, devastating. “Deeper. Protected.”

You stop breathing.

The documentary narrator drones on about bioluminescent jellyfish. Hoseok’s thumb brushes your pulse point.

Accident.

Always accidents.

Then his phone rings.

You jerk back like you’ve been shocked. Hoseok answers with a calm, “Yeah?” while you stare at your knees, pretending your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting.

“Caleb’s downstairs,” he says, standing. “Forgot his keys again.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He pauses, head tilted. For a horrifying moment, you think he’ll call you out—on the shaking hands, the flushed cheeks, the way you’re clinging to a pillow like it’s a life raft.

But he just smiles. Gentle. Endless. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse sideways onto the couch, pressing your face into the cushion that still holds the warmth of him. Somewhere in the hallway, the elevator dings. Laughter floats up from the parking lot.

Four years.

Four years of this.

Four years of almosts and maybes and don’t be stupid, he’s just being nice.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Caleb:

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?? 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You type no with trembling fingers.

The couch creaks as you curl into yourself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against the spot where his ring had left a faint indentation in the upholstery.

Deeper.

Protected.

Somewhere in your medial temporal lobe, dopamine fires for all the wrong reasons.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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frownyalfred · 6 days ago

Note

Pardon my wild yammering, but there’s a Batman audio series on Spotify I’ve been enjoying- it’s really good, Brent Spiner plays a truly terrifying Joker, Ike Barinholtz does a fantastically sympathetic Two-Face, and John Leguizamo plays a Riddler who at one point tells Batman that he can eat his ass. It’s wonderful. But I digress.

In that series, Bruce has a nightmare about Robin dying due to Joker injecting him with fear toxin (it’s Dick’s tenure as Robin, and the whole sequence is voice-acted frighteningly well.) Alfred snaps him out of it, telling him that it’s all right, it was only a nightmare.

Bruce replies that he knows. He has them on purpose using low doses of fear gas and lucid dreaming techniques so he can program his own nightmares and come up with defenses. Alfred is, understandably, horrified, and he has a line about how he had hoped Bruce at least got some peace when he was sleeping and how he should have known Bruce would find his way around that.

…for some reason I can’t get that concept out of my head. Bruce being so devoted to the mission, so ready to blame himself for anything going wrong, that he won’t even let himself sleep in peace. Those few hours might mean the difference between life and death for someone, and he’s not going to risk that. It reminded me a bit of that fic you wrote with everyone on the Watchtower trying not to fall asleep, and Bruce and his kids being the ones who are just used to not sleeping. Bruce especially.

(I wonder how Clark would feel about Bruce programming his own nightmares…)

#asks #anon #batman #bruce wayne #dc #batfamily

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persevereforahappyending · 1 year ago

Text

This isn't Your Fault ('I Love You')

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: “I love you,” Tara said. Her eyes widened as soon as the words left her mouth.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3.1k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Tara was leaning back in her seat, her head thrown back as she laughed at a joke you told her. The two of you were at a little coffee shop just off campus. The two of you went there all the time during free time or after class since it was less likely for you to be seen together by Tara’s friends. It sort of became your spot, you would do little coffee dates there, but mostly you went there and would catch up on class work or study.

The two of you had been there for a few hours now, tucked away in the corner on the couch. It was easily the best spot in the place and the two of you were definitely using it to your advantage. Tara was meant to be studying for an upcoming test and you were supposed to be working on a project for your audio class. You had your laptop out, with all your audio stuff pulled up, your headphones around your neck, like always, and Tara had all her books sprawled out on the table and a notebook scribbled with notes only she could decipher.

Tara had been trying to distract you for the last few minutes, she had been studying so much she felt like her brain was going to melt. You had been hard at work, listening intently to whatever you were working on and editing the sound like crazy. You tried talking to Tara about audio stuff, how you created sounds, how you mixed music, and how you applied it to video, but Tara never got it, all that information went right over her head.

“Here,” you said. “Listen to this.” You slipped off your headphones, already handing them to Tara.

She graciously took them and slipped them on her head. You hit play and were biting your nail as your eyes watched Tara, not paying attention to your screen. You were making the soundtrack for a video and had been working on it tirelessly, while you would add music and do all your stuff on your laptop you had a little box in the top corner playing the video, so you knew where to put the music and how to edit it.

Tara stared at your screen, her eyes watching the video while her ears paid attention to the music. She tilted her head when the music started out quietly, it was almost impossible to hear but as the video continued and the scene started to become more clear the music began to swell. Tara wasn’t sure what the video was supposed to be about, professors tended to provide students with video that was free use, or they would use footage shot by themselves or other students in the past. It didn’t matter if she didn’t understand the video though because your music was creating all the emotion for her.

When the music slowly died off as the video faded to black, Tara slipped off the headphones, handing them back to you. “Holy shit,” she whispered. She looked over at you in awe, you were still sitting there, rocking back and forth in your seat as you continued to bite your nail. “That was amazing.”

“Really?” you asked, your eyes instantly lighting up. You bounced in your seat, straightening your back, almost like you were about to jump out of your seat. “Are you sure? Because I wasn’t sure about the opening. I know it’s a risk but…”

Your words slowly became muffled as Tara continued to stare at you. She knew you were still talking; she was watching as your lips moved rapidly and you began gesturing at your screen, pointing to various programs you had open as you talked about your project. Tara didn’t mean to tune out what you were talking about, she loved listening to you go on and on about music, you got so passionate and excited when talking about it.

Tara had been dating you for about three months and she still couldn’t get over how adorable you were. You mentioned how Tara’s eyes would light up after watching a move and she’d begin to dissect it, especially if it was one she really enjoyed. You got the same look when talking about musical scores and just about anything to do with sound design in general. When you got excited, you would talk so fast, stumbling over your words at times as your mind tried to catch up with the speed of your mouth.

“I love you,” Tara said. Her eyes widened as soon as the words left her mouth. She knew she said it quietly, but you clearly heard her based on how quickly you stopped talking. You turned to her, looking at her with wide eyes as your mouth opened and closed.

She couldn’t believe she just said that, she couldn’t believe that was how she said it. She slammed her book closed, shoving it and her notebook in her bag quicker than she ever had before. She was on her feet before you clearly had time to process what she said. “I gotta go,” she said.

“Tara-” she heard you say but she was already halfway across the shop. As she ripped open the door she glanced back, seeing you standing there but before you could chase after her she rushed out the door.

She ran back to her apartment as fast as she could, she knew you wanted to come after her, but you wouldn’t push it, you wouldn’t show up at her place. She could feel her phone vibrating every few seconds, but she refused to look at it. As soon as she got home, she slammed the door closed, quickly locking the door as if she were being chased by someone. She dropped her head against the door with a thud, she couldn’t believe she had just ruined the best thing in her life.

“Tara?” Sam called out.

Tara lifted her head off the door, she needed to pull herself together before she faced her sister. Sam would instantly know if something was wrong and Tara couldn’t tell her about you, especially not now. Tara turned around just as Sam came into the living room. Sam furrowed her brow, her eyes looking Tara up and down. Tara swallowed nervously, hoping she was hiding what was wrong.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, tilting her head.

Tara nodded, giving a forced smile. “Yeah,” Tara’s voice went a bit higher than she wanted. Tara cleared her throat, shaking her head as if she just had something caught in her throat. “Just stressed from all the studying.”

Sam slowly nodded her head, not seeming convinced but turned and went back to the kitchen. Tara walked past her, ignoring the delicious smell of pasta as she went to her room, kicking the door closed and loudly dropping her bag by the closet. She flopped down onto her bed, letting out a loud groan into her pillow. After a few minutes she reached down, struggling as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She rolled over, her face being lit up by the screen as she saw the dozens of texts you sent her from the second she walked away from you, to when she got back to her apartment.

She opened the text, seeing you begging for her to call you back and apologizing, despite the fact that you weren’t the one who did anything wrong. She wanted to text you back, telling you she was sorry and didn’t mean what she said, she wanted to take it all back. The truth was that she did mean it, she loved you, she had never been in love before but falling for you had been effortless. Listening to you talk excitedly about your audio project hit her like a truck, she loved you. The two of you hadn’t been dating long though, you hadn’t even met her friends or her sister yet, she knew that was all because of her but still, she didn’t know how she could love you when she still wanted to keep you a secret.

When dinner time came around Tara, moved the pasta around her plate, slowly eating. Sam tried to make conversation with her, but she just brushed everything off. Tara’s excuse was school, that things were starting to get more difficult and hectic and she had a big test coming up. None of that was a lie but Tara had pretty much forgotten all about her test the second she said those three little words to you.

Tara was glad she didn’t have class with you the rest of the week. She was planning on avoiding you for the rest of her life. She woke up the next day to more text from you. You asked to meet her before her class, and she once again just left you on read. She didn’t know what to say to you, she couldn’t face you. She told you she loved you and then ran away. You probably thought she was crazy and most likely the reason you wanted to see her in person was to break up with her, you were way to considerate to break up with someone over a text.

The rest of the week Tara was actively avoiding you on campus. She still refused to text you back and if she saw you across the courtyard she ran the other direction. You still messaged her every day, usually multiple times a day but you never sought her out. You were so damn considerate; you knew Tara didn’t want to talk to you and as much as you wanted to clearly talk to her you still respected her decision in avoiding you.

It was Friday night, the week was finally over, and Tara could relax. Tara intended to hold up in the apartment all weekend. She only needed to worry about Monday, when Monday rolled around, she’d before forced to go to class again, forced to go to Film History, the class she shared with you. She hadn’t studied since being in the coffee shop with you, every time she opened her book her mind was consumed with you, she was going to tank her test and it was all because she opened her big mouth.

“Come on T,” Mindy shouted, slapping her on the leg. “The party should well be on its way by now.”

Tara looked up from the TV, she was slumped on the couch, staring mindlessly at the TV, she didn’t even know what was playing. Mindy, Chad, and Anika were standing in the middle of the room, all of them dressed and ready for the frat party going on.

“Pass,” Tara mumbled.

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. “What?” Chad asked with a small chuckle. “You’re kidding, right?”

Tara shook her head and went back to staring at the TV. “Are you okay?” Anika asked. Tara didn’t miss the concern in her friend’s voice. She was always the one begging them to go to parties and throwing a fit when Sam would disapprove. She knew the last place she’d ever run into you was at a party, but she just wasn’t in the mood.

“Just tired,” Tara shrugged. “My brain is fried, and I still have to study.” All three of her friends looked at each other and her, unsure what they were supposed to do. “Go,” she waved them off. “Have fun, seriously, I’m fine.” Tara gave them a forced smile; she was doing that a lot this week.

The three of them slowly shuffled out the door, all of them constantly glancing back at her. She was truly fine, well she wasn’t, but she didn’t want them to stay with her and she didn’t want to go to the party, she just wanted to be alone. A few minutes later Sam came out of her room, fixing her jacket before grabbing her keys.

Sam paused in her movements, looking around the room with scrunched eyebrows. “Where are the others?” she asked.

“A party,” Tara mumbled, not taking her eyes off the TV. Sam didn’t say anything, but Tara heard some sort of noise come from her sister, making her look up from the TV again. “I’m not going,” Tara assured when she saw Sam looking conflicted. Sam raised an eyebrow at that. Tara wanted to roll her eyes, but she couldn’t be offended, she did tend to disobey Sam when it came to parties. “Seriously.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. She kept glancing at Tara, clearly not convinced Tara wouldn’t try sneaking out. “Just be careful, don’t unlock the door for anyone.”

“I know.”

“And remember I’m working late tonight and then have an early shift at the diner, so I won’t be home until late morning, early afternoon.”

Tara nodded saying goodbye as Sam left the apartment, locking all the locks behind her. Tara didn’t know where Quinn was, but she knew she wasn’t home. Tara turned off the TV and dragged her feet to her room. She didn’t even care what time it was; she was exhausted and wanted to sleep for the rest of her life.

Tara crawled into her bed and pulled the blanket over her head. Tara needed to figure out what she wanted to say to you, she knew she couldn’t avoid you forever. She ruined the best relationship she ever had, she might have lost you forever and she had no one to blame but herself. She was afraid of what you would say, it was obvious she was moving way to fast. Mindy had been dating Anika longer than Tara and you had and they hadn’t even said I love you yet.

Tara must have fallen asleep at some point because next thing she knew she was blinking the sleep from her eyes. She looked around in the darkness of her room, wondering what had woken her up. She heard a rumble of thunder and then realized it was pouring down rain outside. She shrugged it off, there probably had been some loud thunder or lightning that disturbed her from her restless sleep.

Tara rolled over to go back to sleep when she heard tapping. She sat up, looking around again, that definitely hadn’t been thunder. The tapping happened again, though a bit louder. Tara looked around until her eyes landed on her window where a shadowy figure sat. Tara’s eyes widened, her heart jumping out of her chest but then the figure pushed back their hood, revealing your face. She couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

Tara slipped out of bed, padding her way over to the window. She unlocked the window, sliding it open. She shook her head, there you were sitting on the fire escaped, completely drenched. “What are you doing here?” Tara asked, taking your hand to help you inside.

“I just-I wanted to talk,” you whispered.

Tara closed the window then went and turned on the lamp by her bedside. With the light she could now see you standing before her in the middle of her room. When you pushed back the hood of your sweatshirt the rest of the way Tara could see your red rimmed eyes.

Tara furrowed her brow, instantly closing the distance between the two of you and taking your hands in her own. “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking you over. It was obvious you had been crying, Tara wanted to fix whatever had made you upset, she never wanted to see you sad.

You let out a humorless chuckle. Tara had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer to what has caused you to be upset. “Well, my girlfriend ran away after telling me she loved me,” you said. “Before I could respond, and she’s been avoiding me ever since.”

Tara dropped her eyes to the floor, but she didn’t let go of your hands. Before looking away she could already see the tears beginning to fill your eyes. Tara sniffled, her vision blurring from her own tears. “I’m sorry,” Tara mumbled. She was the reason you were upset, she was the reason you’ve been distressed and hurt the last few days.

“Just talk to me,” you whispered. You let go of one of her hands to gently tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at you again. “Did I do something wrong?”

Tara furiously shook her head, wiping away the tears. “No, no, of course not.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?” Tears instantly filled Tara’s eyes again when she heard your voice crack. She had been sitting here feeling bad for herself and you were out there blaming yourself.

��Because I was scared,” Tara admitted, running a hand through her hair. “I just blurted those words out and it’s too soon and I didn’t want to lose you.”

You were shaking your head; Tara wasn’t sure at which part. “You didn’t even let me respond,” you let out a small chuckle. “I won’t lie, I was caught off guard.” Tara nodded, her eyes sliding to the floor again. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” Tara’s entire body froze, she blinked a few times wondering if she just heard what she thought she heard. “I was rambling about my project and just wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“What?” Tara whispered, looking up at you.

You smiled, your eyes shining with tears that had yet to fall. “I love you,” you rested your hand on her cheek, looking deep into her eyes.

Tara couldn’t help but break out into a smile, instantly pulling you into a kiss. Your arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. Tara tugged your hoodie, pulling you towards her bed without breaking the kiss. She unzipped your hoodie, tossing it into the corner of her room as soon as she got it off.

“Wait, wait,” you said in between kisses. Tara couldn’t help but let out a whine when she felt you pull away. You chuckled which only made her glare at you, she was considering sending you back out in the rain now. “What about your sister?”

“She’s at work,” Tara answered quickly, pulling you right back into a kiss.

She pulled you down onto the bed, running her hands through your hair as she gave you a few more kisses before breaking away again. “I love you,” she whispered. “Stay the night?”

You nodded, smiling as you leaned down, pressing Tara further into the mattress as you. Tara was thrilled Sam was working late then going straight to her other job. Tara didn’t intend to let you leave anytime soon. If she was really lucky Sam would come home so tired she wouldn’t even check Tara’s room and you wouldn’t be forced to sneak out.

Taglist: @lilbitdepressed27 @fanboy7794 @noooodlessstuff @tatumrileyslover @alexkolax @canvascoloredin @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @youralphawolf72

#tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x fem!reader #tara carpenter imagine #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #scream #scream 6 #scream vi #this isn't your fault

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polarbearbones · 2 years ago

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New episode of The Program.... didn't know I could experience Universal Paperclips in an entirely different way

And also unchecked human hubris and ambition

#bones rattles #the program #The Program Audio Series

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the960writers · 7 months ago

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The list of free resources for writing

My current list of things I keep recommending everywhere. I may expand it at some point, but I don't want to make it overwhelming.

These are the basics. This is my answer to the question "I want to be a writer, where should I start? Anybody have tips?"

Yes, I do. It's this list.

2025 Creative Writing Lectures at BYU by Brandon Sanderson

College level creative writing course, free on youtube. Incredible learning opportunity. Go watch it and take notes. Do it now.

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLSH_xM-KC3ZvzkfVo_Dls0B5GiE2oMcLY

K.M. Weiland

Website and books, specifically story structure and archetypes for characters:

https://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/secrets-story-structure-complete-series/

https://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/how-to-write-archetypal-character-arcs/

Structuring Your Novel https://kmweilandstore.com/b/wkAVC

Next Level Plot Structure https://kmweilandstore.com/b/next-level-plot-structure

Podcasts

https://writingexcuses.com/, especially Season 10 is a full writing course https://writingexcuses.com/category/season-10/page/6/

Ink in your veins (formerly How do you write?) http://www.howdoyouwrite.net, especially http://www.howdoyouwrite.net/episodes/259 How Do You Actually Fast-Draft a Novel?

The QuitCast for Writers. YouTube channel and audio podcast created around the content of Becca Syme’s “What to Quit, What to Keep, and What to Question” model of coaching writers. https://betterfasteracademy.com/podcast/

Developing a story

https://www.eadeverell.com/idea-to-story/

https://www.valleyofwriters.com/writing-a-novel-using-the-three-chapter-slingshot-method/

https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-fiction/seven-tips-for-intuitive-writing-the-heart-hand-connection

https://blog.reedsy.com/plot-generator/

Tools

Browser based writing: https://ellipsus.com/

Browser based writing and formatting: https://editor.reedsy.com/

Organizing worldbuilding: https://www.worldanvil.com/

Organizing everything: https://www.notion.com/

Free writing program, full office suite: https://www.libreoffice.org/

Cover design, header graphics: https://www.canva.com/

#writing tools #writing advice #how to start your novel #learn about writing #free resources #resources for writers

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tinybeetiny · 17 days ago

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Build-A-Boyfriend Chapter 2: T-Minus 4 Weeks

Why did i write this before my discussion post.....

->Starring:AI!AteezXAfab!Reader ->Genre: Dystopian ->CW: Explicit language, nothing major

Previous Part | Next Part

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The morning began with a low chime, the soft, regulated sound of Hala’s approved wake-up tone.

Yn opened her eyes slowly, the sterile glow of her ceiling light filtering in, programmed to adjust in sync with her biometric readings.

But something felt wrong.

She sat up, eyes flicking to the tablet still docked by the door.

1 New Alert. 3 Missed Logs. Urgent: Review Immediately.

Her stomach tightened.

She padded across the floor barefoot, grabbed the tablet, and scanned the notifications.

ATEEZ UNIT 06 — DEVIATION DETECTED — AUTONOMY SPIKE UNAUTHORIZED VOCALIZATION: "YN"

Yn stared at the final line for a beat too long.

Then she moved. Walking as fast as she was legally allowed through the streets of Hala.

She gave polite smiles to her coworkers as she made her way to the elevator.

The lab floor was still cool from overnight lockdown when she arrived. The biometric scanner buzzed awake as she approached, confirming her identity with a flash.

YN — Lead Engineering Tech— Clearance: Gold-Level

The steel doors hissed open.

She stepped inside, and there he was.

Unit 06 — Mingi. Exactly where she had left him.

Seated on the calibration chair, eyes closed, posture perfect, skin dewy with the faintest shimmer of dermal regulation oil. His expression was peaceful. Unnaturally so.

Yn walked around him slowly, tablet in hand, watching for signs of movement, a twitch, a breath pattern, a pupil shift. But nothing changed.

He looked inert. Safe. Dormant.

But she’d seen the log. He’d said her name.

She ran diagnostics. Nothing flagged. Heart-rate simulation: normal. Memory cache: intact. Audio response logs: empty.

Empty.

She checked his neck port. Still capped. Voice box still sealed in storage.

She swallowed hard.

The rest of the ATEEZ prototypes stood silent across the lab in their maintenance docks, each assigned to their own calibration alcove.

She walked past them one by one, watching.

Unit 01 — Hongjoong. Still as stone, but his fingers had been rearranged on the synth keyboard overnight. A composition Yura didn’t recognize blinked on his screen.

Unit 02 — Seonghwa. Always the most immaculate. But his reflection in the lab’s polished glass didn’t match his real posture, just a degree off. Barely noticeable, unless you were looking.

Unit 03 — Yunho. Smiling. Just faintly. No trigger.

Unit 04 — Yeosang. Eyes fixed on a ventilation grate in the ceiling. He hadn't looked away in over two hours, according to logs.

Unit 05 — San. Kneeling. Not in his programming. Position logged as "rest" but the posture was… reverent.

Unit 07 — Wooyoung. Chestplate cooling mechanism activated 4 times during the night — autonomously. He hadn’t been powered up.

Unit 08 — Jongho. Cracked the pressure sensor on his maintenance chair. No movement recorded.

They were silent, motionless. But Yn felt eyes on her.

Even now, standing among them, it felt like walking through a forest full of predators, beautiful, engineered predators pretending to sleep.

She leaned against the edge of the workbench, rubbing her temples, heart still racing. Four weeks to launch. The marketing campaign was already filmed. The architecture teams had begun installing the holographic interface rooms in the flagship store.

There was no time for failure. Not now.

And still… the voice chip logs were empty. The playback files had no entry. But Mingi had said her name.

And the others were changing, too. Quietly. Together.

The sound of heels against polished tile snapped Yn out of thought. Chairwoman Vira Yun entered the lab like gravity itself, sharp suit, spine straight, expression unreadable. Two aides flanked her, both scanning progress reports in real-time.

Yn straightened instinctively.

Vira’s eyes swept across the prototypes, Mingi still seated, the others upright in their calibration docks. Everything looked pristine. Controlled.

“I wanted a visual update before this afternoon’s numbers meeting,” Vira said. “How are we looking?”

Yn forced a nod. “On track. All eight are responding to recalibration. Minor bugs, but nothing that won’t be handled in time.”

Vira gave a tight smile, satisfied. “Good. The store opens in four weeks. And we’ll be announcing the Ateez line one week after that. The Board’s expecting a flawless rollout, we all are.”

She walked slowly along the row of silent units, pausing a moment longer at Mingi.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost admiring. “So much potential in one room.”

Yn’s throat tightened. “They are,” she murmured.

Vira turned back to her. “Let me know if anything... unexpected comes up.”

Yn kept her face neutral. “Of course.”

With that, Vira nodded once, then exited, heels echoing down the corridor.

The moment the door slid shut, Yn turned back to Mingi.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

But she could feel it again, that subtle wrongness humming underneath the code. A tension in the room that didn’t come from the lights or machines.

She picked up her tablet. The earlier alerts were still blinking faintly in the corner of the screen. Her fingers hovered over the reset command, but she didn’t press it.

Instead, she stared at Mingi’s still, perfect form.

Voice chip disabled. Logs empty. Command queue blank.

And yet… he had said her name.

Yn stayed long after the lab lights dimmed into their night-cycle hue.

The others had gone home, the halls had emptied. Even the air felt quieter.

She pulled up lines of diagnostic code, checking through every flagged anomaly, double-checking behavioral protocols, reviewing voice input logs that should have been blank.

Mingi still hadn’t moved. Neither had the others.

Still, something itched at her spine, not fear, not exactly. Just… unease. Low-level. Manageable. At least, that’s what her biometric monitor kept reporting.

Yn sighed, rubbed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair.

“Four weeks,” she muttered aloud, glancing toward the ceiling. “And they want them flawless. I can’t even get one of you to follow your own default pose cycle.”

Her voice echoed in the quiet.

She glanced toward Mingi again. “You glitched out before you even had a voice box. How the hell did that happen?”

No answer.

She stared at the ceiling again, her voice softer now. “I haven’t slept more than four hours in weeks. Not that my vitals allow much more. Sleep too long and the regulators flag you for depressive lethargy.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“I miss silence. Real silence. Not the kind that hums at you all day to remind you it’s working. I think I miss… something else too. Something I’ve never even had.”

She shook her head, pulling her hair up into a loose knot. “Maybe I just need caffeine. Or to scream. Or to throw my tablet out the damn window. Can’t even do that anymore. Everything’s reinforced. Everything’s... safe.”

Behind her, in the corner of the room, a pair of synthetic eyes remained open.

Unmoving. Watching.

In the back-end system, a hidden data stream pulsed to life:

[UNAUTHORIZED RECORDING — ACTIVE] Listening… — “I miss silence.” — “I think I miss something else too.” — “Can’t even scream.” Tag: Emotional Pattern Acquisition Subject: YN File saved. Labeled: Soft Sounds of Sadness.

The eyes closed again. And the lab went still.

Taglist: @e3ellie @yoongisgirl69 @jonghoslilstar @sugakooie @atztrsr

@honsans-atiny-24 @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @atzlordz @melanated-writersblock @hwasbabygirl

@sunnysidesins @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @seonghwaswifeuuuu @lezleeferguson-120 @mentalnerdgasms

@violatedvibrators @krystalcat @lover-ofallthingspretty @gigikubolong29

If you would like to be a part of the taglist please fill out this form

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