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dreaming-of-tae · 1 day ago

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♡ skz finding out they're dating an idol

How'd They Find Out? How'd They React? How'd They Handle It?

➜ fluff/angst w/ comfort . gn!reader

ch : bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

warnings : emotional conflict / angst , mild cursing / intensity: (very mild) , romantic themes , mentions of fame/idol industry pressures

[﹒notes] - My first straykids post!! hope you guys enjoy this as I put a lot of time in ✩ as of now my requests are open so if you have any requests feel free to send them in~ These headcanon/stories are written in a more angsty way, because of how serious being an idol is ♡

Bang Chan (방찬)

You and Chan had been dating in private for nearly a year. It wasn’t exactly a secret relationship, but both of you kept it far away from the public eye. You were always vague about your career, describing yourself as “in the entertainment industry” but never elaborating. You always told yourself you’d come clean eventually — once the time was right.

But the truth was, you were an idol preparing to debut with a major company. And when your group finally debuted, everything changed.

The news came out not from you, but through the industry grapevine. JYP staff began murmuring about a new rookie group shaking the charts — and Chan’s ears perked up when he heard your name associated with them.

At first, he thought it was a coincidence. Maybe someone who just had the same name. But then he saw the teaser.

Your face.

Your voice.

Your debut.

He watched the performance in his studio late one night, headphones in, heart pounding. He didn't even realize he was gripping the armrest of his chair until his fingers went numb. It wasn't just that you were an idol. It was the fact that you'd kept it from him — someone who prided himself on being open, trustworthy, and understanding in relationships.

When you finally walked into his studio the next day, it was quiet. Too quiet.

He didn’t yell. Chan never did. But his silence was louder than any shouting could be.

“You debuted,” he said, not looking up from his laptop.

You tried to explain — how scared you were, how much pressure you were under, how much you wanted to tell him but didn’t want to ruin your shot or involve him in any scandal. Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

“I wasn’t hiding you, I was hiding me,” you told him, near tears.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

“You know I’d never be mad at you for chasing your dream,” he said softly. “But... I thought we were in this together. I thought we shared everything.”

That line stung more than anything.

It takes time. Chan isn’t one to hold grudges, but he feels things deeply. He spends days reflecting — not just on your relationship, but on what it meant for you to feel like you couldn’t trust him with something so big.

Eventually, he reaches out, asking to meet. This time, he's warmer, a little more relaxed.

“You looked incredible on stage,” he admits, smiling shyly. “I’m proud of you.”

He apologizes for his coldness, but also asks you to let him in — even when things are messy, complicated, or scary. “We’re idols,” he says. “We know this life isn’t easy. But I want to share it with you.”

From that point on, he’s your biggest supporter — attending shows in secret, leaving notes in your dressing room when he can, and giving you vocal tips late at night.

He doesn’t love that your schedules now clash and your careers are public property, but he accepts it. Because at the end of the day, you’re still you — and he’s still the guy who fell in love with you, long before the world knew your name.

Lee Know (리노)

Minho had always suspected you were “more than you let on.” The way you carried yourself, the way you avoided certain questions, the way your phone always lit up with messages from people labeled only with emojis. You were mysterious — something he found intriguing.

You’d been together quietly for a little over six months, and while Minho wasn’t the kind of guy to push boundaries, he was observant. Very observant.

Then it happened — your group dropped a surprise debut showcase.

And there you were. Center stage. Flawless. Charismatic. An idol.

Minho sat there in his dorm room, your face filling his screen, members buzzing around him, exclaiming “Wait — isn’t that…?”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

And then left the room.

You knew you had to tell him — and you were already on your way over when your phone started buzzing. A message from Minho: “We need to talk.”

When you arrived, his expression was unreadable. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting hours.

“So,” he said, voice clipped. “Anything you want to share?”

You tried to explain — the contracts, the company’s PR strategy, your own fears. But Minho’s eyebrows raised.

“Don’t tell me it was all about timing. You had months.”

His voice was sharper than usual. He wasn’t angry in the explosive way — he was angry in the quiet, disappointed way that only someone who’s truly hurt can be.

“I don’t care that you’re an idol,” he finally said. “I care that you didn’t trust me enough to be honest.”

You stood there, feeling like the world had dropped out from under you.

But you didn’t give up. You reached for his hand. “Minho… I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to think I was using you. Or lying. Or trying to compete. I was scared I’d lose you.”

Something shifted in his expression at that.

Lee Know doesn’t forgive easily — but he does listen.

It takes a long conversation, a lot of silence, and a few sarcastic jabs (“So do I have to call you sunbaenim now?”), but eventually, he lets down the walls again.

Minho is surprisingly vulnerable when you crack through the tough outer shell. He opens up about how he’s always struggled with trust — how hard it is to feel close to people when the industry is full of masks.

“But I want to trust you,” he admits quietly, “so let me.”

From then on, he becomes fiercely protective. He never shows it in dramatic ways, but it’s there — the texts checking in after your late-night schedules, the hand squeeze before a big stage, the teasing messages when you post a killer performance.

He’ll never say “I’m your number one fan” out loud, but he doesn’t have to.

He’s the one watching your fancams at 2 AM when he thinks no one’s looking. The one who subtly retweets your group’s success through fan accounts. The one who learns your choreography just to mockingly dance it in front of you — only to get every step exactly right.

Changbin (창빈)

Dating Changbin had been like finding home. He was warm, goofy, emotionally intelligent, and one of the few idols who knew how to switch off the performance face when the cameras were gone. You met him through a mutual friend, and your relationship bloomed over late-night ramen, playlists, and gym sessions.

He knew you were “in music,” but you always steered the conversation away when it got too close to your career specifics.

You’d rehearsed how to tell him the truth so many times. But your company’s unexpected early debut announcement forced your hand before you were ready. One minute, you were planning your next date with him; the next, your debut stage was trending on Twitter.

He didn’t find out from you.

He found out on Instagram, scrolling through hashtags, when a photo of you in full stage makeup from a press showcase filled his feed. He blinked, confused.

Wait. That was you. Center stage. Surrounded by dancers. Dressed in a designer outfit.

The caption read: [Name], center of [Group Name], the next big thing in K-pop.

He sat in stunned silence, your unopened text from earlier still sitting on his phone screen.

It read: “Can we talk later tonight? Please.”

You showed up to his studio hours later, already anticipating the hurt in his eyes.

He wasn’t angry — not in the explosive sense. But Changbin felt things deeply, and that depth was now tinged with betrayal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly, fingers fiddling with the drawstring on his hoodie. “Was I… just someone to pass time with until you debuted?”

You rushed to explain — how scared you were of being seen as someone using him, how your company warned you not to get involved romantically before debut, how you’d planned to tell him when the timing felt safer.

“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” you whispered.

“I already saw you,” he said. “The real you. That’s why it hurts.”

Changbin spirals a bit. Not dramatically — but internally. He overthinks, questions every moment, replays your interactions, wondering if there were signs he missed. But despite all the confusion and hurt, he doesn’t give up on you.

He just needs time.

You give him space, unsure if he’ll reach back out — but a few days later, he does. He texts you a selfie of him holding up your debut album, captioned: “I still meant it when I said I liked you. That hasn’t changed.”

When you meet again, the air is gentler. You talk — really talk. He admits his insecurities. You show him your practice clips and share how long you’ve dreamed of this.

From that point on, he becomes your unofficial hype man. He studies your choreo so he can do your fanchants, sneaks your songs into his playlists, and even writes a verse about you for a mixtape — cryptic enough not to be obvious, but personal enough that you know.

His love is loud, even if his pain was quiet. And in the end, he never stops believing in you — or the version of you he fell for long before the lights hit your stage.

Hyunjin (현진)

Being with Hyunjin felt like walking through an art museum — every moment was soaked in feeling, beauty, and subtle intensity. He was affectionate, expressive, and deeply attentive. He'd write little poems for you, draw doodles on your hands when you were bored, and always looked at you like you were a masterpiece.

You adored him for that. And it made keeping your secret even harder.

Your debut had been quietly brewing for over a year, and your company was famously strict. Dating wasn’t just frowned upon — it was a career risk. So you said nothing, afraid to jeopardize your shot or his.

But when your group's debut MV dropped and the internet lit up with reactions, it didn’t take long for Hyunjin to put the pieces together. He knew your mannerisms, your eyes, the tilt of your head. He recognized you instantly.

But what crushed him wasn’t that you were an idol.

It was that he had to find out with the rest of the world.

You found him in his apartment the next evening — music off, curtains drawn, sketchbook open but untouched. He looked up when you entered, his eyes unreadable.

“Why didn’t you trust me with this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You sat beside him, heart thudding, and told him everything — the fears, the company’s threats, the guilt. You confessed how each day that passed without telling him made it harder to come clean. How you hated yourself for not trusting the person who treated you like you hung the stars.

“I wanted to protect what we had,” you said. “But I ended up hurting you.”

He didn’t respond for a long while. Then, slowly, he handed you his sketchbook.

Inside was a drawing of you — in your debut outfit, mid-performance, surrounded by stage lights. But your eyes in the sketch were sad. Lonely.

“I drew this after I saw the video,” he said. “Because I knew you weren’t celebrating.”

Hyunjin is emotional, yes — but he’s also wise beyond his years. He doesn’t push you away. Instead, he leans into his feelings, into the pain, and finds a way to make art out of it.

He asks for honesty moving forward, no matter how difficult. And you promise.

He becomes your quiet anchor — someone who understands the duality of fame and intimacy. He starts leaving notes in your bag before fanmeets, texts you affirmations after live stages, and watches your content with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

Sometimes, it’s hard — when your names are trending for different reasons, when rumors swirl, when the distance grows. But Hyunjin never stops showing up. He creates playlists titled “For When You’re Tired” and draws little comics of your imaginary life if you were just two art students instead of idols.

And though he found out the truth in a way that broke his heart, he still chooses you — every version of you.

The star version of you.

And the person behind both.

Han (한)

Dating Jisung was like living in a comedy-drama series with the most chaotic yet golden-hearted lead. He was silly, loud, unpredictable — but beneath it all, he had the most fragile heart and softest soul. He constantly sought reassurance and was always the first to make you laugh when things got heavy.

You connected through mutual friends at a casual get-together, and from day one, he made it clear how serious he was about you — in his goofy, offbeat way. You’d always deflected questions about your career by saying you were “training in music production” or “working behind the scenes,” and he never pushed you too hard.

Until your debut hit the internet.

Jisung wasn’t scrolling for gossip. He was looking for new music releases when he saw the thumbnail: your name — your face — and a “Debut MV” tag.

He clicked without thinking. Half-curious. Half-worried.

As the video played and your voice rang through his speakers, reality cracked open.

His first reaction? Shock — mouth open, hands paused in midair, eyes wide.

Then came confusion. And then silence.

When you texted him later that day with a simple: “Can we talk? Please.” — he didn’t answer right away.

Not because he was angry.

Because his brain was moving at 200mph, and his heart was dragging behind.

He met you that night outside the dorms — hoodie on, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

“You’re an idol?” he asked softly. “All this time?”

You explained everything — the contracts, the NDAs, your fear of losing him. The guilt of holding something so big back.

His lip twitched. “You thought I wouldn’t be okay with it? Or… you didn’t trust me enough to try?”

The pain in his voice wasn’t loud. It was wounded, quiet, like a joke that didn’t land.

“I tell you everything,” he added. “Every stupid fear. Every song lyric I write. Every dream. You’ve heard me at my worst.”

He wasn’t yelling. He was disappointed. And that hurt more than if he had screamed.

Jisung needs time to process. He hides in his music — writes endless lyrics about masks, mirrors, and miscommunication. He makes jokes to his members to downplay how confused he feels, but you can tell it sits heavy on his chest.

Then one night, he calls you — just your name, softly.

“Come to the studio.”

When you arrive, he plays you a demo — raw vocals, stripped beat, lyrics that feel like reading his heart on a page.

“You danced in the dark / while I thought we were in the light / I loved you blind / but now I see in black and white…”

You sit in silence when it ends.

“I wrote it the night I found out,” he says. “But it’s not a goodbye song.”

You exhale shakily. “Then what is it?”

“It’s a ‘try again’ song.”

From then on, he’s different — more open about his fears, but also fiercely protective of your dream. He teases you about “idol mode,” helps you brainstorm stage names, even gives you random awards like “Best Outfit Slay” and “Most Likely to Outshine Me.”

He’s scared, yes. But love — real love — makes him brave enough to stay.

Felix (필릭스)

Dating Felix was like basking in warmth. He had that rare kind of energy — grounding, healing, and gentle. You met during a joint industry charity event, and your connection was instant. He was attentive, deeply curious about you, and always made you feel like the most important person in the room.

But from the start, you knew he was honest to a fault. Felix didn’t play games. He gave love openly, and he expected that same vulnerability in return.

Which is why you feared telling him the truth: that you were on the verge of debuting as an idol, that your company had forbidden any public or even private relationships without disclosure, and that you were falling for him faster than you ever expected.

Felix found out through a mutual friend — accidentally.

Someone sent him a message: “Isn’t this your girlfriend?” with a screenshot of a teaser poster.

Your face. Center of a highly anticipated girl group debut.

He stared at it, brows furrowed, phone shaking in his hand.

He didn’t speak to anyone about it. He waited until he could see you.

When you met up, he didn’t waste time. He held up the image on his phone.

“You’re debuting?” he asked, tone heartbreakingly calm.

You nodded, ready for the storm. But it never came.

He took a step back, swallowing hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You fumbled for the words — how you feared jeopardizing your career, how you thought if you waited just a little longer, it would be easier.

“But you let me love you,” he said quietly. “Without the truth.”

The pain wasn’t in his words — it was in his eyes.

Felix isn’t someone who gives up easily. But he also doesn’t let himself be treated like an afterthought. He takes a step back — not to punish you, but to center himself.

He talks to Chan. To his sister. He journaled a lot. He tried to understand whether your secrecy was about mistrust, or fear, or something else entirely.

Eventually, he meets with you again — on a quiet rooftop, where he used to go when the trainee life felt too heavy.

“I’ve had my own secrets too,” he says, staring at the skyline. “But I’ve always believed love needs honesty, or it won’t last.”

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m ready to be honest. Now. With everything.”

He looks at you then — really looks. And he smiles.

Not his fan-service smile.

But his smile. The one only people he loves get to see.

“You were always a star,” he says. “I guess now the rest of the world gets to see it too.”

From that point on, Felix becomes your safest place. He watches all your stages, encourages your self-care, and finds clever ways to support you publicly without ever exposing your relationship.

He’s proud of you.

And he reminds you every day: that you can shine in the spotlight and still be held in love — safely, quietly, fiercely — when the lights go down.

Seungmin (승민)

Seungmin wasn’t the type to fall easily, but when he did, it was intentional. You’d met him through a friend who worked in radio, and what started as casual banter turned into long coffee shop dates filled with dry humor and quiet companionship.

He liked that you were grounded. You shared thoughts about music, books, even your frustrations with the entertainment industry. But whenever he asked specifics about your work, you deflected — said you were “support staff,” or “still finding your path.” He respected your privacy. He always did.

That is, until your face showed up unexpectedly on a massive LED screen in Hongdae — part of a pre-debut countdown campaign for a new girl group.

It took him a few seconds to register that it was you.

Wearing stage makeup. In costume. Smiling like the whole world was finally seeing the dream you’d been hiding.

That night, you showed up to his apartment without asking. You knew he’d seen it.

He didn’t yell. That wasn’t Seungmin.

He opened the door, stepped aside, and let you in. The silence wasn’t cold — it was focused. You sat across from him on the couch, bracing yourself.

He finally spoke, voice calm but painfully steady: “How long were you going to keep it from me?”

You tried to explain — the non-disclosure, the risk of rumors, the company’s iron grip on trainee relationships. But as you spoke, he stared down at his hands, barely blinking.

“Do you know how many people I’ve pushed away because I didn’t think they could handle my world?” he asked quietly. “I chose you. And you couldn’t even give me the truth.”

It stung. Not because he was angry — but because he wasn’t. He sounded tired.

You reached out to touch his hand, but he gently pulled it back.

“I just need time to think,” he said. “About whether we’ve both been in the same relationship this whole time.”

Seungmin goes quiet for a few days. Not out of malice, but because he doesn’t do emotional decisions impulsively. He talks to his members. He takes long walks. He listens to music without lyrics — classical, instrumental, film scores — trying to find his own voice in the noise.

Eventually, he texts you: “I want to talk. In person.”

When you meet again, he’s still calm — but different. Not guarded. Resolved.

“I’m not angry that you’re an idol,” he says. “I’m proud. I’ve always known there was something special in you.”

He takes your hand.

“But I need honesty. Even when it’s messy. Even when it might hurt.”

You promise — this time without deflection.

From then on, Seungmin becomes your quiet protector. He won’t show it in grand gestures, but in consistent ones — sending you your favorite coffee before music shows, editing your practice videos with helpful notes, reminding you not to lose yourself in the chaos of fame.

He’s still skeptical sometimes — especially when fans speculate, or when your schedules keep you apart. But his love isn’t loud. It’s reliable.

And when he sees you on stage for the first time, he smiles — not because you’re an idol, but because you’re still you. And that’s who he fell for.

I.N (아이엔)

Jeongin had always been playful, gentle, a little shy in interviews — but in real life, he’d grown into someone confident and self-aware. He laughed easily, cared deeply, and had a surprisingly steady presence beneath the youthful energy.

You met him during a vocal workshop and bonded over late-night convenience store runs and shared Spotify playlists. He admired how humble and grounded you were — never knowing that underneath it all, you were hiding a career just weeks away from exploding.

When your debut came, it wasn’t a slow reveal.

It was a bombshell.

You were the surprise center of a new girl group with a viral pre-debut TikTok campaign. Fancams. Headlines. Trending hashtags.

Jeongin was in the dorm, half-laughing with Han over snacks, when Felix’s phone buzzed.

“Wait — isn’t this Y/N?”

And the room went quiet.

He didn’t text you.

He didn’t call.

Instead, he waited — unsure whether to confront you, or wait for you to explain.

You beat him to it, showing up the next evening with a bag of tteokbokki and a soft apology.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

His smile was polite, but distant.

“I guess I never really knew you, huh?” he said, softly.

That broke your heart more than yelling would’ve.

“I didn’t lie,” you said. “I just… hid. Because I thought if you saw the whole picture, you’d treat me like a brand, not a person.”

His expression softened, but he looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t fall for a brand,” he whispered. “I fell for someone who laughed at my dumb jokes, who sang off-key with me at karaoke, who looked me in the eye like I mattered.”

You blinked back tears.

“And you still matter,” you said. “More than any debut. More than any stage.”

Jeongin surprises you.

He’s more mature than people give him credit for. After a few days of reflection, he comes to you — with questions, yes, but also with his heart open.

He asks about your training. About your fears. About your dreams — not your image.

Once he understands it wasn’t about deceit, but about survival, he forgives you. Fully.

And from that moment on, he becomes your safe place. He checks in before every big performance. Sends you goofy voice notes to cheer you up. Hypes you up anonymously online with burner accounts. Leaves little gifts in your locker when your schedules cross paths.

But he also keeps you accountable.

“When we’re together,” he says, “it’s not idol to idol. It’s just you and me. Real. No masks.”

He doesn’t treat you like glass. He treats you like a partner. Equal. Respected.

And when he watches you on stage, he claps the loudest — not because he’s watching an idol rise.

But because he’s watching his person do what they were born to do.

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mercury-waters · 2 days ago

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hey so, with respect and solidarity towards whatever life situation has made you think this way, get fucked.

I'm not a 'moral relativist.' i do not believe in 'to each their own' politics. i am a marxist. i'm a socialist, and I think everyone should be. I think there are lots of demonstrably false ways of looking at/understanding the world, and one of them is yours.

who, between you and me, 'can't do anything?' I made this post off the back of literal years of activist experience that has had concrete, measurable effects. there are thousands of people who aren't homeless in the cities i worked in, tens of thousands of people who make livable wages now, because of me and the people i worked with, and the methods we use. I am not the one who is mouthing off with nothing to show for it between the two of us.

I'm fully aware that there is a mental/emotional/social decline in the general populace. that's actually what this post is about. My parents are teachers who are terrified of what is happening to the people growing up in the world now. However, the data that we have available shows that people, when you care for their basic needs, get mentally better, not worse. UBI studies display that when people have more money, they abuse substances less. It has been shown that cash infusions into communities reduce violence and anti-social behavior. Incidentally, this "IQ drop" you're concerned about? Completely coincides with the rise of neoliberal economics and the beginning of the era of austerity and rolling back welfare. That's the point of the post. Social problems that seem deeply set are scary, but they are rooted in simple economics, and reversible. It will be difficult to reverse, but the point is that they are largely not multi-faceted problems; they are only dependent on gaining control of the wealth we already create.

These problems continue not because of moral relativists 'like me' (lol), but because a handful of people have an extraordinary amount of power over where trillions of dollars get allocated, and they create the norms of economy in everything from agriculture to war. If you blame a right-wing chucklefuck in nowheresville, Ohio, because Mark Zuckerberg is using his immense wealth to support Zionist ethnic cleansing through censorship, then I'm sorry, that's an idiotic position.

If you don't believe that's possible, fine. If you think the best thing that you can do is not reproduce and live in isolation until you die, fine. That's entirely your prerogative. I don't plan to reproduce anyway either!

But I know, because I have seen, that common interests can and do overcome peoples' bad ideas. I have seen people have lightbulb moments about what it takes to change society and how we need to do it when they're standing on a picket line yelling with queer youth about their bosses. And I have seen that add up to huge victories that have changed the lives of millions of people. Revolutions used to be led by farmers/factory workers who were almost completely illiterate. And they still changed the world in many ways for the better, and so can we.

your misanthropy might feel right and justified to you, but it is demonstrably short-sighted and not grounded in history or current reality.

^ anyway I wrote all that and then checked your blog and saw that you're a terf anyway so congrats on being wrong in so many ways!

obsessed with how fixable society is, on a structural level.

obsessed with how all you need to do is throw money at public education and eliminate most standardized testing and you will start getting smarter, more engaged, kinder adults. obsessed with how giving people safe housing, reliable access to good food, and decent wages dramatically reduces drug overdoses and gun violence. obsessed with how much people actually want to get together and fix infrastructure, invent new ways of helping each other, and create global ways of living sustainably once you give them livable pay to do so. obsessed with how tracking diseases, developing medicines, and improving public health becomes so much easier when you just make healthcare free at point of use.

obsessed with how easy it all becomes, if we can just figure out how to wrench the wealth out of the hands of the hoarders.

#hows that for moral relativism

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chahnniesroom · 22 hours ago

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the way home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: a peaceful walk home takes a turn for the worst when you notice you're being followed.

word count: 0.8k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, sasaeng/creepy fan

a/n: i am currently working on a longer fic for this collection, but i wrote this super quickly over the weekend inspired by this clip that i randomly saw on ig.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You notice the person about halfway between the company and home. You'd decided to walk back since the weather was nice, but now regret your decision.

In general, you try not to be too paranoid when you’re out in public, after all, Seoul is a big city and there are a lot of people going to a lot of places. It's a humbling experience to worry about being spotted by a fan and then realise they just happened to be heading to the same area as you.

You walk past the man first, then notice he's behind you a couple streets later when you happen to turn around. You make a few strategic turns, bringing you back into the direction of the company, alternating between more popular streets and quieter ones. Each time you look back, he's still training behind you and you know it's no coincidence.

His pace isn't particularly fast, he's stayed about half a block behind you this whole time, and his gait is casual. Large but even steps, you would think that he's just taking an evening stroll if he didn't match you every time that you deliberately sped up or slowed down.

You feel hunted.

You call the guys immediately, blindly hitting the call button for your group chat.

“I think I'm being followed,” you say, the second the call connects. You don't even know which of the members picked up.

“Where are you?” Chan replies back, his tone urgent.

“I was walking home, but now I'm heading back to the company. I'll send my location now.”

“Do you have any details?”

“I think he's a fan. He looks young, early 20s and it seemed like he recognised me. I didn't realise until later that he had turned around and was still behind me.”

“Try to stick to a busy street,” Chan urges you. “Y/n-ah, do you think he's dangerous?”

“He doesn't seem dangerous, per se,” you say slowly. Your voice barely comes out as a whisper. “But I’m scared, oppa. I don't feel safe.”

“We're on our way,” Minho replies. You have no idea when he joined the call or who else is listening in, but you already feel a bit better knowing that they're there. “We'll be there soon and security is sending a team too.”

“Can you stay on the call until then?” you ask with a tremulous voice. “I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course.” It's Chan again. “I promise, we won't hang up until you're in our arms.”

“I'm close to the cafe we went to last week,” you tell them. “The one with the green grape ade and the sweet potato cake that I liked. I think they're still open. I'm going to go in."

“Got it,” Han confirms. “I know the place, we'll send everyone that way.”

You don't want to run or do anything that might set off the person following you. It feels like forever until you finally reach the cafe's entrance and make it in. The jingle of the bell has never seemed so welcoming.

You nod to the worker at the counter and head to a table further into the cafe. You’ve visited enough times that they don't question you since you sometimes meet up with the boys and wait until they arrive before ordering.

“I'm inside,” you update the boys. “Sitting at a table. He’s out there just- he's just standing there. Why won't he leave me alone?!”

Even though you feel significantly safer now that you're inside with other people, your heart is still racing and adrenaline has filled your body. The hand that's not holding your phone is shaking.

“It's okay if you feel scared,” Seungmin soothes you. “We're almost there. He won't bother you again.”

“Okay,” you say shakily, trying to compose yourself.

“Security is close,” Chan says. “What does this person look like? What are they wearing?”

“He's average height, slim. Wearing a baseball cap, big black jacket, baggy jeans. He's right at the window beside the door.”

“Got it,” Chan replies.

You watch, moments later as a couple of men approach the guy. They talk to him for a second before they lead him away with a firm grip on each shoulder.

The second after he disappears from your view, the members burst into the cafe, frantically scanning the room.

You stand up and meet them in the middle.

“Thank you.” Is all you can say, before you burst into tears of relief. The boys waste no time surrounding you and wrapping you in their arms murmuring reassurances, uncaring of how it must look to the cafe patrons.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

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pangaeaseas · 1 day ago

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I was rereading Prisoner of Azkaban and I completely forgot that Sirius was canonically described as James and Lily’s best friend? It’s mentioned way too many times to be a mere coincidence:

“Why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned the fact that Harry’s parents had died because their best friend had betrayed them?”

“He was going to live with Sirius Black, his parents’ best friend … He felt dazed.”

“For maybe half an hour, a glorious half hour, he had believed he would be living with Sirius from now on . . . his parents’ best friend.”

“He was my mum and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but he’s broken out of Wizard prison and he’s on the run.”

It’s not like the text had to include Lily here. She was not involved in the story of their animagi transformations or the creation of the map. Nor are Remus or Peter ever linked to Lily in such a way – their friendship with James and Sirius is repeatedly emphasized, and I think it’s probable they were friendly with Lily as well, but their own connection to her is never textually highlighted the way Sirius’s is. So I think the emphasis of Sirius being Lily’s best friend as well is purposeful (and even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t matter, it’s textually canon regardless)

It’s unclear when or how they became friends, but I love that James was clearly not the link connecting them together – Lily and Sirius remained in contact with each other entirely independently from him, as her letter proves. I remember reading somewhere that Sirius is the only one of Lily’s canon relationships that’s about her receiving support rather than giving it, which is what she deserves.

I think the revelation of Lily and Snape being best friends has overshadowed her connection to Sirius in the fandom, which sucks, because I think Deathly Hallows paralleled these two friendships in really interesting ways:

Lily got sorted into Gryffindor and looked back sadly at Snape … and then turned away from Sirius, who specifically tried to make room for her at the house table.

Adult!Lily wrote a letter with “lots of love” to Sirius … only for Snape, her former best friend, to tear it apart and claim it for himself after she and Sirius had both died.

Anyway sorry I went off a little lol, I just love these two + James a lot <3

i love blackevans friendship so much as well! it's just delicious they have such potential for a fun connection--and it doesn't need to have anything to do with James, it can be about them (though ofc they are also both close to James. they talk about him lol).

#lily evans #Sirius black #James potter #lilypad #platonic lilypad #hp #harry potter #marauders era

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rockrosethistle · 3 days ago

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Explaining All The Hatchetfield Lore:

(disclaimer: all lot of this is based on context clues and expositional monologues, so it is my best guess and could be wrong. But I'm pretty sure it's right.)

We start in the 1820's, on an island in Lake Michigan. Now, there's three main families you need to know about here, and those are Muckwabs, the Metzgers, and the Waylons. Remember those because they're important.

So around 1824, Willabella Muckwab discovers the eldritch entities known as the Lords in Black (LiB). She becomes a devoted follower of them, and writes a book out of children's blood, which details their history, how to summon them, spells, prophecies, etc. This book is called the Abominable Tome, but it is most often referred to as the Black Book.

Well maybe the town doesn't like the fact that their children are disappearing, or maybe they discover the book, we don't know exactly what happened. But Willabella Muckwab is tried as a witch and hung. This doesn't kill off the Muckwab family, however, because Willabella had a daughter. That will be important later.

So basically, Willabella is hung by the Metzger family (remember them?) who are often referred to as the Hatchetmen. She is buried in the woods, the black book is lost, but her soul lives on, because of her connection to the Lords in Black. Well this isn't good, so the Hatchetmen begin killing anyone else who shows signs of having magic, burying them around the woods so they can grow into trees, their magic trapping Willabella in a 'web.' All of these magic tree-people form a forest, which is called the Witchwood. The Witchwood has special properties, because of all the magic. It affects the soil and the way things grow, but most importantly, it traps Willabella, who's is known as The Witch in The Web.

Jump ahead to 1827, it's been a couple years since Willabella's death, and that island is now known as the town of Hatchetfield. That's when the the Waylons show up (remember them?) Well, the Agatha and Mathias Waylon find the Black Book, rediscovering the Lords In Black. And isn't this just a super cool religion? Let's get everyone else involved! The Waylon's form a cult, called the Church of The Starry Children, who worship the LiB. They have a ton of people on board, and with the LiB, they offer sacrifices get rich and stay forever young. The Waylon family also sets up 5 Dark Altars around town, which coincides to the 5 Lords in Black. These altars are the Old School House, Waylon hall, the Old Mill, the Hatchetfield Gazette, and the Starlight Theater. All of these are places where somebody could summon the Lords in Black, with very little knowledge or power.

So the Church of The Starry Children has been doing very well for quite a while. In 1945, they begin the Honey Queen festival, a tradition where they elect one woman per year to sacrifice to the Lord in Black, Nibblenephim. They're very good at hiding in plain sight. However, they can't stay hidden forever. In 1975, they are meeting in Waylon Hall, when they are ambushed by the Metzgers, also known as the Hatchetmen. The Hatchetmen massacre the Starry Children, and once again, the Black Book is lost.

I hope you're enjoying this lore because it's only just getting interesting. That was all pretty straight foreword, and people generally don't argue about it. So for a recap, we have Willabella who wrote basically an evil bible for the Lords in Black, and who was murdered by the Hatchetmen. Then you have the Church of the Starry children, who worshipped the Lords in Black, also murdered by the Hatchetmen. Those are our three families. What if I told you that after all this happened, three other characters were up to some wacky hijinks? This is where things get muddy.

Now introducing our three new parties of interest: Willabella's daughter, the PEIP organization, and a mysterious woman only known as Miss Holloway. Here's what's up with those guys.

Miss Holloway was a pop star, rising to fame in the 1980's. We don't know a lot about her backstory, but it is assumed that she witnessed a tragedy, because she sought the help of the Lords in Black. They made her a deal that would allow her to have the power to help those in need, but in return, she would have to give up what she cherished most. (We don't know if those were the exact terms of the deal, but it seems to be the standard deal when it comes to the Lords in Black, so we go with that.) So Miss Holloway takes the deal. She gives up the ability to be remembered: no one knows who she is, and anytime she tries to tell anybody her story, it is immediately erased from their memory. In return, the Lords in Black make her the keeper of the Black Book, as well as magic such as hypnosis, and the ability to regenerate her body. She is able to die, but she always comes back. There is only one thing that can kill her, and that is a dagger known as the Black Blade, which she used to kill a man who made a similar deal, named Wilbur Cross.

But who is Wilbur Cross? To explain that, we have to explain Paranormal, Extraterrestrial, Inter-dimensional Phenomena, or the government agency known as PEIP. Wilbur Cross was an army Colonel, and very high-ranking in PEIP. In 2005, PEIP constructed an inter-dimensional portal to a place outside of time and space known as the Black and White. They didn't know that the B&W was home to the Lords in Black. On October 5, 2005, they sent Wilbur Cross through that portal, where he encountered the Lords in Black and pledged his allegiance to them. He was also gifted powers and immortality, but to serve the Lords in Black, which meant that he used it for evil. He stepped back out of the portal, appearing to the remaking PEIP agents, before disappearing to Hatchetfield, where he murdered Sheriff Douglas Keane.

Remember Willabella's daughter? Well, she had a daughter, who had a daughter, etc. The family tree continued until October 5, 2005, when a couple of things happened simultaneously. The portal was opened to the Black and White at the same time Hannah Foster, the descendant of Willabella Muckwab, was born. This caused a few events to occur, most notably that the timeline was shattered. Until that point, there was only one universe, but on that day, when Hannah was born and Wilbur stepped through the portal, infinite universes were created, branching off from that moment.

As a descendant of Willabella Muckwab, Hannah (as well as her older sister, Lex) was born with powers, also known as "the Gift." Her powers gave her a close connection to the Black and White, and even more so to Webby, who is not a Lord in Black, but is their sister. Webby is a spider-like goddess who embodies light and love, the antithesis of the Lords in Black. She is in a constant feud with them to gain control of the many realities, and to protect Hannah from her brothers and their minions, such as Wilbur Cross.

Now, Hannah's powers were stronger than anybody else's. She is clearly the strongest out of all the other children with a touch of the gift, and has been able to speak with Webby since she was young. I believe that this is a result of her being born at the moment that the divide between reality and The Black And White was weakest. Hannah is basically a cosmic trump card. Whoever controls Hannah controls the universe, so Webby and the Lords in Black are in a constant battle over her. The LiB want her dead, and Webby wants her alive, so that could mean that her power could be the thing to reconnect all the realities.

In present day, we have a couple of things playing out at once. Everybody's still in a competition over Hannah, with Lex determined to protect her. Miss Holloway uses her powers to help children, alongside Duke Keane, who she is falling in love with, and whose father was murdered by Wilbur Cross. Wilbur Cross does Wiggly's bidding. Some members or the Church of the Starry Children live on, those descended from or related to (by blood or marriage) the original members, and still indulge in the LiB's power and riches. Waylon Hall is cursed so that nothing may truly die there. As the Witchwood is cut down, little by little, its hold on Willabella weakens. And the Black Altars still remain, where anyone with the Black Book may summon the Lords in Black. In realities where Miss Holloway is murdered, the Black Book is kept safe by Solomon Lauter, mayor of Hatchetfield. Also, the Lords in a lack seem to have favourite humans to torture across multiple realities. The Spankoffski family is often a target of T'noy Karaxis, as an example.

So yup, that's where we're at. That's the baseline understanding of events that we as a fandom all seem to have, yet don't write down because that a lot of writing. Good thing I like writing!

Oh, and there's one thing I missed. We hate Clivesdale. Fuck Clivesdale.

#starkid #hatchetfield #team starkid #tgwdlm #lords in black #black friday #npmd #nerdy prudes must die #rant #long text #analysis #lore #webby hatchetfield #nmt #nightmare time 2 #nightmare time

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flyingwargle · 3 days ago

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april fanfic recs!

some of these fics are rated e!

sakuatsu

please and thank you e. 6.4k. no comment, just really hot sakuatsu nsfw. please enjoy.

"Yes, and..." (Miya Atsumu's Practical Guide to Improvisation) m. 11.5k. in which atsumu pretends to be sakusa's blind date and proceeds to woo him. hilarious premise with fun interactions and revelation at the end!

trypanophobia t. 13k. 2/2. sakusa stops hanging out with atsumu after learning he never got his flu shot, so atsumu tries to get it...except he has a fear of needles. cue sakusa accompanying him to keep his calm and it evolves into something more. very cute!

oh me, oh my, i thought it was a dream t. 13k. sakusa moves to a small town and hears atsumu talk about him on the radio. THIS WAS INCREDIBLY CUTE. amazing dynamics with osamu and suna, the slow (mid?) burn between atsumu and sakusa, all of atsumu's shameless flirting...delicious.

sunaosa

Glow m. 12.3k. thank you @silktao for the rec! this was lovely to read, i love the subtle hints of suna's depression and the depiction of snos' day to day <3 definitely deserves all the praise!

iwaoi

five minutes west of irvine g. 20.3k. 2/2. maaaan this was absolutely beautiful. this focuses on oikawa in argentina and his relationship with iwaizumi. i haven't read the other fics in the series but i'm sure they're just as lovely <3

bloom t. 26.9k. 2/2. modern magic au where everyone has a superpower of some kind but oikawa doesn't, yet he persevered and got onto seijoh's volleyball team despite that. it really hones on the "oikawa tooru is not a genius" narrative in such a potent way. i enjoyed this very much.

Once Is An Accident, Twice Is A Coincidence, Three Times Is A Pattern. e. 27.1k. 6/6. ehe. saw this recommended on twitter and of course, i had to check it out. very hot. give it a read.

bokuaka

flicker and burn e. 9k. top class akaashi pining in this one that leads to a very hot conclusion.

Didn't I Tell You e. 22k. 2/2. akaashi discovers bokuto wants to try bottoming. very sensual and hot. wear gloves and sunglasses, or you will be burned by how much love they radiate for each other.

like patience on a monument t. 25.4k. 2/2. akaashi pining for bokuto over the years and finally taking that first step forward. the PINING!! the amount of screaming you'll do at akaashi!! also the METAPHORS!! (you know i love a good metaphor) <3

kagehina

chase the light, my love g. 3.2k. kageyama accidentally tells the adlers he wants to propose...except they didn't know he has a partner. very cute wedding proposal fic!

One More Thing t. 6.3k. in which hinata and kageyama attend tsukishima and yamaguchi's wedding as friends and come out of it as something more. tooth-achingly fluffy!

oh we play, in autumn days not rated. 7.6k. my gourd, the somftness of this fic and the absolutely divine way kagehina is portrayed...one of my favorites of the month <3

Kabedon't t. 7.8k. hinata expresses an interest in being kabedon'd and kageyama does what he can. very, very cute and very, very fluffy <3

louder than sirens, louder than bells t. 8.9k. kageyama is invited to a party after the adlers-msby match and he has a lot to say to hinata, including things he's wanted to say ever since they part ways after high school.

other

the lucky lady g. 2.7k. daisuga. 4 times tanaka is convinced daichi has a girlfriend and 1 time he knows for sure he's wrong. this is short but funny to read!

We Like Our Fun (We Never Fight) g. 3.5k. suga, tsukishima. suga brings his 3rd grade class to the museum and gives them a challenge - whoever can stump tsukishima on a question, they get a star. very cute and wholesome, you need this in your life.

no more anti-shark propaganda t. 4.1k. seijoh4 watching shark movies. a fun and lighthearted read!

KAGEYAMA TOBIO IS NOT A GENIUS g. 6.1k. 5 times kageyama thought miya osamu was miya atsumu and 1 time he learns the truth. what was absolutely hilarious was everyone else just went with it for their own entertainment and kageyama is standing there like. what is going on. read this if you need a laugh <3

like a new pair of shoes g. 7k. tsukkiyama. tsukishima and yamaguchi move in together. that's all there is, but this fic will give you cavities. it is disgustingly domestic. your jaw will hurt from smiling too much. you have been warned.

the rivers crossed, the mountains scaled g. 10k. kita-centric. 9 times he receives a visitor at his farm and 1 time he visits someone else. the interactions are so lovely, and kita's wisdom is so endearing. i'd totally travel to his farm to ask for his advice.

The Tendou Incidents m. 32.8k. 7/7. ushiten. another rec for you, ushiten anon (i hope you're doing fabulous!) slight au where tendou is ushijima's new neighbor and completely flips ushijima's methodical routine on its head. both of these characters were developed so, so well and the dialogue is impeccable. and the end...*chef's kiss* one of my favorite ushiten fics so far!

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stevenose · 1 day ago

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bestie, i cannot stop thinking about rockstar!steve and how he’s been on tour for like three months and you could only go for the first leg. you call each other every single night and he swears he gets off just at the sound of your voice purring through the receiver, but it doesn’t compare to you. the curves of your body and how he has them memorized, mapped a thousand times, fingers trailing, searching, pressing.

the second he gets home, you hear the key in the door, and both of you are just ON each other. he’s still a little smug, a little cocky, c’mon babe he’s a rockstar, but it’s also a little desperate and a lot reverent. worshipping you because being away from you this long has him feeling like he’s been lost in the desert. wandering without water or purpose or direction and then suddenly you appear. a goddess, his fucking salvation, down on his knees between your legs and devoting his every breath to you.

yeah ok i had to write this.

you’re not sure if it’s a coincidence that you’re touching yourself every night about an hour after his concert ends, or if you’re subconsciously doing it. either way, it’s nearing midnight, and your hands are wandering.

your sheets feel colder without him. your hands aren’t quite as big and as warm as his, but you still trail them down your stomach and between your supple thighs. you sigh about it — that you have to do everything yourself for the foreseeable future.

but when your eyes drift closed, you can imagine him. all yours, not the world’s. you can see how he looks at you, beaming, chocolate brown eyes lightening like you’re the world to him. you get to see him like this - no one else. never anyone else. and you don’t worry, either. in fact, it’s a little hot to you to know he’s yours when everybody wants a piece of him.

your spare hand reaches lazily to the empty space beside you to grab a crewneck. steve sprayed half of his damn cologne on it and wore it for almost a week before leaving so that you had something to remember him by. you bring it to your nose now, shakily exhaling at the scent. it makes your stomach somersault, your clit throbbing, imagining him on top of you.

you miss the weight of him. the heat. the way he’d make you sweat when he crowded you against the mattress, propping himself up on toned, muscled biceps to kiss you. to call you beautiful. to tell you he loves you.

you gently swirl your fingertips across your swollen clit, a breathless moan slipping past your lips. you tease yourself, just like he would. you know he’d be so enthralled with how wet and tight and warm you are. and christ, if he was here, you’d let him have you all night. raw, any position he wants, however long he wants. he deserves it, and so do you.

your phone ringing shocks you for only half a second before you’re lunging towards it, heart beating fast, the pleasure between your legs temporarily forgotten.

“hi.” you know it’s him.

“hey, baby,” steve responds. you hear the smile in his voice, the hoarseness attained from singing. “didn’t wake you up, did i?”

you roll your eyes. “you know i won’t sleep ‘til i hear from you.”

“you know i won’t sleep til i hear from you.”

you giggle, and then he joins in.

it’s almost pathetic how in love you are.

“what’re you doin’, hm? you reading that book you told me about?”

you pause, biting your smiling lips. “well, you called at a perfect time, stevie. i was just thinking about you.”

the tone shifts immediately.

“yeah?”

“yeah.” you lay down again, spreading your legs. just the sound of his drawl, that gravelly tenor, has you way more aroused than you had been five minutes ago. “bet you can guess what i’m thinking about, huh?”

steve laughs. “if it’s anything like what i’ve been thinking of all night….”

“thinking of me, too?”

his voice turns quiet. “sweetheart. almost got a goddamn boner on stage because i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

your face sets alight. “where are you right now?”

“i’m alone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

you hum, giddy. “want to help each other, then?”

————————

steve’s talking so quietly you can hardly hear him, especially over your own panting.

“how many?” he murmurs.

“two,” you whimper, a bead of sweat tickling its way down your forehead.

he laughs lowly. “come on, honey, know you can take more than that.”

you whimper, sinking a third finger into yourself. the stretch hurts but you still feel so empty without steve’s long fingers reaching where yours can’t.

“fingers aren’t enough, sweetheart?” he asks softly, groaning lightly. “my hand isn’t enough, either. need to feel that tight, wet pussy, miss it.”

you shiver and smile. “what would you do if you were here?”

steve groans again, louder this time. “wouldn’t know where to start.”

you bite your tongue, swiping your thumb over your clit. “tell me anything.”

you hear him spit and you gasp, imagining him fisting his cock, still sweaty from the show, jaw clenched tight, hair a mess. your thighs squeeze together around your hand.

“i want - i wanna put your calves on m-my shoulders, bend you in half, ‘nd fuck your pretty pussy raw til you’re full ‘f me.”

“steve!” you gasp, fingers working faster. “need it, need you, please —“

“what would you do if you were here?” he interrupts with a shuddering moan.

“i’d suck you off until you had nothing left to give me.”

steve moans loudly and you smile triumphantly.

“miss your lips,” he pants. “you’re gonna get me into trouble, sweetheart, shit.”

“what if i came and sucked your cock in front of all of those people, huh?” you continue wickedly, your words getting yourself off. “let everyone know who you belong to.”

“ohhhh my god,” he gasps. “don’t say shit like that.”

“or maybe everyone would see that i belong to you? would you be sweet with me, steve, or would you be too eager in front of all of those people?”

“holy shit,” he grits. you have to strain to hear him. you can see him when you close your eyes - eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, head thrown back, his hand wrapped around his pretty, freckled shaft. “cumming — cumming — ‘m gonna cum….”

“yeah, steve, cum with me,” you push. “make a mess, baby, wish i could see it —“

steve’s really good at cumming quietly, except the one time he accidentally bit his tongue and yelled “shit!” halfway through his orgasm. tonight, you only hear breathless, choked whimpers, a groan settling low and in his throat.

you follow suit, much louder than him, back arching off of your bed as your fingers stroke your sweet spot. your ecstasy is short lived, though — your throat aches as you catch your breath, eyes stinging.

“you okay?” steve asks softly.

“i miss you,” you whimper.

he sniffles on the other line. “miss you, too. so goddamn bad, baby, you wouldn’t believe it.”

there’s a silence that stretches out, both of you thinking of the other.

“let me clean myself up, and then i want to hear all about your day. you have a few minutes? are you tired?”

you smile lazily, relaxing into your sheets. “i’ve got all the time in the world for you.”

#category: blurbs #EEEK….!!!!!#thank u for this thought 😵‍💫😵‍💫

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bodyncoherence · 1 hour ago

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as someone who once was a but-what-if-i-could-live-from-this dreamer myself, this describes the grindset very well, however there are 2 aspects of what i lived/witnessed that i can't seem to fit into this framework

1 this is not what you wrote op but certainly what commenters seem to make from it: the idea that because artists are aspiring to become artisans/small business owners, it follows that reposting art crossplatform without credit, or sharing one's annoyance when an artist begs for their posts to be reblogged (a common reaction to this type of artist-beg as we all know) is basically an act of class warfare. as a supportive commenter wrote, the e-artist hussling for credit-exposure-money becomes 'an (aspiring) artisan' which, so we are told, puts their interests in opposition of 'workers' which have 'different class interests', and btw didn't even ask to have some art vawed under their noses!

this honestly doesn't make much sense to me, especially since the kind of living situation where one will offer art commissions for 10 bucks and beg for exposure and cry about people reposting without credit, imagining this lost one 3 potential customers and so on, for me coincided with the kind of living situation where one eats from selling one's plasma and tries thrice to sell sexual services and gives up for being too abjectly traumatised to manage even that. once i became 'a worker' aka able to hold a job! that earns me money! i immediately stopped trying to sell art online lol.

and i think that online e-artists jealously hoping to monetise operate maybe half a step up from online e-beggars, in fact many please-commision-me posts follow a similar structure to e-begging posts (please i need money! please help!) and elicit the same reactions, really (see: 'guilt-tripping'). so in terms of class dynamics, we are in the realm of i.e. reposting sex worker content for free, or uploading a video of a cool street performance on one's social media without naming the artist nor having given them any money. clearly people do this all the time, but it's not sticking it to the petit-bourgois, and conscious solidarity + class warfare would probably include precisely not doing that (?). i think. (one commenter in fact directly compares e-artists to street bustlers, concluding from this that they are an annoyance that they don't owe anything to which pretty clearly speaks to everyone's awareness of the actual class character of the situation lol).

obviously a lot of people in this world dream of monetising/capitalising their skills to make it as small-business-owners and obviously all that translates to the above criticised grindset, just as many workers imagine themselves as their potential bosses, and so forth, but 'i don't owe anyone anything and if they decide to throw their art/music/body at the public, i get to do with it what i want' (again paraphrasing some commenters) is certainly not a particularly socialist answer to the material realities. i think.

i also think that, except for finding other sources of money which relieves pressure, it's extremely hard to escape the self-promo self-branding recognise-me!! hussling game. sure one can aim to avoid the 'cringe' of being like described above and play is anarchist-cool (steal my art! do whatever! i am so ascended beyond possessiveness!) but that, then, is another form of branding, self-promo, audience-building game, because at the end you do need people to give money to you, so you will feel existential anxiety over... people recognising you and your stuff enough to give you money. it's a trap either way.

2 something else i notice is that the desire for credit and recognition operates besides and beyond any aspirations to make money. i know this because i published shitty fanfic with no desire ever to monetise it, be known for it, or even particularly be associated with it, but once someone (more popular than me) took 'ideas' 'plot' and 'dialogue' from me, rewrote or paraphrased or for many lines copied my fic directly, excised sone gnarly parts, fluffed it up, and posted their result as their fanfic without having ever talked or acknowledged me at all (in spite of clearly having read several of my fic), and while all that impacted my class position exactly zero, my feelings were hurt. it's certainly difficult to explain by capitalist logic why i felt wronged, especially since, according to IP law, neither of us should have been sharing this fanfic in the first place! and yet, here we were.

i also well know the joy of creating art that not only will never, but should never be credited, and to see it spread across the city, and maybe spread in modified and improved form, etc. what then is this human emotion of wanting recognition? i would have wanted my fellow fanfic writer to precede their fic with 'and this is inspired by x!' and i would have wanted them to comment under my fic, and i would have been pleased. when it comes to polit stuff, just noting that people like and share pleases me. once, online, someone traced someone else's art and reposted it as theirs, neither artists were trying to make money, but i thought, wow, had that been me, my feelings sure would have been hurt, and indeed, the artist was indignant. is that their aspiring-artisan capitalist grindset? would we all, in a communist world, not care at all any more about all that? i struggle to believe that. however, would i see my art 'traced' on some banner at some protest, i would be beyond elated. so clearly, even when we are not talking money-making, the same person (me) can have varied opinions on when i am being respected or disrespected, and in some of the examples listed in the op, i would feel disrespected, even if i am not striving to make money with art any more.

also, since the comparison to posting 'discourse' is made, frankly, similar problems of feeling disrespected arise here as well, and 'credit', aka who said it first, who coined the term, is not generally considered irrelevant.

at the end of the day i think the online digital artist community has for a very long time operated on a set of like unspoken handshake rules generally enforced by social pressure which (despite being positioned on a moral & pseudolegal plane) have very little overlap with what is legal or illegal (de facto or de jure) but which have Everything to do with figuring the The Artist as a universal would-be petit bourgeois auteur, reflected through these rules' emphasis on (1) the moral necessity of The Artist's unwavering & eternal power over their own art (& its reception) as articulated via informal pseudo-IP mechanisms (no reposting, dont tag as me/kin/id, dont use as your pfp, dont draw my oc), (2) the moral mandate toward Constant Self-Improvement (generally meaning adopting more of the conventional signifiers of "Good Art" eg realism) (admonition of "tracing" even for practice, artists who do things that are "not conducive to improvement" being fair game for mockery), & (3) attempting to induce in observers (often through guilt) a social pressure to further the ambitions of such artists ("you need to reblog/share, not just like", "you MUST commission 1 million artists immediately", "it's rude to express anything other than praise for any piece of art")

like these all (in tandem with SEO etc) boil down to attempting to lay the groundwork for an imagined future state of self-employment emanating out of one's (semi-)hobbyist artistry (& to obstruct anything perceived as interfering with that fantasy or its actuation). it's sort of like hiring a team of accountants on the assumption that youre going to win the lottery someday, like if it were in another context we'd effortlessly recognize it for the meritocratic grindset shit that it is. & none of this is even remotely conducive to the production of good art lmao

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ptej1980 · 2 days ago

Text

Oooh where to begin ….

I am literally nervous excited for these next couple of weeks. Sat and watching as everything unfolds

Oooh where to begin…..ok. First JDs Story post,

Very telling and supportive of the LGBTQI+ community. People have been insinuating that because it is a NY Times article he in NY, but I don’t think that’s the meaning behind it at all. And again if he some reason pops up in NY, is it unexpected?

Nic was tagged by red bull and is Miami for the F1 this weekend. She was photographed with her brother, family support around her and looks like she had her vintage camera in her hand.

A happy coincidence is that pitbull is playing there on Sunday. I wonder if Lord and Lady Whistledown will be in attendance.

Nic being in Miami, may just mean that she could attend the Met Gala. There have been posts that suggest Holly is NY and BOSS posted saying they will be doing something for the MET, it may be also a possibility that Luke could mic drop and attend.

Adjacents plus 1s are not allowed to the Met gala. You have to be invited or buy a ticket which are very expensive. You only see couples attend if they are both of that celebrity level, like Tom and Zendaya or Luke and Nicola. Simone Ashley is confirmed to attend, so it is plausible they attend as a push for their Emmy nomination.

Another interesting little nugget of information from the past 24hours is the DM unblocked a whole lot accounts. Now originally it was assumed that it was just Lukolas they unblocked, but then noticed they unblocked everyone. People have been spiraling thinking something bad is going to drop, I think it’s because we have the Met gala and BAFTAS and they want engagement to their page.

I feel like by the end of May we are going to have content overload and it is going to be fantastic. Not only Met and BAFTAs but also the 1 year anniversary of the release of season 3.

We see what we see…Lukola in, Adjacents out….Ring Truthers unite.

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cbeargyu · 1 day ago

Note

Can you make a SOOBIN smut where he is an idol

off-camera

summary: you're a rookie stylist working with txt on their world tour. soobin is known for being shy on camera, but behind closed doors, he's anything but. the tension between you builds until one night at the hotel, he texts you, claiming he "needs help with his mic pack."

pairing: idol!soobin x stylist fem!reader

genre: idol au, power play, mirror sex, soft-spoken dirty talk, consent emphasized, thigh grabbing.

warnings: explicit sexual content, power play, mirror sex, soft-spoken dirty talk, thigh grabbing, light choking (consensual), overstimulation, detailed aftercare, emotionally charged tension, all acts are safe, sane, and consensual.

wc: 3,5k

notes: hi anon! thank you for your request🎀 i hope you like it, at first, i was really unsure about how to start this story because i've always been a hater of idols au hahaha💀 so i had no idea, but i tried to execute it as best as possible so that you'll enjoy it.

you never expected to be assigned to their team. not with your limited experience, not with that tight, cynical mouth you wear like armor, and certainly not with the way you still flinch at proximity to fame. but there you are, backstage at the second stop of their world tour, a clipboard clutched to your chest like a shield, your headset buzzing with callouts you half-ignore because soobin just walked past you. again. and again, he’s looking.

he always looks.

it started out subtle. a soft glance across the room while he adjusted his in-ears, the tip of his tongue peeking out to wet his lips as you passed by holding his water bottle. it could’ve meant nothing. could’ve been habit, could’ve been coincidence. except it kept happening. and tonight, it’s worse. or better. depending on how weak you’re willing to admit you are.

soobin’s gaze lingers longer now—so long it sears. he doesn’t smile much, not around the staff, not unless a camera’s on him. but his eyes have a weight to them. thoughtful. heavy. dragging. and every time they land on you, you feel a flush that starts low, in your belly, and creeps up your spine like smoke. slow. lazy. hot. every time he speaks, you pretend not to notice the way his voice dips an octave around you. how his words stretch just a little softer, like silk unraveling.

you spend most of your night in half-awareness—running through wardrobe checklists, taping backup packs into place, fixing snapped buttons and stray threads—while always knowing where he is. like your body is tuned to him. like he’s some kind of low-frequency sound that only you can feel, thrumming beneath your skin.

it’s ridiculous.

you’re nothing more than another pair of hands. one more person to brush lint off his sleeve or fuss with his mic. except when you adjust it now—when your knuckles graze the curve of his neck just below his ear—his breath always hitches. just slightly. and you always pretend not to notice. you pretend a lot.

it’s after midnight when the show ends. you’re sore, sweating, feet aching in your boots. the rush of the crowd still echoes in your ears like ocean waves. you stay late to pack the last of the wardrobe cases, and when you finally reach your hotel room, your phone buzzes.

choi soobin i think my mic pack’s still stuck. can you help? i'm in room 714.

you read it twice. your pulse skips once. then again. and you answer too fast, like you’ve been waiting for this. maybe you have.

you tell yourself it’s just professional. mic packs stick all the time. adhesive, sweat, wardrobe layers—very normal. very explainable. but your palms are already damp when you knock. when he opens the door, he’s in a loose white t-shirt and grey sweats that hang dangerously low on his hips, and your breath is gone before you even speak.

“hey,” he says, voice quieter than usual, like he doesn’t want to wake the hallway. or maybe like he wants to keep this just between you two. his hair is damp from the shower. you can smell the scent of his shampoo—clean, sweet, something warm you want to bury your face in. he steps back and lets you in.

his room is dim. the only light is from the muted television, a music channel flickering quietly in the background. the air smells like soap and body heat and something undeniably him.

you clear your throat. “so… your mic?”

he nods, turns slowly, and lifts the hem of his shirt. “yeah. i think the tape didn’t come off.”

the adhesive is tucked beneath the waistband of his sweats, along the side of his lower back, where the cable had run up under his stage clothes. you kneel without thinking, fingers brushing his warm skin as you search for the edge. you’re too aware of everything—the subtle shift of his weight, the muscles along his hip flexing under your hand, the way the room has gone unbearably quiet except for the sound of your breathing.

“you okay?” he asks suddenly, voice low.

you glance up. his head is turned slightly, eyes fixed on you over his shoulder. unreadable. waiting.

“fine,” you whisper, even though you’re trembling slightly.

he hums. “you always touch me like you’re scared to want it.”

your hands freeze.

the silence between you becomes a thing—thick, humming, alive.

“maybe i am,” you say before you can stop yourself.

and he smiles, slow and crooked. “don’t be.”

he shifts, just enough to face you more, and when his hand comes down to rest on your jaw, you don’t pull away. his fingers are long, elegant, gentle as they tilt your face up, as he crouches down in front of you, lips dangerously close.

“you’ve been looking at me since day one,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “like you want me to break you open. like you want to see what i’m really like when the lights go off.”

your breath catches.

he leans in closer.

“i don’t have a mic pack,” he says, mouth brushing your cheek, almost smiling. “i just needed an excuse.”

you don’t say anything at first. your heart is beating so hard it’s almost painful. your lips are parted, your knees are still on the carpet, and soobin’s voice is echoing through you like he owns every bone in your body. no mic pack. no real reason for this moment to exist except that he made it. chose it. chose you.

the realization makes your whole body hum.

he watches you like he’s waiting for you to move. to react. to say no. or yes. his hand lingers along your jaw, his thumb barely grazing the corner of your mouth. your skin burns where he touches you. he’s not even doing anything yet, but your thighs are already pressing together, your breath coming out shaky.

“you should’ve just asked,” you whisper, finally—your voice barely holding together, splintering at the edges.

his eyes darken at that. “would you have said yes?”

you nod.

he takes a slow, deep breath, and something shifts in his posture. it’s subtle, but you feel it. the change in the air. the weight of him. like something inside him has snapped free, uncoiling with purpose.

his other hand moves to your waist, guiding you to stand, slowly, and you rise, dizzy with the heat of him, with the way he’s looking at you now like you’re not just a girl in his hotel room, not just a staff member. you’re something he’s been thinking about. wanting.

your back hits the door with a soft thud, and his hands are on either side of your head, his body so close but not touching yet. he wants you to feel how close he is. he’s giving you a chance to breathe before he takes it all away.

“i wanted to wait,” he says, voice low, a little hoarse. “i didn’t want it to be some... backstage thing. didn’t want you to think i was just using you because i was bored or lonely on tour.”

his confession hits harder than it should.

“soobin,” you whisper, voice trembling. “i don’t care. i don’t care about any of that.”

his eyes flicker to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “i do.”

you barely have time to absorb that before he kisses you.

and god—god—he kisses like he means it. like he’s been holding back for weeks. like he’s tired of pretending. his mouth is warm and slow at first, lips soft against yours, coaxing, tasting. then he tilts his head and deepens it, tongue sliding into your mouth with purpose, and the sound you make is embarrassing, needy, desperate.

he groans into the kiss, one hand threading into your hair, the other gripping your hip like he’s grounding himself. his body finally presses into yours, hard and real and there, and the feel of him almost knocks the wind out of you.

he pulls back just enough to whisper, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

his lips trail along your jaw, down your neck, each kiss wetter, more open, until he finds the spot that makes you gasp and bites—soft, but firm enough to make your knees buckle.

his hand catches under your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist, pressing you flush against him. and that’s when you feel it.

he’s hard. so hard. pressed right between your thighs, thick and aching and shameless about it. he ruts once, slow and controlled, and your head hits the door behind you.

“feel that?” he breathes against your skin. “been like this since rehearsal.”

you whimper.

“could barely focus,” he adds, nipping at your collarbone. “you in that tight little shirt, all bossy with your clipboard. fuck, i wanted to bend you over the wardrobe case and make you moan loud enough to get us both fired.”

you bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut, heart thudding against your ribs.

“but not tonight,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to see your face. “tonight i’m gonna take my time.”

he reaches down, fingers tugging at the waistband of your pants.

“let me see you,” he says, voice all silk and sin.

you nod, breathless, already pulling your shirt over your head, not because you’re rushing but because the way he’s watching you—so focused, so quiet—makes it impossible not to give in. his gaze traces every inch of newly exposed skin like it’s sacred, like he’s memorizing it for later. his lips part just slightly, his jaw tight, but he doesn’t touch yet.

he waits. watches.

“you’re sure?” he murmurs, stepping in closer again, his fingers ghosting over the waistband of your pants but not tugging. “you want this?”

you look up at him, body thrumming, and say it without hesitation. “yes. i want you.”

he exhales like he needed to hear that. like he was holding himself back until you gave him permission to drop the act.

and when he does—when soobin finally moves—he does it like a man who’s been imagining this with terrifying precision. one arm slips beneath your thighs, the other around your back, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your breath catches as he carries you toward the dresser, the muscles in his arms flexing with the effort. he sets you down gently, and you realize suddenly that the full-length mirror is right behind him.

he turns you toward it.

you sit there in nothing but your bra, pants still hanging low on your hips, your body flushed and hot and trembling. and soobin kneels between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like he belongs there. his big hands curl around your thighs, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above your knees, and he leans in, eyes meeting yours through the mirror.

“look at you,” he says, voice soft, breath warm against your belly. “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

your cheeks heat. it’s almost too much—almost—but then he presses a kiss to your thigh, slow and reverent, and another a little higher. and then he bites. not hard, just enough to feel it, to make you jolt. his fingers squeeze, nails dragging up the sides of your legs, and he watches your reflection the entire time.

“watch what i do to you,” he whispers, mouth brushing over your hip bone. “i want you to see how good you look when you come.”

your head drops back, a soft moan slipping out of you, but he clicks his tongue, tilting your chin back up with maddening gentleness.

“eyes on me, baby.”

you obey.

he takes his time undressing you fully, like unwrapping something precious. like every inch he exposes is something he earned. the moment your underwear slips off, he sits back on his heels and lets his eyes drag over you—slow, appreciative, so visibly hungry it makes your stomach clench.

he palms your thighs again, spreading you a little wider, until you’re open in front of the mirror, wet and wanting, and he groans softly under his breath.

“fuck. look at that. already dripping.”

his fingers stroke up your inner thigh, feather-light, making you tremble. he doesn’t go where you need him. not yet. instead, he presses another kiss to your skin, higher this time, teeth scraping gently.

“you’re such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing just next to where you need them. “letting me see all of you. letting me have all of you.”

he finally slides one long finger between your folds, slow and smooth, and you gasp, hips twitching forward. he smiles—soft, knowing—then adds a second finger, curling them just right as he watches your expression shift in the mirror.

“that’s it,” he says, voice like silk wrapping around you. “just like that, baby. take what i give you. you can do that for me, right?”

you nod helplessly, mouth open, and he leans in to kiss you again—deep and slow, one hand still between your thighs, the other bracing your waist as your body begins to unravel.

he whispers filth like it’s poetry.

“god, the things i want to do to you. bend you over that dresser. make you watch me fuck you slow. make you see how perfect you look falling apart on my cock.”

you moan, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, and he holds them tighter—grabs them—anchoring you in place like he owns them. like he owns you.

“can i?” he asks softly, lips brushing your ear as he stands, his fingers still buried inside you, his body towering over yours.

“can i make you mine tonight?”

the words hit you hard. deep.

you meet his gaze in the mirror again, and there’s no fear. no hesitation.

“yes,” you whisper. “please.”

he smiles when you say please—smiles like he’s already deep inside you and you don’t even know it yet. his fingers slip out of you slowly, glistening, and he brings them to your lips without saying a word. you open for him, tasting yourself, and he exhales shakily like he wasn’t expecting you to be that good.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re dangerous.”

his hand curls around your neck—not squeezing, just holding—guiding you to stand. your knees are shaky but he’s there, solid behind you, chest warm against your back, hands everywhere.

“look at us,” he murmurs against your ear as his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “look how pretty you are like this. skin flushed. eyes begging. legs all wobbly.”

you let out a shaky breath, but he doesn’t let you drop your gaze. one hand drifts down between your thighs again, slick with heat, and he hums in approval at how wet you still are. the other slips around your waist, grounding you to him as he gently grinds against your backside, his cock thick and hard and pressed right where you need it.

“i told you i was gonna take my time,” he says softly. “but you’re making it really fucking hard to stay patient.”

you whimper when you feel him grab his cock, rub the head between your folds, slow and lazy, teasing. he’s so big you instinctively reach for the dresser to brace yourself, knuckles white on the edge of the wood.

“breathe,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “i got you.”

and then he’s pushing in.

inch by inch, the stretch overwhelming, burning in the best way. your mouth falls open but no sound comes out—only your breath, sharp and trembling as he sinks deeper. his hand squeezes your hip, anchoring you, letting you take him at your pace.

“so tight,” he groans, voice cracking. “so fucking tight around me. fuck, baby.”

you feel full. ruined. branded.

and when he bottoms out, he stays still, both hands gripping your thighs from behind, holding you open in front of the mirror.

“look,” he says again. “watch how pretty you take me.”

your eyes flicker open—barely—and the sight nearly undoes you. soobin, flushed and panting, hips snug against your ass, his cock buried so deep inside you it’s almost unbearable. and you—hair messy, lips red, skin glowing. wrecked already, and he’s barely even moved.

his hips pull back, slow, and when he thrusts in again, it’s sharp, perfect, and you feel it—deep and low and devastating.

you moan.

his pace builds gradually, like he’s testing how much you can take. each thrust comes with a low grunt, his hands still on your thighs, spreading you open wider, the angle making you see stars. the mirror trembles slightly with every movement, and he doesn’t look away—not once.

“you feel that?” he whispers. “how deep i am? how good you look bouncing on my cock?”

your legs shake. he notices. and instead of slowing, he grabs your thighs harder, spreading you more, bending you just slightly at the hips so your ass pushes back into him.

“that’s it,” he says, breath hot against your ear. “take me like the good girl you are. make it messy. make it loud.”

his hand trails up your torso, over your ribs, between your breasts, until it rests lightly around your throat again—not choking, just claiming. his other hand slips down to rub soft, slow circles against your clit, and your body jerks, already so close from everything.

you cry out. his name. a curse. a moan so broken it doesn’t sound like you.

“yeah,” he breathes. “just like that. fall apart on me. let go. i’ve got you.”

and you do.

your orgasm hits like a wave, sharp and overwhelming. your vision goes white, body trembling, walls clenching around him so tight he groans—deep, needy, almost feral. he fucks you through it, chasing his own edge now, pace rougher but still controlled, still soobin—respectful even when he’s wrecking you.

he thrusts once. twice. then pulls you flush against him as he spills inside you, moaning your name, low and raw, like it’s something holy.

he stays there, pressed to your back, breathing heavy against your shoulder.

you both look up at the mirror again.

your bodies tangled, skin slick and marked, hair wild, eyes dazed. and he smiles.

“worth the wait,” he whispers.

your legs give out the second he pulls out, but soobin catches you without a word, arms strong and steady like he knew your body would give up before your mind did. he lifts you again, this time slower, your skin sticking to his just slightly from sweat, and he carries you to the bed like you’re made of something rare.

“you okay?” he asks softly, brushing hair from your face as he lays you down gently, fingertips skimming the line of your cheek like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

you nod, still breathless, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “mhm. yep”

he smiles then—open and warm, that boyish curve that contrasts so painfully with the way he just fucked you against the mirror. he leans down to kiss you, not hungry this time, just there, a quiet reassurance as his hand rubs slow, calming circles over your thigh.

he disappears for a moment, returns with a warm cloth, and the care in his touch as he cleans you up nearly undoes you more than the orgasm did. he doesn't speak, doesn’t rush. just tends to you like you're something precious. when he's done, he tosses the cloth aside and slips under the covers beside you, bare skin against bare skin, one leg sliding between yours like he has no intention of letting you go.

you curl into him instinctively, head resting on his chest, and he lets out a quiet sigh like he’s been waiting for this part all night.

“you were unbelievable,” he murmurs, voice a soft hum beneath your ear. “i couldn’t stop watching you.”

you smile lazily, fingers tracing slow shapes over his ribs. “i noticed.”

his hand slides up your back, fingers dragging along your spine, light enough to make you shiver. then lower—over your ass, your thigh—until he’s gripping it again like he can’t help himself.

“so fucking responsive,” he whispers. “every little sound you made…”

his voice drops even more, intimate and slow. “you liked being watched, didn’t you?”

you don’t answer. not with words. your body does it for you—pressing closer, skin heating again even though you’re still flushed from before.

he grins.

“thought so.”

his hand shifts to your inner thigh, fingers splayed, not touching anything too sinful—but close. too close to ignore. he kisses your temple, the corner of your mouth, your jaw.

“you could ride me in front of the mirror next time,” he says, gentle, like he’s asking if you want tea. “take control. show me how pretty you look when you use me.”

you suck in a breath. your body tenses. and he feels it, of course he does—his lips curl.

“mm. thought you’d like that.”

he doesn’t press further. not yet. just lets the idea linger, like smoke curling around your limbs.

his voice is a whisper now, a promise.

“we’ve got time.”

you nuzzle into him, heart still fluttering, and think: yes. we do.

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mortimerc · 3 days ago

Text

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴛꜱ

ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʙʀɪᴀɴ ᴍᴏꜱᴇʀ

ᴛᴡ: ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱ1 ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴇxᴛᴇʀ, ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏᴜʀ, ᴏᴏᴄ ʙʀɪᴀɴ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀᴇʀ, ꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴꜱᴇʀᴛ, ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ.

Not proofread.

You’ve met Brian ever since you both were children. Brian being evaluated in the psychiatric hospital after having experienced the most traumatic moment in a cargo container. And you being in the hospital for your own reasons.

You both quickly clicked and become the best of friends, being together for everything everywhere. You two were inseparable. That is when Brian and you got enrolled into different universities for your studies. Having no choice, you both parted to your own ways.

Since then, you hadn’t seen Brian for years. That is when you worked for the Miami Police Department and you’ve met people that you cared for like Debra Morgan, her brother, Dexter, Sargent Angel, Masuka, Maria, Sargent Doakes and more. For a while, you had forgotten about Brian, that is when the Ice-Truck Killer starts murdering and leaving clues of the past.

At first, none of the murders showed any clues on the identity of the murderer that is until the crime scene at the Marine View Hotel. The first step you took in the room immediately rings a bell in your mind. It had kept you up all night. Then something clicked. The crime scene reminded you of the time where Brian told you what and why he is in the hospital in the first place.

Mother murdered— cargo container— 2 inch of blood filled the floors of the cargo. The sprays of blood at the crime scene looked almost identical to the drawings that Brian drew that when he was young that you still kept. Now everything makes sense. You had read every news article of crimes due to trying to find clues from a murder case years ago— coming across the one article that you had printed and kept for yourself.

The article of the murder of Laura Moser’s death. The last name caught your eye and you read the whole thing to find out that it was the mother of your coworker, Dexter and your best friend, Brian. You’ve connected the dots that they both were biological brothers and you had also connected the dots that Brian might be the Ice-Truck killer but you had no proof that he is the killer or even alive.

It’s all a coincidence, right?

“Hey, [Name]! Come here!” Debra yelled at you across the main room of the police department excitedly.

You walked towards her to see a well dressed man, average height- slightly shorter than you by her side. “Well, who is this Deb?” You asked her. Observing the man, he seemed to be from the hospital near the department by the tag hanging off of his breast pocket.. ‘Rudy Cooper’.

“Ah ok! Ive been waiting to introduce him to you first ‘cause you’re my bestie-“ Debra explained with a wide grin. “Rudy,, meet [Name], [Name],, meet Rudy— my boyfriend!”

“Nice to meet you, Rudy...-“ You held your hand out for a hand shake.

“Ah, Cooper, Rudy Cooper. [Name] huh,,, well— nice to meet you-“ he seemed to be stumped for a second after Deb said your name before he shakes your hand in response.

You gave him a smile before telling Deb- “Well, I have to send this off to Lieutenant LaGuerta, see you?” You said pointing out the file in your hand

“Oh yeah sure, see ya!” Deb said as you walked to LaGuerta’s office.

Something about that man, Rudy was it? He gives you the feelings that you can’t point.

So you did the things that normal people do, you took your lunch break and day off to,, observe Rudy. You walked around the hospital, watching and remembering his schedule, where his apartment is, everything. Being apart of the police department helps a lot when you need information on someone.

This is normal. Totally normal.

Well scratch that— one day, normal day for you to,, observe Rudy again. You don’t think he knows that you’re doing this, seeing him leave the club with the hooker that looked unconscious, following him to his apartment. You had broken in the said apartment sometimes, so following him back into his home is not a problem you would come across.

You didn’t had 100% proof that he was the Ice-Truck Killer but you had 100% proof that he is Brian by getting a match for his prints from a Tampa mental hospital before Angel does, leading you to the name Brian Moser. You had your own speculation that he is the killer so seeing him record a horrifying video of the victim that he kidnapped, killing her and draining her blood doesn’t surprise you. Well you had the intention to surprise him at least. After he was done with his ‘work’, he soon came out of his refrigeration chamber, he soon saw you sitting on the floor leaning against his couch, reading a book you found on the table.

“So. You knew?” He asked, without any hesitation.

You stood up, towering over him, putting the book down to walking towards him, saying “always had a hunch” and pulling him into an embrace, patting his back.

“Oh how I missed you, Brian.”

Brian reciprocated the hug and says “Me too.”

After a while, Brian dragged you to the kitchen and had some bottle of beers “So what now, are you going to report me to the police?” Brian asked. You half laughed-scoffed “how am i going to do that? You’ll kill me before i even get there- hell you might even report me to the police for breaking in. And besides, I lo- care to much about you.” You explained.

“Just say you love me-“ he said before pulling you by your tie into a kiss. His hand grips your hair while your hand landed on his waist. Pulling away to catch both of your breath but lips still touching. “So.. you’re not creeped out by my ‘little hobby’? Terrified even?” He asked. You thought about it, looking at him before saying “No, not really. I really expected this thing would happen the first time you told me about you past at the mental hospital.”

“You still remember that? Fair enough.” Brian said before pulling you into another kiss. You both spent the night together after reuniting and cherishing each other’s presence. You vowed to him to never leave him alone ever again.

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ

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pyresrpgear · 2 days ago

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There is also a non-zero chance that any AI checker you find, if you fall for these bot comments, is feeding into an AI.

This wave of bots crashing into the comments on ao3 just days after the latest scrape got smacked down by the OTW legal team is almost certainly not a coincidence.

If they scrape ao3 they will get bitchslapped. But if they convince you that some checker says your work is AI and you run to feed your fic to an AI farm masquerading as an AI checker then you gave it to them “willingly”.

They are lying to you. If you get one report it as spam and move on.

And I would suggest if you see any of these on other fics leave a response to the spam comment letting the fic author know it’s a bot and it’s a lie, and to just report it as spam. You could save a writer like the one above from a lot of needless suffering and self doubt. Not to mention saving them from potentially feeding their work to the same assholes running these bots.

So today I got this comment:

This is objectively both the worst and the funniest fic of mine that this spam comment could possibly have been left on.

The story consists of nothing but a list of instructions, which gradually get edited as users leave comments. There is no melodrama. There are no scenes! It's just a list of instructions that repeat over and over and over.

Bad bot. May the shame of this blatantly incorrect comment reflect upon you and your descendants, from now until your bytes are lost in a server failure.

(And yes, I reported it as spam.)

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brandinotbroke · 16 hours ago

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@ people who still play sims 2 on windows

Those of you who use DXVK but still experience pink flashing, could you try this for me? I am too lazy to reinstall Sims on my Windows partition

Open your dxvk.conf (or create one in the installation path of the game) and write:

dxvk.enableMemoryDefrag = True

Test this setting in-game for a while, then change it to:

dxvk.enableMemoryDefrag = False

And test this as well.

By "test it", I do not mean to test it for a mere 10-20 minutes. Test it thoroughly! Different hoods, different lots, take your time and play the actual game like you normally would! If normal gameplay works, try to stress test it (cheats, CC, high quality lot imposters, etc). If it takes a few days to test, so be it, but we really need to stop reporting too fast and make sure that our observations aren't coincidence.

I do not think this is going to be the big fantastic fix people are hoping for, but it's still intriguing. DXVK is set to "auto" out-of-the-box and my suspicion is that this is what makes the game run better on Linux: The GPU drivers on Linux are different, so perhaps the "auto" setting actually works properly in Linux, but not in Windows.

#sims 2 #pink flashing diaries

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knight-a3 · 1 day ago

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Zestial the Spymaster Overlord

Hazbin Masterpost

Heavenbound AU

I went through quite a few rounds of rough designs for this. I was initially aiming for a 1400s vibe, but after looking at many reference photos, I ended up settling on early to mid 1600s.

More notes under the cut

So it's not totally clear how old Zestial is in canon. He has an older style of speaking, but his speech patterns suggest a Shakespearean time frame. Which also coincides with when the King James Version(KJV) of the Bible was released. I grew up with the KJV, so I think I have a fairly intuitive grasp on how to use all the thees and thous, particularly since he's probably been influenced by the evolution of language over time. So I have a plausible excuse for it to be somewhat modernized as well.

I saw a completely unrelated design for this Puritan guy, and I thought it was really cool and used it as inspiration. I know nothing about it, but I found a website for it that you can check out HERE

So Zestial is Puritan now. He was a witch hunter who would falsely accuse people he didn't like. And actually practiced witchcraft himself. For anyone unaware, witchcraft is not inherently gendered. It's not wizard=boy, witch=girl. Men could be and have been accused of being witches historically.

Because I went with a puritan background, his design is relatively simple. It's reminiscent of a stereotypical cloak over plain dark clothes, with the white collar and large cuffs.

The colors are halloween themed because puritan witch trials give me halloween vibes. So we've got purple(almost black), orange, and green. I made him a bit smokey(his hair, and at his feet) because I felt it fit his shadowy vibe, while also being different from Alastor's shadowy vibe. And because I thought it would be cool.

--Bat and Spider--

I know canon Zestial is spider themed, but he gives such dracula vibes, so I had to incorporate some bat too. His cloak is like bat wings mixed with spider legs. He closes the cloak by folding his arms like a bat. And the orange is similar to the Painted Bat (aka halloween bat).

I did tone down his giant spider...tie(?) because it got in the way. But it seemed pretty iconic to him, so I didn't want to totally get rid of it.

--Zestial vs Alastor--

I think a lot of Zestial's power lies in his information network. A web of information, if you will. He's got really good hearing to listen to all the juicy secrets to blackmail with. He's something of a spyder with his web of information. I'm not even sorry about the puns.

In terms of raw power, Alastor is more powerful and ruthless. He's more bloodthirsty in general. Zestial is more of an extortionist.

Alastor prides himself on being an enigma, and doesn't want anyone to figure out what he's up to. In that way, Zestial's skill in information gathering is a threat. The two are actually pretty similar(with their whole dark and mysterious and powerful shtick). They aren't openly hostile to each other(actually on pretty good terms), but they aren't friends by any means. Alastor prefers to keep his distance.

Alastor's overlord killing spree was largely on the command of his soul-owner,[SPOILER], who determined most of the targets. And Zestial is very cordial with [SPOILER], so he is lucky enough to be the only Old Order Overlord to be spared. Lately, he's effectively retired and mostly acts as a sort of advisor/mentor for Carmilla. Otherwise, Alastor would have killed him already due to the threat of uncovering secrets.

--Human Zestial--

Name: I chose Ezekiel as his name because it fits the naming patterns of the puritans. They liked biblical names and "grace names"(like Faith or Charity. But they could get more obscure like Patience, Tenacious, or even Humiliation; and could get even more bizarre still, like Fly-Fornication).

Hair: I gave him long, more cavalier hair because I liked it. And it's not unheard of for a puritan to have long hair. The mustache and beard are typical of the time period. His hair is greying because I imagine him being older. It was a dark brown when he was younger though.

Clothes: I went with the more stereotypical dark clothes, but avoided the buckles because those weren't actually typical for puritans. Also a doublet and jerkin combo, because that's what I kept seeing in pictures.

--background--

Life: He was a prolific witch hunter. He would find any suitable excuse to accuse the people he didn't like. He was selective with his targets, mostly going after people he felt the world was better without. His judgment had nothing to do with his victims' association with witches, because he practiced witchcraft himself. Witch trials were just the opportunity he needed to get rid of people in a socially acceptable way. He was well mannered and respected in the community, so few people doubted or challenged his accusations.

He went after people who were criminals, murderers, heretics, etc. He thought he was justified in ridding the world of these "terrible" people(like Frollo). He used witchcraft to find people and reasons to remove them from society. Unfortunately, he did occasionally have to remove people who simply discovered his witchcraft, even children. All for his perceived greater good.

Death: I haven't really decided. It could be he was finally found out as a witch and hung. Or he got sick. Or somebody got revenge and killed him. IDK, take your pick.

Afterlife: He had to come to terms with the fact that he landed himself in hell, despite believing he was justified and doing a righteous service. But he eventually determined sacrificing his chance at heaven was worth ridding earth of vile people. Now he doesn't have to feel guilty for killing innocent people, because those don't exist in hell. He's come to enjoy the terror of sinners. He sees himself as better than them.

Because he practiced witchcraft in life, he was considered significantly powerful for a new arrival. But his real power was in his ability to gather information. So he worked his way to Overlord, primarily through blackmail and extortion in exchange for souls.

Alastor's arrival and the consequent shift in power dynamics threw everyone for a loop. Zestial is very curious about Alastor's unprecedented rise to power. But is constantly thwarted in his attempts to gather information, which just piques his interest further.

Over the centuries, he's come to accept that there can be a greater good in hell too. He found a like-minded soul in Carmilla, and decided to retire in favor of mentoring her. She wants to protect her daughters above all else, and he respects her commitment to her duty.

----Bonus historical research time(don't quote me, it was just light research)----

--Roundhead vs Cavalier--

These were political factions of the time, and not strictly tied to puritanism. It was essentially Parliament supporters and Monarchy supporters.

Parliamentarians rejected King Charles I and were nicknamed Roundheads due to the general tendency to have short hair(basically a bowl cut). Puritans fell into this group along with a wide range of social classes and religious dissidents.

Royalists were derisively called Cavaliers, but they adopted the term for themselves. They believed in the King's divine right to rule. They were mostly upper class and known for long hair and courtly fashions.

--Puritan--

Puritans broke off of the Anglican church, believing it to still be tainted by Catholic ritualism. They emphasized simplicity and modesty. But that didn't mean low-quality. They believed wealth was gifted by God, so dressing below your station was inappropriate. Embellishments in clothing were not unusual, they just rejected excess of extravagance. There were a lot of other rules that probably wouldn't make sense to us.

Point is, they dressed relatively plain. Stereotypically this meant black, blue, grey, or russet clothing. But that wasn't universal or anything. Black is actually more of a "Sunday best" type of outfit, since the color can fade pretty quickly in the sun. I think the ministers wore black fairly regularly...?

Typical garb for men consisted of a shirt with a large collar and cuffs, a doublet(padded jacket), sometimes a jerkin (sleeveless jacket worn over the doublet), breeches(short pants) tied in place with garters, stockings, and simple shoes.

(edit notes will go here if needed)

#hazbin hotel #zestial #hazbin hotel redesign #heavenbound AU #human zestial #fanart #a3 art #digital art #character sheet

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