#LOTS I STILL NEED TO ADD I KNOW I JUST WANTED . SOMETHING UP

[lov3lycosmos]

The Love We Thought We Lost — H.H 𐙚

Genre: Angst/Smut

Pairings: non idol!hyunjin x fem!reader

Summary: after some rumors from a girl who likes hyunjin spread around the school that you were using him for money, he let you go only to realize he needed you.

Warnings: pet names, fingering, crying during sex (emotional), unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it!), creampie, lots or praise, dirty talk (a little), and I think that's it?

Cosmos note: I saw a c.ai bot of a prompt similar to this (i wish i could find it again to link it) and thought I'd write something similar >.<

my library! (NOT PROOFREAD!!)

The first time Hwang Hyunjin saw you, he was sitting in the back of his private driver’s car, scrolling through his phone like his life didn’t belong to him. He’d just bombed another exam, fought with his dad over his future, and wanted to disappear. Then he looked up. And there you were—walking home with tangled headphones, hair windblown, nose red from the cold, balancing a chipped coffee cup and humming like life hadn’t crushed you yet.

You were nothing like his world.

And that was exactly why he needed you.

Everyone knew who Hyunjin was. He had that golden aura—money, face, reputation. Even his uniform looked expensive, like it’d been tailored. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and he gave none of it away.

Except to you.

You didn’t chase him. You didn’t try to impress him. You looked him in the eye when he passed you in the hall, unbothered and clear. It scared him. It hooked him.

One day he sat beside you on the bleachers during lunch and didn’t say a word. You offered him a bite of your sandwich.

That was it. He was yours.

What started as hushed texts turned into holding hands under cafeteria tables, stolen kisses behind stairwells, sketching in the art room with music playing low. It was quiet and precious and real.

He wasn’t your prince. He was your Hyunjin.

Until he wasn’t.

“I think you were just with me for the money.”

You still remember how the words landed. Not like a slap—more like a knife slipping through your ribs, quiet and fatal.

You stood there, stunned. You hadn’t even asked for anything from him. That bracelet? He bought it on a whim. The rides home? He offered. You never wanted his wallet.

You wanted him.

But he didn’t believe you.

He didn’t even let you speak.

You remember him walking away. You remember not chasing him.

What you don’t remember is how you got home that night. Or how long you cried after the door closed behind you.

You just remember seeing a photo of him with Sooah a week later. Her lipgloss on his collar. Her smile tucked under his chin.

That’s when you deleted his contact.

That’s when you started trying to forget.

Five months later, and your phone lights up with his name.

Your body still reacts before your brain does. That stupid skip in your chest. The sharp breath. The urge to throw the phone against the wall.

Your thumb hovers.

And then you pick up.

“…Hello?”

“Hey.”

The sound of him cracks something old and aching in your chest. He sounds winded. Softer than you remember. Like he’s been waiting hours for this.

You say nothing.

He exhales. “I—I know I’m the last person you want to hear from. But I had to call. I need to say it.”

Say what?

“I miss you.”

Your throat tightens. Your grip on the phone hardens.

“I didn’t believe her because I stopped loving you,” he says quickly. “I believed her because I thought you were too good for me. Because I was scared.”

“You were scared?” you whisper. “That’s your excuse?”

“No. There’s no excuse. I just—” He sucks in a breath. “You were the first person who ever looked at me like I was a person. Not a paycheck. Not a perfect image. Just me. And I still fucked it all up.”

You’re trembling. “You didn’t just fuck up, Hyunjin. You broke my heart.”

“I know,” he chokes. “I know, angel. And I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry every second since.”

A beat.

“I left her,” he adds. “Months ago. When I found out the truth.”

“…Why are you calling me now?”

“Because it’s eating me alive.”

The silence after that is deafening.

Then you whisper, “I can’t do this with you again.”

“I need to see you.”

“No.”

“I’m already on my way.”

“Hyunjin—”

The call ends.

Across town, soaked in rain and regret, Hyunjin stands outside your window wondering if he’s already too late.

The truth is… he never meant to let you go.

But five months ago, it didn’t feel like he had a choice.

Back then, his world was spiraling. His grades were slipping. His father—cold, ruthless, CEO of too much—had started threatening to ship him off to a boarding school in Tokyo if he didn’t “straighten out.” His mother stopped coming home. His friends weren’t friends; they were shadows who only laughed when he paid.

And you?

You were his one good thing.

Which is exactly why he thought he didn’t deserve you.

So when Sooah—a girl with fake lashes and a sharp tongue—came up to him after class and said, “She’s using you, you know. Everyone sees it but you,” something cracked in him. She said she overheard you talking to your friend. That you were tired of pretending to care. That you were just waiting for his next gift, his next ride, his next use.

He didn’t want to believe her.

But it planted a seed in his chest—a rotting, twisted doubt—and he let it grow.

Because it was easier to believe you’d break his heart eventually than to wait for the day it happened.

So he did it first.

He cornered you in the hallway. Picked a fight over nothing. Watched your face fall in real time when he said the words: “I think you were just with me for the money.”

He didn’t mean it.

He just needed an excuse.

He needed a way to push you away before you could leave him.

But what he didn’t realize until weeks later—when he found out Sooah had lied, when he saw you walking alone, headphones in, eyes red from crying—was that by trying to protect himself, he had destroyed the only person who ever saw him.

Not Hyunjin the golden boy.

Not the rich kid with the perfect face.

Just… Hyunjin.

And by the time he realized that, it was already too late.

You were gone.

But not anymore.

He can’t carry it anymore—the guilt, the weight of your absence, the sound of your voice in dreams. So he’s here. Now. Soaked and shivering and praying you’ll let him in, just long enough to say it right this time.

You stare at your phone like it might dissolve in your hand. The storm outside has picked up, rain ticking against the glass. You wrap your arms around yourself, heart punching your ribs.

You should block his number again.

You should slam the door in his face.

But twenty minutes later, when the sound of knuckles tapping against glass cuts through the storm, you're already standing at the window.

You peel back the curtain—and stop breathing.

Hyunjin.

Soaked. Hoodie clinging to his chest. Hair dripping in strands over his forehead. And those eyes… wrecked, wide, locked on you.

You crack the window an inch. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

“You’re drenched.”

“I don’t care.”

“Go home.”

“I can’t.”

Your fingers tighten on the sill. “Hyunjin, you hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “But I need to fix it. Please.”

You should slam it shut.

You should scream.

Instead… you open the window wider.

And he climbs in.

The second his feet hit the floor, the air in the room shifts. Rain drips from his sleeves. His chest is heaving. Neither of you speaks.

Then:

“You look the same,” he murmurs. “Except sadder.”

Your chin wobbles.

“I didn’t come to make you cry,” he says. “I just needed to tell you the truth.”

“Then tell me.”

“I was a coward,” he whispers. “You were the only real thing in my life, and I pushed you away. I thought if I ended it first, it wouldn’t hurt as bad when you left.”

You blink at him, heart pounding.

“I thought you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth it,” he says. “And I hated that you had that power. So when Sooah said those things, I let myself believe them.”

Tears slip hot down your cheeks. You shake your head.

“I didn’t even ask you,” he chokes. “I didn’t even look at you and know the truth.”

You laugh bitterly. “You were supposed to know me, Hyunjin.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I hate myself for it.”

Silence. Heavy. Raw.

Then he steps forward slowly, eyes on yours. “I’d do anything to take it back.”

Your breath catches.

His hand reaches for yours—and you let him take it.

“I’ve been lost without you,” he says. “Every second. I can’t sleep. I see you everywhere.”

You bite your lip. Your fingers are trembling in his.

“I miss your laugh. Your voice. The way you tug on my sleeve when you’re shy. I miss you, baby.”

He presses your joined hands to his chest, just over his heart.

And then he whispers, “I still love you.”

That breaks you.

A sob escapes your throat, and your knees give—but he catches you, arms pulling you against him fast, tight, like you might disappear if he lets go.

You cling to his hoodie, face buried in his chest, the smell of rain and regret and Hyunjin overwhelming you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m so fucking sorry, angel. I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

You don’t speak.

You just let him hold you while your heart slowly starts to ache in a different way.

A softer one.

A hopeful one.

You don’t know how long you stand there—how long you let Hyunjin cradle you like he’s terrified to lose you all over again.

It could’ve been seconds. Hours. A lifetime.

The quiet of your room is broken only by your breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek.

When you finally look up at him, the porch light from outside casts shadows over his face—his sharp cheekbones, the wet strands of hair clinging to his skin, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Your voice is soft, but raw. "Why did you believe her?"

His face crumples.

"Because I was scared," he admits. "Because I’ve never loved anyone like I loved you. And she said—she said things I was already scared of. That maybe I was just a convenience. That maybe someone like me couldn’t be loved for who I am."

You flinch, pulling back slightly. He doesn’t let you go.

"That’s not fair," you whisper. "You didn’t even ask me. You just... left."

His hands tighten on your waist.

"I know," he chokes. "I didn’t deserve you then. But God, I never stopped wanting you. I saw your number in my phone tonight and I—I couldn’t not try."

You swallow, eyes burning again. "And her?"

"Over," he says instantly. "She never meant anything. Not like you."

You breathe out, shaky. "It’s been five months, Hyunjin."

"Five months of hell. Five months of waking up with her and wishing it was you. Five months of trying to fill a space no one else fits."

The silence stretches again, thick with everything unsaid.

Until your voice cracks around the question you swore you’d never ask.

"Do you still love me?"

His answer comes like a confession. Like worship.

"I never stopped."

He leans in then—slow, careful, eyes locked on yours. And you don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t speak—because your body already knows.

Your lips meet his like a spark catching fire. Slow at first—gentle, searching. And then all at once: messy, desperate, teeth and tongue and the taste of tears.

His hands slide to your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin, grounding you. You feel the tremble in his fingers.

When you break for air, he doesn’t pull back far.

"Let me stay," he breathes. "Just tonight. Let me show you what you meant to me. What you still mean."

You don’t answer with words.

You just nod.

And he kisses you again, this time slower, deeper—like a promise.

He leads you backward with gentle steps, never breaking the kiss, until the back of your knees hit the edge of your bed. His hands are warm on your waist, eyes searching yours like he needs to be sure.

"Tell me to stop. If this is too fast, or—"

You cut him off by pulling him closer.

"Hyunjin," you whisper. "Just kiss me."

And he does. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he wants to memorize every second.

He eases you down onto the mattress, his hand cradling the back of your head as your spine meets the sheets. He hovers over you, breath shaky, eyes full of something raw and reverent.

His touch is tentative at first—fingers ghosting over your sides, your arms, the curve of your hip. Like he's rediscovering you.

But you don’t feel like glass.

You feel like fire.

And he wants to burn with you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his lips trailing down the side of your neck. He presses kisses along your collarbone, each one tender and filled with apology. His hands inch upward, slipping your shirt over your head before discarding it somewhere on the floor. His eyes darken as he takes you in.

“I missed you,” he says, almost like a confession. He dips down again, his mouth closing around one of your nipples while his hand gently cups the other. You arch into him, a gasp slipping past your lips, and his hips grind against yours reflexively.

You can feel him. Hard. Hot. And still fully clothed.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, and your voice is enough to break whatever restraint he had left.

He sits back on his knees, stripping his hoodie and shirt in one fluid motion. You let your eyes drink him in—the lean muscle, the soft trail of hair leading downward, the bruises blooming where he’d been gripping himself too hard in frustration.

He undoes his jeans, but then pauses, eyes searching yours.

“I need to see all of you,” he says, voice low. “Please, angel.”

You nod, and he peels off the last of your clothes slowly, like he’s unwrapping a gift. When you’re bare beneath him, he exhales like he’s seen the sun for the first time in weeks.

Then he kisses you again, harder this time. Deeper. Like he’s claiming you all over again. One hand braces beside your head while the other moves between your legs, fingers dipping down to stroke you. You’re already wet, soaking, and he groans into your mouth when he realizes it.

“All for me,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

His fingers circle your clit slowly, deliberately, until your hips begin to buck. When he slides two fingers into you, curling them just right, you cry out, clinging to his shoulders.

He watches your face the whole time, his eyes dark with lust, but soft with something deeper—adoration. Like you're the most precious thing he's ever touched.

When he finally lines himself up at your entrance, he pauses. Leans in. Kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“I love you,” he whispers. “No matter how long it takes... no matter what we go through. It’s always you.”

He slides in slowly, watching every flicker of emotion on your face. The stretch burns at first, but it’s good—so good—because it’s him. And when he bottoms out, fully seated inside you, you both let out shaky breaths.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you, buried deep, his lips pressed to your temple.

“You feel like home,” he murmurs.

Then he begins to thrust. Deep, measured strokes that make you cling to him like he’s your lifeline. His hands cradle your hips, guiding you to move with him. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, along with his soft moans, and the broken gasps you let out beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he says between thrusts. “Always mine. I don’t care what happens. No one’s ever going to love you like I do.”

You sob his name, pleasure cresting with every movement. He’s hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your eyes roll back.

His pace picks up, hips snapping harder now, but never cruel—just aching, desperate, hungry. One hand snakes between you to rub circles on your clit again, and your body clamps around him like a vice.

“That’s it, angel,” he pants, his own rhythm starting to falter. “Cum for me. Please, baby. I need to feel you.”

You break with a cry, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs. He groans, fucking you through it, eyes locked on your face like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“Fuck… I’m close… I—I love you… I’m so sorry,” he chokes, whimpering now. “I’m sorry, angel… I’m sorry…”

He spills into you with a desperate moan, his face buried in your neck, murmuring apologies and sweet nothings as he rides out his high, trembling in your arms.

You hold him, fingers threading through his hair, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Not from sadness this time, but from the overwhelming fullness in your chest.

Love. Forgiveness. Him.

He lifts his head slowly, brushing your hair back. His eyes are red. His lips kiss your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, over and over.

“I love you,” he whispers again. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for the ways I hurt you.”

And you believe him.

Because tonight, you were made whole again.

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @heechwe @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

[loudclan-clangen]

What was Dancesun’s mark for? I remember Dogwoodmoth’s markings all had meanings and now I’m curious

~~also poor Siltsplash holy your expressionwork in this one is so good~~

Owlstar may or may not have taken some... creative liberties with Dancesun's warrior ceremony.

What Wildfirecry tried to say: I am frusterated that you feel you have the right to throw your weight around as the healer heir seeing as you haven't put the work in to earn that position.

What Rosehiptree heard: You are not living up to the memory of your sister.

Excellent image. Please accept this photo of my pomeranian wrapped in a towel as payment.

It's certainly possible, especially if that's something that the majority of people want to see, I only hesitate because I know it can be really hard for some people (me) to not peek at a family tree if I know it exists, even if I don't really want to know about the spoilers. Plus I do really enjoy surprises and plot twists and that can be difficult when yall know exactly who makes it to adulthood and who they're going to have kits with. But, yall know yourselves best, and if you would enjoy the story more with the knowledge of who inherits leadership positions let me know and I'll add "giant inheritance family tree" to my to-do-list!

Absolutely! Go nuts! And when possible tag me in it so that I can see the amazing things that you create!

Thank you! I use my Ipad and Procreate almost exclusively. I think it's the perfect balance of having all of the tools that you need while not being completely overwhelming to learn. (Though due to the simplified interface some functions can seem hidden, which I know frusterates some people but I've never run into an issue that can't be fixed with a quick google search). It's a one time purchase which I really appreciate, and I think that the $12 is completely justifiable especially compared to how much I used to spend on physical sketchbooks and pencils/markers/paints. Though if you're just starting out and aren't sure if digital art is for you IbisPaintX has pretty much all of the same tools for free (with adds) it's just a lot less convient to navigate and use. (Absolutely no hate to Ibis I LIVED for it back in highschool and I'm very glad that it's still there as a free option but if you're thinking about paying for the membership I would recommend just making the leap to a more cohesive app instead.) Of course, this is all coming from the perspective of someone who is completely petrified by the Clip Studio/Fire Alpaca type interface, so take everything I say with the knowledge that I have a major bias against them.

[osiiiris]

V Perpetua - my headcanons

I think so far I’ve seen enough of him to develop some personal headcanons for Perpetua.

Perpetua is human to me, but a very strange kind of human. However, he wears a mask because he doesn’t want to be perceived as one.

He’s mostly nocturnal, has a history of selective mutism, and is terribly afraid of social gatherings. When he has to participate, he has absolutely no idea how to interact with so many people. In trying to seem “normal,” he ends up acting like one of those aliens from Men in Black, the ones wearing human skin but moving in incredibly awkward ways. He’ll say something weird, completely out of context, and people won’t know how to react. He’ll think he did a great job.

He’s absolutely clueless. Always. Completely uninterested in the world around him, he lives mostly in his own mind and frequently dissociates. Too bad, his mind isn’t a nice place. You’ll try explaining what he has to do on stage, and he’ll just stare up at the giant structure, imagining how it would look with real human heads hanging from the ceiling.

As a result, you can’t have a real conversation with him. He’s too unpredictable, and his attention span is too fleeting. Having a meeting with him is one of the most frustrating experiences.

When he was a child, he used to stare at people, a lot. From windows, from inside a car, from a distance, or even directly in front of them. He would stare them down for endless minutes with wide, unblinking eyes, making everyone deeply uncomfortable.

He can’t sit properly. You’ll most likely find him crumpled up in a chair, looking at you like an owl.

He’s only relatively interested in sex, in the sense that he rarely thinks about it or seeks it out. His mind is too detached and chaotic, and carnal lust isn’t his first choice when it comes to seeking pleasure. But when he does engage... he’s freaky. He has some peculiar kinks. Strange shit go on in his bedroom (and not only). He usually doesn’t need to have full-on sex to be satisfied: he just needs to practice his kinks. Most of his occasional partners don’t want to “have sex” with him again.

He listens to a wide range of music, from black metal to techno rave. He can go from Mayhem to Die Antwoord in an instant.

He has a passion for taxidermy that began when, as a child, he used to find dead lizards and snakes and cut them open to see what was inside. He’s not very good at it, though… his creations are terrible.

He collects real animal skeletons and fossils.

The only request he made as Papa was for a private laboratory. What he does in there is a secret, but techno music can always be heard when he’s inside.

He smiles a lot, mostly out of uncontrolled excitement, but since he can’t quite act like a regular person, his smiles are unnaturally wide and unsettling.

Although not many people knew of his existence, he spent a lot of time studying the old Papas. As a result, he often quotes their speeches during his concerts—but he’s no copycat. Sometimes he evokes their words and leaves them incomplete, adds something personal, or even mocks them. It’s as if he’s saying, “Do you remember this? Well, I’m not the same.”

Unlike the other Papas, he’s not in competition with anyone, nor does he want to conquer anything. He was simply pushed onto a stage, and now he just does the thing. His real interests lie outside his musical career.

Sister Imperator is still trying to figure out whether he’s the greatest mistake she’s ever made.

[sturniololuvz]

Okay helloo!! i was wondering if you could write a fic where like the triplets little sister around 13-15 has been like distancing herself and Matt notices in one of the photos that they posted with her on insta she has recent-ish looking scars on her thigh and she was looking A LOT thinner maybe he had known that she had struggled with sh in the past but he thought she was clean? (up to u but maybe add like she was like sorta an influencer with like 400k and had been getting a lot of comments on her weight?) sorry if that didnt make sense!! IF U DONT FEEL COMFORTABLE WRITING IT DONT WRITE IT!!

“Not Just a Picture”

At first, it was little things.

Y/N wasn’t around as much, even when she was home. Her door stayed closed more. Her laugh, usually loud and unfiltered, had gotten quieter. She skipped meals sometimes — said she already ate, or wasn’t hungry.

And Matt had noticed, in that instinctive big-brother way, but he told himself she was just going through a phase. She was fifteen. Growing up. Maybe pulling back a little was normal.

Then came the photo.

They had posted a casual Instagram pic a few days ago — one of those sunny, everyone’s-home-so-let’s-smile kind of shots. Y/N had agreed reluctantly, standing between Matt and Chris, one hand on Nick’s shoulder, giving a small smile.

She looked okay.

At first.

But then Matt started reading the comments under her repost of it. The ones from strangers.

“She’s definitely lost weight… hope she’s okay.”

“Is that a scar on her thigh??”

“Why does she look so sad?”

And then he zoomed in.

She was wearing shorts — not something she usually did anymore. There, half-covered by her palm, was a faint line of fresh-looking scars along her upper thigh. Faded but real.

His heart stopped.

He thought she was past this. He thought she’d been okay.

That night, while Chris and Nick were on Twitch, Matt knocked softly on her bedroom door.

No answer.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “Can I come in?”

A pause. Then a tired, quiet voice: “I guess.”

He opened the door slowly. She was curled up in bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling on her phone like she was trying to disappear into it.

“You busy?”

She shrugged. “Just looking at comments.”

Matt sat at the end of her bed. “Don’t.”

She blinked up at him.

He hesitated. “I saw your post. And the picture. And… your leg.”

Y/N froze.

Matt’s voice cracked. “I thought you were okay. I wanted you to be okay.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” she whispered, eyes brimming. “I didn’t want to ruin how proud you were of me.”

“You don’t ruin anything,” he said, voice soft but firm. “You’re not a disappointment. You’re just hurting.”

She finally let the tears fall.

“It’s the comments,” she admitted, voice shaking. “They keep saying I look better smaller. That I’m ‘glowing.’ So I just… I kept doing it. And I felt so guilty when I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to eat. And then I felt worse, and I—I didn’t know what else to do.”

Matt moved closer and pulled her into a hug, holding her like she was still the little girl who used to fall asleep on his chest watching cartoons.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner,” he murmured. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve checked in.”

She sobbed into his shoulder, all the pain she’d been holding in finally breaking loose.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Y/N. Not for your followers. Not for us. You’re allowed to not be okay.”

“But everyone expects me to be—”

“I don’t,” he cut in. “I just expect you to keep fighting. And when you can’t, we’ll carry it with you. Me, Chris, Nick… Nate. Whoever you need.”

—

That night, she didn’t sleep in her room. She fell asleep curled next to Matt on the couch, his hoodie wrapped around her, the weight of shame finally lighter.

And the next morning, the triplets posted a photo — not one of her made up or posed.

Just her, laughing — in sweats, no makeup — in the kitchen with Matt.

The caption read:

“No filter needed when you’ve got this much heart.”

Comments flooded in.

“She looks happy here.”

“Glad she’s okay.”

“This is the content we love to see.”

But Y/N didn’t read them this time.

Because she knew, finally, that love didn’t live in likes.

It lived in people who stayed.

—

[orphiclovers]

Part 2 of examples of rape/SA in orv and my thoughts on them. cw: discussion of rape and mentions of pedophilia. lets get into it again

4. han myungoh mpreg. implied to be dragged off and raped by a demon in some capacity (I mean he literally becomes pregnant). so the act itself is entirely offscreen but why this is interesting it how getting raped and becoming pregnant fundamentally changes him as a person and from our MCs' perspectives, turns him "better" and more honorable.

so Rape-as-redemption is also a pretty Yikes trope. the implication that getting raped and going through all this awful shit made him a nicer person or fixed him somehow is quite... unfortunate... he's not a woman so it doesn't read as quite as problematic but the optics are still not looking good. 4.5/10 maybe rethink this

5. When Kim Dokja is physically wrestling lee seolhwa/queen antinus to the ground while Yoo Joonghyuk is paralysed by poison and watching from a distance and starts thinking that it would be a really bad idea to assault or rape Lee Seolhwa even though they're both immobilized and he has her in a compromising position, because of course yoo joonghyuk would kill him (or anyone) who attempted to do this. why the fuck were you thinking about all this kdj? there's something wrong with this guy. this is an incredible moment, completely out of pocket and deranged.

doesnt add or detract anything from the story, most ppl miss it, but it tickles and entertains me personally that kdj thinks about raping yjh's ex girlfriend and this isn't supposed to say or imply anything about what kind of person he is. singshong say that it doesn't matter which lines were written by who but I can TELL this paragraph was written by a man. only a man would come up with internal monologue like this and randomly put it into the story 100/10 AMAZING I love it no notes. please more of this

6. pink kids. SIGH. we're fucking doing this shit again, same as Nirvana. "crossdressers are creepy perverse old men pretending to be girls to lure in their victims" ? Singshong stop depicting male gender non-confirming people as sexual predators challenge. They actually ACKNOWLEDGE this is a shitty trope so they TRY, they ATTEMPT to subvert it, poorly.

make one of the crossdressers actually THEE purest character in all of TWSA, wow! isn't it so unexpected that not ALL crossdressers are evil rapists and this one is actually innocent? this isnt the subversive commentary they thought it was. the fact they knew enough about how this trope is problematic to decide they need to subvert it but then do nothing about nirvana is reallly off putting. they can't even claim ignorance because they clearly know. 2/10 you tried I guess

7. when people assume kdj wants to fuck little kids.? this happens multiple times and is a misunderstanding that comes from the fact he makes sys his incarnation and spends a lot of time around children. canonically the only reason Han Myungoh's baby was spared/taken by asmodeus is to be used as a child sex slave gift to kim dokja because he thought he would like one. think about that. Kim Dokja canonically has (baseless) pedophile allegations 1000/10 that's amazing

8. Asmodeus is said/implied to be a sexual predator of some kind but its never made clear What exactly his crimes are, just vague "perverse sexual acts". He takes little girls bodies as vessels (which. is the fucking crossdressing predator trope again isnt it. goddamit) but we get no other implication of if he hurts his hosts. "Devil of Lust and Wrath" is a character who doesn't actually do much or any raping. 6/10 its alright? i dont know anymore

[artdonalldson]

White Mustang

Patrick Zweig x Reader

SUMMARY: "Summer’s meant for lovin’ and leavin’..." You knew what he was from the start. All charm, all warning signs. But you still chased lightning across the court, thinking maybe this time you wouldn't burn.

CONTENT: No use of pronouns, no physical descriptions, mostly angst with a bit of fluff and a bittersweet ending, suggestive content, complicated feelings, fleeting intimacy, some internalized heartbreak, a lot of metaphor-heavy narration and longing. Think of this as somewhere between 2010 and 2011, Patrick's still the rich kid, his career starting to decay.

Inspired by White Mustang by Lana Del Rey

A/N: Promised to post this like two weeks ago but I kept rewriting until I felt satisfied and hurt my own feelings while at it. Idk but I felt White Mustang would be good with Patrick and I got inspired to do this! Hope you enjoy it! Would love it if you had some feedback cause I'm thinking of making a part two for this one! :)

WORD COUNT: ~2.9k

At first it was something fun, sneaking into the members-only club, maybe it was curiosity or maybe you wanted to see how it felt to belong somewhere you don’t, but you slipped through like a secret. all you knew was that you needed a place to breathe.

You thought you were the kind of girl who wouldn't get noticed here. Not by the members, not by the staff, and certainly not by the players, but then he arrives.

Patrick Zweig. Fresh off some tournament in Europe; you've heard about him before, you've heard that he comes from a rich family, that he's gone pro for a while now but that he's not doing good lately... Among other things.

The first time you see him is under the brutal sun, playing at some charity tournament organized by the club, and yes, you know you're not supposed to be sitting at the bleachers and watching him play, and yet you can't stop yourself.

He's tall, handsome, unreal. All in white, as if the court was built around him. As if he’s always been here.

He moves like he’s on fire, every serve cuts through the air like it’s personal. There’s a kind of violence in how he moves on the court, the way he hits every ball.

He looks like something designed to be admired from a distance.

And you do. You watch every move he does.

Right now, your world has narrowed to a white blur and a boy you shouldn’t be watching this closely.

He doesn’t notice you. Of course he doesn’t.

But deep inside, you wish he did.

---

And when he does, it happens three days later, right behind the bleachers, where the afternoon heat sticks to skin and makes conversation feel heavier than it should.

You see him walking by, holding a racket and a towel, hair damp, shirt clinging to his back after some training match, you're not sure he even looked at you but then you hear him talk.

“You always watch from the top row,” he says, making you stop and turn around.

You blink. “I—what?”

He gestures lazily upward. “You sit high up. Good angle.”

His curls are damp with sweat and you can now see his face covered by tiny freckles, his beautiful eyes, he's even more handsome up close.

“You’ve seen me?”

He shrugs. “Hard not to.”

He’s standing there, just watching you as if he's trying to read your mind.

“Here,” he says, and slips something into your hand, a faint smirk on his lips.

A scrap of paper. A number.

“You don’t have to call,” he adds, already turning away. “Just figured—if you wanted.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you to wonder if this could be the beginning of something.

---

You type the number and save it into your contacts, but you don’t call.

You stare at it for two days, debating if you should delete it and lose the piece of paper again into your bag.

You've heard things about him, that he won the juniors US Open a couple years ago but also you've heard the whispers, everyone says he's the kind to leave when someone gets too close.

And you're not sure if you want to believe that, all you feel is that this could be the kind of story that will end with someone burning.

You just don't know who would catch fire first.

---

A couple weeks later you sneak at the tournament’s afterparty.

Not the official with sponsors, champagne flutes and forced smiles, but the second one, the one that doesn’t start until past midnight, half a mile from the courts in a rented house that smells like sweat and cheap alcohol.

You wander through the house when you see him walking out of the kitchen, drinking some vodka from the plastic cup in his hand, he's now wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans and looking kinda… expensive.

"You never called," he says as soon as he spots you, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I kept checking. You didn’t even text.”

You freeze mid-step, thinking of a good excuse—anything.

“I figured you’d forget about it by the next day,” you reply, trying not to look too long at the way he looks even more handsome out of his sports clothes.

“I remember everything,” Patrick says, cutting through the crowd to find you.

“Especially when I give someone something and they don’t use it.”

You cross your arms. “I never promised to call”

He tilts his head, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t say that. Just surprised you’re here.”

“I could say the same about you.”

He shrugs. “Well there's free alcohol”

There’s something brittle behind the way he says it. A tiredness that doesn’t match the noise around them.

“You want to get out of here?” he asks.

---

A little later you're outside, to the back deck, where the world is cooler and quieter. There’s a hot tub no one’s using and string lights that don’t quite reach the edges of the yard.

Patrick sits beside you on the wooden railing, his drink forgotten somewhere inside.

You don’t talk much at first but then he asks:

“You know who I am?”

The question isn’t arrogant. It’s almost… tired.

“I’ve heard things,” you admit.

“Yeah. People always hear things.”

He sounds far away, like he’s remembering some version of himself he doesn’t like at all.

“You think they’re true?” he asks.

You take a look at him, but you don't see the Patrick from the court. Not the one from the gossip and the whispers.

This one looks quieter. Less sharp around the edges. Like maybe he wants to stop being the uprising tennis star just for a minute.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “That’s why I didn’t call.”

He nods, slow, thoughtful. “Fair.”

And then he leans in. Not fast. Not bold. Like he’s giving you time to walk away.

He’s just close enough for you to feel his breath when he says:

“When I first saw you I thought that maybe we could have something different.”

You don't kiss, not yet, but none of you walk away either.

And somehow, that feels more dangerous.

---

You don’t become a thing. Not in a way that anyone could name, but you start showing up to his practices more often, not every day but enough to feel like a pattern. He doesn’t ask you to come. You don’t ask if he wants you there.

You just sit high in the bleachers like you always have, water bottle sweating beside you, sunglasses hiding how much you're watching.

He starts looking up between sets. Sometimes he smirks. Sometimes he just stares, like he’s making sure you haven't left.

And then after the matches, the soft kisses and heavy makeout sessions happen behind the bleachers, but it stops there, you don't ask for more, neither does he, maybe it's for the better, that way no one's gonna burn when the lightning strikes.

---

One afternoon, after a long practice and a longer silence, he finds you at the vending machine near the locker rooms. It’s barely working — chewing at your dollar like it’s too tired to finish the job.

Patrick steps behind her. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just watching you struggle with the stupid machine.

“Let me,” he says eventually, nudging you aside with his shoulder.

You huff. “I’ve almost got it.”

“You’ve almost had it for three minutes.” He taps the glass with his knuckle as you attempt to shove the dollar in once again.

The machine grinds, shudders, and finally spits out a bottle of iced tea.

You blink at it. “Okay, that’s terrifying.��

He shrugs. “This shit works better under pressure.”

There’s a pause before you mumble.

“You're different when you’re not on court.”

He glances at her. “Good different or bad different?”

“Neither. Just… more human.”

Something in his expression softens. “Didn’t realize I came with a soft side.”

“I kinda like it.” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer, but the way he looks at you right after says more than he needs to.

You sit on the bench just outside the court. Just shoulder to shoulder, the way people do when they’re pretending not to fall into something that already started.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says suddenly, he's not asking.

You turn to him. “Should I be?”

Patrick’s smile is crooked. “Maybe. I tend to ruin things.”

“You haven’t ruined this,” you say.

“Not yet,” he replies, and the way he says it is so honest it hurts.

He looks away, something like guilt flickering in his expression. “I’m like lightning. You don’t chase lightning — you just get burned when it hits.”

You lean in, soft but sure. “I like the thrill of chasing lighting”

---

It happens after a loss.

Not a catastrophic one, but enough to bruise the ego, enough to remind him that his career is slowly slipping away.

He doesn’t ask you to come with him after. Just glances across the parking lot and says, “I’m leaving”

Not a question.

Not a request.

But you follow anyway.

The apartment is all clean lines and quiet light. The kind of place that feels temporary, no matter how long you stay. He walks in first, drops his bag near the armchair and takes off his sneakers like they're too heavy.

You stand near the door a beat too long.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says, still facing the window.

“I know. But I care about you”

Patrick turns toward you. There’s something raw in his expression — not pain exactly, just something unguarded, like the mask slipped and he didn’t catch it in time.

He exhales, short and soft. “You always say the right thing.”

“I’m not trying to,” she replies. “I just speak what's in my heart”

That makes him look at her differently. Like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

And then he crosses the room.

He doesn’t kiss you right away. He just touches your face — slow, bandaged knuckles grazing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says quietly. “But it’s the only thing that feels like it isn’t slipping away right now.”

Your breath catches. “Then hold on to it.”

And this time, he does

—

When he finally touched you, it wasn’t sudden. His fingers brushed yours, then hesitated. You shifted closer, a silent permission. Then his hand moved — slow, steady — up your arm, over your shoulder, finally cupping the side of your neck. His thumb traced just beneath your jaw like he was memorizing the shape of you. You leaned in before you could stop yourself.

The kiss was soft at first — unbearably so. No rush. No hunger. Just warmth, like he was testing the water before diving in. It was very unlike him, and he knew that.

His lips pressed into yours with care, his hands were bolder, slipping down to your waist, tugging you closer until your body fit against his, wanting to feel you completely.

His mouth deepened the kiss, open and seeking, and you gave into it with something close to a sigh. Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his curls, wanting him closer, needing more and more of him.

You undressed each other slowly, clothes tugged away with care rather than urgency. He kissed the skin he uncovered — your shoulder, your ribs, the curve of your hip — like he was trying to leave something behind. Not marks. Not possession. Just presence

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t try to impress. He just learns you — inch by inch , sigh by sigh.

At one point he murmurs, face in the crook of your neck.

“I never slow down like this.”

“And why is that?.”

He smiles — something small and sad.

“You make me forget I’m not built for this.”

---

Later, you lie tangled in sheets and shadow.

You're curled on her side, your head resting on his chest and for once, he’s awake, but quiet, his hand caressing the curve of your hip under the blanket.

“You scare me,” he finally breaks the silence.

You blink.

“What? Why?”

“Because you see me too clearly. Because this could be something if I let it.”

“And if you did?”

“I’d ruin it.”

You stay quiet for a moment, and then you say:

“Maybe not.”

His hand leaves your hip and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I ruin good things before they have the chance to be real.”

“I don’t think I imagined what happened tonight.”

“You didn’t.”

Another pause.

“Then don't let me go.” you whisper.

—

There was a moment — brief and fragile — where you felt him soften, where it felt like the world peeled back and he let you see all of him. The loneliness. The weight. The want. And you thought: this could be it. This could change something.

But soon you'd find out good things don't last forever.

He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed when you wake up. Shirt half on, expression unreadable.

You sit up slowly. “Patrick?”

He glances back at you, looking slightly guilty. “I’ve got a flight in three hours.”

“That’s not what I wanted to ask”

He doesn’t answer.

You want to ask what last night meant. If it changed anything. But the words die on the tip of your tongue because you already know it meant something to you. That’s the problem.

You get out of bed, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “Are you really going to disappear like everyone said you would?”

Patrick stands. Stills. Then, softly:

“I told you not to trust me.”

You don’t cry, not in front of him, but you can already feel the tears stinging your eyes.

“You told me a lot of things, Pat.”

He hesitates. Like he might come closer.

Like he might undo it all and say he wants to stay.

But he doesn't.

---

It’s not the first time someone’s left.

But it’s the first time it felt like something was taken away from you.

Weeks pass and you go back to your regular rhythm — whatever that means now. Mornings feel too quiet. Coffee doesn’t taste right. Music doesn’t sit well in her ears. Everything is a little too loud or not loud enough.

He doesn’t text.

Doesn’t call.

Doesn’t check in.

And you don't reach out either — not because you don't want to, but because you're not going to be the girl who begs him to come back.

You remind yourself that he warned you, his words still ringing in your head.

You scare me.

I never slow down like this.

I ruin good things

Sometimes you stare at the text thread that still has his number. No messages. Not even a dot-dot-dot. Just the space where something could have been.

“Hope you're doing okay.”

You delete it.

> “Was it real for you?”

Delete that too.

Because if it was real, it wouldn’t be this.

Maybe it's time to move on.

---

A couple months later, a different court, somewhere in Atlanta. You're not there to see him. Hell, you didn’t even know he was playing this tournament.

You're passing by, near the food vendors right outside the tennis stadium when you spot a familiar figure. He’s in a grey t-shirt, hair damp, headphones slung around his neck.

For a second, he doesn’t notices you.

But then he looks up.

And stops.

Your eyes meet for a moment and no one moves.

“Hey,” he says. Like it hasn’t been months. Like he didn’t disappear without a word.

Then he smiles. Small, tired… Real.

You cross your arms and you can't help the words that leave your mouth.

“You still giving out your number and vanishing after you get too close?”

He winces. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Wind in the trees. People walking past, none of them aware of the way time just stopped for them.

He steps a little closer. Not too close.

“I wanted to call you. A lot.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That I was just another layover between tournaments? That what happened was forgettable?”

Patrick swallows. His voice drops. “It wasn’t.”

And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d said nothing.

You nod. “Okay.”

He glances down at the ground. Then back up. “I want to get better. At staying. At being… decent.

You soften. Just a little. “I hope you do.”

He exhales like he was holding that breath the whole time. “Are you—?”

“I’m good,” you say. “Really.”

“Still chasing lightning?” he asks, gently teasing.

You tilt your head. “No. I think I’m done chasing.”

Patrick nods, slowly. Thoughtful. Regret in his eyes, but not drowning in it.

They stand there for a moment longer. Neither says a thing.

And maybe that’s what growing up is — not making someone stay, but letting them leave knowing they mattered.

You take a step back.

“Take care, Patrick.”

“You too.”

And then you turn, walking away, your heart a little heavier, but your spine straighter.

Behind you, you hear him say it — too quiet for anyone else to catch:

“I still think about you”

You don't look back, but this time, you smile for real

---

THE END

[oldfashionedmorphine]

here’s a little more of that scene i shared yesterday, closer to the end of it, on account of it being mother’s day.

happy mother’s day to karen wheeler 💝💐—i think a lot of the fandom misunderstands you (heck i think i may have been swayed into believing some of the misinformation for a time as well) but you’re a great mom and you didn’t deserve the hell i put you through in this story!! 🥲

—————

“Oh,” Mike says, then after a beat he adds, “all this time I thought that—I dunno…I guess I just figured you wouldn’t approve or something. Y’know…‘cause Dad didn’t seem to.”

Karen sighs. “I suppose I can’t blame you for thinking that…and that’s my fault. I should’ve—” she starts to say, but then the words seem to die in her throat. He watches as she starts to chew on her bottom lip, with tears welling up in her eyes, and he can’t stand to see her blame herself for all of this since he’s the one who didn’t have the guts to tell her in the first place. He’s about to say as much, but before he can utter a word, she continues, “I think—I think the longer that you went without ever bringing it up, the more and more I started to think it was only a phase or that perhaps I misunderstood and assumed the wrong thing. But I’m so sorry, Mike—I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that you had to hide something like this from me, especially for this long—all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy…and if being with Will makes you happy, then I’m happy. Okay?”

“Okay.” He manages a smile. “I love you, Mom.”

“And I love you. Always. Nothing could ever change that.”

—————

and nothing quite like finally sharing your truth with your mom when you’re 33 years old and stuck in a hospital bed because you almost killed yourself (accidentally?) trying to drown out all your grief in alcohol after your sister died and then realizing how wrong you’ve been your whole damn life 😔

tagging some fans (i need to make a new list cause i can never remember everyone who wanted to be tagged for this story while making these posts and i’m not sure everyone on the old list is still interested—anyway if you wanna be added or removed let me know in the replies!)

@boahey @magentamee @total-serene560 @greenfiend @foodiewithdahoodie @rebellius @suzieburself @krakoansam @castelobyers @smalltownwheeler @love-kurdt

[nite-puff]

i said i was gonna do this a long ass time ago. but here we go

RANDO MICHI HEADCANONS PART DOS!!!!! BECAUSE TODAY’S THE DAY I HEADCANON AS HIS BIRTHDAY!!

here’s part 1, which mostly goes into a lot of what my version of his backstory is (some headcanons from that list provide context for some stuff on this list). this is just some more add ons. this’ll most likely not be as long as part 1. but eh. let’s get started.

- “michi” was around before “takemichi.” it was the nickname his mom gave him when he was a baby because he reminded her of a cat. he was only called michi by his mom at first, but his dad always called him by his given name.

- he was the loner type before he met mondo. didn’t have friends and didn’t like being approached by classmates in fear that the girls would judge him and the boys would pick on him. he was just content with eating his lunch at the back of the class or a part of the school that was usually empty.

- when he met mondo, he introduced himself as “michi.” he associates the nickname with good things and fond memories. so he’d rather let this new boy who he really wants to be friends with call him that rather than his given name, which his father always said in a way that put a pit in his stomach.

- as their friendship started to blossom, michi always found himself admiring mondo. whether it be his mannerisms, the way he dressed, the way he spoke, his strength, everything. at first he thought he had a crush on mondo, but the thought of that made him want to jump in a ditch. so he just kept sitting there, wondering why this boy captivated him.

- “why do ya keep starin’ at me like that?? you got somethin’ ya wanna say??”

- “i wish i could swap bodies with you.”

- “o-oh??”

- it took mondo some getting used to when it came to michi’s straightforwardness.

- i like imagining how a friendship between a young mondo “i need to touch everyone i care about all the time or else how will they know i love them” owada and a young takemichi “don’t you dare FUCKING TOUCH ME or i’ll bite you” yukimaru would’ve started out.

- it started out bumpy. but they got the hang of it. the occasional shoulder pat and fist bump and then, when michi started to open up to mondo more, head pats.

-michi would still deck mondo if he ever tried to pull a “sneak attack” on him. even as they got older.

- i think the funniest possible future non-despair au career for him is a lawyer. look at my lawyer dawg. im going to jail.

- to take it a little more seriously. he’s a defense lawyer who defends a lot of young street kids that get caught up with the law while trying to fend for themselves. just to kind of bring it full circle.

- i know i headcanoned him as allergic to dogs last post. but im starting to walk back on that.

- prolly because i thought of him adopting a really big “scary” dog when he gets older, to contrast mondo and chuck.

- she’s a pitbull named duckie. she was rescued from a dog fighting ring and is a huge sweetheart.

- training her was very natural due to his experience from being mondo’s friend and right-hand man.

- mondo’s nickname for him is “michi.” daiya’s nickname for him is “shrimp.”

- he’s almost always underestimated by new gang members. especially those who want to join the elite guard. he always makes sure to remind them that he’s the lead guard for a reason.

- he can kind of be a showman with his fighting. something about bosozoku being inherently flashy and him being good enough at the technique that he can have fun with it.

- takaaki tried to show him how to use a gun after the tragedy. michi was really bad at it.

- hiroko really wants to get to know him and get him to trust her. she’s a lot of her younger self in him and wants him to know that she’ll be there for him as he grows up.

- he eventually gets a couple of tattoos to honor the owadas and the rest of the gang.

- he keeps a shrine for them as well. he occasionally prays at it, even if he’s not really superstitious. he swears he feels their presence sometimes despite that.

that’s it for now! i love this freak!

[psychopomp-namine]

yingdu episode 5 spoilers

ohhh my god this is everything I want from cheng xiaoshi. yes. perfect. sorry, but I'm a cheng xiaoshi whump liker and link click always brings out the best of them in episode 5 of each season.

there's just something cathartic about how when cheng xiaoshi becomes an emotional mess, it's also when he's most disconnected with the people he knows (physically, as he's diving in a photo and his only link to his home timeframe is a disembodied lu guang in his head) but it's also when he's most connected with strangers (when their own personal trauma lines up with his). to me, it's a showcase of empathy and a strange manifestation of his own agency. something about how the disconnect gives him the space to blow up, and the connection heightens it and grants him permission, almost, to express his anger more freely for his own sake and for another person's behalf.

like. listen, okay, I'm gonna ramble now because cheng xiaoshi is my favorite character in this entire show, but listen. sometimes some fans will conflate adjectives to his character that are usually associated with his character archetype, but they aren't necessarily true about him as a character. and I don't mean it in a, "he's not like that because he grows out of those traits" kind of way. I mean it in a, "he was never like that" kind of way.

one of those adjectives, for me, is when people call him immature. he isn't! to me! imo! he's got big emotions, yes, but I personally don't think the presence of big emotions indicates anything about maturity. because you know what? as long as his primary trauma (feelings of abandonment) isn't touched, he is very good at handling interpersonal conflicts, and that's what's interesting to me.

qiao ling hides relevant information from him? he removes himself from the situation to give himself space and sort out his feelings. he tells her he's fine and that he'll be back.

post-earthquake arc? I'll just copy paste what I already said in a previous ask:

what initially got me was when I was first watching S1, I thought the earthquake arc would have devastating effects on [shiguang's] relationship. listen, I didn’t know what I was getting into with link click, but I thought that was expected. it’s ripe for drama! but how do they handle the fight? they put their side business on hold but they still keep being roommates. they still do their day job. they still talk. they’re still upset but they give each other space but not to the point where they can’t stand existing in each other’s spaces. that’s when I realized that oh, they really trust each other. they have a very solid foundation for their relationship that not even the earthquake arc can break. they’re pretty level-headed about this, actually, all things considered? all the doomed yaoi stuff came later, but that’s just the cherry on top. it’s the way they handled conflict and disappointment in S1 that got me.

okay, protect-namine, why go through that whole tangent? BECAUSE! circling back to yingdu episode 5, we finally, finally get to see cheng xiaoshi let out some of his anger. and it's precisely because his primary trauma point was on the table. he can forgive a friend lying, and he can forgive being told not to change the past. because at the end of the day, qiao ling and lu guang stayed. they never left him.

but he cannot handle abandonment. he cannot understand why people leave. he cannot understand why he's been clinging on to false hope this entire time. and more importantly, he cannot understand how someone can be such a hypocrite about it. "a man who'd rather be kind to strangers than face his own son" like fuck man. cheng weimin you fucked up so bad.

it's the disconnect/connect thing again too. thematically, it makes sense. when does cheng xiaoshi blow up? when he's alone, far away from the people that ground him. alone, the feeling he hates the most. he's not even in his own body. he blows up when he's inhabiting a stranger's. he doesn't even get to be angry as cheng xiaoshi.

how fucked up is that. man. I love him so much.

also I'm going crazyyyy over the family themes going on in link click. much to say about the show itself across all seasons (the twins, qiao ling and cheng xiaoshi, even the liu siblings), but for this episode... god. okay this is slight speculation territory now and I'll try to keep this very short, because this is only tangential to the post. but. imagine xia fei getting the good parent figure in cheng weimin that cheng xiaoshi never had. and he doesn't know!! he's bitter inside about his dad and he's having hotpot with xia fei and he doesn't know he was in that school!! fuck that's so good. that's so juicy.

okay, sorry, I have a lot of feelings about cheng xiaoshi. he's my link click blorbo of all time, and I love when he experiences The Horrors™ because it's also when other sides of him gets to shine.

on a brighter note:

VEIN AND CHENG XIAOSHI MEETING AGAIN!!! their greeting was so cute. also omg does xia fei know? that his boss is maybe possibly a cannibal? actually, wait, I don't think I'd be surprised if he does know.

ah and finally. finally:

I've been having many thoughts on how yingdu approaches "friendships" and their transactional nature (mostly with regards to liu xiao) but I mostly thought they're headcanon stuff. but now. I'm so so happy that episode 5 is bringing out more of the quid pro quo theme. liu xiao with the gift giving. wang qing's "friends" (bullies) demanding her to cheat on the exam for them. and now, vein and cheng xiaoshi having a friendly greeting but also exchanging favors. so good. so good. it goes along with how there's so much handshakes and handholding this season (not just with lu guang and cheng xiaoshi, but with cheng xiaoshi and the the antagonist trio too, who have all met him by "helping" him in some way). something something trust and favors. probably something that deserves its own post though, but I wanted to point this out because I am soooo here for that. it's goes hand in hand (ha!) with the whole fraud/lies vs innocence/honesty theme this season, and deals/contracts being an equalizer to the two. very good. very tasty.

edit: ooh they also point to this in the YE6 trailer too. nice, nice. if you knew someone's true colors, would you still be their friend?

man, I love episode 5. it just hits all the stuff I personally wanted to see. the only flaw is that we still haven't seen the older version of wang qing, but yeah I kinda expected that they'll hide her until episode 6. they're giving her the liu xiao treatment from season 2. sigh. really wish she'd keep showing up in S3, we need more female characters in this show 🙏

[silusvesuius]

n*loth not being able to bag anyone over the (human term) age of 25-30 at most is the only logical and real conclusion to me because it can be just explained away as him wanting to prove and control everything and anyone (Cus he's a man!) but being stuck in that demographic because his unbearable and vile personality is a force that nobody can look past once they've outgrown the possible fear and idolization period of anyone but also n*loth in particular.

[sepiasys]

I

Feel like I'm going to die

I'm sorry I'm just really hungry and anxious and freezing to death (metaphorically speaking)(I literally cannot stop shaking/shivering)

[anonyanonymouse]

I'm so disappointed I won't be able to immediately tune in on the twst update like usual 😭 I'm pretty sure this is the first time I won't be watching it right after it's up, and not only that, but my early morning obligation preventing me from enjoying the update is going to last FIVE hours 😭😭😭

[cowboygreeting]

art © starparkdesigns

task 001. 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛.

last updated 02/20/2024

BASICS.

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 seth hiroshi masters — seth hiroshi from birth, masters 1996-onwards, following his legal adoption.

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 cowboy greeting professionally, apparently; gnomerodeo if you know him from online. believe it or not, it is a coincidence.

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 will sharpe

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 thin scar cutting through his eyebrow, healed-broken nose, occasional facial twitch/spasm

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 / 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

japanese maple (right shoulder); canada goose in flight (right bicep); soot sprites (left forearm); kermode bear [spirit bear] (crook of left elbow); pistols pointing down (matching, both hips); portuguese water dog [his childhood dog sam] in play (left calf)

pierced right ear, small gold hoop

𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐃.𝐎.𝐁. 38 years old / 2.2.1986

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 aquarius sun: unconventional, abstract, boundary-pushing, roots for the underdog; scorpio moon: intense, passionate, dramatic, struggles to let others in; sagittarius rising: independent, optimistic, confident, charismatic yet blunt and critical

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 powell river, b.c. / brampton, ontario

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘

ellen and rod masters (parents); mackenzie irish (sister); brandon irish (brother-in-law); june irish (niece)

kaiko mcintyre-masters (daughter, lives with her mother) — his favourite person on planet earth, hands down, would do anything for her, keeps several pictures of her in his wallet, will not be letting anyone here who doesn't already know she exists know about her.

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 cis man, he/him

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 gay

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 single, never married.

enjoys hookups and casual relationships; has dated on-and-off; last serious relationship ended several years ago; says he's prioritizing work and his daughter, truly has no interest in committing to the people he meets.

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 thoughtful, considerate, loyal, obedient

𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 timid, disconnected, tendency towards disinvestment, capacity for fixation/malicious compliance

𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 vaping, compulsive gaming, more-than-occasional drug and alcohol use, late night wandering, not texting back

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 gaming (particularly world of warcraft and rust, social games); bass guitar; powerlifting; cooking; rec-league rugby

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 (𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄) tobiko — tiny crusty white mutt. sometimes known as tobi or toebeans. currently being cared for by his parents.

THE FOUNDATION.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 jr. researcher

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍(𝐒) jr. researcher for the reintegration department; field analyst doing site evaluations on a number of mtfs — some might call this "glorified operative hall monitor", which he would resent

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 last worked for the anomalous entities engagement division (aeed), researching the efficacy of humane containment procedures and enrichment programs against more traditional methods of containment — some might describe this as "glorified scp babysitter", which he wouldn't necessarily object to

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒

formal credentials include: a b.a. in psychology, with a focus in cognitive and behavioural psych; a masters of social work, with a focus in public policy and family systems; several years of experience writing policy in the non-profit sector, several years of experience working with vulnerable clients in the field

informal credentials include: an impossibly high tolerance for bureaucratic bullshit, an iron stomach, thicker skin than you'd imagine, genuinely sense of care for those around him, not caring whether or not he personally gets fired, fluency in boardspeak

EXTRAS.

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘 to be added.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 to be added.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 to be added.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 gideon nav, the locked tomb; dr. wilson, house; antigone, jean anouilh's antigone; camilla hect, the locked tomb; oh dae-su, oldboy

𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 to be expanded upon. for the time being, see my cg tag.

[izzy-b-hands]

my body needs to get its shit together lmao

[trans-leek-cookie]

someone talking about the ways media and common tropes/depictions of things that are either explicitly or implicitly linked to marginalized people are demonized and presented badly is not a fucking opportunity for you to flex how you're doing it Differently And Better

[neverendingford]

.