#actually talk to people about what they feel and like and want and do the same in return about your own feels

[gothicfied]

Hey, i love your writing. I was wondering if you could do a Dae-ho fic where the reader is apart of his group (with gi-hun and stuff) but used to date Thanos, who is trying to win her back. She asks the boys to help stop her from going back to him cause she can;' help but want to. Later dae ho asks why she dated thanos cause he was toxic and she admits she feels she doesn't deserve better. Dae ho confesses and promises that he will give her better. I don't know if this makes sense, but thanks :)

Why can't I let go? - Kang Dae-ho / Player 388

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho / Player 388 x fem!reader (maybe slight Thanos x reader)

Summary: Seeing your ex months after your break up made you question things again, but Dae-ho gave you a reason not to go back to him.

Warnings: Mentions of death/dying, gunshots (typical squid game stuff), other than that it's just fluff, not proof read (english isn't my first language)

Word count: ~ 1.6k

A/N: hi and thank you sm!! I hope this comes close to what you had in mind (:

What made being in this slaughter house even worse for you, besides the fact that you had to worry about dying every few seconds, was the fact that your literal ex boyfriend somehow also ended up here. Well, actually, you knew exactly why Thanos, as he liked to call himself now, entered the games as well — Not only did he basically bankrupt himself with investing in that stupid crypto currency, no, he took most of your savings too and created unnecessary money problems for you. That was obviously the break-up-reason, although he just wasn't the best boyfriend over all.

His presence already pissed you off when spotting him in the crowd after initially waking up in that uncomfortable bunk bed. Thanos only spotted you when walking up the weird, colorful stairs to the first game. Pushing other players to the side, he made his way up to you and tapped you on the shoulder, non-stop apologizing for what he had done to you. It has been like that since you broke things off with him, but you made the effort to block him on everything and simply not answer the door when he came by every now and then to win you back.

Thanos was annoying and dangerous, as it showed itself in Red-Light-Green-Light. Not only was he a junkie, he was also seemingly ready to sacrifice the life of other people for his own benefit. At first, when Player 456 yelled out that everyone who got 'disqualified' would essentially get shot, you didn't want to believe him. Even Thanos leaned over to you, much to your annoyance, and said "What the fuck is this guy on?". He's one to talk, huh. In the end, when Player 456 was right, you immediately took his advice and voted 'X' during the first voting.

"Thanks for saving us back there." you said to Player 456, hesitantly approaching him and his friend, Player 390. They introduced themselves as Gi-hun and Jung-bae, inviting you to sit down and eat with them. A few moments later another young man dropped down from his bed and agreed with you, also claiming that how Gi-hun acted was heroic. "Why'd you vote like that then?" you asked Dae-ho after he sat down next to you, pointing at the blue badge upon his chest. "Ah, you know," feeling like he got caught, he kept looking away from your eyes, "the money now is not nearly enough to pay off my debts. But, don't worry, I'll definitely vote different next time!" You guys continued talking and even laughing a bit, telling each other about your life outside of here.

You, alongside Jung-bae, found out that he was a marine. Both were actually, immediately finding common ground. Watching them joke around with each other, you couldn't help but smile — Which stopped as soon as you looked to the other side, to the people who voted 'O', and spotted Thanos staring at you. He was clearly not happy with how you voted or the fact that another man made you laugh, even though you only met him a few minutes ago. That's just how Thanos is, you feared: always jealous about someone, worried you're going to cheat on him, but would then flirt with his female fans in the same breath. He always claimed it was because they were his fans and they loved to feel like he was reachable, but that was never a justification for you.

For some reason, that you didn't pay attention to, a little fight between the two sides broke out, and Thanos thought this was the best time to drag you away from all that and talk with you. You saw him stand up and approach you, to which you already shook your head, but when he grabbed your arm and just took you with him, you couldn't do much. "Why would you do that?" he asked you, his eyes staring into yours. "What? What did I do now? Can't you just leave me alone?" You crossed your arms in front if your chest and just looked down at your feet, because, if you were being honest with yourself, when your ex boyfriend looked at you like that.. it kind of did something to you. Perhaps regret your decision.

"Baby, seriously?"

"Don't fucking call me that."

"Come on, I know you love it, princess.."

"Get to the point."

You were annoyed, agitated, but somehow still wanted to hear what he had to say. Thanos huffed, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why did you vote like that? If we play just two more games, we could pay off our debts and maybe.. try again?" He grabbed you by your shoulders, shaking you a little so you'd look up at him again. When that didn't work, he wrapped his arms around your waist and tried to pull you close, but that was your breaking point. Forcefully, you ripped yourself out of his grasp and started walking back to your group again: "Don't even start with that. You ruined my life."

In a twisted way, you felt bad. His proposal almost, almost, made you give in. It was just nice to see a familiar face and hear a familiar voice in this environment, it brought you comfort to know that there was someone you shared so many special memories with that you could turn to. And, you would, just if it wasn't Choi Su-bong. "Is everything okay? Was he giving you trouble?" Jung-bae asked, looking like he was ready to fight him. Actually, he was probably ready to fight everyone who voted 'O'. "No.. no, I'm okay." Without another word you sat back down next to Dae-ho, picking away at your fingernails.

"Who is he?"

"What?"

"That guy.. who is he?"

"To me? My ex boyfriend."

The man let out an 'aha', just nodding along. When he looked at Thanos and then back to you, he couldn't really believe it — That purple-haired guy was almost the complete opposite of you. You were pretty, seemed to be kind and gentle and Thanos was just kind of.. Dae-ho would say you're way out of his league. "If he's bothering you, just tell me, okay? I'll take care of it." You looked at the former marine, giving him a smile when noticing that he was serious about that. You thanked him quickly and looked away, feeling your cheeks heat up slightly.

After surviving the second game together, Dae-ho and you have gotten closer incredibly fast. He was mesmerized by you, to say the least, and you appreciated that you had someone to rely on at all times. That still didn't stop Thanos from perusing you, though, it actually was the complete opposite. A few minutes before lights out he tried to talk to you again, following you to your bed, which was right behind Dae-ho's. The two of you slept head to head together, only a metal bar separating the beds.

"Please.. just listen to me! I miss you.. I swear, I'll vote 'X' the next time!" Thanos' annoying voice rang through your ears and no matter how often you told him to leave you alone, he didn't want to understand it. At some point he got annoyed and just walked off himself, sighing and planning to try again next day. With a quiet groan, you let your head fall back against your pillow, Dae-ho watching you the whole time from his side. He felt like it wasn't his place to continue to ask you about the situation when you didn't bring it up yourself, but he was still curios as to why you'd ever be with that guy.

"Hey, are you okay? Do you need me to say something to him next time?"

"No.. It's fine, I can handle it. It's just- complicated, that's all." You were tired, your mind was reeling — People dying was stressful enough and now you had to handle your immature and manipulative ex boyfriend as well. "You don't have to answer this but," Dae-ho tucked some of his hair behind his ears, sitting up so he could properly look at you, "why did you date him? You're too good for him." His little comment made you chuckle, even though he was right and it probably wasn't all that funny. "I don't know.. to be honest, at that time I just felt like I didn't deserve any better."

Dae-ho was appalled by your words, his face scrunching up. How could you even talk about yourself like that? "You do deserve better. You deserve the world." His tone wasn't angry, but definitely a lot firmer than before, showing you that he actually meant what he said. "What?" you asked him, also slowly sitting up now. "I'm serious, you're kind and smart and deserve a better life, a better boyfriend." His words made your heart beat a little faster.

"He doesn't deserve you. I would treat you be-" As soon as Dae-ho noticed what he just said himself, he immediately stopped talking, looking at you with wide eyes. "You would treat me better?" Your voice was laced with amusement, maybe teasing him a little now. That question made him stutter a quiet 'Yeah..' and it was clear how taken aback Dae-ho was from his own words. He didn't want you to know, at least not now. He knew this wasn't an ideal place to develop a crush on a girl he could lose in an instant, but he couldn't control his feelings now, could he?

"A lot better even."

"Then show me.."

[meglosthegreat]

So... everyone pretty much hated Veilguard's "secret ending", right? Beyond speculation about the Executors themselves, I haven't exactly seen anyone excited about its presence, and for that matter, haven't seen many people talking about it at all.

The closest way I can describe my initial reaction to it was an immediate, visceral disgust. I think I remember uttering at my screen something along the lines of "Fuck off! What the fuck?! Are you fucking kidding me???" and ever since then I've wanted to put into words exactly why it made me feel that way.

For the 88% of you (according to Steam achievement statistics) who didn't see this ending due to not picking up three very specific codex entries by complete chance, you can watch it here. In short, the clip depicts a mysterious voice who sounds suspiciously like Matt Mercer talking about how a group of shadowy figures has "balanced, guided, and whispered" over scenes of villains from the previous DA games, implying that these shadowy figures have been at least partially responsible for all of the bad things happening in Thedas, towards some unknown nefarious purpose.

Now obviously, this sucks. This is hamfisted, unimaginative writing that simultaneously retcons and re-contextualizes elements from DA's past that absolutely no one thought needed further explanation, as well as being exactly the kind of irritating sequel-bait tactics that people have largely grown tired of these days. But why does it suck so much? Why did I feel such palpable distaste for this scene?

For starters, it simply reeks of entitlement, and a lack of respect towards Bioware's own past games. Remember those villains you loved and thought were compelling? Well, their own personal, very complex and thought-out motivations were really just the Executors whispering in their ears the whole time! Loghain making a difficult and calculated decision at great personal cost for a greater good he truly believed in? Executors. Bartrand succumbing to his own greed to the point that he betrays his only family and devolves into a tragic husk of himself? Executors. Corypheus and the Magisters breaching the Golden fucking City??? Executors.

Ignore the infuriating lore ramifications for a second and consider: what do all of these things have in common? They're all instances of complex character motivation; of people in this world doing things for their own reasons that ended up having massive ramifications. In short, they're not events that can be explained easily in terms of black and white morality. And from what we've seen in Veilguard, the current dev team has a serious inability to work with any story elements that do not have absolute moral clarity: the Venatori and the Antaam are Evil. The Shadow Dragons and the Crows are Good. Any nuance; any potential questioning of this duality is quickly explained away or snuffed out.

And that's exactly what they're trying to do, retroactively, with the rest of the series. Having a hard time deciding whether Loghain was right or wrong? Well, worry not, the Executors are Evil and if they were guiding him the whole time, then what he did must have been Evil too! Grappling with how the plot of DA2 was about the inevitable tragedy of a series of oppressive systems reaching their natural breaking point? Well, wrestle no further, for if the Executors were involved then Meredith and Bartrand must've been Evil, no question! What the Magisters did was definitely Not Great, and what do you know, there were consequences for it that they and the whole world very much did pay for. But if the Executors were behind it all, then it was someone else's fault, some Evil power reaching in and making them do what they did, rather than their actions being the result of a horrific series of power abuses done by actual people.

Which leads me to where my initial disgust comes in. Because in a world which has always had core themes of power and its many abuses, actions that have consequences, and the idea that there are no true higher beings; every horrible thing that has ever been done was done by people, the simple act of putting shadowy figures behind key moments in history completely debases and neuters all of those themes. The whole point of Dragon Age as a series up until this point has been to illustrate the complex relationships people and societies have with power, choice, and morality. To remove that link - to place an external force between those characters and their choices - is to rob the series of any meaning whatsoever.

There is a staggering difference between the messaging of a game that tells you ordinary people are to blame for society's wrongs and a game that tells you a secret shadowy faction of evil forces are to blame for them. The former invites thought about one's own society; it has the potential to be uncomfortable and difficult to reconcile with. The latter assures its audience of the fantasy it is couched in. It gives the audience a boogeyman to be angry at, and in so doing deflects any potential for introspection. And that, I think, is the real point of the scene in question.

In a time where our media has become inundated with bland, unchallenging liberal politics, the idea of "cozy" stories have become a growing trend. These types of stories often sport a broad rejection of complicated themes, painful emotions, and nuance, preferring instead to provide a "safe" place to escape to. And with that "safe" space comes a directive not to engage in critical thinking about a work, and not to draw any message from that work and apply it to the real world. Yet this is exactly where Bioware seems to be heading nowadays.

Veilguard has already been faced with heavy criticism about playing things overly safe; removing anything that might be potentially uncomfortable for the player. And the end credits scene is no different. Don't think about things too hard, it whispers to you seductively, in Matt Mercer's soothingly Evil voice. See? The Bad Guys were behind everything, all along.

[navybrat817]

Hiiii Navy- how is our biker Bucky? I'm excited that his reader is a nurse because I am also a nurse...!

I'm glad you're excited, and I may have to get more of your insight as this goes on. And how he's doing...

Thinking About You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky's thinking about you after meeting you.

Word Count: Over 500

Warnings: Mix of fluff and dirty thoughts, love at first sight, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I'll try to post more of this AU once more. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo and divider by the incredible @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky’s thinking about your beautiful eyes and smile, but how you’re much more than a pretty face and how you must really be some sort of angel. You were a nurse, after all. Nurses helped provide comfort, protection, and care to others. You helped people heal. And, fuck, do you look good in white.

He’s thinking about how you listened to him when he talked. You were actually interested in his writing and the bar. He hoped you’d stop by at some point. Maybe he could convince you to stay after closing so the two of you could have the place to yourself. He’d even share some of his writing with you.

He’s thinking about how your eyes will light up when he brings the club to the blood drive tomorrow. At least, he hopes they’ll light up and that you don’t be afraid. His brothers could come across as intimidating from a first glance, but they were all good guys and the drive was for a good cause. You also didn’t seem put off that he was a biker.

He’s thinking about what an idiot he is for not asking for your number, and how he should’ve gone after you when you left. If he had your number right now, he’d message you just to say hi. He wasn’t leaving the drive tomorrow without asking for it.

He’s thinking about what your past relationships were like. How did your exes treat you? He’ll treat you well. Why didn’t the relationships last? Did anyone break your trust? If someone hurt you he’ll take the pain away. If the pain is no longer there he’ll do his best to help you should it surface unexpectedly.

He’s thinking about how he wants to take care of you, how he wants to learn your love language, and earn your trust. He wants to be your friend and have you confide in him, to learn your fears so he can protect you from them, and to learn how to make you smile again when you’re feeling down or hurt.

He’s thinking about how he wants to confide in you, too. To be vulnerable and open. It isn’t easy to let people in, but you make it seem effortless for him. He wants you to see every side of himself, every shadow, and tell you every story about every scar and tattoo.

He’s thinking about you as he lays in bed, fisting his cock, imagining the sounds you’d make as you lay beneath him. Or on top of him. How you’ll melt on his tongue. How blissed out you’d look when you fall apart. He knows you’ll feel like heaven when he’s inside you if you ever let him get that far.

He’s thinking about you post orgasm when he catches his breath. It’s a little scary that he already wants you to be his girl, and he refuses to believe it’s just infatuation. It’s something deeper. And if you give him a chance, he’ll make sure you never regret it.

I guess we can consider this part of Ficlet Friday? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

[gryffisgae]

Inversely, as someone AFAB, I was indirectly taught that sex is something that men want ALL THE TIME and that any sex I had with a male partner was something I was *giving* him. But then I started dating a really affectionate guy with a much lower sex drive than me, and I was constantly really hurt because I was like, Your whole thing is supposed to be wanting me sexually. You're supposed to be asking ME for sex. I'm supposed to be the object of desire that relents to your primal masculine urges or whatever. What do you mean you just want to hug and talk about my day?

I started to feel really shitty and unwanted before I realized that AMABs aren't these like. Rampant sex machines. They are also people with varying levels of desire at any given time. If I am allowed to say "Fuck Yes", he is also allowed to say "No" or "Maybe Later" or "Can We Just Cuddle Actually."

I cannot express how jarring it was after being raised by a "Porn Addiction Coach" to get into a relationship with a woman and come face to face with the fact that she did actually want me to sexually desire her.

Like, in Evangelical Purity Culture, male desire was basically poison. It was a threat. It was this constant temptation that would destroy everything. And even after leaving, in the sort of queer, feminist spaces i spend most of my time in that wasn't something that pretty much anyone was spending time actively dissuading me from feeling.

But my desire is good. It's not something that I'm being accepted in spite of. It's a positive thing. It's a bonus. Not even just vanilla stuff, all the stuff I'd convinced myself were these weird terrible desires that were shameful to have.

It honestly took me over a decade to fully accept that. To stop dissociating during sex and confront that I was, in fact, being a massive perv and that was fantastic and preferable and that I could accept that into my self-image without shame or self hatred.

But it's important to do. It's important to leave relationships that don't welcome that part of you. To know that your sexuality is valuable and valid and worth owning and celebrating. Because the alternative is just...not being. Either existing as yourself and repressing the part of your identity that is sexual or allowing that sexuality to exist but turning off your self while it does.

[queeniewithabeanie]

The Nappers

Dpxdc Prompt #10

Danny was really excited to spend the summer with his second cousin(?) he didn't really remember, but apparently Jack Fenton's cousin was Gotham billionaire Bruce Wayne, a serial adopter.

Jazz had discovered the connection and gave him a call to see if he'd mind Danny staying over for summer because Danny decided he was going to tell his parents at the end of summer about his ghost problem, and Jazz wanted him to have a safety net.

He didn't really have a big family at home, with his parents being largely... absent and Jazz moving to Gotham for college. It would be great to be in a house that wasn't empty again.

Now if only his newly discovered family could stay awake long enough for Danny to talk to them.

"So how's living with our cousins?" Jazz asked him through his Fenton-phone. He flopped onto his bed and groaned.

"They're all seem nice but I haven't really seen enough of them to know yet."

"Danny, you've already been there a week, shouldn't you know them at least a little bit? You usually warm up to people quickly, as long as they aren't trying to kill you."

"Man I kinda wish they were out to get me, then I'd probably see more of them than I have already."

"..."

"..."

"Okay Danny walk me through our family, and what you know so far about them."

"Well first there's Dick, he apparently lives in Bludhaven and supposedly comes back to Gotham to visit fairly often, haven't seen any of him yet though."

"Then there's Jason, I've seen him come over after dinner a couple of times, but he's seemed in a really bad mood and I'm getting weird vibes from him so I haven't talked to him much yet either."

"Cass, Steph, Tim, Damian, and Bruce are the ones that actually live here at the manor and outside of when I first arrived I haven't actually seen them awake enough to talk to me. Anytime I've caught a glimpse of them they're taking naps and I'd feel bad waking them up, Tim especially (he looks like he needs the rest)."

"What are they, nocturnal or something?

"That's what I thought too! But the Manor is even more dead during the night than the day. If I had wanted to live with a bunch of zombies I'd have spent summer in the zone, not come all the way here."

"The only people that have stayed awake long enough for me to actually get to know them are Duke and Alfred! Duke's great, but he seems to have a day job so I only see him for breakfast and dinner and any time I can catch him before he sleeps after. Alfred's amazing, but he already has so much to do around the Manor, I feel bad bothering him."

"It is only the first week you're there, and there was a huge Arkham breakout your first day so everybody around Gotham is a bit tense while the Bats are trying to recatch everyone. Could you give it another week for me? See if it'll be an option for if our parents react badly?"

"For you, Jazz, I'll give it another week, but I can't just trade one empty house for another."

"Thanks, little brother."

"Love you, Jazz, bye."

Danny hung up the phone and sighed, he new there was something off with his cousins, but he couldn't quite place it. Constantly napping, disappearing during the nights, but always on guard when they were awake.

He had a week to figure it out, but if he didn't there'd be no real lost love. He'd come up with some excuse, stay with Jazz for the summer or something. If his parents reacted badly and he didn't have this safety net, it'd be difficult sure, but Danny and Jazz would figure it out.

Danny thought it would be nice to have some other family that had his back for once, but hey, maybe he just had shitty luck when it came to blood relations.

[gatheredfates]

Playerscope, modding and the hunt for aesthetic: why you should be more upset about mods and community expectations than you already are.

I love that this sounds like an academic paper but HONESTLYYYY. I need to put my thoughts to paper in regards to my burnout with xiv, otherwise I think I'll go insane. This is a controversial yet brave post. I am well aware that I partake in some of the things I'm going to be critiquing; aka, "thank you, dinklebottom, we live in a society." I'm also not critiquing mods from a space of offering more accessibility to people and/or facilitating representation not currently offered within the context of the game. There is nuance to every discussion and I'm coming at this from an overarching view around mods and community expectations/standards rather than player joy. I hope this makes sense. I'm also predominately writing from a roleplay perspective, though I'm sure a lot of what I end up saying can reflect in the art party/social space. Just know if I haven't mentioned the latter it's because that's not my scene and I don't pretend to know otherwise.

Anyway. For those who don't know, there's a new mod that's causing some strife in the xiv community called Playerscope. Here is the reddit thread about it. I'm not going to be talking too much about the mod in general because that's not the point of this post, but seeing discussion around it today just made me feel more exhausted than I already am when it comes to modding and the xiv community around it. It made me realise... I'm actually really sick to death of mods. I'm sick to death of what they're doing to the community when it comes to gatekeeping, policing and in general the interactions we have with each other in the community.

Let me explain: I wrote a post about the roleplay mod on bsky that kind of articulates at a surface level what I mean.

I think what makes me sad, which I'm sure is echoed by a lot of people, is that mods feel like the standard now rather than an option and that there's a certain expectation for people to have them if they want to engage with facets of the community—whether intentional or not.

Unlike XIV, WoW has a supported mod scene (within reason) and TRP 2 and the like have been accepted for years now. In a space where people can't slap on an RP tag, having that tool readily identifies you as a writer/roleplayer and you can include as much or as little of your character as you like. The general idea is if you have one of these tools enabled, you're a roleplayer to some capacity. You can dress up the profile to a certain degree, you can add links and supported pictures, but you're mostly reliant on what you put to paper in regards to your character. Even then, I find filling out what my character is doing currently and marking the rest as a WIP doesn't necessarily exclude me from roleplay if I want to find it. A lot of people will do that and a super simple description to incite interest around their oc.

These days in XIV... I don't know. I do think communities have gotten more insular—it's why I'm so pedantic about trying to find them for the Compendium—but I also think mods and, to a certain extent, the 'nightclub' scene have gotten in the way of it as well. My argument is such.

I want to go to an event (for example sake, I'll call it Seascape). In order to fully participate, I may need:

Their discord.

A roleplay addon.

A carrd/google site/etc.

Their synchshell (including mods, mare and everything else)

Potentially a mod of some description so people know I can see theirs (and vice versa).

Also that your mod isn't made by a shitty person.

Appropriate understanding of the scene/social space.

Some luck and a prayer that it's an inclusive space and not a closed rp group advertising as being open and/or a mod showcase advertising itself as something different.

Like??? Holy shit you guys. If you are someone who doesn't want to mod because you're worried about repercussions it really just feels like a big 'fuck you, good luck'.

And let me be clear, not every community is like this. I'm incredibly lucky to have found fantastic roleplay within my own rp event/community, I have great friends who run awesome, inclusive events for people of any skill (writing or otherwise) and I do fully believe you can just enable the rp tag and find fun, fulfilling roleplay. But I've also found the above a lot of times, too. I've had people point-blank get mad at my partner because he won't install mods and try to exclude and/or circumvent him in spaces. It's weird. I've been to events where the only time I felt like I got proper interaction(s) was when I joined the aforementioned, even if I have my character's profile linked in my about. It's weird.

Honestly, no wonder new roleplayers feel overwhelmed. Not only do they have to learn roleplay etiquette, they have to be a mod expert overnight? It feels less about what someone can bring to the table as far as a story but what mods they can install to either look cool or pass an unspoken social barrier. As much as I'm down bad for aesthetic and looking the part, I hate it being at the cost of accessibility and fun for someone else.

Arguably it's the same for gposing and the like as well, which contributes to my exhaustion alongside all the graphical changes and I just. I'm gnawing at the bars of my cage.

I don't think it's going to change and arguably it's more of a Twitter/X issue than a Tumblr, one but Tumblr lets me write mini essays and Twitter will tell me to kms.

Ergo, I'll go with the essay-writing platform.

Anyway, I guess this is just a reminder that you don't need 4596419651 mods to be in the community and that people should be more vigilant on including people who don't have them for whatever reason, provided they operate in good-faith and want to contribute. I think we're careening to a slippery slope of expectation for something unsupported and I don't like it.

[mimipolo]

hi darling, how are you?

genuinely thank you so much for writing about Nam-gyu, I love him and it's kind of disappointing to see that there are almost no fics or headcanons about him :(

I am honestly in love with your way of writing (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

I would love and be very grateful if you could write something about Nam-gyu dating a girl who is more shy and quiet

thank you so so nuch

have a great day/night 🤍

Nam-gyu x shy!reader

|HIII I'm doing good tysm for asking‼️

|You gave me the opportunity to listen to one of my softer playlists while writing this so kudos to u

He's tries his best to be gentle with you, almost too much. Sometimes he mistakes your meekness for also being weak. Yes weak willed but not necessarily a complete push over. You just prefer to keep to your thoughts to yourself. He genuinely admires you for it because he could never tolerate someone talking shit to his face.

Speaking of he's super quick to defend you, any word he believes could offend you( it offended him more) is immediately being damned to hell. He's holding you close to his side as he shouts at the supposed perpetrator.

We all know he's a super yapper when given the chance so he loves being in your company and talking to you, or well, talking at you. More often than not he's being spoken over or whatever he's saying isn't being received but it's so much more different with you. You're happy to sit and do whatever you're doing as he talks your ear off. Sometimes when he says something especially interesting you ask a question and he's already giddy and ready to explain in unnecessary amounts of detail.

Feels like he's the chosen one because you chose him out of all the loud bastards out there to be with. He wants to brag and show you off so badly but he has to physically restrain himself because he knows how much you'd hate having so many people you didn't know have so much information about you. Sometimes slips in a comment or two...or more to Thanos, nothing too crazy.

You understand him better than anyone else, when he's about to go from frustration to anger, then anger to violence. You're that voice of reason just behind him urging him to reconsider what he's about to say or do. At some point he realises he hears your soothing voice coaxing him to calm down when you're not there. Genuinely shudders at the thought because you have that much of an affect on him?? Terrifying.

Sometimes he likes to sit in silence with you, the windows open and it chills the already cool room as his head lays in your lap. You're humming quietly to yourself as you make a mess of his hair and he's content on staring up at you blissfully as you do so.

Takes into consideration you don't usually like PDA so keeps most of it at home. But any threat of someone even hinting at hitting on you he's softly grabbing your hand to pull you away, mean mugging the person the whole time. You hate confrontation at all costs, remembering how you jumped in shock at him just shouting at someone haunts him endlessly. Avoids doing so unless very much called for.

One thing you'll always acknowledge is how much he tries to remember all the little things about you, the effort he puts into making sure you're comfortable noticeable in every interaction. Even if it looks unnatural on him, he swears he's trying.

Guiltiest pleasure is purposefully making you flustered. Loves turning your head up to meet his eyes just for you to snap your head away as you shrink under his gaze. Thinks it's the cutest thing ever. Especially if you take hold of his wrists and tell him to stop it but don't actually push him away.

One thing he always makes sure of is keeping Thanos in check when he's around. It'd honestly be easier just to avoid him all together but the man is anywhere and everywhere. Has elbowed his stomach roughly when he was halfway calling you Senorita. Would do it again gladly. Got teased a lot after for being so protective you, Thanos clapped his back like some proud father as if he wasn't the main culprit.

He's your number one defender. If you have no fans he's legally dead. Supports every small hobby you do, and insists you make something big with it. Just wants to see you excited about something.

He's a snappy guy with a smart mouth so he has to tripple check himself every time he's slightly upset at you. It's not that he means to hurt you with his words he's just a little too creative. But due to your lax nature conflicts occur very rarely, a sense of peace only you could provide him with. Even if you did argue he'd be folding immediately after he's cooled down.

"Don't hate me kay? I didn't mean it."

"Speak to me pretty, ya know I said sorry."

Doesn't let up until you give out a short laugh, signalling his success.

[cloudvelundr]

I was gonna put this in tags because this is technically just two things but I think I need more space to yell about it:

Tags, summary or top of the page authors notes that read any version of this sucks, I’m bad at this, don’t read this is awful.

Stop that. Stop That Shit Right Now. Because first off? Don’t put yourself down like that. Would you talk to your friends like that? To anyone trying something new and nervous about it? No! So don’t fucking do it to you! And secondly, you presumably wrote that recently right? It’s fresh. You don’t actually know if it’s good because know what all is happening in the background, you know where all the threads on the back of the embroidery are, and it colours your view of what everyone else sees, but they don’t know about all that! They just know the finished product in front of them, and they are allowed to decide if they think it’s good - they may even tell you what they like about it! And maybe it is potato quality, but you know what? People like potatoes! Write what you like, at whatever level of learning or quality or effort you like, forever, share it if you want to, and let people decide they like it or not themselves.

And if you absolutely have to put something? “No beta we die like men/the Jedi/jason todd/danny fenton/insert dead character here” is well loved. “x is not my first language” “first fic be kind” “constructive criticism welcome/not welcome” something along those lines… even an author note like “I’m not sure how I feel about this” is better, but if you’re going to put something neg be sure to add a positive. “Banged out in an hour” or “started making it had a breakdown bon appetite” and similar will also give an idea of quality without being an explicit drag. Effort was low but at least something was accomplished!

Just keep it brief, try not to cast aspersions, and don’t tear yourself down.

Formatting.

Oh my god formatting.

Use paragraphs. Please, please, please, please use paragraphs. If I find a text wall I am leaving.

The general rule for paragraphs is to change paragraphs whenever there’s a change in person or action. New speaker? New line. Change in time? New line. Action sequence ended? Change line.

… Now all of these are subject to context because paragraphing changes tone and speed and so much else, but generally a paragraph is a unit with something unifying behind it. An action sequence can be one or several, and which will change the tone, the speed of reading, the impression of the pace of events, it can help give a feel for what the characters are feeling. It can also make it both easier and harder to follow the flow of events!

Personally I find a paragraph tends to relate events like “everything is happening on top of each other” or sequentially, whereas separating events makes them discrete, or at least feel that way, but it’s very much a stylistic choice. Sentences can also be the same - run on sentences vs shorter sentences vs paragraphing can be very evocative!

So like, you can play with formatting - writing is art not science - but for the love of god please use it.

okay, genuinely curious (and please feel free to expand in the tags)

[ceresun]

hii queen i suck ass at creativity but i was wondering if u'd write some daeho hc's abt him and reader in the games tg? like maybe they dated before or smth but rekindle in the games? probably like angst ig or wtv 🙏

(i'm sorry i suck at writing requests 😣)

traces lost to time

pairing : kang daeho x gender neutral! reader

summary : Aware of those who had people they loved participating in these death games, he felt quite bad for them. But never once did he think he’d have to experience their reality of constant worry. At least not up until you show up.

extra : hai nonnie! thank you sososo much for the request :3!! ajebfkwbdka hopefully you like it!! I can feel like I wrote way more than just hcs but whatever.. daeho may be ooc ergh. this isn’t proofread and I’m bad at angst sorryz

⟢ A relationship with Daeho would have to be a strong one before he can think about someone in a romantic sense, so I see this being a childhood friends to lovers situation. Being this close with him means he’d naturally feel like he could tell you anything without any fear of judgement from you. Yet, this still didn’t stop him from keeping parts of himself hidden. This is genuinely one of the only reasons I can see a relationship with Daeho going downhill.

⟢ His father was always a traditional one. The constant reprimands of never being “a real man” and being too soft weren’t ones Daeho was unfamiliar with. Being childhood friends with him, you knew what his father was like. The younger you didn’t put much thought into his words, yet still comforted Daeho when he was visibly upset by his fathers words. But as you grew older and the times his father reprimanded him grew, you found it difficult to ignore how Daeho would get quieter and the way he’d try to stop his eyes from tearing up.

⟢ After his time in the marines, you couldn’t stop but notice the little difference in him. The way he’d tense up slightly when hearing a loud noise before going back to doing what he had been doing, or the way you’d wake up at random times in the night to hear his muffled cries, only stopping himself when he heard your shuffles. He had never been one to do those things, at least not before his time in the marines.

⟢ You, being Daeho’s closest friend and partner, would want to get him to open up with you about how he truly feels. Yet you’d only be faced with rejection. He didn’t necessarily mean to block you out, but he couldn’t stand to face you during this low period in his life. Thus causing you to leave.

⟢ At this point, Daeho kind of knew he had screwed up. It only hit him hard when he was able to regain some stability in his life. You were essentially his anchor yet he was still drifting and lost at sea. Following this, his life slowly starts getting worse and worse. He starts racking up a debt that he isn’t able to pay back. So, when a man comes up to him and offers him the ability to earn money while seemingly only having to play simple games, he takes him up on his offer.

⟢ It isn’t until everyone is waiting for the first game to start when he finally sees you. It’s been quite a while since he’s seen you, so he hesitates to come up and talk to you. It isn’t until he hears you talk to the woman next to you that he realizes it actually is you. He only gets to walk to where you stood before the games abruptly start. When people start getting killed, his first thought isn’t his safety, but instead yours. When gi-hun advises people to get behind those bigger than them he immediately pulls you behind him. It’s the first time you’ve seen him since you’d left, so seeing him shocked you quite a bit. As soon as you two cross that finish line he is all over you and making sure you weren’t hurt in any way. You have to practically yell at him to get his attention.

⟢ From there on, you’re not leaving his sight for even a second. Don't even think about trying to join a team without him because he will not let you. It’s not a want to have control over you but instead a fear of losing you that makes him like this. He tries his absolute hardest to make sure the both of you make it out of these games alive, yet it still wasn’t enough. During mingle, as soon as the number is called your group starts running towards a vacant room. In the midst of all the chaos, someone had pushed you out of the way in order to secure a spot themselves.

⟢ You had only a couple seconds left as you got up and ran towards the door. It wasn’t until the door had locked when Daeho realized you weren’t in the room with them. He didn’t exactly know what he felt at that moment. It was a big mix of anger, hurt, and emptiness. This would be one just one of the things that’d cause him to spiral. You best believe he is going insane on the person who had pushed you. He wouldn’t kill them, just beat them hard.

⟢ He’d ultimately be determined to make it out of the games alive for both of you. One of his biggest regrets is never really making up for what had happened between you two. He’ll never truly be able to get that closure. But there’s nothing he can do now.

© ceresun >ᴗ< -> my works are not to be translated or reposted without permission!

[comicaurora]

I think you’re fantastic at slideshows! I do not think you overcharge your slideshows with information at all personally. But I am curious what skills you find most transferable between making slideshows for Detail Diatribes and the more general video production process

It's an interesting jump! Honestly making slideshows basically just feels like writing a video script with extra steps. It's got a similar rhythm of information jokingly presented intercut with disruptive Big Jokes to break up the pacing. The main focus on the first pass of the slideshow is just getting down All The Context I think needs to be understood for a theoretical blank-slate audience to understand what I'm getting at. The goal is to focus on broad strokes and key information and not get too bogged down in the details on the actual slide, because if I want to get specific or bring up an example off-slide, I can just do that in the discussion, because the Detail Diatribes are fundamentally unscripted. Making a slideshow for one is basically building something for Blue and I to talk about and react to together. I know what's coming and he doesn't, so I put more focus on big goofs I think he'll enjoy being blindsided by, and if our discussion organically snags on a specific slide, I might fill out the contextualizing with more little details pertinent to the conversation.

This is kind of like the part of the scripting process where I want to summarize a plot point or idea fairly quickly in the narration, but I might reference fun little extra details from the original story in the illustration that goes onscreen. There's space for many different layers of information to be communicated, depending on if people are just listening, listening and watching, or pausing to read everything onscreen.

[drdemonprince]

Is there a polar opposite of transphobia?

Like I’m a newly transitioned trans man and suddenly everyone wants a piece of me. In a weird way. Like people have started asking me to join committees and talk to youth groups and shit so they have their “representation”. I’m now the token trans person. I live in a small lefty town. People either want to ask me allllll the questions or they are too scared to even talk to me in case they offend me. Suddenly everyone wants to be my friend. I feel like I’ve joined a club I did not agree to sign up to. Like is this normal? Is there a term for it? I have a lot of gay male friends who are awesome, no other trans people local. I’ve started connecting with people online.

I mean some people have been cunts for sure. But mostly it’s nauseating fawning. I know this is a stupid thing to be complaining about but I guess I’m curious.

I’m not that special, I’m actually just an angry little man.

My brother dear, what you are experiencing is a very common combination of the growing visibility & tokenization of being a newly out marginalized person, and the massive increased authority, social trust, social value that comes with being a man.

Welcome to male privilege baby, to put a spin on a far more undermining phrase that typically gets hurled at trans femmes. You will be considered a trustworthy authority on trans issues, a valuable contributor to panels and workshops, a needed (but also highly convenient to access) form of "diversity" for a workplace, a welcome attendee at all manner of events, and you'll be deferred to over women, especially trans women, for pretty much the entire rest of your life, if you continue to remain out about the trans side of things.

Guys like us are invited, centered, included, listened to, treated with respect, treated with WARMTH, viewed as intelligent, perceptive, sensitive, safe, trustworthy, reliable, and desirable to include. In the eyes of the cis public, we are a "safe" kind of trans person who does not make people uncomfortable to look at and who doesn't challenge their pre-existing understanding of gender hierarchy; when they listen to us, they get to trust in the certainty of a MAN giving them information, but they can also feel comfortable and safe around us as a kind of enlightened, sensitive nonthreatening figure.

We're men who can can explain sexism right back to women. We're trans people who went from being subjugated as women to being rewarded with privilege as dudes. In this way, trans men being positioned as an authority figure reinforces the existing gender hierarchy, which feels soothing and right to people's brains.

You will have to be conscious of this power differential for the rest of your life, around cis and trans women alike, because otherwise it plays out in a pretty traditionally sexist fashion: people (especially women) will go quiet when you start speaking, you will be given credit for ideas that were a collective effort, your emotions will be more likely to be taken seriously and seen as a sign of principle rather than weakness, and you will be regarded as special and memorable while dozens of other people and their concerns are passed over.

Another factor that is at play here is a phenomenon that is less specifically gendered, because it does happen to trans women too, and that's the phenomenon of cis groups making the newly-out trans person their token and educator, because typically it is the newly out person whom they have the most access to and power over.

The moment that a trans person transitions they immediately start getting singled out as an expert and resource on the trans experience, asked to lead workshops at their jobs and explain concepts to people and attend events and sit on panels. I think on some intuitive level cis people kinda *know* that the newly out are in a vulnerable, uncertain state and have fewer communities ties and less experience than more seasoned trans people do, and so they make the ideal "translator" of trans experiences to them as an audience.

In cis people's minds, you're not gonna push back, you're not going to complicate their narratives, you're not gonna be tired of answering offensive questions, and you will be freely available to them as a resource, because you've just come out. You'll put a friendly face on transition, one marked by newness and hope, rather than be jaded, complicated, or assertive at them. That's their expectation.

It makes no logical sense to make a newly out member of the community the arbiter of transness or the educator on the trans experience, but it DOES make sense that a powerful group would view such a disempowered and disconnected (relatively speaking) member of the trans community to be the most attractive to include.

Of course, this might not be true to who you actually are. But on a gut level, this is how the newly out trans person is typically seen: nonthreatening, moldable, convenient, so thankful to be included that they won't be angry. And you will be doubly rewarded for fulfilling that role if you are a man.

The only way to upend this narrative being forced onto you is for you to speak up, every single time you are invited to an event, and demand that just as many trans women be included in that event as trans men. Make sure to have a nice list of experienced, wise trans femme friends whom you can recommend as speakers and co-panelists in your pocket.

More often than not, you will be thanked by cis people and rewarded for having the brilliant idea of including women in a conversation about gender minority status. How the trans women in the equation get treated, well, you'll need to pay close attention to, and be ready to stand up and speak out the moment any passive aggressive exclusionary bio-essentialist fuckshit gets going. You can do it! And lots of times you ARE the person with the power to set things right. You're trans and you're being singled out, but you also are a man.

[hillbillyoracle]

While this is an awesome explanation of why the word degenerate is pretty shit, it's not the best explanation as to why this shit is presently fucking bonkers.

DNI lists do not stop people you don't like from interacting with you.

Even people using them know this. Yet there's this doublethink that happens in these groups that having a DNI is to keep you safe. How can something that doesn't actually keep these people from interacting with you keep you safe then?

Well it's function isn't for material safety, it for social safety. It's gives the user what Naomi Kline has called "the social currency of victimhood".

If a user finds out that someone they've been interacting with has an affiliation with one of these groups, they can then turn around go "I said that I didn't want to talk to them and they talked to me - I am the victim!" They can then use that social currency to get sympathy or, in many cases, launch harassment campaigns against the person.

I would also argue that DNIs mostly serve as a flagging function, a way to signal to other users in similar groups that they're "one of the good one" because they're against the same things - quite literally virtue signalling. The issue with this is that because the emphasis is on the signaling and not the the virtue, anyone can coopt these signs and gain access to the community and it's harassment norms.

We see this happening with right wing operators all the fucking time right now. As a key part of their playing book, they've coopted social justice language to repackage their fascist ideas. And I do literally mean fascist here. It's why you're seeing huge swathes of the wellness, alternative spirituality, and eco communities splinter and align with folks like Steve Bannon. A growing number of queer folks voted for Trump in the last election due in part to these repackaging tactics.

So not only do these DNIs not keep people materially safe, they open the door for material danger, for bad actors to exert unchecked influence in these communities.

But hey I thought this was about the word degen?

It is. Degenerate is literally the term the right has been using to refer primarily to trans people and queers and progressive women secondarily for literal decades. And they absolutely mean it in the original terms the calamitousgumption outlined - in the eugenics way.

"but it usually means pedophile!" - then say pedophile. Does it not feel like pedophile means pedophile any more? There's a reason for that. The right has also been actively - there are literal playbooks out there for this - trying to take the language we use to identify harms and coopt them for their agendas. They've been conflating pedophile with any form of gender binary crossing - mostly trans people - for decades. When you avoid using the word pedophile when you mean pedophile, you play into their hand. When you opt for degen instead, you pick up a eugenicists term they've weaponized for the specific association you're trying to distance yourself from.

So bringing it full circle - adding degen to your DNI lets the right weaponize the cancel culture tactics of these communities where it's popular against the very people they want to destroy. Online harassment campaigns increase the likelihood of someone committing suicide and that is absolutely a feature that appeal to fascists.

You are doing the work of the very people you say you don't want to interact with.

Stop relying on signals, use critical thinking.

DNI lists on this website are fucking insane

[mywhisperingwords]

am i what you wanted? | fred g. weasley

summary: casual. no strings. just something to forget the loneliness. right? word count: 7.6k masterlist

The air at the party feels heavier than usual, like everyone is trying too hard to pretend they’re having a good time.

You’ve spent most of the night nursing a drink you don’t particularly like, offering polite smiles to people you barely know. It’s not your scene, but you came anyway because that’s what friends do—they drag you out, convince you it’ll be “fun,” and leave you regretting it by the second hour.

You’re just about ready to slip away when you spot him—Fred Weasley.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, casual and effortless as always, but there’s something different tonight. The usual spark in his eyes is dimmer, his smile not quite as wide. He’s talking to someone, but his gaze keeps drifting, like he’s only half paying attention.

You consider leaving without a word. After all, you’ve spent years perfecting the art of avoiding him. Not because you dislike him—quite the opposite.

Your stupid schoolgirl crush on him hasn’t quite fizzled out, no matter how much time has passed.

And of course, there was the matter of his latest relationship, a whirlwind romance with someone you considered a friend, Leah.

It would be wrong to approach him now, wouldn’t it?

But then Fred’s eyes land on you, and there’s no escaping. He gives you a faint smile, a shadow of his usual grin, and lifts his drink in a lazy sort of greeting. It’s an invitation, subtle but unmistakable. Against your better judgment, you cross the room.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, his voice low enough to cut through the background noise without effort.

You shrug, trying to seem unaffected. “Alicia dragged me out. Said I needed to get a life or something.”

Fred huffs a quiet laugh, looking down into his glass. “Sounds like something she’d say. George said the same to me, actually. Guess misery loves company.”

The comment surprises you. Fred doesn’t usually talk like that—so openly, so vulnerable. It’s enough to make you pause, to glance at him more carefully. “You don’t seem miserable,” you say, testing the waters.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a long sip of his drink and stares past you, like he’s trying to find the right words. “You’d be surprised,” he finally says, his tone softer now.

It’s an opening, one you hadn’t expected but can’t ignore. “What happened?”

Fred glances around, his expression unreadable, before gesturing toward the balcony. “Do you mind? It’s a bit loud in here.”

You follow him outside, where the night air is cool and quiet compared to the chaos inside. He leans against the railing, staring out at the city lights, and you stand beside him, unsure of what to say.

“She left,” he says abruptly, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about her—his ex.

“Oh.” It’s all you can manage.

Fred smiles faintly, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. Not the dramatic kind of leaving either. No big fight, no slamming doors. Just… stopped caring, I guess. Said it wasn’t enough for her.”

The confession stirs something in you, a mix of sympathy and something sharper, harder to define.

You’ve never known Fred to be anything but confident, self-assured. Seeing him like this—guarded, almost uncertain—it’s disarming.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, and you mean it.

He glances at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, it feels like he’s seeing you for the first time. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How loneliness sneaks up on you. One day you think you’re fine, and the next, it’s like you can’t breathe.”

You nod, because you understand more than you’d like to admit. “Yeah. It’s awful.”

Fred studies you for a moment longer before offering a faint, almost wistful smile. “You get it.”

The words settle between you, warm and unspoken, and before you can overthink it, you say, “Maybe we’re just terrible at choosing the right people.”

Fred laughs then, a soft, genuine sound that eases some of the tension in your chest. “Maybe we are.”

It feels like an unspoken agreement, a quiet acknowledgment of shared pain. And when he leans just a little closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, you don’t pull away.

&

The door slams shut behind you both, barely closed before Fred’s hands are on your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth is on yours again, urgent and consuming, and the world outside this moment ceases to exist.

You’re not sure how it started—or maybe you do—but you’re too caught up in the feel of him, in the way he kisses like he’s unraveling a part of himself he’s never shown anyone.

Your back hits the edge of the couch, but Fred doesn’t stop. He moves with you, stumbling through the dark like neither of you can think beyond each other.

You barely make it to the bedroom. A trail of discarded shoes and jackets marks the path, forgotten in the haze.

He pauses only briefly, just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. “This…” he begins, his voice rough, barely a whisper. “This is what I needed. Something… easy. No expectations.”

The words are quiet but land with a weight that sticks somewhere in your chest. You know what he means—casual, uncomplicated, something to dull the ache of loneliness he spoke of earlier.

Your heart lurches, but your mind, clouded with want and the intoxicating proximity of him, nods before you can think it through. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

The lie tastes bitter even as the kiss resumes, as his lips trail down your neck, as his hands find your skin. You tell yourself you’re fine with this. It’s Fred, and it’s what he wants. Isn’t it better to have this than nothing at all?

When morning comes, he’s gone.

You’re not surprised—he doesn’t strike you as the type to linger—but the silence in the room feels deafening. The sheets are cold where he was, and you stare at the ceiling, replaying his words in your head.

Something easy. No expectations.

Your agreement, muffled and uncertain, rings louder now. You agreed. This is what you signed up for. So why does your chest ache? Why does it feel like you’ve made a mistake you can’t undo?

You sit up, the mess of the night scattered around you—a shirt draped over the chair, an overturned glass on the table. It’s all so mundane, yet it feels like the air has shifted in your room, like the walls are pressing in.

You bury your face in your hands, letting out a slow, measured breath. Maybe this wasn’t the right decision. But you can’t change it now. Fred was what you wanted for so long, wasn’t he? Maybe this is all you get.

Maybe this is all you’re allowed to have.

You hope you can convince yourself of that.

&

The pub is buzzing, laughter and conversation spilling out from every corner as you sit wedged between Alicia and George.

Fred is across from you, casually leaning back in his chair, a pint of beer balanced between his long fingers. His laughter blends with the noise around you, effortlessly charming, as always.

It’s easy to forget, in moments like this, that this is supposed to be casual. Easy.

You catch yourself watching him longer than you should, noting the way his hair falls into his eyes when he laughs, the way his smile lingers just enough to make your stomach twist.

You remind yourself to look away.

The conversation circles back to someone’s recent breakup, a natural segue into a casual remark about Fred’s ex.

It’s Angelina, sitting two seats down, who says it without malice—just an innocent mention of the girl who was once by his side.

“You were so into her, Fred. Thought you two were endgame, honestly,” she says with a smile, tipping her glass toward him.

Fred’s expression flickers, just for a second, but it’s enough to change the energy at the table. The easy grin falters, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Yeah, well,” he says, voice light but guarded, “things don’t always work out the way you think they will.”

The group catches on quickly, steering the conversation elsewhere, but you can’t take your eyes off him. There’s something in the way his shoulders tense, in the way he avoids eye contact, that makes your chest tighten.

The rest of the evening is a blur of noise and small talk. You find yourself gravitating toward the bar, needing space, needing air. But you don’t get far.

Fred appears beside you, leaning on the counter with a quiet sigh. His eyes are darker now, shadows of something unspoken behind them. He doesn’t say anything, just glances at you, and suddenly the air feels heavier.

“Come with me,” he mutters all of the sudden, so low you almost don’t hear it.

You hesitate, your heart skipping, but you follow.

He leads you down a narrow hallway, past the kitchen, until you’re standing outside the bathroom door. He checks once over his shoulder before pulling you in, locking the door behind him.

“Fred, what are you—”

He cuts you off, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that takes your breath away.

It’s messy, hurried, like he’s trying to drown something out. His hands find your waist, pressing you against the cold tile wall, and you can feel the tension in his grip, the desperation in the way he kisses you.

It’s different this time—more frantic, less controlled. There’s no room to think, no space for words, just the heat of him against you and the quiet hum of the pub muffled beyond the door.

When it’s over, you’re both catching your breath, the silence settling around you like a weight. Fred’s forehead rests against yours, and for a moment, it feels like he might say something—something real, something vulnerable.

But then he steps back, adjusting his shirt, his eyes not quite meeting yours. “Thanks,” he mutters, almost too softly, and the word hits you like a slap.

You blink, trying to find something to say, but he’s already unlocking the door, slipping out like nothing happened.

You’re left standing there, the cold tiles against your back, your pulse still racing. You stare at the empty space where he was, your mind replaying the moment in vivid detail.

Something about this feels wrong. But then again, wasn’t this what you agreed to?

&

It’s late. Later than late, really, with the kind of stillness in the air that only comes when the rest of the world is sleeping.

But you’re wide awake, perched on the edge of your couch with a half-empty glass of wine in your hand, listening to the faint hum of the city outside.

You don’t know why you’re waiting.

Or maybe you do, but admitting it feels like giving it more weight than it deserves.

It’s been a few days since you saw Fred—since he showed up at your door for the first time, with that crooked smile and a cocky, unspoken challenge in his eyes.

You hadn’t known what to expect then, and you still don’t know now. But when you hear the knock at your door, your chest tightens in anticipation anyway.

You set the glass down and cross the room, opening the door to find him leaning against the frame, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.

“Bit late for a social call, don’t you think?” you tease, though your voice wavers just slightly.

Fred grins, that easy, practiced grin that always feels like it’s hiding something. “Thought you might say that. But then, you’re still awake, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes and step aside, letting him in. He walks past you, his steps slow and deliberate, like he’s taking his time to assess the space.

It’s not the first time he’s been here, but he looks around like it is, his gaze lingering on the small details you’d never think to notice.

“You always keep it this tidy?” he asks, turning to face you with a smirk.

“I knew you were coming, didn’t I?” you shoot back, closing the door behind him.

Fred laughs, the sound low and warm, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

It’s always like this with him—this electric push and pull that leaves you feeling off-balance and exhilarated all at once.

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the back of a chair, and then he’s sitting on your couch like he’s been doing it for years.

You join him, keeping a safe distance between you, but it doesn’t matter. The tension fills the space anyway, a quiet, unspoken thing neither of you is willing to address.

“So,” Fred says, his eyes flicking to the wine glass you left on the table. “Drinking alone, are we? Rough night?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Not rough. Just… quiet.”

Fred hums, leaning back and stretching an arm along the back of the couch. His fingers are close enough to brush your shoulder, but they don’t.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “I’m good at making noise. Want me to liven things up?”

You turn to look at him, arching a brow at his choice of words. “That depends. What exactly do you have in mind?”

He grins again, wider this time, and before you know it, you’re caught up in one of his ridiculous stories—something about a prank that went wrong back at Hogwarts and ended with George covered in soot and screaming about cursed cauldrons.

You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, the kind of laugh that feels like it’s shaking loose all the tension you’ve been carrying for days. Fred is laughing too, his head thrown back, his shoulders shaking.

And for a moment, it’s easy to forget the doubts gnawing at the edges of your mind.

But then the story ends, and the laughter fades, and the room feels too quiet again.

Fred’s laughter dies in his throat first. He turns his head toward you, the space between you charged, his expression softening as his eyes flicker to your lips.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, trying to keep your tone light, but your pulse betrays you.

“Am I?” he murmurs back, his voice low and teasing, but there’s something in his gaze that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but suddenly, the space between you disappears. His mouth meets yours in a rush of heat and hunger, and your body reacts without thought, your hands tangling in his hair as he pulls you closer.

He tastes like mint and something else, something unmistakably Fred, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It starts like it always does—feverish and desperate, hands searching, breaths stolen. Fred’s hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head, and your back hits the cushions of the couch before you even realize you’ve moved.

But somewhere in the middle of it—between the hurried kisses and the whispered curses—something shifts.

His touch slows, his fingers trailing along your skin with an almost reverent softness. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like there’s more to this than just a casual arrangement.

Your chest tightens, and you open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat.

Fred pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if you feel it too.

But then the moment passes, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head like he’s dismissing some unwelcome thought. He presses a lingering kiss to your collarbone before shifting his weight and standing, grabbing his jacket from the chair.

“Leaving already?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Fred hesitates, his back to you. “Yeah,” he says, his tone lighter than the moment calls for. “Gotta keep you wanting more, don’t I?”

The grin he throws over his shoulder is forced, you think, but you don’t call him on it.

You watch him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and you’re left alone again, your chest tight and your mind racing.

This is what you signed up for, you remind yourself. Casual. Fun. No strings attached.

So why does it already feel like so much more?

&

The party isn’t much different from the last one. A haze of laughter and music hangs in the air, the dimly lit living room thrumming with energy as bodies mill about. You’re leaning against a wall, clutching a drink, when you spot him across the room.

Fred.

Your breath catches—not because you didn’t expect him to be here, but because it’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since everything began.

In the few weeks since that night, he’s always shown up at your door under cover of darkness, a secret that slips away before the world wakes. Now, he’s here, among friends, out in the open. It feels… surreal.

His eyes catch yours, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he looks away. You should probably do the same, pretend he’s just another person at the party, someone you barely know outside of shared jokes and casual conversations.

But something about seeing him here, the same Fred everyone else knows, tangles in your chest.

The game between you feels different now. Riskier.

You manage to avoid each other for most of the night, though you’re painfully aware of him. The way his laugh carries over the music. The effortless charm in the way he leans against the kitchen counter, surrounded by people.

But it’s when you least expect it that it happens.

You’ve slipped into the quiet hallway, hoping for a moment to breathe. He appears from nowhere, leaning casually against the wall a few feet away. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, low enough that no one else could hear.

You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze. “You’ve been avoiding me too.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Fair enough.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the party, the bass thudding like a heartbeat. Then he shifts closer—too close, considering the thin walls and prying eyes just a room away.

“This is risky,” you murmur, though you don’t move away.

“Since when do you mind risky?” he counters, his voice teasing but quiet. There’s a flicker of warmth in his tone, a reminder of those moments when he’s let his guard down just enough to let you in.

You should push him away, but you don’t.

Instead, you glance up, and for the briefest second, he looks at you like he’s about to say something important. Something real. But he doesn’t. He’s Fred, after all.

Instead, his hand brushes yours, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You hesitate, your chest tightening. “Then why are you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers graze your wrist, light and hesitant, before he steps back, creating a distance that feels far too wide.

“I shouldn’t be,” he says again, as though repeating it will make it true. Then, softer, “But I am.”

The air between you feels heavier than it should. He’s pulling away again, retreating into the shell of secrecy he’s so carefully built. It frustrates you more than it should.

“You don’t have to make this so complicated,” you say, surprising even yourself.

Fred’s jaw tightens. He glances at the door leading back to the party, his gaze distant, before his eyes flicker back to you. “You think it’s that easy?”

You don’t answer, because you don’t know how to.

Instead, he leans in, his voice a whisper. “Careful. Someone might see us.” His words are teasing, but there’s an edge of something sharper beneath them.

And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the crowd as though nothing happened.

You’re left standing there, your heart racing and your thoughts tangled in ways you can’t quite unravel.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. You don’t see him again, but his presence lingers like a shadow, like a secret you can’t escape.

And when you finally leave the party, stepping out into the cool night air, you can’t help but wonder if this game you’re playing is one you’ll ever win—or if it’s one you’ll lose before it even truly begins.

&

It’s been days since the party.

Days of wondering if Fred will show up again, if you’ll hear that familiar knock on your door in the dead of night. He doesn’t call, doesn’t send any owl—not that you expected him to. But his absence still gnaws at you.

When the knock finally comes, it’s past midnight. You hesitate for a moment, standing barefoot in the hallway, staring at the door like it might vanish if you blink. Then, as if on instinct, you reach for the handle.

Fred is there, leaning against the frame, his hair tousled, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t say anything, just steps inside, his hands finding your waist almost immediately.

It’s fast, like always. A trail of kisses down your neck, murmured words you can barely catch, and then you’re stumbling toward the bedroom. It’s almost routine now—the way he knows exactly how to pull you apart, the way he leaves before the sun comes up.

It’s the same pattern, the same urgency, like he’s trying to chase away whatever’s haunting him.

Only this time, he leaves without saying much of anything. A quick glance back, a muttered “I’ll see you,” and then the door clicks shut behind him.

The quiet that follows feels heavier than it should. You sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, wondering why the familiar ache feels sharper tonight.

&

Alicia’s offer couldn’t come at a better time. “You need a reset,” she says, twirling her straw in her iced tea. “Seriously, this guy is perfect. Smart, funny, normal. Give it a shot.”

It’s not like you have anything better to do, so you agree.

The date is fine. Fine. Paul is nice—charming, even—but there’s no spark. By the end of the night, you’re both laughing about how you’d make better friends than anything else.

It’s late when you finally get home, the streets quiet and dimly lit. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice the shadow near your door.

Fred.

He’s leaning against the frame, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He looks up as you approach, his gaze flickering to the key in your hand before settling on your face.

“You’re out late,” he says, his voice casual.

“I had plans,” you reply, matching his tone as you unlock the door. You don’t elaborate, and neither does he.

Inside, the tension follows you, crackling in the air as you set your bag down and turn to face him. He’s watching you, his expression neutral but his shoulders taut, like he’s holding something back.

“How were the plans?” he asks, his voice steady, but there’s an edge to it you can’t quite place.

“They were fine,” you say. “We’re better off as friends.”

He nods, his lips pressing into a thin line, and for a moment, you think that’s the end of it. But then he’s stepping closer, his hands finding your waist like they always do.

This time, it’s different. His kisses are rougher, his grip firmer, but there’s something else underneath it—a quiet desperation, like he’s trying to claim something without admitting it. His hands linger longer, his lips move slower, and you let yourself lean into it, pretending not to notice the shift.

Afterward, he’s quiet again, lying beside you in the dark. The air feels heavier, and you can sense the walls going back up before he even moves to get dressed.

As he pulls on his shirt, he pauses, standing by the door with his back to you. For a moment, it seems like he’s about to say something, but instead, he runs a hand through his hair and exhales softly.

Then, just before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder, his gaze flickering to yours. “Let me know when you’re too busy.”

It’s barely a whisper, so quiet you almost miss it. But there’s something in the way he says it, something unsaid lurking beneath the words, that lingers long after he’s gone.

You sit there in the dark, replaying the moment over and over, wondering why it feels like he just said goodbye.

&

Angelina’s birthday party is already in full swing by the time you stumble through the door, only half-committed to being there. The laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—it’s all too loud, too bright, too much.

But you came anyway, maybe out of habit, or maybe because part of you hoped you’d find a distraction in the chaos.

Fred is here. You noticed him immediately. He’s impossible not to notice, leaning against the bar, his easy smile tugging at something in your chest you’ve been trying to ignore. He hasn’t come near you, hasn’t even spared you more than a glance. But that glance—it felt like it saw too much.

You bury your feelings in your drink, letting the bitterness of it settle the knots in your stomach. It doesn’t help.

“Alright, what’s with the face?” Alicia’s voice cuts through the noise as she drops onto the couch beside you. “You look like someone just ran over your cat.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, swirling the last of your drink. “Just…thinking.”

“About your nonexistent love life again?” she teases, nudging your shoulder. “Seriously, you need to loosen up. Or at least stop picking all the wrong people.”

You force a laugh, but it feels hollow. Alicia doesn’t know. No one does. You’ve kept Fred a secret, just as he asked. The weight of it presses heavier tonight, threatening to spill over as you down the rest of your drink and reach for another.

As the night goes on, the alcohol blurs the edges of everything. Faces blend together, voices turn to static, and you’re left moping in the corner, the ache in your chest louder than any song playing.

Fred’s there, somewhere. You’ve caught glimpses of him—his easy posture stiffened, his smile more strained than usual. But he doesn’t approach, and you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking too long.

By the end of the night, most people have left, and the crowd has thinned out. You’re sitting on the couch, staring at the bottom of your empty glass, when a shadow falls over you.

“Let’s get you home,” Fred says, his voice low but firm.

You look up at him, the alcohol dulling your usual instincts. “I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but there’s something gentler in his gaze, something that makes your chest tighten.

You don’t resist when he helps you up, his arm steady around your waist as he guides you out the door. The walk home is quiet, the chill of the night air biting at your skin. Fred doesn’t say much, and neither do you, but the silence feels heavier than usual.

When you finally reach your flat, he helps you inside, sitting you down on the couch as he disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water, kneeling in front of you.

“Drink,” he says simply.

You take the glass, your hands shaking slightly as you bring it to your lips.

“Fred,” you start after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper. “Stay.”

He looks at you, startled by the request. “I—”

“Please.” The word spills out before you can stop it, raw and pleading. “Just for the night. I don’t want to be alone.”

He hesitates, his expression flickering between something unreadable and something achingly vulnerable. Then, finally, he nods. “Alright.”

Relief washes over you as he helps you to your feet again, guiding you to your bedroom. He’s careful as he tucks you into bed, his hand lingering briefly on your shoulder before he steps back.

“You’ll stay?” you ask again, your voice softer now.

“I’ll stay,” he promises, his voice low and steady.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

When you wake up, the room is quiet, the sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, the haze of last night still clinging to your thoughts.

Then you notice it—the bed is empty.

Your stomach drops, a hollow ache blooming in your chest as you sit up. The other side of the bed is cool to the touch, and for a moment, you wonder if he left as soon as you fell asleep. The ache sharpens, and you feel foolish for believing he’d actually stay.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you bury your face in your hands. Of course, he left. Of course, this is what it always is with him—half-hearted promises and fleeting moments that never mean as much as you want them to.

It’s only when you lower your hands that you notice it.

A glass of water and a small packet of painkillers sit neatly on the nightstand.

Your breath catches as you reach for the glass, the pieces falling together in your mind. The bed might be cool now, but the faint warmth lingering on the pillow tells a different story.

And then you hear it—the faint click of your front door closing.

Your chest tightens, your heart pounding as you realize the truth: Fred stayed. He kept his promise.

The ache in your chest softens, replaced by something you can’t quite name. It’s not relief, not entirely. It’s something more fragile, more complicated.

He stayed.

And for now, that’s enough.

&

The pub feels suffocating tonight, the air heavy with laughter and music that’s a touch too loud. You’re sitting at the edge of the booth again, nursing the remnants of your drink while the conversation at the table flows around you. Fred is there too, only a few feet away but worlds apart, as always.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

But tonight, something is different. You’ve caught him looking at you more than once, a flicker of warmth in his gaze that lingers just a moment too long before he turns away.

And then there are the little things—how he slid the drinks menu your way when you couldn’t reach, the casual way his hand brushed yours when passing the salt, and the faint smirk on his lips when you dropped your napkin, like he found your clumsiness amusing.

It’s maddening. These small, almost imperceptible gestures that would mean nothing if it were anyone else, but with Fred, they feel like everything.

You glance his way now, trying not to linger. He’s leaned back in his chair, his long fingers drumming lazily against the table, his attention seemingly on George, who’s telling some animated story about a prank gone wrong. But then, as if he feels your eyes on him, Fred looks up.

The corners of his mouth twitch, and there it is again—that fleeting, private smile that feels like it’s meant just for you.

It’s a cruel kind of softness. The kind that makes you want more.

“Leaving soon?” His voice pulls you back, low enough that it barely cuts through the noise, and you realize he’s speaking to you.

Your heart skips. You shrug, trying to feign indifference. “Maybe. You?”

His smirk deepens, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Not yet.”

The words hang between you, unspoken but understood. The plan forms, unspoken as always. You’ll leave first, and he’ll follow.

When the clock creeps toward midnight, you push yourself up, offering the table a vague excuse about an early morning. Fred doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension, the way his fingers still against the table as you grab your things and step into the cool night air.

The sharp contrast of the quiet street is a relief at first, but it doesn’t last. Your thoughts churn, the familiar mix of guilt and longing rising to the surface. You shake your head, trying to focus on the walk home when you see her.

Leah.

She’s leaning against the wall just outside the pub, her arms crossed, the faint glow of a cigarette in her hand. She looks up when she hears you, her face illuminated by the streetlamp above.

“Hey,” she says, her tone casual but her gaze sharp.

You freeze, your chest tightening. “Hey.”

Her lips quirk into something that’s not quite a smile, and she takes a slow drag of her cigarette before exhaling, the smoke curling into the air between you.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she says, tilting her head slightly.

She must’ve watched you—you hadn’t even noticed her in the pub. Had Fred?

You force a shrug, your voice tight. “Long day.”

She hums, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Fred seemed to have been distracted too. Must’ve been one of those days for everyone, huh?”

The mention of his name sends a jolt through you, but you keep your expression as neutral as you can manage. “Yeah, maybe.”

Leah watches you for a moment longer, her gaze unsettlingly calm. She takes another drag before flicking the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under her heel. “You two seemed friendly tonight.”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t falter. “We’re all friends, aren’t we?”

Her lips press together, her expression unreadable. “Sure.”

The pub door swings open, the sound spilling into the street, and your heart sinks as Fred steps out. His hair is a little messy, his face flushed from the warmth of the pub. He glances around, his eyes landing on you almost immediately.

“There you are,” he says, his tone light as he steps closer. “What’s taking so long? I thought you’d—”

His words die as his gaze shifts, landing on Leah.

His smile falters, and for a moment, the easy confidence he always carries slips. “Leah.”

“Fred,” she says smoothly, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp as they flick between the two of you.

He straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets as the tension thickens.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice tighter now.

You feel like the air has been sucked out of your lungs. You glance between them, your chest tightening. You can’t do this. The weight of the secrecy, the guilt, the unspoken accusations—it’s too much.

“I was just leaving,” you say quickly, your voice steadier than you feel.

Fred’s gaze snaps to you, his brow furrowing. “Wait—”

“I’ll see you later,” you cut him off, stepping away before either of them can stop you.

You won’t see him later, you’re sure of it.

The last thing you hear as you walk away is Fred’s voice, quieter now but still tinged with something you can’t quite place.

“Leah, we should talk.”

You don’t look back. You can’t.

&

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint hum of the city outside is no comfort tonight. It’s too quiet, too still, and your mind refuses to stop racing.

You picture them together—Fred and Leah. You imagine their conversation, her calm but sharp gaze and his uneasy expression. Maybe they’re sitting close, voices low and familiar, smoothing over the jagged edges of their breakup. Maybe they’ll work things out. Maybe they’re already back together.

The thought is a knife to the chest, twisting deeper with every passing second. You roll onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you, but it doesn’t help. The ache is relentless, carving itself into every corner of your heart.

Hours pass. The clock on your nightstand glows faintly, marking the time you’ve spent wide awake. 2:47 a.m. Your body is heavy with exhaustion, but your mind won’t let you rest.

You try to reason with yourself. Fred never promised you anything. This was always supposed to be casual, meaningless—a fleeting distraction for both of you. You knew that. You agreed to it.

And yet.

A sharp knock cuts through the silence, jolting you upright. For a moment, you freeze, your breath catching in your throat.

Another knock.

You stumble out of bed, heart pounding, and shuffle to the door. When you open it, Fred is standing there, his hair disheveled, his shirt wrinkled like he’d left in a hurry. The faint light of the hallway casts shadows across his face, but his eyes are clear, intense.

You can’t speak. You just step aside, and he walks in without a word.

The door closes behind him, the lock clicking softly into place. He turns to you, his gaze searching, but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t say. He just steps closer, his hands brushing against your arms before they settle on your waist, pulling you toward him.

There are no questions, no explanations. Just his mouth on yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel.

It’s different this time.

The usual rush of urgency is gone, replaced by something quieter, softer. He touches you like you’re fragile, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. His hands linger, tracing patterns on your skin, and his lips trail down your neck with an almost reverent slowness.

When he lifts you, carrying you to the bed, it’s not hurried or thoughtless. He lays you down gently, his weight pressing into you as his lips find yours again.

It’s almost too much. The tenderness, the quiet intensity—it’s overwhelming in a way that makes your chest ache.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is goodbye. If this is Fred’s way of ending things, giving you something to remember before he walks away for good.

The thought makes your throat tighten, but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

When it’s over, you lie there in the dark, the sheets tangled around you, his arm draped loosely over your waist. His breathing is steady, his body warm against yours, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is enough. That this could be enough.

But then he stirs, pulling away.

You turn to watch him as he sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t look at you as he stands, gathering his clothes and pulling them on with quiet efficiency.

Your chest tightens, but you don’t say anything. You just watch as he moves to the door.

He hesitates, his hand on the knob, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just turns back to you, his expression unreadable, and steps closer.

He leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss.

It’s the kind of tenderness he’s never shown before, the kind that makes your heart break even as it swells.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours for a brief moment. There’s something there, something unspoken, but before you can grasp it, he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re alone again.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, the ache in your chest heavier than ever.

This is goodbye, you think.

You close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come.

&

The weeks without Fred are a blur of emotions, each one more exhausting than the last. Some days, you manage to feel like yourself again, like the world might not actually end without him. Other days, the grief hits you like a wave, dragging you under with the weight of all the unsaid words and the things you wished could’ve been.

Your friends help, of course. Alicia keeps you busy with plans you don’t want to make, and Angelina sends you pep talks at odd hours of the night. But there’s a hollow ache they can’t touch, a space inside you carved out by Fred and left empty when he walked away.

You try to fill it with distractions—new books, long walks, even the occasional half-hearted date—but nothing works. Because no matter what you’re doing, your thoughts always circle back to him. To the warmth of his hands, the sound of his laugh, the way he looked at you that night before he left.

The worst part is the silence.

For weeks, there’s no word from Fred. No knocks at your door, no teasing notes slipped under the frame. He’s just… gone. And while you tell yourself that’s what you wanted—that it’s for the best—you can’t stop wondering where he is. What he’s doing. If he’s with her.

And then, one day, the silence breaks.

It’s mid-afternoon, and you’re home, though you have no memory of how you spent the morning. The hours have blurred together in a haze of restless pacing and half-formed thoughts, none of which have brought you any peace.

When the knock comes, you almost don’t hear it. It’s soft, tentative, like the person on the other side isn’t sure they’re welcome.

Your heart stutters.

You tell yourself it’s probably Alicia or Angelina, or maybe even Leah. But when you open the door, it’s Fred.

He looks different in the daylight. There’s no mischievous grin, no late-night bravado. Just him, standing on your doorstep, his shoulders tense and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Hi,” he says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

You stare at him, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or slam the door in his face. “What are you doing here?”

Fred shifts, glancing past you into the flat before meeting your gaze again. “Can I come in?”

You want to say no. You want to tell him to leave, to take all the chaos and heartbreak he’s brought into your life and walk away for good. But instead, you step aside, letting him in.

Fred moves to the middle of the room and stops, his eyes scanning the space like he’s trying to memorize it. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t relax, just stands there, his weight shifting from foot to foot.

“I didn’t know if you’d let me in,” he admits after a moment.

“Why are you here, Fred?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—guilt, maybe, or fear. “I needed to see you. To explain.”

“Explain what? That you left? That you couldn’t give me what I wanted? What I needed?” Your voice wavers, betraying the anger you’ve been holding onto for weeks.

Fred flinches but doesn’t look away. “Yes. All of it.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I was a mess when we started this,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “Leah and I were over, but I wasn’t okay. I told myself I didn’t want anything serious, that I couldn’t handle it. And then you…”

You hold your breath, waiting for him to continue.

“You made me feel like I could handle it,” Fred says, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And that scared me. It made me feel wrong, like I was moving on too fast. Like I didn’t deserve it.”

You blink, his words sinking in.

“I pushed you away because I was scared,” he admits, meeting your eyes again. “But that doesn’t excuse what I did. I hurt you, and I hate myself for it.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. “And now? Are you still scared?”

“Yes,” Fred says without hesitation. “But I’m more scared of not being with you. Of letting you slip away because I was too much of a coward to fight for this.”

Your breath catches, your chest tightening with a mix of hope and fear. “And what happens when it gets hard again? When you start to feel like it’s too much?”

Fred takes a step closer, his expression earnest. “Then I’ll tell you. And we’ll figure it out together. Because I’m done running, and I’m done pretending this doesn’t mean something.”

The sincerity in his voice is almost too much. You look away, your hands trembling as you try to keep your emotions in check.

“What are you asking for, Fred?” you whisper.

He hesitates, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m asking for a chance. To do this right. To give you what you’ve always deserved.”

You close your eyes, his words washing over you like a wave.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice barely audible. “But we take it slow. No more secrets, no more running. We do this the right way.”

Fred nods, a small, relieved smile breaking through his tension. “Slow. Got it.”

He steps back then, extending a hand like he’s meeting you for the first time. “Hi. I’m Fred. Nice to meet you.”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky but genuine. “Nice to meet you, Fred.”

For a moment, you let yourself smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. Then you glance at his outstretched hand, raising an eyebrow. “Though I have to say, you look a lot like this guy I used to know. Total pain in the arse, but surprisingly charming when he wanted to be.”

Fred grins, his eyes lighting up in that way that always makes your heart skip a beat. “Well, I’m hoping I’m nothing like him. He sounds awful.”

“He was,” you say, shaking his hand firmly. “But I think you might be an improvement.”

Fred laughs, the sound warm and unrestrained, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe again.

[cruel-seduction]

If I get more pretty? 

Content Warnings: Mild cursing, angst, emotional vulnerability, themes of insecurity, and crying.

Summary: You and Mattheo have been keeping your relationship under wraps. But when doubts and insecurities begin to creep in, you find yourself questioning your worth. Mattheo, however, won’t let you suffer in silence. He’ll fight through any storm—no matter how many times he has to face it—because the one thing he won’t ever allow is for you to feel unloved. And when it comes to loving you, he’s unstoppable.

Glimpse - You smirked, your lips quivering as you raised an eyebrow. “Don’t speak too much, Riddle. Or I might just impregnate you.”

He withdrew his hands from you in mock horror, covering his body as if you’d just said the most scandalous thing in the world. “I knew it,” he said, feigning shock, “You only want me for my body.”

a/n - I am writing this while I am in metro and I forgot to bring my headphones and there is a really cute guy sitting next to me who also have dimples and he looks like a nerd cause he is doing some maths equation and he even smiled at me so I am fucking happy.

The sun hung low on the horizon, its amber rays stretching lazily across the Black Lake, casting a soft, golden glow over the rippling water. You were sprawled out beneath a towering oak tree, its ancient branches providing just enough shade to temper the warmth of the evening. Your back rested comfortably against the rough bark, while Pansy’s head lolled casually on your shoulder. To your left, Mattheo sat close, his presence grounding you in a way you didn’t quite understand but had come to crave.

You weren’t exactly close friends with the group gathered here. Pansy was an acquaintance at best—though her sharp wit and biting humor had grown on you—but Mattheo? He was your secret. Your boyfriend. A relationship that defied logic and societal expectations. On the surface, you and Mattheo were opposites: you, measured and reserved; him, chaos wrapped in dark allure. You had loathed his reputation once, the stories of his recklessness and destruction, but now you knew the truth—the tender boy beneath the mask, the one who would move mountains just to see you smile.

Still, it was your idea to keep things private. “Private until permanent,” you had insisted, brushing away his protests with a laugh. “People are too eager to cast their evil eye.” It wasn’t that you didn’t want the world to know. You did. But you couldn’t shake the instinct to protect what was precious to you, even if the irony of shielding someone as notorious as Mattheo Riddle from harm didn’t escape you.

Your voice broke through the tranquil atmosphere as you finished recounting a story, one that had the group doubled over in laughter. “It’s not that funny, you assholes,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips. “I’m actually concerned about it, okay? Like, it’s true, but still…” You rolled your eyes, your chuckle mingling with the fading laughter. Eventually, you let your head rest atop Pansy’s, her dark curls tickling your cheek. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Mattheo watching, his dark gaze fixed on where Pansy leaned against you. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and you couldn’t help but suppress a grin. Jealousy suited him.

As the laughter ebbed, Blaise leaned back on his elbows, a smirk playing on his lips as he turned to Mattheo. “So, Riddle,” he drawled, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “What’s the deal with that redhead who’s been mooning over you?”

Mattheo’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “What redhead?”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Blaise replied with a laugh. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. The redhead—absolute knockout—who’s been fawning over you.”

“She doesn’t,” Mattheo said firmly, his tone laced with mild irritation. “She just assumes we’re friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Blaise quirked an eyebrow. “Let me enlighten you, Riddle. Do women usually parade around in barely-there clothing for their so-called friends?” His teasing earned him a sharp slap to the back of the head from Pansy.

“Any girl can wear whatever she damn well pleases,” she snapped. “And it doesn’t have to be for anyone, let alone a man. And If I hear you say such nonsense I will chop your dick and feed it to that three headed dog, you understand?”

Blaise rubbed the back of his head, chuckling. “Alright, alright. I am sorry, ma’am. But come on, Mattheo. She waits for you at Quidditch practice every morning. Five a.m., mate. No one studies that hard in the field when we’ve got a perfectly good library. She’s practically throwing herself at you.”

Theodore, lounging nearby, chimed in with a smirk. “I have to agree. She’s got a killer figure. Honestly, Riddle, she seems tailor-made for one of your infamous one-night flings. Speaking of which, you’ve been suspiciously… alone lately. Someone caught your eye?”

Before Mattheo could respond, Pansy interjected, her tone light but edged with sarcasm. “Please. Mattheo fawning over just one woman? Not possible. It’s probably against his DNA or something. The man’s practically programmed to bounce from one hot girl to another.” She leaned back, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “And some of those girls, I’ll admit, are downright smashable. Even I’m tempted sometimes.”

The group laughed, the conversation shifting seamlessly to lighter topics, but their words lingered, carving fissures in your confidence. Their teasing shouldn’t have bothered you—you knew Mattheo’s heart belonged to you—but doubts began to creep in, unbidden and persistent. Were you enough for him? Did he deserve someone better, someone more dazzling, more suited to his world?

The thoughts gnawed at you until you felt a warm hand slip over yours. Startled, you turned your head to find Mattheo watching you, his gaze impossibly tender. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile, one that spoke of unspoken promises and quiet devotion. You mustered a smile in return, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Mattheo noticed.

He always noticed.

Later that evening, you made your way back from the library, your bag slung lazily over your shoulder and your thoughts preoccupied. Mattheo had skipped your study date, and though disappointment gnawed at the edges of your mind, you reasoned it away. He was probably busy with Quidditch practice—the final match was looming, and the pressure was mounting. He’d make it up to you after the match, you told yourself, because that’s who he was. He always found a way to make things right.

Still, the morning’s conversation lingered, casting a faint shadow over your thoughts. You didn’t want to overthink it—it wasn’t worth ruining your mood—but the words from earlier replayed in your head like an unwelcome echo. To distract yourself, you silently recited the lyrics to a song, focusing on the rhythm of your footsteps as you made your way toward your dorm.

And then, just as you turned a corner, you saw them.

The sight froze you in place, a wave of nausea churning in your stomach as your heart plummeted. There he was—Mattheo—standing with a girl so breathtakingly beautiful it felt like the universe was mocking you. Her golden hair fell in perfect waves, her face framed with elegance, her height poised like a model stepping off a magazine cover. She was flawless. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. She was everything you weren’t.

Your chest tightened as you watched her lean toward him, her laughter like a siren’s call, and bile rose in your throat. You wanted to scream, to curse her, to tear her apart with the fire burning in your chest. But then the sharp edge of reality cut through. Was she really at fault? She didn’t know. To her, Mattheo was just another unattached, impossibly attractive boy. It wasn’t her fault she was flirting with someone who everyone believed was fair game.

Still, your gaze locked on her hand as it brushed his shoulder, and the lump in your throat grew harder to swallow. He moved his arm away, subtle but deliberate. Yet your mind refused to accept it. Why wasn’t he doing more? Why wasn’t he stopping her outright, shutting her down completely? Did he… like the attention? Or worse, did he realize he was better off with someone like her? Someone perfect?

The thought shattered something inside you. Tears welled up in your eyes as you stood there, frozen, watching the scene unfold. The voice in your head whispered cruel truths: He deserves someone better. Someone who fits his world. Someone who isn’t you.

You loved him so much it ached, but wasn’t love about sacrifice? About letting go? You told yourself it was. And so, that’s what you did.

For the next week, you committed to what you bitterly called your “stupid mission” of letting him go. You ignored Mattheo at every turn, cutting off the moments that had once been routine—canceling dates with feeble excuses, skipping his Quidditch practices where you used to show up just to watch him, even avoiding the places where you knew you might run into him. If he was better off without you, you wouldn’t stand in his way.

But boy, you were so wrong.

Which is how you ended up here, in the dim light of an abandoned classroom, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. His dark eyes burned with intensity, locking onto yours as he caged you in with both hands planted firmly on either side of your head. His body radiated heat, and the tension in the air was palpable.

“Mattheo,” you hissed, shoving at his chest, though it was futile against his unyielding strength. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on,” he snapped, his voice low and rough. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Canceling on me. Ignoring me. And don’t even try to lie, because I know you’ve been doing it on purpose.”

You glared at him, your hands curling into fists as you shoved at him again. “It doesn’t matter, Mattheo. Just—just let me go, fucker.”

“It matters to me,” he growled, his face inches from yours now. “You don’t get to just disappear from my life and act like it’s nothing. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tears pricked at the edges of your vision, but you blinked them away, refusing to let him see you break. “Why are you here?,” you choked out, the words slicing through you like broken glass. “You certainly were enjoying that blondie’s attention..”

Mattheo’s brows furrowed, confusion giving way to something deeper—something that almost looked like heartbreak. “Blondie who?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “The girl from the last week. The one for whom you cancelled our study date for—”

But before you could finish, Mattheo leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Stop.” His hand found yours, his grip firm but gentle. “You seriously thought I would cheat on you?”

Your breath hitched, the fight draining from you as his words sank in “But—”

“You don’t even have this much trust in me?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper, the hurt and disbelief evident in every word.

You shook your head, tears streaming freely now. “No, Mattheo, it’s not about trust. It’s about reality. You deserve better. Someone like her—perfect body, perfect everything. And I don’t think we’re meant for each other. I’m not perfect, not even close. So, it’s not that I think you would cheat,” you choked on the words, your heart breaking with every breath, “but I think you’re better off with her.”

By now, your sobs had overtaken you, the rawness of your feelings too much to contain. You were crying—really crying, like you hadn’t in years. Mattheo’s expression shifted from confusion to something deeper, darker, as he moved towards you.

Before you could even react, his hand found the back of your neck, his touch cold against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, as he pressed your head to his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. His lips brushed over your hair, his voice low and insistent.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His words were like a punch to the gut. “Don’t pull this movie bullshit on me, babe. That I deserve someone better? Cause we both know that I don’t. Come on, I don’t. I have more than enough. I have you. The fucking real goddess.”

You felt his arms tighten around you, his words sinking into your soul. “I don’t believe in reincarnation or any of that shit,” he continued, his voice softer now, “but I do think I’ve done something right in this life, something good, because I get to be with you. And trust me, baby—you and I are the only endgame. At first, I thought this was just some fling, but now? A day without talking to you feels like a waste. And I want to say some romantic shit like I’ll be with you even if the whole world is against you, but fuck that. I’m not weak, baby. I’ll kill anyone who dares go against you. Do you understand?”

A strange, tearful smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him. His hand ran up and down your back, comforting, reassuring.

“I know now’s not the right time to say this, but you’re getting your snot all over the only clean dress I have, baby.”

You lightly slapped his shoulder in mock annoyance, but the tension in your chest began to ease. He made you laugh, even in the midst of everything. You pulled your face back to look at him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him. The kiss was slow and soft, unlike any other kiss you’d shared. It was filled with something tender, something fragile, as if he was holding you close, afraid that if he let go, you might vanish.

When you finally broke the kiss, his gaze was fixed on you—his eyes filled with an intensity that spoke volumes. You could see it, clear as day: he was yours, and you were his. You were the endgame.

“You think I’d waste my time with anyone else when I have you?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Baby, you’re the only person who can handle all of me—the good, the bad, and the downright shitty. You believe in me. You worry about me when I get sick. You scold me when I’m being an idiot. And most importantly, when I look in your eyes, all I see is love. Not fear. Not ‘Riddle’s son.’ Just me.”

You smirked, your lips quivering as you raised an eyebrow. “Don’t speak too much, Riddle. Or I might just impregnate you.”

He withdrew his hands from you in mock horror, covering his body as if you’d just said the most scandalous thing in the world. “I knew it,” he said, feigning shock, “You only want me for my body.”

And you laughed, the sound of it echoing in the empty room, light and carefree, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had settled earlier. But it didn’t matter.

Mattheo Riddle, for all his faults, his arrogance, his unpredictable nature—he was yours. And you loved him. Maybe love wasn’t about letting go, after all. Maybe it was about holding on, cherishing what you had while it was still yours. Because if you had to let go of your love, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be in the first place.

Main Masterlist || Divider - @bernardsbendystraws

[motsimages]

My mom studied a masters in human sexology when I was a toddler and she taught me a kind of sexual education nobody else had around me. She told me that masturbating was alright and when it should be done (not in public), she told me not to trust adults that were friends of the family just because ("better get on the bus than on a car with them if they offer a ride, just in case" and she explained why). Friends with whom they had a great relationship, friends who had taken care of us right. We had a book for children that explained lots of sex-related things: from how to take care of yourself, what homosexuality is, what AIDS and other STDs are, how to tell an adult someone is abusing you, how to know if they are abusing you... Because there were conversations that she didn't fully know how to have but knew it was important that we knew. She also was always asking me if I had another adult with whom I could complain about her (i.e.: some other adult I could trust) and she gave me ideas: "you can speak to your aunt, or to this one friend", people she knew I liked and hang out with often.

When I was 5, a teacher called her to tell her that I would be a difficult teenager to manage because I said vagina and penis. And my mom said "well, I am a nurse and those are the right names for those body parts, she will learn the other words here at school. Maybe it will be the other kids who will be difficult to manage". You'll be surprised to know that my classmates were having their first kiss and their first boyfriend/girlfriend at age 12, and I didn't even feel the hormonal kick until I was 14. I didn't have the curiosity for certain behaviours because I knew about them already, so I only started wanted them when my body started wanting them. When that happened, she insisted frequently "Never do anything you don't want to do". She once catched me watching porn on the tv and all she said is "I don't want you to watch this now because you won't understand it right, you are too young". She wasn't even mad or made me feel ashamed. She understood my curiosity.

We also had a book about religions and she was ok if I had wanted to become part of some religion. She talked to me, and to every other child and teenager she met in a way we could understand about very difficult topics including domestic violence or death. Both her and my dad looked for movies that portrayed certain topics under a certain light (I clearly remember that we watched "Chasing Amy" recorded in a VHS from the TV).

As an adult, I do not feel shame or guilt around my body or my behaviours, whether they are sexual or not. I have friends that, at age 40, are still struggling with their body image, their desires and their needs.

And even if sometimes it has been difficult to me to understand what was happening to me, I could tell if something wasn't right.

The thing about sexual education, as op mentioned in passing unawarely, is that human being are sexual being by their very nature, and so, all of our relationships are sexual, even when actual sex is not involved in them.

I think there’s an argument to be made that protecting the children from relatively tame shadows of adults concepts actually makes things worse for them.

Like nothing is worse for me as an adult than the entirely unwarranted and unwanted sense of fear or scandalization from perfectly common stuff. And I don’t blame some wonderful TV show for using the word “fuck” or showing a nipple. My responses to those things are entirely constructed and cultural, and those shows are often doing me a kindness by giving me a context in which to safely re-examine them and my relationship to them.

And I just think actually there were a lot more opportunities to have a well adjusted outlook on life for the kids whose parents just told them what fuck meant.

[iri-desky]

iri my dear, you seem to know something about this. what is happening with dream/the dsmp. did they restart or smt? did dream say something stupid again?

im gathering its a mix of both of those but i have no clue if they correlate or idek:

HELLOOO Soda my friend!! Longtime no see!!

Okay so. Tw slurs and grooming mention

So, at one point, on Tommy and Jack's podcast, Shut Up I'm Talking, Tommy offhandedly, jokingly mentioned he didn't like Mizkif. This got Tommy in a little argument with XQC on twt-- it really wasn't anything that bad, they were just firing insults at each other, and it was mostly pretty silly (mainly on Tommy's side. XQC was just being salty but Tommy was handling it like "haha cringe" trying not to provoke too much). And TOTALLY UNPROMPTED. WITHOUT WARNING. MIND YOU THE SITUATION HAD LITERALLY NOTHING TO DO WITH HIM. DREAM BARGES INTO THE THREAD AND PROCEEDS TO MAKE A MEME THAT SINGLEHANDEDLY CALLS TOMMY'S ENTIRE FANBASE THE R SLUR.

Literally. Now for obvious reasons people were outraged, and three hours later Dream comes back and claims that he doesn't understand the backlash by revealing in the weirdest way possible he actually doesn't just have adhd, and is also autistic (i add this comment every time I explain this; "uh, go off ig") and therefore can allegedly "reclaim it" (even though that's not how you reclaim slurs, and even then that specific word is so bad that even ND people want to kill it with fire).

Now obviously this set off a chain reaction of events and replies and people going nuts, including an asinine explanation post he made on reddit (now deleted, pictured below).

This went on up until recently, whereupon Tubbo decided to get involved and set up a stream with Dream to talk about it. Dream discussed a variety of things during the stream (here's a post that just outlines all the crap he said in a lighthearted way for your own sanity) but basically, dream victimized himself the whole stream (two or three hours) and basically kept on screwing himself by mentioning more and more insane crap that happened once upon I time?? To defend himself??? One of them actually involved confessing that he allowed p●rn to be shown in a vc involving minors back during smp era. What was he thinking. The most awful part is that he barely even mentioned the event that started this whole thing at all and just redirected all the attention to other things, which, unsurprisingly, just made him look WORSE.

Naturally, Twitter is going ballistic, which includes plenty of the old dsmp members and bloggers weighing in ("happy dsmp reunion everyone").

Friendly reminder that all of this could've been avoided if Dream didn't spontaneously stick his nose into an argument that didn't involve him in any way whatsoever.

TL;DR: yes, Dream said something very, very stupid again and Twitter is going insane. As time goes on and Dream tries to defend himself, he's SOMEHOW making all the moves that just make himself look much, much, MUCH worse.

Hope this helps 👍🏽👍🏽 !!

(I'll be marking this with all the usual tags, so if this helped anyone else understand the situation, feel free to like, reply, or reblog! I'm just happy to help)