#are you one of the people on that list perhaps?

[heartfullofleeches]

"I wanna be your final girl! ♡"

Feminine Male Yan + Creep Reader

Tags/Warnings: Crossdressing, Creep should be on a watchlist (so should yan probably), plans/thoughts of murder.

-

He's cute.... isn't he?

A living, breathing porcelain doll. Everybody always says. Freckle kissed skin, rosy cheeks. A smile that can light up the whole room. Innocent, doey eyes.

People want him. People envy him. A toxic cesspool of jealousy and infatuation- To which a thin line stood between.

He's beautiful. One of a kind. Far cuter than that bitch at the top of your chart.

He didn't blame you. If some callous harpy sicced her boyfriend on him day in and out, he'd be pretty upset too. Enough to scrub that god awful fondation off her face with a sponge dipped in acid

They say the greatest pain is that of a broken heart. What has the bigger picture here? There had to be another reason why she was at the top of your kill list. He knew how this game would go. She'd be the last to fall, a helpless spectator as those she held dear dropped like flies.

It isn't not fair-

"Pick me...."

Make him the star of your show.

Write him letters of all the terrible things you do if you got him alone. Tell him that the last face he'll ever see is yours. The thought alone makes him weak in the knees. Or perhaps it's the drift nipping at his soft flesh beneath the cut off of his skirt. Beauty has it's sacrifices.

Just like he'd kill to be yours.

He doesn't get it. He wears the same cheap lip gloss as her. Traverses all the same roots. They live in the same dormitory so it's no brainer. He even borrowed that dress. The one you promised she'd be buried alive in.

Nothing.

Was he too nice to you? He could never bring himself to belittle the love of his life, but does that truly mean he isn't worthy of your attention?"

"Y/n, you heartless bastard!

Pick me....

"Why won't you stalk me instead of her?"

Pick me!

"I'm cuter. I'm smarter. I'm better than she'll ever be! So why....."

PICK ME!

"WHY CAN'T I BE YOUR FINAL GIRL?!?"

....

Why?

"Because you're going to be my alibi."

Oh.. Turns out he was special to you after all.

"Come on. I don't want to be late for my first date with my boy.... girlfriend."

You're so silly sometimes.

"Kay! ♡"

[kolawnk]

revenge, perhaps ?

013 ☆ watch me burn brighter

⊯sypnosis: y/n, a beloved singer, fell deeply in love with the famous model Park Sunghoon, whose charm quickly turned their relationship into a global sensation. She was blind to his flaws, believing love could change his troubled past. But two months ago, she discovered the heartbreaking truth—he cheated. The betrayal shattered her. Yet, despite the pain, y/n still finds herself haunted by thoughts of him. Now, with her upcoming single, she's channeling that heartbreak into art, pouring all the unresolved emotions into her music. It’s not just a song—it’s her revenge, her way of reclaiming herself. Little did she know, someone was watching her more closely than anyone else.

note: this one is kinda long soo make sure to read everything😌😌 more under the cut !!

The cheers were thunderous, echoing through the venue like crashing waves. The entire stadium vibrated with adrenaline and anticipation, every fan on their feet, lights flashing like fireflies in a thunderstorm. The massive LED screen behind the stage shimmered to life—blooms turning to ash, petals melting into embers.

And then, she stepped out.

YN.

She walked slowly, deliberately, draped in a sculpted silhouette of velvet and flame. Her face was bare but strong, her eyes glazed with a cold fire. She looked every inch like a woman forged in pain—and not just surviving, but ruling her own ashes. The stage was hers. The night was hers. The world was watching.

“I'm still myself, but my views and people have changed. Now, are you ready to see the new era of yn?” her voice asked through the speaker, low and smooth, nearly swallowed by the rising music.

The crowd lost it.

She performed with a grace that bordered on violent—dancing as if exorcising demons, her lyrics ripping through speakers like confessions. Each verse hit like a punch to the chest, each chorus like a scream that had waited too long to be heard.

But somewhere between the strobe lights and the screams, somewhere deep inside—YN felt it again.

The fear.

She didn’t let it show, not as she twirled through the fire-lit choreography of “Mirror Talk” or screamed the final notes of “Ashes in Bloom.” But backstage, where the stage lights couldn’t reach her, she could feel it. That cold prickle along her spine. That invisible breath against her neck.

He was still out there.

And worse—he was watching.

SUNGHOON'S POV

He watched the entire performance alone, in a dark apartment with nothing but his phone screen illuminating his face. When she sang the second verse of “No Apology,” it was like being gutted with his own knife.

"you swore you changed / i should’ve known / silence is still betrayal / even when it’s gold.”

He knew that line was about him. Or maybe not. Maybe it was about everything. Her label. The stalker. All the betrayals layered over each other until the only thing she could do was burn it all down.

He typed and deleted the same message five times before settling on just one:

She sat in the corner of her new apartment, knees pulled to her chest, surrounded by unopened boxes. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the city through the window.

Her phone buzzed again.

Not from him.

From a private number.

No message.

Just a video.

She hesitated, then tapped it.

The screen flickered.

It was footage—of her. Tonight. Walking backstage. But the camera wasn’t from the venue. It was low to the ground. As if it was taken from behind a door. From the shadows.

She froze.

Then another buzz. A message.

“i was closer than you thought. beautiful show tonight.”

Her breath caught. The world spun.

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

But her fingers moved quickly, and she opened her contact list.

She scrolled to his name.

park sunghoon (dni)

She stared at it.

Her thumb hovered.

Then—

Calling...

prev 《 masterlist 》 next

taglist!! (req open) @curaheehee @sngj08 @tasnemluvs @honestlyatomicpanda @haerin-luv @angelzforu @hyuneskkami @nessas-archive @enhastars @rikidaze @leralise @nk-3554 @hyuneskkami @angelzforu @semi-wife @desistay

[inkwelldesires]

Resonance S.R

Misinterpretation, mythology,

and the quiet ache of being unheard.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Rating: T

Word Count: ~3.4k

Category: Angst | Psychological Spiral | Literary Slow Burn

▌Summary:

He said one honest thing, and they turned it into poetry.

Now he’s everywhere—romanticized, misunderstood, mythologized.

But none of them are listening.

And all he ever wanted was to be understood.

I think perhaps I was always doomed to be misinterpreted.

That would be the more scientific explanation — that the density of my thoughts, the velocity of my speech, the statistical anomaly of my memory have all conspired to create a portrait of a man more myth than material. But I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in data. In ratios. In measurable cause and effect. And still, nothing in all my education could have prepared me for what it feels like to speak plainly, honestly — and have the world turn your grief into something decorative.

They said I went viral. That’s the term. Viral. As if I were a disease.

The moment in question took place during a guest lecture at Columbia. I was asked to speak on cognitive architecture and loneliness in high-functioning brains. I remember the room precisely — 147 students, 22 of them visibly disengaged, one crying softly into the sleeve of her coat in the third row. The light bulbs above me buzzed at an inconsistent frequency, and my left heel had started to wear unevenly, causing a slight shift in posture I was too distracted to correct.

The question came at the end. A young man — possibly nineteen, judging by the pitch of his voice and the style of his haircut — raised his hand and asked if I ever felt lonely. Not clinically, but existentially.

And I told the truth.

“The greatest cruelty of intelligence is how it allows you to see everything… without ever really being a part of it.”

There was a silence. The kind that lasts exactly 3.2 seconds — long enough to register as meaningful but not long enough to invite clarification. I moved on. I continued speaking. I thought the moment had passed.

But someone had been recording.

Within forty-eight hours, the clip had over nine million views.

I know because Garcia sent it to me with a string of emojis I didn’t understand and a message that said “you’re the internet’s boyfriend now, pretty boy.”

I watched the video exactly once. In it, I blink slowly, adjust my tie, and speak that line like I’ve practiced it. But I hadn’t. I never meant it to sound poetic. I meant it to sound tired. Fractured. True.

The internet decided otherwise.

Within days, I was a meme. A myth. A digital candle for every person who had ever felt slightly too much. They captioned my face with phrases I never said. Paired my voice with piano music. Wrote articles like, “The Soft Sad Genius Who Sees Too Much.” Someone made a montage of me licking my lips during a congressional hearing.

Another account posted a thread analyzing my hand gestures and concluding I must be good in bed because I “point like a professor but touch like a priest.”

I cannot describe the nausea that accompanied that realization. That my loneliness — the thing I have carried like a second spine for the better part of three decades — had become aesthetic.

No one heard what I said. They heard what they needed. That’s the curse of being articulate. People assume clarity equals consent.

But I have never felt so violently misunderstood in my life.

So I agreed to the interview.

That, too, was a mistake.

The woman — her name was something sharp, expensive — greeted me like we were old friends. She shook my hand and said she loved my mind. My mind. As though it were separate from my body, something she could admire from a safe distance, like an antique microscope.

I brought notes. I’d prepared a list of points I wanted to clarify — about cognition, about emotional displacement, about the neurochemical exhaustion of constantly monitoring one’s own behavior for signs of alienation. I referenced a study on cognitive dissonance in viral fame. I cited Sartre. I used the word “ontological.” I spoke too quickly. I know I did. I always do when I care too much.

They cut nearly all of it.

What remained was three minutes of footage: me hesitating, adjusting my cuffs, blinking. The camera zoomed in when I said the word “lonely.” They slowed the frame when I smiled without meaning to. They aired it with a headline that read:

“The FBI’s Most Eligible Genius on Loneliness, Love, and the Burden of Knowing Too Much.”

That night, someone made a compilation of my “cutest nervous habits.” Another person wrote a fanfic where I die in the arms of a barista. There are threads dissecting my posture, my scent, my emotional availability.

I have never felt less real.

I have spent my entire life being misread. As a child, they thought I was arrogant. As a teenager, they thought I was fragile. As a man, they think I am soft and safe and made of prose.

But I am not.

I am statistical anomalies wrapped in skin. I am memory retention rates and compulsive empathy and a library of things I wish I could forget. I know exactly how grief rewires the hippocampus. I know that loneliness increases the risk of early death by 26 percent. I know that people like me — people with IQs above 180 — are significantly more prone to mood disorders, dissociation, and the kind of isolation that eats your sense of self alive.

I know all of this.

But none of it helps when the silence in my apartment stretches long and low, when I reach for my phone and find nothing but noise, when the world has confused my suffering for softness and my sorrow for sex appeal.

I said I see everything.

But what I meant was: I am outside of it. I am always outside. I watch other people live like I am behind glass. I know too much. I feel too much. I speak in ways that sound like performance, even when they are plea.

And I would give every quote, every fan cam, every edit of my face looking wistful in a hallway —

Just to be understood. Quietly. Without praise. Without poetry. Without someone asking what I’m thinking while imagining what my hands would feel like against their skin.

I want someone to understand what I meant.

I want someone to look at me and not see potential. Or mystery. Or a story waiting to be written.

I want someone to see me.

But maybe that’s impossible.

Maybe I was never meant for resonance.

Only observation.

[vixines]

disharmonic | lee chan

ཐི⋆ཋྀ teaser pairing: ghost!chan x pianist!reader

genre: mystery, dark romance, gothic horror, supernatural

you, the pianist who is hired to play at a bar every weekend, starts stumbling across strange things once your fingers make contact with the piano keys – spirits, ghosts, and the fragments of the voice your dead lover once harbored. desperate to pull back the reality you once had, you will stop at nothing to get your lover back.

warnings/tags: character death, descriptions of blood/death, impalement, death of a loved one, implied murder, weapons, reader is cursed, alcohol, ghosts, other supernatural beings, spells & curses, nicknames (baby)

The bar is filled with drunken chatter and the sounds of glasses clinking together.

In a dimmed corner, you sit at the piano bench, fingers pressing into the piano keys, playing whatever jazz piece you’ve learned to memorize. To everyone else, it’s well-fitting background noise for a bar, and occasionally, others will come up to you to compliment how good it sounds or the “raw emotions” they can feel in the music – but you know it hasn’t been the same ever since he isn’t here to listen to every song you play. The emotion you pour into every note played has never been as lively or intense ever since your greatest love had been stolen from you.

Out of the blue, there is a voice that seems to speak a little too close to you. Like a whispered promise from the countless memories you’ve tried to swallow down, it grazes the side of your neck with the same warmth of a fireplace, and it feels like something out of a thriller movie. “You play well,” it hums, and you turn your head, fingers pausing on the piano to locate the source of the voice.

There is nothing.

You swallow nervously. It had been seven months since she appeared to you in a dream, offering that risky proposal without listing the downsides. Seven months since the night Chan became the casualty of your agreement. Perhaps this was a part of the curse that mysterious lady had put upon you that night – hearing voices.

Not many people seem to notice how the music has stopped, the alcohol drowning out background noise from their conversations. One of the bartenders steals a quick glance at you, before turning his attention back to a drunk female on the opposite end of the counter. You forget the piece you were supposed to have memorized, and you throw it all into the hands of improvisation to save you now.

“This is quite pleasant.” Another voice speaks up, this one not as close as the first one. You turn your head again, and this time there's a woman, perhaps in her early thirties, the edges of her semi-transparent figure glowing a faint, pure white. In the corner of your eye, there are a couple more of them, and the voices seem to increase in quantity by each passing second. You pause, to test something out, and when the music stops, the figures seem to diminish slowly. A quiet sigh leaves your lips – the music is summoning them. You start to play again, and the voices come back. They whisper to each other, or whisper to you, making you feel like you were imagining things.

One of the voices stands out to you the most. “I almost forgot how good you were at improv,” it comes out as gentle and velvety, and you know whose voice it is almost immediately. This wasn’t just any kind of voice – it was Chan’s. Your lover.

As far as you know, dead people couldn’t speak.

[dammit-tazmuir]

Something that's especially interesting imo, in contrast with the mentioned characters , is that in the GtN epilogue, "Harrow could never tell precisely how she knew who he was, only that she did." It implies she in all her reverence has not see portraits or paintings of John. Perhaps the Ninth has some other visual representation, like the First Skull, or perhaps they don't really do visual representations at all (though since Gideon did also know who the painting in the Eighth's quarters was, it's likely there's something), but it certainly adds to their offshoot cult factor.

When they first arrive at Canaan, the other Houses all share a prayer, later denoted as "the common prayer", and some bits here and there from Gideon and from the Eighth imply that the Ninth is certainly by and far the most diverged from the main religion. Of course the Eighth clearly has its own deeply religious customs not practiced elsewhere, like daily fasting and ritual purity (at least for its scion?), so it's likely practices vary elsewhere too, just likely not as fundamentally different as the Ninth. Or if there are major branches, they're probably pretty small, a mini group within a House rather than a House-wide thing.

That said....... DO we have evidence the Lyctors are widely known? Ianthe has the posters of her face line, but is that a real answer? A realistic one? It's hard to say. The BoE Memorandum is aware there are Lyctors, and that they're shown reverence and are terrifying, but they estimate single digits and warn members what to do when a Lyctor is suspected rather than having any identifying traits to watch out for. Harrowhark certainly doesn't know any of them prior to introduction, but as mentioned she probably hadn't seen a direct portrait of John either. We don't see many people's reactions to Mercy before she's announced as the Saint of Joy, and if anyone would be extra familiar it'd be the crew of the flagship.

I'm rambling for no real conclusion there but all I'm saying is, there COULD be posters of Lyctors, but we don't know if there are or not. We DO know for sure there are posters of John's, though. And what was that other thing Ianthe listed as her motive? Ultimate power, was it?

"You see, my field has always been energy transferral … large-scale energy transferral. Resurrection theory. I studied what happened when the Lord our Kindly God took our dead and dying Houses and brought them back to life, all those years ago … what price he would have had to pay."

I'm just saying, imagine rereading HtN after Alecto drops and having "posters of my face" be code for "I want to become God, obviously."

We never really get to see the cults of the other Houses, but only the one of the Ninth House what raises an important question to me: is it allowed to make oneself an image of God in the TLT universe? For the Ninth, there is no use in such a thing, they pray for the Tomb, it's there, you can look at it when you want, but what about the other Houses? Ianthe's comment on "poster of her face" seems to imply that there is a tradition of making posters of Lyctor saints (what makes sense, the Houses seem to have a working printing section - regarding Gideon's titty magazines) but what about Jod? Do they worship a picture of John Gaius on their sacred places? (Churches?)

PS: What does worship for the Nine Houses actually look like? Do they use the First skull as a symbol? Do the saints have seperate cults? Are people praying to... Ianthe somewhere?

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

ok i know that there are like very conservative areas where this is broadly speaking true………. but this is an insane thing to say as a universal fact lol

[dashiellqvverty]

i cannot tell you how much it infuriates me to see headlines about starbucks losing money captioned with “boycotts work!!” like…. okay what change did starbucks make in response to losing that money?? what change did you WANT them to make? what ties to israel do they have and how would it impact israel if they cut those ties?? starbucks losing money is evidence that a boycott is HAPPENING, but not that it is “working” or achieving any particular goal. the point of a boycott isn’t simply to punish a company for being shitty, it is to force their hand to make a CHANGE. and to be absolutely clear, fuck starbucks i am all for not giving them your money. but an organized boycott with a tangible goal and choosing not to support a place are two different things.

[thedreadblog]

Currently working on a list of the bookmarks I've saved up over the years, and it's a pleasure to read through all of them again!

Anyway, work in progress :)

[aliosne]

Some gems from filling out a medical intake form this afternoon.

[toothworxx]

Every time I need a laugh I come to your account and just scroll through the posts tagged with funny and it never fails lmfao

Thank you tumblr user toothqotxx

-Iruma anon 😼

my sense of humor grows more powerful with each comin day 😈

SO close ta my url, ya gawt this never give in never give up

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Things that sillily make me happy: the fact that in the official Buffy chess set they released, Buffy and Angel are queen and king chess pieces.

And, I mean, it just makes sense that they would do this, of course. As it looks like this set was based on early season two, as Spike and Drusilla are the king and queen pieces for black.

But Buffy and Angel being king and queen pieces works so well, since they're paired together, of course. And equal to each other... and a battle couple. And more than anything, this is great because the queen's the most powerful piece on the board and Buffy's the most powerful character in the series, of course. And her being more powerful than Angel just tracks. Because she canonically is. And this makes me think of the many times where she saved him and he was the damsel.

Anyway...

[nomaishuttle]

i do fr need to work on differentiating between "actually middleclass" and "doesnt live paycheck to paycheck" lmao bc that is something i struggle with... obviously ik i have more in common with like. even somebody whos fr middleclass disney vacations every year. I know i have more in common with them than i do with bezos but god at least i dont have to see bezos being annoying in front of me every day KJANDJKLNLJD

[genius-built-donatello]

AAAAND THE NEW WIKIPEDIA IS UP

[star-of-waterdeep]

hey what. what if. what if ken. what if ken was one of my f/os

[horrorwebs]

today i found out i dodged the bullet of having a potential relationship with an insane person but also its like. hm. when do i get to have experiences as well?

[ourceliumnetwork]

listen. I know my family is bad at communication and acknowledgement of receipt of Thing but when the one thing that consistently happens semi-annually is that I get fussed at for not confirming I received something, it irks me a smidge.

Like if I'm expected to always confirm "Hey I got your [communication/gift]" then why aren't they doing it back? Especially considering the communication in this instance has really actually very important information they will want to know if they want to stay in contact with me.

Like????

Even if I'd just gotten a "K" in response, like. at least it would have let me know they got the damn thing. I sent this email TWO WEEKS AGO and only one person responded - and it was practically immediate too. Like... i know folks are busy, i know shit's going on. I get it. But it would help me feel so much less like I'm suddenly a pariah in the family out of nowhere if like one of the people I'd sent this to had just responded in some way shape or form.

I'd have answered a phone call - i wouldn't have liked it, but i'd have done it. A letter in the mail to my current address even. a message in a bottle probably wouldn't get to me because i'm pretty far from the beaches of the great lakes, and also they're even farther, but like. something right?

my sister at least confirmed she got it and just forgot to respond. i imagine that's what happened with everyone else because we have the same mental illnesses and look. i do it too. but also? also?? i was hounded to respond quickly to things, i was told off every time i wasn't responding within a half hour of any communication. I was asked instantly the next time they saw me if I'd gotten it, even if i hadn't had a chance to see the thing yet.

So forgive me, family, if I'm a little peeved off that all y'all are allowed to "forget to respond" for two whole fucking weeks and then a few extra days (because it's been 2 weeks, 3 days exactly) when i can't let something sit in the mailbox for 2 days because i couldn't get to my mailbox easily while living on my own without getting a phone call or text or email that there should be something waiting in there for me.

*enraged screeching*