#before this I was completely neutral to them

[sqgeism]

ive been reading too many domestic fics lately

sage...*gets on knees and bows head in utmost reverence*

domesticity with the amphoreus men. A NORMAL DAY IN THE LIFE. THERE'S TOO MUCH ANGST. MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY I BEG OF THEE.

lots of love,

ri.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 i don't wanna be the owner of your fantasy | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

🍒 — ᥫ᭡ i just wanna be a part of your family . the world is kinder when i close my eyes and pretend all of it isn't on fire.

love mail — ⨾ hiii ri anaxa's #1 dove fr 👰‍♂️ i stopped writing vamp anaxa to LOCK IN. no more angst for oomfs.. only happiness 🧘‍♀️🧘‍♀️ (lying) rly quick sorry ri ily 🥀

anaxagoras isn't domestic.

he isn't domestic when he wakes up a little earlier than you, making sure to kiss your forehead before getting out of bed, moving the alarm you set to five more minutes since you don't want to get up too early.

surely, it isn't domestic when he makes you your preferred beverage in the morning—or a different breakfast each time for you to try. or when he had brought home your favorite snacks on the way home from the academy for you to eat later when he's gone. not at all, it's just all too sweet for the prickly professor.

and when he serves you breakfast in bed, turning off the alarm he had adjusted to instead wake you with loving kisses to your face, it isn't supposed to be interpreted as an intimate gesture, no way. "morning." anaxa whispers softly, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he watches your eyelids slowly flutter open. titan, your eyes had to be inspired by the finest of jewels when the gods were making you. simply gorgeous.

anaxa tries to make mornings as special as possible, knowing he'll be gone for hours once he walks through that door and comes home late again, to his dismay. he'd take care of you all throughout the day if he could.

don't.. don't call it domestic though.

it isn't.

anaxa will do anything but call it that </3

to say mydei yearned—that he ached and bled for this life—is an understatement.

titan forbid a man wants to scream about how much he loves his partner and the life they have together, that he loves waking up to you playing with his hair or tracing his marks. it's then followed by his home gym routine, and if you choose to join him or not—he hopes you at least stay.

if you do, he likes to talk about health and different routines he wants to try and if you're interested. if not, he likes it if you stick around and do your own thing. maybe read or some work? but stay close by, please, you're his motivation.

all meals are to be cooked by prince of castrum kremnos and prince of castum kremnos only, but if you'd like for takeout or a fancy restaurant (or he made plans), he's happy to do so! but cooking is a biiig love language for him, definitely used it to impress your friends and family. it makes him feel like a little boy getting praised whenever you tell him that your family wants him to cook something for them, he's just the happiest!

and kids, oh they're the dream. but he doesn't mean they have to be human kids, pets work too! they're basically kids, no? he just.. he wants to care for something, someone. he loves you so much but he also has so much love to give to the world too </3 agh hes such a sweetheart im sorry

he loves you because you're his last, he knows it. youre his heart and soul and he's surrendered every part of his being to you. his heartbeat is the same as your laughter and his eyes can only ever reflect you. he hopes he can give back even just a fraction of all the happiness you make him feel.

phainon is so painfully enamored with his domestic life he completely forgets he's supposed to be a warrior sometimes.

he thinks he's the luckiest man in the universe to see you when you just wake up, when you're still drowsy and trying to snuggle into his chest further, not wanting to get up.. an absolute goner. he's a 'weak' man (for you), all he needs is your sweet words to tell him to do something and he's all yours.

he likes it when you take care of him, considering how hard he works. phainon is a provider at heart but to be dote on is very very nice, who says no to kisses and sweet words from their angel anyway? absolutely not phainon. he'll HAPPILY take your attention away from the world, not like it needs it. the world has him, and he has you.

you're the one thing he doesn't have to share, to sacrifice (HOPEFULLY!!!!), and he doesn't ever want to lose sight of that fact. that no matter how much he goes through, he has someone waiting for him back at home. and they'll be expecting his arms around him before they sleep, whispering sweet nothings and look forward to waking up to have it all to themselves all over again.

and maybe that's why you two work so well together, the fact that you'll only ever be selfish with each other.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[ahoyimlosingmymind]

something about there being this unspoken understanding in the batfam that Jason really is just one unkind word away from falling apart completely at any given time.

It is not immediately obvious when Jason comes storming into the batcave in a bad mood, or when he takes a shot at one of them that it's a test.

An unfair test, but some weird, oddly understandable one if you step back and consider the myriad of traumas Jason has that have never had the chance to be properly dealt with thanks to the natural isolation of his life. T

here's this moment of epiphany among them when Damian makes some offhanded comment after Jason has left in a rage, where he's like "He's almost as socially inept as I was when I first came from the league."

and Oh.

Because yeah. Jason's hyper competent in combat, and strategy, and he can be clear and easy to talk to when it's about a mission or patrol, but when it's just them-- casual? No gear? No masks and vigilante roles to hide behind, it's like Jason is stumbling through every interaction. If he's not being immediately bitchy, he's awkward and quiet, and looks so out of place. They know Jason is compassionate, and can be soft, because he is with victims and children-- but he can't seem to let himself have any true permanence as Jason Todd.

While it's not an excuse for Jason to be a bitch to test them... the epiphany is: Jason hasn't been in community or relationship with people in years. Maybe ever, if you really think about it. He's doing that thing that the more brash street kids do. The ones who poke and prod at wounds because they're trying to gauge safety.

Because the batfam is Jason's last grasp at having a permanent place where Jason Todd can exist... but it can only happen if he's wanted. The rest of the world thinks he's dead. He can't really be understood by the average civilian.

How else does he prove he's wanted than to give them all the things that would make it easy to leave?

the batfam sees the truth of it though. it’s in the way Jason snaps at them, but flinches at his own tone because it’s so obvious he didn’t mean for it to come out that way. It's not something they noticed before Damian said what he said. And in the past, Tim or Damian would bite back with a psychologically dismantling remark. Because they're all witty, and some of Jason's complexes are just glaring red targets, and well- He's usually the one that provokes! Right? So it's fine? But this time--

Jason says something he shouldn't, and he stares at them wide-eyed and clearly terrified for the response and they all just shrug and move on with things, Tim even huffs out a laugh, and says, "Yeah, okay Jason." And Jason visibly calms down. His whole body seems to untense, and then he very quietly mumbles, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." And it's like you can hear a pin drop.

Then Bruce nods in acknowledgement, and his tone is even when he says, "We know, Chum."

Because not once in his life has he been met with actual neutrality. Not indifference, not rage-- just neutrality that says, "You're not gonna provoke us, or scare us off."

and that makes it easier to breathe amongst them. It makes it easier to trust that they might like the little good he has to offer, if they're not scared of all the ugly.

ugh idk, just something that makes them realize that Jason is in a constant state of emotional panic, and while he's not stupid at all, he's got extremely underdeveloped interpersonal skills, especially familial ones.

as time goes on, there comes a point where Jason says something barbed, it's just him and Dick, and Dick is like, "You know, Damian used to do the same thing when he first came here. He said all the worst things he could think of, and he tried to kill Tim, and he complained about Alfred's cooking, and was always waiting for the other shoe to drop."

and Jason's fucking disarmed because HELLO? And so he's like, "What the fuck does that have to do with anything--"

"He's still here, Jason. And I have every intention of making sure you stay, too. But damn, can we check the attitude at the door, sometimes?"

bc accountability is also >>>

[stephdudette]

ok SO like... i went on tumblr today and SUDDENLY I GET LIKE 4 ASKS about THIS LIKE WTF.... ITS BEEN WELL OVER A DECADE!!!

Apparently this started circulating again and I just... I have no idea why... (Maybe cause Deltarune Chapter 3 and 4 came out?)

So I guess to answer some things. I was able to finish the demo back in the day (I wrote this post on July 3rd 2013 which was when I played the demo) and generally I liked it besides Flowey at that point. Then i completely forgot about it.

And then I find out in 2015 that the game had been fully released. I played the full game about a week after it came out. The first time I played, I got a neutral ending because at that point I didn't figure out at that point how to spare Toriel. (yes I did beat photoshop flowey, it was a very "wtf" kind of fight but I powered through).

I then quickly learned how you do it so I went back, played, and got the pacifist ending.

I DID attempt to try the genocide route but I was unable to beat Sans. I still have not to this day but I have seen others do (and I am well aware of what happens afterwards).

Generally speaking I love Undertale. I love its world and characters. I like their designs and generally find them either cute, funny, or a bit odd (But in a good way). I didn't really get involved in the fandom that much, just saw things from afar.

I don't have much more to say. I have played Deltarune and I'm really loving the game so far (I did finish chapter 4 but its like not a complete game yet).(and before anyone asks I'm just planning a pacifist route style for it).

Also someone asked me what my fav word was... I wish i can answer you but I can't. However the first word that came to my head was "apricot"

So idk if you guys know of a game called Undertale. Its by Toby Radiation Fox, the guy who does homestuck music.

Well i started playing the demo, and that part with the flower, I thought it was gonna be all cute and nice.

BOY WAS I HELL WRONG. THAT FLOWER FREAKED THE HELL OUT OF ME. IM STILL SHAKING NOW.

someone calm me down. im not even 10 seconds and this is freaky. its like OFF  but idk. sdjgklsdjg;lksdjg

imma keep playing though, hopefully it gets better

[vamptizm]

SNOOZE — p. bueckers vii.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: some angst. manipulation. talks of mental health. flashbacks + uncomfortable age gap (freshly 18 and almost 21).

word count: 5500

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

The game hadn’t gone well for Dallas.

Not in the slightest.

A fifteen point loss hung in the air like thick humidity—suffocating, sticky, inescapable. But it wasn’t the score that weighed heaviest on Soraya. It was Leah’s gaze. The way it lingered far too long. The way it burned, intentional, familiar, unwelcome.

It was also the memory of Paige’s voice, sharp and scathing, still echoing in her skull.

Those words had cracked something open in her, something ugly and vulnerable and angry. Soraya hadn’t said a word since. She hadn’t needed to. Her silence spoke louder than anything else.

Unfortunately, the universe had one more cruel twist lined up. The post game press conference.

Coach. Paige. Soraya.

Paige could practically hear the PR team’s logic—put the golden rookie and the cold ver together with the coach, make it look like unity. But it didn’t feel like unity.

It felt like being dragged onto a stage and made to perform a lie.

The room buzzed with fluorescent lighting and the dull rhythm of shuffling notepads, mic checks, and tired journalists filing in. Soraya took her seat on the far end of the table, away from Paige, next to Coach. Her shoulders were tense, her jaw set. She picked at the edge of her nail for a moment, then stopped, folded her hands in her lap. Unfolded them again. Cracked her knuckles once under the table. Rubbed the back of her neck.

Paige sat stiffly in her seat, barely breathing, eyes occasionally darting toward her teammate. She still hadn’t figured out how to say sorry.

The press conference began with the usual. The coach opening remarks, some softballs tossed at Paige about the ‘rookie experience,’ her first official WNBA game, what she learned, how the adjustment was going.

Paige answered smoothly, albeit more curtly than usual. Her mind wasn’t in it.

Then the questions shifted. Turned.

“Soraya, tonight wasn’t quite what we’ve come to expect from you. A bit of an off game. Can you talk us through what might’ve been going on out there?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Soraya’s eyes flicked up from the table where her eyes burned through the box score sheet. She gave the reporter a neutral look before exhaling lightly through her nose. She scratched lightly at her cheekbone, then dragged her fingers to the space between her brows as she leaned into the mic.

“It’s not a game I’m proud of,” she said flatly. “That much I can admit. I wasn’t in my best mind, unfortunately, and I cost us the game.”

Her hand dropped from her face, and she straightened her posture ever so slightly.

“But it’s everyone’s first game. I’m still trying to perfectly click with this team. That takes time. I’m sorry to all the fans that felt disappointed by our loss tonight.”

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t emotional.

It was quietly resigned, measured and controlled. The kind of answer you give when you’ve spent the entire night trying to keep yourself from unraveling. Beating yourself up.

Paige stared in silence.

It was the most she’d heard Soraya speak at once while sober, and it felt completely wrong. Not because of the words themselves, but the way they sounded. Flat, hollow, like someone speaking from inside a locked room.

Paige’s chest ached. She rubbed the inside of her thumb anxiously under the table. Her foot bounced. The apology burned on the tip of her tongue.

Soraya didn’t look her way once.

The press conference dragged for a few more minutes—another question about coaching decisions, something about the rotation, a stat pulled out and dissected. But Soraya had checked out. She responded when prompted, politely but distantly, her gaze often slipping toward the floor or the wall clock behind the media scrum.

When it finally ended, she stood a second too slowly. Her movements were delayed, sluggish, like she was underwater.

Paige rose too, but didn’t follow right away. She watched Soraya disappear behind the curtain with a hollow ache in her gut.

She’d made it worse.

And she didn’t know how to fix it.

In the locker room, she moved through the motions like a ghost. Peeling off her jersey, slipping into her change of clothes, carefully avoiding both eye contact and confrontation. The rest of the team gave her space. Even Dijonai, who had every reason to pry, didn’t push. Just sent her a soft look, one of understanding and maybe, quiet worry.

But Paige…

Paige couldn’t stop glancing over. Not reaching out, not apologizing—because what would she even say? But she wanted to. She hated how her own guilt settled in her chest, heavy and acidic. She hadn’t meant it. Not like that. But she’d said it anyway, and now Soraya wouldn’t even look in her direction.

Not that she had done so before.

The private parking lot behind the College Park Center was near empty by the time Soraya stepped into it, the fading buzz of post game clean up echoing faintly in the distance. Most players had already cleared out, but Soraya had taken her time—showered last, dressed slow. She hadn’t been in a rush to get back out into the world.

A plain black tank top clung to her torso, and a pair of grey sports shorts hung low on her hips. Comfortable and breathable. Something she could drive in without feeling like she was suffocating.

She pressed the unlock button on her keys, the soft beep of her car echoing in the stillness. But before she could reach for the door handle, a voice curled around her like smoke.

“Well, shit. Still lookin’ good, Mensima.”

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. That voice—smooth, smug, too casual to be anything but calculated—was one she knew far too well. It hadn’t changed a bit.

Soraya turned slowly, every movement sharp edged and reluctant. And there she was.

Leah Katz.

Blonde hair slicked into a ponytail, her Lynx shorts still on, water bottle swinging lazily from her fingers. She looked fresh faced, post game glow intact, as if she hadn’t just handed Soraya a humiliating on-court loss.

That damn smirk tugged at her lips. The same one she used to wear when she won arguments she started on purpose. When she knew she was getting under Soraya’s skin.

Leah’s blue eyes dropped in a slow, deliberate drag, scanning Soraya head to toe. “Didn’t think I’d get this lucky,” she added, spreading her arms wide, like it was some kind of performance. “Come here. Don’t tell me you’re gonna act brand new on me.”

Soraya didn’t move.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just looked at her. Blank. Cold. And yet, she could feel the heat rising beneath her skin—the phantom sensation of a hand gripping her wrist too tight, a voice whispering too close. Her spine straightened instinctively.

“Nah” she said flatly. “Back the fuck up.”

Leah tsked under her breath, dropping her arms in mock disappointment. “Oof. That cold shoulder’s still sharp, huh?” Her head tilted, feigning concern. “Come on, you don’t miss me just a little?”

Soraya exhaled slowly through her nose. “I don’t have the energy to play with you right now, Leah.”

“But you used to love playing with me.” That smirk curled again, sharper this time. Meaner. “Can’t say I didn’t teach you a lot of things, right?”

There it was.

The dig. The real reason Leah had walked over. Not curiosity, not concern, but control.

Soraya’s fingers flexed at her sides. She didn’t want to give Leah a reaction, but her jaw clenched on instinct. “You’re not gonna get whatever high you’re looking for out of me. So turn the fuck around and walk to your car, Yeah?”

For a second, Leah’s smirk faltered—just a flicker. Like she didn’t expect Soraya to push back without the old waver in her voice.

But she recovered quickly, stepping back with a half laugh. “Damn. When did you get so spicy? Guess I’ll let you cool down, love.”

And with that, Leah turned and strolled off like she hadn’t just picked open a half healed wound. Like her words didn’t still linger in the space between them like smoke from a fire Soraya had spent years trying to smother.

She stood there for a moment after Leah was gone, chest tight, eyes fixed on the ground. Her reflection blinked faintly in the dark window of her car. She didn’t recognize the expression on her own face. Anger? Shame? Something in between.

She opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing anchoring her. A sharp breath filled her lungs, then shuddered out. Her fingers trembled, and she pressed her thumb into the heel of her palm to stop it.

From across the lot, Paige had seen the whole thing.

She hadn’t meant to stare this long—she’d been walking towards her own car, phone in hand, half drafting a text to Soraya she knew she wouldn’t send.

But the second she’d seen Leah approach, her feet had stopped moving.

She couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but she could see enough. The way Leah leaned in with that cocky, self satisfied energy and open arms. The way Soraya didn’t move an inch. The way she held herself like a storm cloud trying not to break open.

Paige didn’t realize her jaw was clenched until it started to hurt. Her grip on her phone tightened. Her stomach twisted with the same slow realization that had haunted her since tip-off.

Something was wrong.

And appreciate, she’d missed the start of it. She didn’t know what Leah Katz was to Soraya—or had been—but whatever it was, it was enough to rattle her.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the TV, muted reruns of a sitcom she wasn’t watching. Paige sat on the couch, slouched low, one ankle propped on her knee, still in her team hoodie and shorts. She hadn’t even bothered to shower yet.

Her game shoes sat in the middle of the living room floor, untied and forgotten. A bottle of Gatorade sweated on the coffee table. Her phone lay face down beside it, buzzing occasionally, mostly from texts she didn’t care to answer.

Her mind was elsewhere. With her.

Soraya.

Paige dragged her hands down her face, leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She’d watched the game film already—twice. Thought maybe there was something she missed, some technical answer to explain it all. But the problem wasn’t on the tape. Not really.

It was in the look on Soraya’s face and in her eyes.

The way she played like her body was present, but her mind had already left the arena. The way she’d barely reacted to mistakes, didn’t argue with refs, didn’t call the team over for huddles.

The way she hadn’t even looked at anyone once in the locker room. Not even accidentally.

It was more than just a bad night.

And then there was the parking lot.

Leah Katz. Paige didn’t need to know her to know her. The type was familiar. Girls who walked like the world owed them something. Girls who smiled like they were doing you a favor. Girls who got off on power and proximity.

She’d never seen Soraya look like that before in the last month she knew her. Not even when Paige was giving her the cold shoulder. Not even during that halftime fight.

Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest, dragging her thoughts back to the tunnel. Back to the words she’d spit without thinking.

Paige buried her face in her hands.

She hadn’t meant it. Not really. It had just come out, born from a mess of jealousy, confusion, and the ugly twist of watching Soraya give someone else her attention—even if that attention had been full of dread.

And now?

Now Soraya was surely shutting her out completely.

Paige leaned back against the couch, head resting on the cushion, eyes staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answers were hiding up there.

Who was Leah to her? What happened between them? Why was it still haunting her now? And why did it bother Paige so much?

Was it just concern for a teammate? Guilt for snapping? Or was it something deeper—something she wasn’t ready to name yet?

She sighed sharply and grabbed her phone, finally flipping it over. One unread message from her mom, two from azzi, DMs she ignored. Nothing from Soraya.

Not that she was expecting anything.

She opened a blank text anyway. Her thumbs hovered.

’you okay? i miss you’

She stared at it for a full minute. Then deleted it.

Rewrote.

’i didn’t mean what i said earlier’

Deleted again.

She locked the phone and tossed it back onto the table, rubbing the heel of her palm into her eye.

She hated this. The silence. The not knowing. The feeling that she’d lost something before she ever fully had it.

The city had long gone quiet, but Soraya remained awake, anchored in the sleepless hours that made the world feel hollow and suspended. She sat alone on her apartment’s small balcony, one knee pulled up toward her chest, the other leg stretched out and bare in a pair of old cotton shorts. A thin tank top clung to her skin, sticky from the humid Dallas air. The tip of her cigarette glowed orange every few seconds, breaking the darkness.

She hated smoking. Hated the way it clung to her fingertips, the way it filled her lungs with heat instead of peace—but sometimes it was the only thing that could make the noise inside her head dull to a low murmur.

Her eyes traced the sky, stars barely visible beyond the city haze. Everything felt far away. Unreachable.

Behind her, the faint sound of Jiggy’s toy as the cat swatted it from one corner of the apartment to another, disinterested in the swirling nicotine clouds that curled from Soraya’s lips and disappeared into the air like ghosts.

She exhaled again, slowly. Her shoulders finally relaxed, just slightly, her body slouching deeper into the chair. The night buzzed faintly with crickets, distant cars, the occasional gust of wind. But her mind—her mind didn’t rest.

Not when the memory came creeping in again, like it always did when the world slowed down.

Stanford—august 2nd, 2018

She was 18. Nervous. Eager. Dressed in too new team gear, her lanyard with her dorm key hanging around her neck like a badge of both honor and displacement.

Stanford’s gym was colder than she expected, full of fluorescent lights and echoing sneakers. The sound of bouncing basketballs and laughter had made her pause when she first stepped in.

Then there was her.

Leah stood at the top of the key, all confidence and sweat slick blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight it seemed to hold her whole face together. She didn’t smile when she passed, she smirked. Effortless. Charming.

“Oi, fresh meat,” Leah had called, cocking her head, accent thick. “You gonna stand there looking scared all year or you gonna lace up and show me what you’ve got?”

A few girls laughed. Soraya’s face flushed hot. But Leah’s eyes, sharp and glinting like a dare, held no cruelty. Just a challenge.

She stepped onto the court that day with her heart in her throat and her pride clenched in her teeth. She played hard. Maybe too hard. Slipped up once. Then again. But she got back up every time.

And Leah noticed.

“Not bad, Mensima,” she’d said after practice, nudging Soraya’s arm with her elbow. “You’ve got hustle. I like that.”

That night, Soraya returned to her dorm sore and sorely lit up. That she had noticed. That Leah Katz, the team's captain, the one the coaches trusted like gospel, had praised her and singled her out.

The next few weeks blurred.

Leah started sitting beside her in team meetings. Practicing with her after hours. ‘Helping,’ as she called it. Correcting her footwork. Holding her waist a second too long while guiding her pivot. Encouraging her in front of everyone—“That’s my girl, she’s getting it now”—until Soraya could feel the blush creep all the way down her neck.

Off the court, it was lunches, occasional late night texts—‘Can’t sleep. You up?’—coffees snuck in between workouts.

Leah was charming in the way fire is warm before it burns.

And Soraya, young, alone and eager to belong, drank it all in. Every compliment. Every brush of fingertips across her wrist. Every time Leah called her ‘my new star player’ with a wink and a smirk that made her knees a little weak.

No one had ever seen her the way Leah did. Or maybe no one had ever pretended to.

Stanford—august 28th, 2018

It was late.

The gym had cleared out an hour ago, the court lights dimmed to a softer glow that flickered slightly overhead. Soraya sat on the hardwood floor, legs stretched out in front of her, sweat cooling sticky against her spine. Her muscles ached from extra reps. Leah had insisted they stay behind after team drills to ‘tighten up Soraya’s shooting form.’

Leah sat beside her, legs crossed, sipping from her water bottle. Even in exhaustion, she looked poised, like she belonged here in a way Soraya still wasn’t sure she ever would.

“You’ve been pushing yourself hard,” Leah said after a moment, glancing at her. “You always do.”

Soraya looked over, trying not to seem too eager for the praise. “I just don’t wanna fuck it up. First year, you know? Can’t afford to be sloppy.”

“You’re not,” Leah said, and her tone softened, not patronizing, not cold. Almost intimate. “You’re hungry. That’s what makes you different.”

The words warmed Soraya’s chest, like a sip of something strong. Leah had a way of speaking that made you believe it.

“Still,” Leah continued, turning her body slightly to face her, “you’re too quiet. You play like you’re waiting for permission. You don’t need it. You just need to take up space.”

Soraya blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in Leah’s gaze.

“What do you mean?”

Leah reached out. Her hand brushed Soraya’s knee, light, but purposeful. Not casual. Not meaningless.

“I mean you don’t have to play small to be respected. You’ve got the game. Now own it. Own them.”

Soraya didn’t speak for a moment. Her throat felt tight, unsure. She’d grown up working for everything, and being invisible was a defense mechanism. But Leah… Leah made it seem like there was power in stepping forward instead of hiding.

“I’m trying,” she said quietly.

Leah’s hand stayed. Her thumb moved slightly, brushing over the inside of Soraya’s leg. Her voice dropped.

“You’re more than good, Soraya. I see it. You just don’t see it yet.”

It should’ve been uplifting. Maybe it was. But something in the moment—the quiet, the way Leah’s eyes lingered a little too long, the way her fingers didn’t quite move away—made Soraya shift slightly, uncomfortable but unsure why. She didn’t pull her leg away. Not yet.

Leah leaned in a little closer. “You trust me, yeah?”

The words were low. Loaded.

Soraya nodded.

“Good,” Leah said, smiling. That infuriating, self assured smile. “Because I can make you the best player on this team. You just have to listen to me. Follow me.”

And Soraya, too young and too flattered, whispered, “Okay.”

Leah stood first, offering her hand. Pulled Soraya to her feet like she always did. Strong, steady, sure. Her grip lingered longer than it needed to, her fingers brushing Soraya’s palm.

“You’re gonna thank me for this one day,” she said. “I promise.”

Stanford— september 21st, 2018

The night was cold enough to warrant jackets, but not cold enough to keep them indoors. The air smelled like eucalyptus and freshly cut grass—campus maintenance had trimmed the lawns late again, the scent still lingering in the quiet.

Soraya pulled her hoodie tighter as she walked alongside Leah, hands buried in her sleeves. They had just finished a film study session at Leah’s campus apartment—though very little film had actually been studied. Leah had made dinner instead. Pasta, wine neither of them were really allowed to have, a playlist humming low in the background.

Now they were here, taking a long way back to the freshman dorms.

“I don’t usually do that,” Leah said, breaking the silence as her boot crushed a fallen leaf. “Cook for people. Stay up for hours watching shitty old basketball clips.”

Soraya smiled, eyes on the pavement. “You made my favorite food and played Diana Taurasi highlights. It could be worse.”

Leah chuckled. “You didn’t complain once.”

“I’m just polite.”

“No,” Leah said, stopping abruptly. Soraya stopped too, startled by the sudden stillness. “You’re sweet. There’s a difference.”

Their eyes met in the low amber of a campus lamp. Leah’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You’ve got something the rest of them don’t. That… spark. You’re smart. Quick. Too fucking humble for your own good.”

Soraya flushed. “You always say shit like that,” she chuckled lightly.

“Because it’s true.”

A quiet moment passed. One of those dangerously still ones. Then Leah reached up, tucked a curl behind Soraya’s ear. Her knuckles grazed her cheek.

“You ever had someone tell you that you’re too special to let waste?” she asked.

Soraya blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed.

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m telling you now.” Leah’s voice dipped lower. “You could be great. Not just good. Great. And if no one else has the nerve to tell you that… I will.”

The warmth in Soraya’s chest expanded. It filled her ribs, curled up in her throat. She felt dizzy with it.

Leah stepped in, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“I like seeing you like this,” she said. “Outside the court. Softer. You’re cute when you’re shy.”

Soraya let out a nervous breath, looking away. “Do all british people flirt so much?.”

“I’m not flirting.” Leah’s hand found her wrist, thumb grazing skin. “I’m stating facts.”

The tension was thick enough to taste, crackling under the surface like electricity. Leah leaned in a little, but not enough. Always toeing the line. Always letting Soraya be the one to close the gap if she wanted to.

“You ever kissed someone on campus before?” Leah asked, a smirk playing on her lips.

Soraya’s heart thudded. “No.”

“You want to?”

It was a question, but not really. It was permission wrapped in suggestion.

And Soraya, too eager, too smitten, nodded before she could stop herself.

Leah’s hand rose slowly, curling gently around Soraya’s jaw, thumb brushing over her bottom lip like she was memorizing it. The kiss, when it came, was light at first. Careful. But beneath it was something deeper—coiled, possessive. The kind of kiss that left no room for doubt about who made the first move.

When they pulled apart, Soraya could barely look at her.

“You okay?” Leah murmured, tucking more hair behind her ear.

“Yeah. Just a little surprised.”

Leah smiled again—slow, satisfied. “Don’t be. You’re mine now, rookie.”

And just like that, Soraya felt the world tilt beneath her feet.

Dallas, may 17th, 2025, 2:34AM

Soraya blinked, her cigarette now nothing but ash between her fingers. She flicked it over the balcony edge and watched the embers fall like a dying star. The ghost of that first smirk still haunted her mind.

Back then, she had been full of promise. She had arrived in California with her chest full of dreams and nothing to anchor her except the hope that she could make something of herself. That basketball would be her way out of the mess she'd grown up in.

And Leah Katz had seen all of that. Had leaned in, whispered praise and held her steady just long enough to make her trust her.

And then slowly… pulled the rug.

Soraya rubbed her hands down her face, exhaling harshly. Her skin was clammy, her thoughts sticky and raw. No matter how far she went, Leah was never far behind. In memory. In nightmares. In fucking parking lots.

The warmth of Dallas couldn’t reach the cold in her gut.

Inside, Jiggy meowed softly, nudging the door with her head as if to say, ’Come back. You’re safe.’

But Soraya didn’t move yet. Her eyes were still on the stars, still trying to figure out when exactly they’d lost their shine.

The apartment was still. Still in that early morning kind of way that made time feel suspended—just after 9AM, sunlight leaking through the slats of the blinds and painting faint lines across the countertop. The hum of the fridge was the only real noise, save for the occasional soft tap of Jiggy’s paws as she roamed in and out of view.

Soraya sat on the kitchen counter, bare legs pulled up, knees tucked close to her chest. A half melted homemade iced coffee sat beside her—its contents diluted, sweating against the glass from having been poured long before she actually started drinking it.

Her laptop was open, screen brightness dimmed, the soft glow illuminating her tired features.

The search bar was cluttered with different variations of the same need.

> ‘therapists in my area’

> ‘queer friendly therapists dallas’

> ‘trauma psychologists near me’

> ‘female therapists in texas’

There was a tab open to a therapist’s website—simple, clean, promising. A photo of a smiling woman, arms crossed, her bio littered with keywords like ‘inclusive,’ ‘survivor-centered,’ and ‘culturally competent.’

And still, Soraya didn’t click anything.

She just sat there. Staring. Clicking back. Clicking forward. Reading reviews, bios, fees, office hours. Clicking out again.

Her jaw was tight. The fingers on her right hand were slowly scratching at the inside of her left wrist, a nervous habit she hadn’t even realized had come back. Her eyes were blinking aggressively—a tick that only came when stressed out.

She wasn’t even sure what she wanted.

No, that wasn’t true. She wanted help.

She just wasn’t sure she could stomach needing it.

Admitting that something inside her still wasn’t healed—even after all this time, all this effort—felt like betrayal. Like defeat. Especially for someone who had spent years mastering the art of pretending she was fine. Even her silence had always been curated. Sharp, sarcastic, composed.

But that mask had started to crack, and she could feel it, especially now.

The run-in still hadn’t left her chest. Her skin still crawled thinking about that cocky little smirk, the way Leah’s eyes roamed her body like nothing had ever happened. Like she could still undress her with them.

Soraya’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. The lump hadn’t moved.

That night had followed her home. Had trailed her into her dreams, into the moments she couldn’t sleep, into the memories she tried not to let breathe.

A flash of Dr. Friedrich came to her then—neutral toned scarves, rectangular glasses, a calm voice that never demanded too much, never looked at her like she was broken or too complicated to fix.

Geneva felt like a lifetime ago. She’d been sixteen, maybe seventeen, when she started. The sessions had been consistent, supported by Switzerland’s universal healthcare system, and gentle. Dr. Friedrich had been the first adult to teach her that shame didn’t have to be carried a lifetime. That the things she had survived didn’t define her, but they did deserve space. Acknowledgement.

That lasted a year. One solid, healing year before she had to leave. Scholarship secured, future mapped, Stanford waiting.

And then she stopped.

No time. No money. No system that made it easy. And maybe, in the back of her mind, no courage left to open all those doors again.

Soraya’s fingers hovered over the trackpad. The cursor blinked in the ‘Contact Me’ section of a therapist's page. There was an intake form waiting to be filled. Nothing demanding—just name, pronouns, insurance, what brought her here.

What brought her here?

She breathed out through her nose, then shut the laptop.

Not now.

Maybe later.

Soraya had slipped her phone into her tote and was rounding the corner of the produce section, one hand on her cart, the other pulling unconsciously at her earlobe.

The day off had been spent ticking off errands like a list she was trying to rush through before her thoughts caught up with her. Grocery shopping was her last stop. A ritual, something steady. Something quiet.

Her cart rolled easily across the polished floors. High quality coffee beans, Greek yogurt, lemon scented soap, a bundle of mint, a fresh loaf of sourdough bread—and then with a soft clink, the metal jolted against another.

She blinked. Looked up. And immediately wished she hadn’t.

Of course it would be her.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Just the sound of the humming refrigerators behind them, a faint song playing overhead, and their carts now awkwardly pressed together.

Paige looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. Hair in a low bun, hoodie unzipped over a tank top, shorts and slides. There was a pack of eggs and a bunch of slim jims in her cart. Her gaze flickered to Soraya’s, then held it, steady and unreadable.

“Sorry,” Paige said finally, her voice low and raspy. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

Soraya didn’t answer right away. Her hand curled tighter around the cart handle, knuckles briefly whitening.

“It’s fine,” she said, flatly. She didn’t move.

Neither did Paige.

The tension between them was thick and taut, like a wire pulled too tight. This was the closest they’d been with no other teammates, no noise to distract and no press to fake smiles for, since their last proper conversation. Just them. A shared silence laced with everything unspoken and unresolved.

Paige looked like she might say something else. But before either of them could retreat, footsteps approached from behind.

“Oh my god, wait—are you two…?”

Two girls, maybe college aged, stood there wide eyed, excitement radiating off them. One of them already had her phone half out.

Soraya felt herself growing a little uncomfortable. Paige’s posture shifted just slightly—shoulders squared, chin lifted, that PR smile sliding into place like muscle memory.

“Oh my god, can we get a picture? You guys are so insane on the court. Like, we were literally at the game yesterday.”

Soraya forced a polite smile. “Thank you so much.”

The pictures were taken. Paige angled herself just a little closer to Soraya—too close—and Soraya held still, her body still as stone, barely mustering a smile for the second shot. The girls squealed a ‘thank you’ and hurried off, leaving the air heavier than before.

Soraya stepped back, instinctively pulling her cart with her.

“Look,” Paige said, quietly now, less practiced, “I wasn’t expecting to—”

“I know.”

That shut her up. Soraya wasn’t looking at her anymore, but she could feel Paige watching her.

Another silence that stretched out like a bruise.

“…Do you at least know what you’re here to get?” Soraya asked, not bothering to hide the fatigue in her voice.

Paige blinked. “I mean, I was just gonna… figure it out.”

Of course she was.

Soraya’s eyes skimmed her half empty cart, unimpressed.

“You’re missing the basics,” she muttered. “No oil. No greens. No protein unless you’re planning on living off eggs and dried beef.”

Paige breathed a halfhearted laugh, “Yeah, well. I haven’t done this in a while.”

Soraya hesitated. Then, with a quiet exhale that sounded a lot like resignation, she turned her cart, muttering under her breath. “Follow me.”

They moved slowly, aisle by aisle, a strange echo of what could’ve been normal. Soraya didn’t make small talk. She didn’t tease or soften or pretend. She just pointed. To veggies, to bread, to berries, to pasta—and Paige followed, putting the items into her cart without saying much at all.

Still, there was something in the way Paige watched her when she thought Soraya wasn’t looking. Something almost reverent. Regretful.

In the granola aisle, Paige spoke again. “You always this bossy?”

Soraya stopped, eyes dragging toward her.

She tilted her head slightly, suppressing a small grin. “You always this helpless?”

That shut them both up again.

It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t easy. But somehow, they finished the trip.

At the self checkout, their carts separated. Different lines. No words. But right before they walked out, a low voice broke the stillness again.

“Thanks,” Paige said, not looking at her now. Her voice was tight. A little raw.

Soraya didn’t respond. She simply nodded, barely. Then turned, walking out of the store, leaving the scent of citrus and cool air behind her.

And Paige?

Paige watched her go, a strange ache blooming somewhere in her chest. Unspoken. Unnamed.

But not unnoticed.

extended taglist 🐆 — @thelightknight21 @private-but-not-a-secret @angryflowerwitch @jieysiee @angelliicc @paigebaby5 @ttytttt-gndgnvbm @syraxbigfanfr @forward1212 @niya500 @wosolipa @enchantingesme @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @ksimsplayer @hggbiijj @pupbistro

[project-sekai-facts]

How likely is it that en sekai will botch Mizu5. Not as in like their usual spelling and grammar errors but like. They might genuinely mess up the story because they’re “not allowed to translate it like that” or something else? I’d be absolutely devastated if they did that because her identity is a major part of her character.

it's something i am a bit worried about because of their whole thing with they/them mizuki. it's not really something that works that well with they/them ambiguously gendered mizuki. i've said before how using she/her is what would make most sense for ensekai, she presents as female so by default characters who aren't portrayed as transphobic bullies should use she/her. annoyingly this was never really an option because even before the backlash that made them switch to exclusively mizuki's name or they/them when necessary the official statement was "whatever the other characters view mizuki as" which apparently translated to 'only kanade uses she/her and also ena that one singular time that was probably a mistake'.

like path of thorns hinges on the reveal to ena that mizuki is a trans woman. all of the dialogue from the bullies is stuff like "are you[cis girl ena] secretly a boy as well, why else would you be friends with mizuki" and "we're just messing, we knew you were a real girl [unlike mizuki who was born a boy]" like the trans woman reveal is everything for the last few chapters. that just doesn't work the same way if we go into it from the ensekai perspective of ena apparently viewing mizuki's gender as ambiguous. everything builds to that reveal of mizuki being a trans woman, but on ensekai ena is out here they/themming mizuki giving the impression she doesn't know what mizuki's gender is, or assumes she's nonbinary, which recontextualises that entire scene. like if ena already had these assumptions that mizuki might not be cis that card wouldn't be like that. that card is mizuki's POV of ena seeing her from an entirely new perspective, reevaluating everything she knew and putting the pieces together. LIKE ON ENSEKAI ENA ALREADY ASSUMES MIZUKI ISN'T CIS. THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING. IT'S A STORY ABOUT MIZUKI GETTING OUTED AS TRANS IT DOESN'T WORK IF THE PERSON SHE'S GETTING OUTED TO WHO ISN'T MEANT TO KNOW ALREADY KNOWS SHE IS TRANS. sorry it's 3am i can't word it better.

ensekai just shot themselves in the foot as soon as they decided to use anything other than she/her. the story literally doesn't work in english unless the characters are explicitly viewing mizuki as a woman. like ik pronouns=/=gender but we're talking a product that ensekai went super hard on trying to market to the general audience it's she/her or nothing for a female character. they/them has never made sense for mizuki's story since it implies everyone already is unsure of her gender/assumes she's Not Cis, which completely undoes the narrative of mizuki ACTIVELY HIDING HER TRANSNESS FROM PEOPLE. that is her WHOLE ARC.

ensekai could directly translate path of thorns word for word but it's gonna drop the ball as soon as they get to the bullies talking about "mizuki being a boy and ena being a real girl" because MIZUKI HAS NOT BEEN DEPICTED CLEARLY AS A GIRL ON ENSEKAI. even before the swtich to they/them only they were operating on "whatever people view mizuki as" like they've always treated her gender as ambiguous which admittedly jpsekai kinda did too (? in bio) but japanese rarely uses gendered 3rd person pronouns so it works in that game. you can get away with no other character gendering her for 4 years. english doesn't work like that you have to use gendered terms. if you pick the neutral ones that generally connote 1) someone you don't know the gender of or 2) a nonbinary person, it gives the impression that every other character in the game doesn't view her definitively as a woman.

like i think they'll just leave it intact when TLing but like they cannot keep they/themming her after classmate A or whoever literally confirms that mizuki identifies as a woman. and even if they frame it as a "now mizuki's out we'll be using she/her in TLs" it still removes so much from the original story that they had been depicting her as ambiguously gendered from the eyes of other characters until now. sorry if this is a mess as i said it's literally 3:30am

[fuzzydreamin]

I often think about how the only two companions who (I recall) approve of you turning on Danse are Mac and Cait. The two who probably would have been decent enough buddies with him before that point out of all the other companions.

Like, ignoring the BoS stuff (Mac seems fairly neutral towards them anyway - they can help or hinder, in his eyes. And Cait seems to actually look up to the BoS a bit), they have a lot of points where they would agree on things and get along and probably at the very least feel secure in fights together.

But unfortunately one of the things Mac and Cait agree with pre-BB Danse on is synth fear/hatred... So when he is outed their tentative friendship goes completely up in flames in an instant... And I think about that.

Like. Here is post-BB Danse, having lost everything he ever knew and believed in, and now coming back to the one place with people who would still have him, and it turns out the ones he was perhaps closest to scorn him just the same as the Brotherhood? And he just has to navigate that on top of everything else. Living with these people who were maybe-friends and now he knows would have seen him dead for what he can't help.

And maybe that's why he might turn to Nick and Hancock in new lights - the people he had pushed away like that, but who had his back when it counted.

I wish Bethesda put more thought into companion interactions.

I think about how upset Hancock and Nick get at you if you let Danse die for being a synth. Here’s a guy who really is a huge asshole to both of them, but they somehow see past that and can see the good in him enough to where they’re absolutely furious with you if you betray him. I think about it like. All the time.

[pomefioredove]

Hello!!!

I saw that your requests were open and I just wanted to request something about Riddle! Can I request a reader who kinda doesn't like Riddle and is also academically harsh on themselves after the comment he made about their parents before his overblot. Riddle doesn't know this and eventually confronts them and they just break down about how they feel like they are failing their parents who are immigrants that never got to have a education and how his comment on their parents just made them mad and made them try harder in their studies but they can't seem to understand the material. I'm not sure about how I want this to end but I guess it would not hurt to have them become friends.

I'm mostly requesting them due to the fact I'm hard on myself academically and I'm afraid that even being forced to play assistant principal for a man child and being the only one in the school to say sorry when I bump into someone without having the need to having to fight to the death??? And the fact that Riddle said that about our parents. I apologize but if Ace reacted slower, Riddle would have ended up down to Twisted Wonderland's center of their planet or shot into Jupiter's orbit.

I'm sorry if you can't or won't do this and how chunky this request is. You are one of my favorite writers for twst and reading your stories makes me feel like I'm reading from the Library of Alexandria and the words of a pure poet. Have a good night or day and take care!!!

*is, again, months late* HI I'M HERE I CAN DO THIS!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ that I will

summary: riddle's comment got to yuu more than he thought type of post: headcanons/fic characters: riddle additional info: romantic or platonic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu

Riddle was used to the thick skin of Night Raven College students

he could collar them, constrain them, make them work day and night for the goals he knew they could achieve, he could berate them and besides the bellyaching and the words spoken behind his back, it all bounced right off of them

but not you

Riddle had forgotten, or feigned to think, in the moment (which he would never admit to) of your strange position at school

unlike the others, chosen by the Dark Mirror for their cleverness, talent, and confidence, you had happened upon the school by complete accident. you were not even a full student, more of a glorified assistant for the Headmage, who was permitted to take classes for Grim, not for yourself

and that was to say, you did not have the cutthroat attitude of a typical Night Raven College student. you weren't rich, nor powerful, nor did you spend every day of your life studying under the eye of a watchful mother. you didn't even have magic

and so, when he said those fateful words, Riddle had wounded your heart more than Ace had wounded his skin

after his overblot, you made amends, and moved on to more problems beyond the sturdy doors of Heartslabyul, but his words stuck to you like stinging nettle

it was only one night, near the final stretch of the semester, that Riddle had caught you up near four in the morning, massaging your head in one hand and flipping through a thick potionology book in the other

"What in the world..." he murmurs, coming closer to the study desk you sat at.

"It's almost dawn. What are you doing here? And don't lie."

Riddle demanded it as if you were caught in the act of a crime- you did spend much time with Ace and Deuce, after all- what if they had tricked you into stealing or cheating? Perhaps you were doing their homework for them? You had never been late to turn in an assignment.

You look up, eyes wide but dark and dull. How long have you been awake?

"...Studying," you say.

Riddle's expression sours. Just as he thought- Ace had tricked you into doing his homework for him- he would be on dish duty for a week after this.

"For what, may I ask?"

"...For Crewel's exam tomorrow," you say, turning a page although you hadn't read the last. You must be exhausted. "I can't fail it like the last one."

Riddle hmphs. He finds that hard to believe- you're a diligent student, always studying, never caught without a book under your arm or a pen between your lips.

"And by you, I assume you mean Ace Trappola?"

"What?" you ask. "No. I failed the last test. If I keep failing... I won't pass."

Riddle's eyes dart to the textbook on the table. It's an extremely advanced potionology manual, one you wouldn't read until your third year at Night Raven College. Riddle, of course, had mastered it when he was eight.

"I don't see what you'd learn from that," he says. "You would be better off staying on the course that your professors have provided for you."

You hesitate, turning to the open page as if it would answer him for you.

"...I didn't really get it. I thought if I read something more advanced, and I went back to the textbook for the class, I'd understand it more,"

Foolish, for someone of your academic level, but Riddle understands the logic.

"How long have you been reading this?"

"Since... five, I think,"

In the afternoon? Then you've been in the library for... no, that can't be right... thirteen hours?

Riddle stares. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, struggling for an answer. He can now make out the glow of your cheeks, the glisten of your eyes in the low light- you'd been crying before this. Of frustration, no doubt. An uncomfortable memory of himself comes to mind, the hours he spent just like this- secretly staying up well into the night to better acquaint himself with the material his child mind couldn't yet comprehend, but was expected to nonetheless.

"...It's..." he starts. "...Terribly unhealthy to forgo sleep and meals in favor of studying. Your mind must be sharp and prepared for an exam."

"I'll get some sleep later," you dismiss his worries with a wave.

Riddle lowers his eyes to your pages and pages of notes, nonsensical and near unreadable.

"...Absolutely not," he decides, taking your hand and yanking you up. "You'll rest, and that's final- if I have to chain you to your bed, so be it."

"But-" you start, though you're too tired to resist. He takes you away from the table, out of the library.

"-But you were right,"

Riddle snorts. "I often am. You can't possibly expect to take an exam in this state. Your mind-"

"Not that," you say, softly. "About my parents."

His steps slow, and then stop, and then he lowers his eyes at you again.

"What?"

You look away. "...They would be so disappointed in me. I-I don't understand any of this- any of my classes. I'm failing them. If I had-"

Riddle's eyes had widened in horror at the realization of what you meant. You, the child crying over a book they didn't understand, and he...

"This... is because of me?"

You look at your feet, refusing to meet his eyes. "...Not exactly,"

"This is because of me," he repeats, as a statement this time. "I... I..."

His hand tightens around yours, and he walks faster.

"I was wrong," he mutters. "And a complete fool. To treat you that way. I had no idea what you'd..."

"It's okay," you say.

He scowls. "It's not. You have every right to be mad at me..."

Even though you're not. He knows you're not blaming him, although you really should. Although he deserves it.

He can see that look of confusion and self-hatred on your face. It frustrates him. How could he ever treat you like that? Like how he was-

Riddle cuts that thought short. He hasn't the time to linger on that now.

He takes you inside Ramshackle and into your room, tucking you in despite you still being dressed in your uniform and shoes. No time to worry about that.

"You must sleep," he insists. "If I hear of you sneaking into the library again, I'll have no choice but to report you to the staff. And I really would not like to do that..."

Riddle sighs. He's not very good at this.

"What I... mean to say... is that... you're not a disappointment," he mutters. "Even if you are failing your classes. It says nothing of you. No one who works so hard could be considered a disappointment at anything. Now, come morning, I'll have devised a study plan that will benefit us both. How does that sound?"

You think about that for a moment, cradled in the creaking bed, still tired and delirious, no doubt.

But you nod nonetheless.

"...On one condition,"

Riddle raises an eyebrow. "A condition?" For him?

You certainly are quite different from the other students.

"What is it?"

"...You have to get more sleep, too," you say. "And work a little less."

He startles as if you had bit him, his eyes wide and hands withdrawn to his chest.

...But he's in no position to deny you. Funny as that is.

"...Very well," Riddle agrees. "That I will."

[rh1ncodontypus]

Actually, I'm still going.

TL;DR

Two days is nothing in real life time.

Content creators are human. We should treat them as such.

Equating morality to the content people consume is not a "one-size-fits-all" strategy.

This is in no way equivalent to what happened with Iskall.

Do I agree with Skizz having mods that support MAGA? No, not at all. I think he deserves the benefit of the doubt, at the very least.

Two days is nothing in real life time.

I think people are jumping the gun with the current information we have. I think Skizz hasn't had the chance to really do anything yet. Hell, I don't think ANY of the Hermits have had the chance to do anything yet, let alone think. I feel like we've been spoiled with in-real time updates. I don't think it's fair to expect Skizz, or anyone for that matter, to reply or act right this second or else.

Content creators are human. We should treat them as such.

TL;DR: This man has just bumped headfirst into the Paradox of Tolerance. Give him a second.

Generally the definition of tolerance has been maintaining a neutral opinion. This was especially the case with Gen X/Millennials. We have different opinions and we work together anyway. I probably don't have to inform you that's much harder to do in the present, if I'm putting it lightly.

I don't think Skizz is transphobic. I don't think he looked at his mods and decided to hire two of them because they're MAGA. Don't get me wrong; I am not defending having mods that are MAGA. I think that five years ago, he needed people to moderate his chat and he thought those mods did fine. This circles back to the definition of tolerance.

Right now, Skizz is facing the paradox of tolerance. It's up to him what he does with it. And honestly, this might be the first time he's having to think about this. He's a white cis man, which means he occupies a position of incredible privilege (that is not a moral judgment).

And you know what? Trans rights are divisive and the fact they're divisive sucks. I'm saying this as a trans person. You post something about trans rights and you have people fighting on your post in 0.2 seconds with increasing levels of hostility. I don't blame anyone for not knowing how to deal with that on livestream, or wanting to maintain neutrality, as much as it disappoints me.

In the wider scheme of things, Skizz is new to being a full-time content creator. He's probably never dealt with a situation like this before.

I feel like people were quick to assume malice or hostility. So I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt and I hope other people are, too. I also don't think this is the cardinal sin that some people are treating it as.

Equating morality to the content people consume is not a "one-size-fits-all" strategy.

I'm already seeing posts encouraging people to boycott his content and heavily implying that someone is a bad person if they don't. You've probably heard of the situation with J.K. Rowling. The reason people are calling for a complete boycott is because any support or money actively enables her transphobic actions and platform.

Separating content from content creator is complicated. I acknowledge that. But applying the morality = content consumption runs the danger of turning into "I am a good person because I only consume pure content™ and this person is bad because they consume the bad content." I don't think that's the way we should be judging people.

This is in no way equivalent to what happened with Iskall.

If this situation is a 10, then what happened with Iskall is a 120. Iskall's situation had tangible victims and was happening over an extended period of time.

Do I agree with Skizz having mods that support MAGA? No, not at all. I think he deserves the benefit of the doubt, at the very least.

[adagiorii]

Edu, don't keep us in the dark >:0 what are the typical circumstances of the PCD's missions that make using high-grade guns not be ideal??? ENLIGHT US

See for me to answer this I'm going to have to get into some deeper lore so I'm gonna try to keep it as short as possible-

There was originally a completely different explanation for it but while writing this I came up with new lore so that will be the answer now

TLDR: They have weapons mostly for self-defence and/or to neutralize threats and keep others safe, not necessarily to kill those threats. Their weapons also double as capture tools so a gun really wouldn't be effective at all.

Circumstances

I'll clear up what I meant about the "circumstances" first. I said that because the PCD usually do their work in public places, and sometimes even in people's homes if need be - which means it's not really ideal for them to go around using really destructive and powerful guns lmao. And even if it wasn't, guns in general aren't the most effective weapons for the job except in the self-defence department. See Method 2.

Paranormal Entities

As for why smaller guns like police handguns wouldn't be useful, that's because of what the PCD fights - paranormal entities (placeholder name while I can't come up with a better and catchier term). An entity is essentially a deceased person that has experienced what I call a sort of "botched" resurrection attempt. They're not quite alive again, but it's the closest they can get (they basically look like distorted doppelgangers of the person they were before). They can be either corporeal or not, but regardless, the main thing that keeps an entity "alive" is their host, to which they are bound from the moment the person passes away. It is through this host that the entity maintains a connection to what is left of their humanity, which is usually very little. Most don't retain enough of their rationality and consciousness to be able to think like a human person, and end up devolving into violent and resentful beings driven mostly by instinct. And, yes, they do have powers.

This is why they're a huge danger to people, and are known to attack human beings.

Method 1

In current lore, entities can be killed in two ways (called Method 1 and Method 2). Method 1 is destroying or killing the host.

Method 1 has some issues. Fyi, a host can be pretty much anything - an object, a plant, an animal, or even a human in very rare instances. One of the issues can be that identifying an entity's host can be very difficult, time-consuming and impractical. And then, if the entity's host is a living creature like an animal or, even worse, a person, the situation really gets delicate. (Fyi, in-universe, human hosts are almost unheard of and even considered a sort of myth or at least a very rare occurrence - but it can happen. Either way, this still applies to animal hosts.)

So, in the vast majority of cases, the PCD uses Method 2.

Method 2

Alright so- this is where the lore changes. The original Method 2 was that if you wore the entity down enough, by attacking it over and over again and essentially torturing it, it would lose the remains of its sanity and essentially self-destruct (this would also save the host btw).

I decided against that entirely because I feel like it's 1. just killing the entity with extra steps and 2. it undermines the importance of the host if you can just kill the entity without worrying about how to keep the host safe. It removes stakes. I originally had another way to keep those stakes but with the lore change that's probably going to change too so I won't get into it. I also don't like that it boils down to physical and mental torture by relentlessly stabbing it. It sounds like a weirdly needlessly violent plot point and it didn't sit right with me. Besides, it really doesn't counter the gun argument - my original argument was that small handguns don't do enough harm to successfully kill the entity with Method 2 because stabbing them is more effective (again weirdly violent), and big guns are a needless safety hazard to the public when you can just stab with sword.

The new Method 2 is something I had been considering for a while but never actually gave much thought to. This idea is that in this world, there is a unique kind of metal that is capable of absorbing and essentially trapping entities, which would be more akin to ghosts (since that's also what they were inspired by). This metal is the main material used to build the PCD's weapons, and their modus operandi is having their agents go out, fight entities, make sure they're not a threat and at the first opportunity, trap them.

They use weapons for self-defence and/or in case the entity is violent and they need to fight it. The weapons then double as their "capture tools" for lack of a better term. Take Eiko's sword; I like the concept that, being a rapier ideal for stabbing and piercing, it would actually also function like a medical needle (in the sense that the entity is sucked inside) once an entity is stabbed with it. As part of this change I am also considering having the main part of the weapon actually be the little red gem in the tip of the handle of her sword, which would be a feature in all PCD weapons and be the actual part the entity gets trapped within. Once a mission is over, that little gem is temporarily removed so that the entity trapped inside it can be locked away in some high security facility idk.

This, in my eyes, is a much less weird method? It establishes that an entity cannot actually be killed unless their host is too, which adds stakes in a more natural way in my opinion. And, obviously, having a gun as a PCD weapon doesn't really make sense because the weapons' main purpose is to trap entities. It's hard to do that with a gun with bullets you're supposed to shoot at them. Idk I don't think it works.

You could argue that a gun could work for the self-defence part and maybe. But keep in mind that as long as the entity's host is safe, it's not going to die lmao. You can do harm to it and injure it enough that it will sort of quiet down, but it can and will regenerate eventually. I don't think a gun is very effective in that regard especially because it's tiny holes and an entity doesn't have weak vulnerable spots like humans do.

I also really like the potential worldbuilding this new Method 2 could bring. I haven't mentioned it much but the whole regime the country operates under and the PCD are a little shady. I imagine the citizens don't actually know the PCD usually doesn't kill entities, they just capture them and take them elsewhere. You might ask why they aren't honest, but let me remind you that entities were once humans. How would you feel if you knew your once loved one turned entity wasn't actually put out of its misery, but rather captured and sealed away to have God knows what done with it without you knowing about it?

Furthermore, the PCD are seen as mighty heroes in this country. Having the people believe they actually do kill entities suits that noble and brave image a lot more than the reality. They're the knights slaying the dragons and saving the day. Honestly a dragon entity sounds pretty cool.

[devilssacrament]

20 for the kisses list please! Nicojack or Willmack. Whatever you’re feeling 💕

I had every intention of making this nicojack but the brain weevils gave me an idea for willmack and I simply could not resist. please enjoy! ❤️

Will watches the bottle spin with a sense of dread curling in his stomach; there are only so many rounds of this he can get out of without the bottle landing on him and it’s only a matter of time until it’s his turn. As if the universe is listening to his every thought, the bottle stops, pointing perfectly at the middle of his chest, leaving absolutely no doubt about the next victim.

He sighs. 

“So, who’s it gonna be?” he asks, looking away from the bottle and into Leno’s grinning face.

The look sends a cold shiver down Will’s spine, a sense of foreboding making his heart rate pick up speed. There aren’t very many people Will would straight up refuse to make out with, only a select few that pissed him off in one way or another to make him avoid them like the plague. Among them are the gaggle of BU players currently haunting the house that’s hosting the party, fire hydrant red sweaters a sight for sore eyes, more than one of his BC teammates itching for a fight with them just because. He’d spotted them earlier, a bunch of seniors walking into the living room like they owned the place, followed by some sophomores and freshmen, the last one of them–

“Macklin Celebrini,” Leno says, a smirk on his face that says he knows exactly what he’s doing and he’s enjoying every second of it.

Schooling his face into a mask of neutrality, Will takes a sip of his beer and leans back in his seat. “What’s my punishment?”

There are protests, some of the guys complaining that none of them got told their punishment before they even attempted their bets, but they all go quiet when Leno shrugs.

“You’ll have to run down Comm Ave naked,” he says, pausing for a moment to let that sit before continuing. “During lunchtime.”

Will clenches his jaw, a breath escaping him at the audacity of his best friend. Running down Comm Ave completely naked during the night while most people are too drunk to understand what’s going on would have been the easiest choice to make. Specifying the time forces Will to actually consider his options. He’s going to the NHL soon, and even though the team and his agent could spin this whole thing into youthful recklessness, it wouldn’t look good on his resume if he got a charge for public indecency. Not to mention that the pictures would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

But kissing Mackling Celebrini– 

The can in his hand groans under the pressure of his fingers. There isn’t really any choice to make here; he knows it, Leno knows it, every single one of their teammates knows it. Downing the rest of his beer, Will stands and throws his empty can at Leno. HIs best friend complains but Will doesn’t bother looking at him as he turns – serves the bastard right to get droplets of beer all over him. 

He rounds the couch, searching the mass of people, looking for a bright red sweater, a mop of brown hair, and eyes so green– 

Will finds Macklin leaning against the wall over by the stairs, a little ways away from everyone else, close enough to still be part of the crowd, but far enough not to be bothered. Until now. Will rolls his shoulders, sends off a prayer, and starts weaving his way through the moving thrum of bodies, music loud and voices louder, heat radiating off every person he passes. He’s sweating a little by the time he makes it out on the other side, and he takes a moment to catch his breath while desperately trying to figure out a plan. He’s hot, he knows that much. He’s charming, he knows that as well. If it was anyone else, it’d be the easiest thing in the world to win this bet. 

Unfortunately for Will, it isn’t anyone else, and no matter how long he stands around trying not to look like an idiot, that isn’t going to change. He glances back over at Macklin and almost flinches physically when they make eye contact. Looks like he wasn’t as subtle as he’d hoped. For a second, he considers just taking the L and dealing with the consequences later, if only to avoid the humiliation of having to ask Macklin Celebrini to make out with him at a house party. But a voice in the back of his mind that sound suspiciously like Leno calls him a pussy and he immediately pushes the thought away.

With sure steps, he walks up to Macklin, an easy smile on his face that feels more like a grimace to himself. Before Macklin can do anything but straighten, Will stops in front of him, their toes almost touching. 

“I’m buying you Dunkin for the next year if you agree to make out with me right now.”

His words are out of his mouth before he can think them through and he has to force himself into stillness, to urge to grimace at himself almost overwhelming. Macklin blinks at him, his mouth dropped open in surprise or shock or something else, Will isn’t sure, clearly caught off guard by the request. Will almost feels bad, but he’s got both his dignity and his reputation on the line, so he’s not going to back down. Unless Macklin says no because Will might be a dick sometimes but he’s not that kind of asshole.

“Uhm. Okay?”

Will almost doesn’t hear Macklin over the general noise of the party, but he’s still looking at the younger boy so he sees it when he nods his head once, then again with more conviction. It’s all the confirmation Will needs. With one big step, he closes the distance between them, one hand coming up to cup Macklin’s jaw, the other grabbing his hip and pressing him back against the wall. 

“Wha–” Macklin yelps, his question interrupted by Will kissing the sound right out of his mouth. 

It’s not soft, no light press of their lips to feel the other out; it’s hot and wet immediately, Mack opening up to let Will lick into his mouth with no hesitation and a moan that goes straight to Will’s cock. Getting hard wasn’t quite what Will had in mind for this bet, but he’s not going to complain when Macklin whimpers against his lips at the slow roll of Will’s hips against his. 

Will doesn’t know how much time passes as they kiss, Macklin’s hand in his hair, pulling and pushing him this way and that, the sting making him shiver, his arm around Will’s back keeping them pressed together in every place that matters, their hips meeting lazily. Despite how lost they are in each other, they’re both still vaguely aware that they’re in public, and getting off dry-humping each other in the hallway at a house party is certainly no better than getting chased by a cop while his dick is swinging free. 

Seconds, minutes, hours later, Will pulls back with a gasp, Macklin chasing his lips until Will forces him back, the hand on his jaw keeping him in place. They’re both breathing heavily, their lips wet and red, their dicks hard in their pants where they’re still pressed together at the hips.

Gulping, Mack looks away for a second, his grip on Will’s hair not loosening. “So,” he rasps out, “you wanna get out of here?”

When he looks back, there’s a twinkle in his eyes that does things to Will he doesn’t want to look too closely into, not right now, maybe not ever, so he just nods, helpless to stop the grin pulling at his mouth. Maybe Leno was onto something, or maybe he made a massive miscalculation, but taking the plunge and going through with this dare was definitely the best decision Will has made in recent memory. He squeezes Mack’s hip. 

“Your place or mine?”

send me prompts from this list

[joannerowling]

Genuine question here but I'm scared to ask on my actual blog because of the hate. Do you or your followers know why people consider JKR's goblins to be antisemitic but goblins in other media (like Dungeons and Dragons for example) never get the same scrutiny? I also don't remember hearing anything about JKR being antisemitic until after she started sharing her gender critical views. Her portrayal of goblins never seemed to be a problem before then, at least from what I saw.

It's just because it's JKR. There's not any actual antisemitism in HP's goblins. As a concept, similar creatures to goblins - little men who live underneath the earth, deal in gems/precious metals, with various degrees of evilness attached - exist in a vast number of cultures worldwide, across Asia and even Africa. (In fact, you'd be surprised with the amount of time humans from completely different cultures have invented the same type of supernatural creature without anything to show there was any cultural exhange between them, it's a relatively frequent aspect of cultural parallelism.) Goblins existed in British folklore before Jews migrated to the UK, even under different names.

The confusion may have arisen from the Knockers, a variant of Goblins which originated in Cornwall. You may recognise the name from King's book "the Tommyknockers". One interpretation of the myth (not the only one) is that they're the ghosts or spirits of long-dead Jewish miners, but even in this version, they're not particularly malevolent.

The Goblins in Harry Potter are closer to a parody of Swiss bankers. Switzerland famously held an ambiguous position during WW2: the country was neutral territory because bankers provided ways for the Nazis to hide the stolen riches of Jewish people, but at the same time, many Jewish people found refuge there and the Red Cross was born there as a neutral army nursing system. A more direct and obvious analogy for the Jews in HP would simply be the Muggle born, like Hermione, who are lied about (said to not be "real wizards" but magic thieves of sort in DH), stripped of their rights, "snatched", and murdered (or worse). Those are all loose parallels obviously.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

I’m not sure if you write about mental health or self harm or anything like that (if you don’t, just completely ignore my request!)

Can you do Baku x fem!reader who is struggling with self harm and her mental health? She relapses and baku accidentally sees it because she rolled up her sleeves forgetting she had marks on her wrist. (Angst and fluff 😊?) also I really adore ur ✍️ writing, its probably the best I’ve seen on this app lol

Title: "What He Sees" Pairing: Humin x Fem!Reader Themes: Angst, comfort, mental health, soft romance TW: Self-harm, depression, emotional vulnerability POV: Third person

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Humin had always been quiet in his care. The kind of person who never said, "I’m here for you," but proved it with every glance, every moment he chose to stay close even when the silence stretched too long. He wasn’t loud about his feelings—he never had to be.

That’s what made today worse.

Because he didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not when she rolled up her sleeves in the middle of study hall, reaching over the desk to grab a textbook. Not when the edge of her sweater caught and tugged up just far enough to show the faint, raised lines on her wrist.

She didn’t notice what she’d done.

But he did.

He froze mid-sentence, pen still hovering above his notes. His gaze locked on her arm for half a second too long.

She noticed the silence before she noticed his expression.

And when she looked up and saw his face—carefully neutral, but with a tremor in his jaw she knew too well—she followed his eyes and remembered.

The marks.

Her heart plummeted.

She yanked her sleeve down like it burned her, breathing sharp and shallow. "I—Humin—" she started, but her voice cracked like thin ice.

He blinked and looked away, just for a moment. Then, quietly, he stood up.

"Come with me."

She didn’t ask where.

She followed.

The rooftop was empty. Windy. Too quiet.

He leaned against the railing and waited until she sat on the bench near the wall, legs shaking just enough to give her away.

"I forgot," she whispered. "I didn’t mean for you to see it."

Humin didn’t move. Didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just watched the clouds roll in.

Then, softly:

"Was it recent?"

Tears burned her eyes before she could stop them. She nodded, ashamed. Like nodding made it worse.

"I’m sorry," she said. "I was doing better. I swear I was. I didn’t want—"

"You don’t have to apologize." His voice cut through the spiral like a lifeline. Gentle, firm. "Not to me."

She looked down at her lap, fingers twisting into each other. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t stand the idea of pity in his eyes.

But when he crossed the space between them and sat beside her, he didn’t touch her right away. He just spoke.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not yet."

"Okay. Then we don’t have to."

His shoulder brushed hers. That was all. No pressure. No lecture.

It broke her.

The sob came before she could catch it, sharp and sudden, and she covered her mouth like she was ashamed of the noise.

Humin didn’t flinch.

He pulled her into him, arms wrapping around her with a quiet kind of strength. Not squeezing. Just holding.

Like he knew she’d fall apart if he let go.

She pressed her face to his chest, trembling. "You must think I’m pathetic."

"Don’t say that."

"It’s true. I’m supposed to be past this. I’ve been doing so good—"

"Relapse doesn’t mean failure."

The way he said it—so steady, so sure—made her cry harder.

He let her.

Minutes passed.

When she calmed, still curled into his chest, he whispered, "Next time... can you tell me when it gets bad? You don’t have to carry it alone."

She nodded against him. Barely a whisper. "Okay."

And he kissed the top of her head.

Not like a boyfriend. Not like a savior.

Just someone who loved her.

Exactly as she was.

Even when it hurt.

[adoriels-tears-if]

Ooh, what would your characters idle animations be? ROs, of course, but if you feel like it maybe the fam™️, Ash, Telio and Mikhail also?

I think the animations will vary depending on where they are.

🐴 Arthur :

Safe place: Sketches in his herbarium or reads quietly.

Neutral place: Fidgets with his sleeves.

Dangerous place: Hand resting on his sword hilt, ready to fight.

Near MC: Turns toward them with a soft smile, like they’re his world.

🐍 Lessica :

Safe place: Folds paper into origami absentmindedly.

Neutral place: Taps her thigh with her fingers, scanning the area.

Dangerous place: Stiff, too composed. Waiting.

Near MC: Her gaze lingers on MC’s hand, then, briefly, she rises her hand grazing yours.

🦊 Corden :

Safe place: Plays soft notes on his harmonica without thinking.

Neutral place: Twirls his harmonica in one hand.

Dangerous place: Stills completely. Expression unreadable, hands near his weapon.

Near MC: Looks up at you like before turning his head quickly, ears red.

🐺 Tally:

Safe place: Doodles recipe notes, fusses with spice jars.

Neutral place: Taps her boots.

Dangerous place: Her glove clicks open, briefly turns into a crossbow.

Near MC: Winks playfully, jumps in your direction.

⏳️ Sage/Sophia:

Safe place: Rolls a coin or a small trinket between their fingers.

Neutral place: Arms crossed, leaning back against a tree.

Dangerous place: Cracks their knuckles, jaw clenched.

Near MC: Send you a kiss, grab your hand to make you twirl.

[paaelle]

I believe Foop would love Rainbow Dash because she's sooo cool and awesome

Hmm Children's Day activity that the teacher gave us because we are celebrating it this week.

The theme was for us to draw cartoon characters from our childhood, but she said nothing about including characters that we liked now too.

[tropicalcontinental]

"Average CL16 character is aroace" factoid true actually (personal headcanon)

[the-soul-starved]

Wortox my friend,, this is incredibly minor but I always feel a little sad when I browse the quotes for his twintailed heart. He says himself he’s immortal even outside the effects of the constant so he spent his time figuring out how to make something purely for the benefit of his friends and the others survivors quotes for it range for dismissive to unimpressed to downright rude :(