#but they're written out and can't write themselves back in

[pilferingapples]

Did she die? Did she sell her soul? What DID this?

this really struck me , because you're right; she IS different, now. She was an obviously traumatized girl/young woman before ; now she's become something uncanny, and only gets described as more uncanny as the story goes on . And...I think it's prison? I think it's even that little brush with prison.

Aside from Cosette, the character Eponine gets the strongest parallels with is Javert-- but that only starts happening now, post-prison. It's especially noticeable with the Rue Plumet scene , of course, but even before then--she's aware of herself as being not just socially ostracized but socially tainting in a way we didn't really see before. She didn't hesitate to talk to Marius at the Gorbeau house; she was bold in the way that covers up shame, as Hugo says, but she also had a kid's lack of self-awareness to some degree. Post- arrest, she knows Marius can't be " seen" with her*, and she won't even accept Mabeuf's thanks without insisting on her own corruption.

She sounds like Valjean , convinced of her own unalterable state of ostracization; she sounds like Javert, devoted to protecting a system she now sees herself as forever outside. And she's acquired something like their superpowers-- Valjean's disguises and ability to seemingly move through walls, Javert's ability to apparently just Not Get Killed--along with ramping up her own message-delivering ability to supernatural psychopomp levels, but for all of them it comes at the expense of the legal system severing them, to some degree, from the power of those who still count as regular members of human society.

-*which, besides being about social shame, is about Marius being seen with a prostitute; as such, she would be forbidding from having a man " following" her, and she's aware she can't look like anything else with him right now D:

Brickclub 4.2.3 ‘An apparition to Father Mabeuf’

Mabeuf is fading, and his vain hopes for the future and total lack of planning are disturbing. He pawned his copper plates first, and they were what he would have needed to get his book printed, which is his only source of income. It feels very specific to his character that he cut ties with the most generative thing he owned first.

This book doesn’t have a lot explicitly to say about what provisions society should make for the elderly, but Mabeuf’s story says clearly there should be something. He’s eighty; he should be allowed to rest without worrying about starving, or about having no one around who can water his garden. Myriel had Hugo’s idea of a perfect death, but there has to be some recourse for poor people who don’t have that.

This is the beginning of Mabeuf’s selling himself off piece by piece, like Fantine.

Like Myriel said, the beautiful is as useful as the useful–maybe more so. But Mabeuf is in desperate need of the basics, and in the absence of them he’s clinging to flowers.

It’s like Fantine clinging to her hope of Cosette, but it also feels extremely different. Is it wrong that Mabeuf feels to me like a deluded and diluted version of her? Flowers are important in this book, but Fantine’s story was about how she kept her eye on the most important thing, always, and she fought for that to the end. Mabeuf’s clinging to the flowers feels like he’s already given up hope, and now he’s just distracting himself as best he can.

At the same time, maybe there are worse things to lose. He keeps his soul at the expense of everything else, and that’s tragic and in some ways frustrating, but–I don’t know, there are plenty of people in this book who choose to become monstrous instead.

And on that note, we meet Eponine, who has become much stranger. She isn’t monstrous in the moral sense–like, say, her parents are–but she’s stopped being quite human. Marius’s and Mabeuf’s descents are linked explicitly to each other, but she’s part of that comparison too.

We’re entirely external to Eponine here. She’s an apparition and a goblin, and–possibly–an angel. She does a good deed in watering Mabeuf’s flowers, though it’s transactional; she wants Marius’s address. But she’s noticing suffering and alleviating it, and that’s huge.

And yet, as we’ll see throughout, she seems to have separated herself from the normal, mortal world in order to do it. We’re already getting that eldritch, ring-wraith quality to her, and a feeling that whatever agency she’s gained by this point in the novel, she gave up her humanity to get it.

Hugo said–entirely inexplicably–in his description of Marius:

We must not suppose that his reason was disordered. Quite the contrary. He had lost the capability of work, and of moving firmly towards a definite end, but he was more clear-sighted and correct than ever. Marius saw, in a calm and real light, although a singular one, what was going on under his eyes, even the most indifferent facts of men; he said the right word about everything with a sort of honest languor and candid disinterestedness. His judgment, almost detached from hope, soared and floated aloft.

And that doesn’t describe Marius at all, but it’s not a bad description of what Eponine has become. The “moving firmly to a definite end” is up for debate–she’s very definite and effective in what she does, but at the same time, like with Mabeuf, there’s no endgame here. None of her plans lead to a better future, or any kind of future. Her power comes from a sense of futurelessness–she’s already dead.

And it’s interesting that that happens entirely off screen. We have an outline of what happened to her–she left her sentry duty to go off with Montparnasse; she was arrested and jailed and eventually released. She was asked to investigate the Rue Plumet house and lied about it.

But she was a girl before, if a strange and sick and uncanny one. Suddenly she’s something else.

Did she die? Did she sell her soul? What DID this?

[bramblebeau]

Alright I told myself I wouldn't interact with fandom when s2 came out, and I haven't and don't plan to except to say this about people deciding Caitlyn is the Worst or that the writing is OOC.

As someone who has had a family member violently killed, I cannot stress how much it shakes up everything you thought you were and stood for. My beliefs in proportionate compassionate justice and the rights of all human beings are some of the strongest I have (stronger now because of the way that experience affected me personally), but they were pushed to the absolute limit when it came to an individual who had killed my loved one, showed no remorse, and laughed in our faces outside court, among other things.

People generally like to believe it wouldn't be them or their peace-loving family members being talked down from seriously considering violent revenge, consequences be damned. People like to believe they wouldn't lash out at people closest to them under that pressure, that they wouldn't build walls around the kindest and most sensitive parts of themselves because those parts are the ones feeling pain you never thought possible, that they wouldn't stalk the killer, make notes on all their family and friends, and fuck up their hands punching walls in anger wishing so badly it was flesh and bone because they can't handle the fact that there's no way to turn back time to stop it all from happening. People like to think they're "better" than that. But the reality is messy and painful as hell.

With Caitlyn, she has the added guilt of having actually had the opportunity to stop Jinx before she fired the rocket, but she hesitated just long enough for it to result in the deaths of her mother and other councillors and in the cities being plunged into chaos. Not only that, but the person close to her she's lashing out at is the person who caused her to hesitate, and just so happens to be the sister of the killer.

Furthermore, her behaviour is entirely in character. We have seen her set up as someone who becomes obsessed with achieving a goal and will do pretty much anything she wants to get there. In S1, we agreed with her methods because her goal was exposing and taking down Silco, and because it led to Vi being released. In S2, she's doing a similar thing but it's fuelled by fear and a type of pain she doesn't know how to deal with, rather than being fuelled by a need to prove herself and solve a case, and it leads to her making morally questionable decisions and to hurting Vi. She admits herself, albeit privately to Vi, that she does not know what she's doing and doesn't know how to fill this hole in her chest (and the hole in the city leadership). She has been sheltered from the real world for almost all her life, and as a result she has no experience of functioning or making decisions under this kind of pressure. The real world blew up in her face in the worst way and she was given power and a loaded rifle, and then shoved into an even more elevated position by a very experienced warlord who is manipulating the shit out of the whole situation.

I'm not saying that you have free rein to hurt people when you're grieving and facing extreme stress. (If you think that's what I'm saying then idk I'm not sure there's much hope for you in terms of critical thinking skills). What I'm saying is that Caitlyn is exhibiting pretty normal human behaviour that most people would be susceptible to in those circumstances, not the behaviour of someone who is some kind of heartless abusive bastard.

TLDR: Caitlyn is being written in a way that completely makes sense and is also not OOC, and if someone told me there would be no chance of them reacting in similar ways I simply would not believe them.

[senascoop]

TIED UP IN YOU , N.RK !

﹙ 🍫 ﹚ ぃ ──── THIS MIGHT SOUND CRAZY BUT TRUST ME IT'S TRUE!

PAIRING : phone guy ! riki × student ! afab reader

SYNOPSIS : Niki was a good guy, no doubt about it. The only problem? He was your phone. How, exactly, did your phone transform into this strikingly handsome guy? It was baffling, frustrating, and, honestly, a bit overwhelming. Here you were, trying to navigate a world where your device had somehow become a charming, infuriatingly attractive human being. And to make matters worse, he was as stubborn and endearing as any person you'd ever met.

GENRE : fluff + crack

WARNING(S) : I don't really think there's any aside from mentions of period and blood in the start, kissing (can be slightly suggestive) and a possible sad ending but if there's more—please lmk.

WORD COUNT : 15.9K

MORE LIKE THIS? ┊ MASTERLIST

NOTE FROM SENA , it's been exactly two months since i’ve actually written a fic from the dreamscape series lol (but I'll make sure to write the other ones too!!) even a little feedback really fuels me—it doesn't necessarily have to be appreciation, it's okay for it to be constructive criticism. Also, happy birthday to our dearest maknae riki 🫶🏻💕

YOU HATE THIS.

You hate everything about it: the constant ache in your lower abdomen, the bloating that makes you uncomfortable, and worst of all, the emotional chaos you're forced to go through while navigating the constant tension your family adds to your life. It's almost too much. Almost.

Stepping into the bathroom, you peel off your bloodied underwear with a groan. This feels just another battle in a war you are losing. The step forward into the shower brings down upon your body warm water flowing. It streams down along your back and legs carrying away the last drops of blood. For that one instant, it soothes all the pain, but not for long.

You press your palms flat against the cool tiles of the wall, leaning forward as the steam rises around you. “Why can't one thing be easy?” you mutter, your voice barely audible over the rush of water.

The thought of your so-called friends creeps into your mind. Friends? you scoff internally. They aren't friends. They're just people who keep you around to have someone to poke fun at, and you? Too naïve, too hopeful, let them.

Your school's anti-bullying policy flashes across your mind next. What a joke. The only time they ever step in is when someone like you stands up to the bullies. It's infuriating.

With a disgusted huff, you twist the shower handle, dialing up the heat until the water is near-scalding. For an instant, the burn feels even slightly more pleasing than the general dull ache throughout your body. But that comfort loses itself too soon as well as the water becomes unbearable (too hot) to touch. “Great,” you say sarcastically and twist the knob off entirely.

The bathroom is silent except for the sporadic drip of the faucet. You take a towel and dab at yourself slowly, deliberatively drying yourself. You wince as your clothes touch your sore skin but continue through the motions nonetheless.

You then walk into the counter, reach in for the pack of pads, and pull one out. You stare at it for a moment before letting out a deep breath. The thought of using tampons crosses your mind. You shudder. Some things are just too much of a hassle to consider: the fumbling with the applicator before inserting something. You shake your head, muttering “Not for me,” place the pad carefully in a fresh pair of underwear you slip on, and feel familiar, slightly cushioned comfort.

The next comes the outfit. Half-day at school, of course means no uniforms—but, in keeping with the school's dress code, naturally. You rifle through your closet before settling on the usual choice: oversized, baggy. So comfortable. So practical. How can some of those girls make such a racket and carry themselves about in what would have otherwise been flashy, tight clothes? How do they manage to study?

As you pull the hoodie over your head, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. For a moment, you pause, taking in the faint puffiness under your eyes and the dull expression on your face. You look tired. No, you look exhausted. You let out a sigh as you run a hand through your damp hair, tying it into a loose ponytail.

As you step out of the bathroom, still adjusting your hoodie, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. There’s a man—a complete stranger—sitting casually on your bed like he owns the place. Your first instinct is to scream, but the sheer absurdity of his presence silences you momentarily. He looks…naive, almost harmless, as if he hasn't just committed a blatant act of breaking and entering.

But harmless or not, he’s still a stranger in your room. Your instincts kick in, and you grab the closest thing within reach—a dusty second-grade participation trophy your sister once won. You don’t care about the trophy. It’s been collecting cobwebs for years, and if it breaks while bashing in this intruder's head, so be it.

With the makeshift weapon clutched tightly in your hand, you take a step toward him. He notices, his head tilting slightly, and for a brief second, confusion flashes across his face. He raises his hands, palms out in surrender, and says in the calmest tone imaginable, “You’re not actually going to hit me, are you?”

His question catches you off guard. What? Of course you’re going to hit him! How dare he act so calm, as if he’s the victim here? You narrow your eyes, gripping the trophy even tighter.

“Well, if you’re going to intrude in my room and act like you’re some innocent little boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing, you’ve got another thing coming!” you snap, taking a step closer. “I’ll call the police!”

Your voice rises with conviction as you mentally prepare to shout for your mom, who’s probably awake by now. Surely she’d hear the commotion and come running. But the man, completely unfazed, leans back slightly on the bed. He rolls his eyes, letting out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, then. Go ahead. Call the police,” he says, his tone dripping with nonchalance, as if this is the most mundane situation in the world.

The sheer audacity leaves you momentarily stunned. Who does this guy think he is? Acting like this is his room, like he’s inviting you to call for help. Your grip loosens slightly on the trophy as your mind races. Why isn’t he scared? Why isn’t he running? Has he done this before?

You glance around, searching for your phone. Where is it? You could’ve sworn you left it on your desk, but it’s nowhere in sight. Panic creeps into your chest. He still hasn’t moved. His eyes flick around the room, scanning the details, but he doesn’t seem in a rush to do anything.

The way he observes everything so calmly only fuels your fear. Your gut tells you this guy is dangerous, no matter how unbothered he looks. Your heart pounds as your brain screams: Stranger danger. Stranger danger.

“I’m serious,” you blurt out, your voice quivering slightly despite your best efforts to stay strong. “I’ll scream. I’ll—”

“Then scream,” he interrupts, his voice sharp but not loud. His gaze finally locks with yours, and for the first time, you notice something unsettling in his expression. A flicker of something you can’t quite place. Not anger, not malice—just…calculation.

Your breath catches. He’s not leaving. He’s not running. This isn’t over.

With a frustrated sigh, you blurt out, “Where’s my darn phone?!”

Your eyes scan the room, darting over every surface in search of it. The guy—still sitting lazily on your bed—doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he tilts his head slightly and says, in the most deadpan tone imaginable, “Why are you searching when I’m right here?”

You freeze mid-step, slowly turning to look at him. What? Did he just…? Your first thought is this guy is absolutely insane. No rational person would say that, and suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s got some kind of mental illness. And, because your irritation is outweighing your common sense, you let the words slip right out of your mouth:

“I’m searching for my phone, you idiot. Just wait—just you see—I’m gonna call the police on you!”

It’s a dumb move, announcing your plan to the potential intruder. But at this point, logic has taken a backseat to sheer annoyance.

The guy blinks at you, seemingly unfazed, and mutters in that same emotionless tone, “I am your phone.”

You stare at him, disbelief written all over your face. “If you’re my phone,” you snap, crossing your arms, “then call the cops yourself.”

You return to searching, hands rummaging through the clutter on your desk. But then you hear something that makes you stop cold: a dialing sound. Not from a phone, but from him. Slowly, you turn back to see a faint, glowing screen appear above his head. The digital display shows numbers being dialed.

Your heart races as the call connects. A voice crackles through the air—an officer, calm and professional, asking, “Hello? Is everything alright there?”

Your jaw drops. What do you even say? Panic sets in. “Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice shaking. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The officer pauses, clearly unconvinced, but then ends the call with a polite goodbye.

You stare at the man—your phone?—in complete shock. He looks at you as if nothing unusual has happened, his expression blank. Slowly, you lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, pressing a trembling hand to your forehead.

“What the hell…” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. This can’t be real. Phones don’t turn into people. And yet, the evidence is sitting right in front of you—a very real, very handsome guy, casually perched on your bed like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He shifts slightly, his head tilting again. “You seem stressed,” he says, his tone flat but oddly observant.

“Stressed?” you snap, gesturing wildly. “Of course I’m stressed! My phone—my phone—just turned into you! How is this even possible?!”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “You dropped me too many times. I think I just… evolved.”

“EVOLVED?!” You bury your face in your hands, groaning. None of this makes sense. You don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or check yourself into a psych ward.

“How…” you start, your voice muffled behind your hands, “how is this even happening?”

“That’s what I’m here to figure out,” he replies simply, leaning back on his elbows.

You peek at him through your fingers, still in disbelief. “This can’t be real. There’s no way. You—no, this—” You cut yourself off, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

Your phone—no, the guy—tilts his head again, studying you. “You’ll get used to it,” he says, almost like a promise.

But you’re not so sure about that.

“So… you’re my phone?” you ask, your voice tinged with disbelief, eyes narrowing as you study the boy in front of you.

“No doubt,” he answers almost immediately, like he’s personally offended you’d even question it.

You squint at him, crossing your arms. “Then prove it. What’s my name, my last semester grade, and… my favorite boy band?”

You’re sure this will trip him up. After all, your phone holds all your secrets. If he’s lying, he wouldn’t know the answers. You’ve texted casually about your life, sure, but your grade? That’s buried deep in your notes app. And your favorite K-pop group? Well, okay, maybe you’ve obsessively streamed their content, but still.

“Y/N, C-minus, and TXT,” he says without hesitation, his gaze steady as he stares you down.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “What the hell?” you mutter, stunned. No one knew your last semester grade—not even your parents. You hid it like a crime. And how could he guess your favorite group so easily?

You scowl, determined to poke a hole in his claim. “That’s not enough. Maybe you stalked me or paid too much attention to my life,” you argue, crossing your arms smugly, waiting for him to stumble.

But instead, he smirks—an infuriatingly cocky smirk. “Those videos you watch while pretending to be asleep under your blanket—”

“Shut up!” you cut him off, your cheeks instantly flaming. Oh, my god. That was not something anyone was supposed to know. “Fine, I believe you!” you snap, desperate to stop him before he digs up more embarrassing truths.

But he’s not done. He leans closer, his voice dropping as he adds, “And how about that sob story you wrote in your digital journal? The one you cringed at so hard you almost deleted the whole app?”

Your entire face burns. “I said I believe you! Now shut the fck up!” The words come out louder than you intended, practically echoing in the room.

There’s a knock on the door, followed by it swinging open.

“You seriously aren’t ready for school yet?” your mom complains, arms crossed as she glares at you.

Your heart stops. You whip around, fully expecting her to freak out at the sight of a random guy in your room. But when you look back at your bed…

He’s gone.

In his place lies your phone—ordinary, rectangular, and definitely not a human boy.

You stare at it, dumbfounded, while your mom narrows her eyes at you. “Well?” she snaps.

“I—I’m getting ready,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. You glance back at the phone, half-expecting it to sprout arms and legs again. But it doesn’t move.

Your mom sighs, muttering something about you being late, and slams the door shut.

You flop down onto the bed, your head spinning. Did you just imagine all of that? Was it some kind of stress-induced hallucination? But… no, it felt real. Too real.

Your hand hovers over your phone. “What the hell just happened?” you whisper, the memory of his smug face flashing in your mind. You’re not sure if you’re losing it or if your phone just pulled the biggest prank of your life. Either way, it’s going to be a long day.

You couldn't focus at all during school. The weight of your phone in your pocket felt heavier than usual, as though it was a ticking time bomb waiting to spring legs and arms again. The thought of keeping it in your bag seemed like a bad idea—what if it turned into him again and someone saw? The last thing you needed was to explain that.

And yet, your mind kept wandering back to him. The guy. The phone. Whatever he was. He was… kind of handsome.

You mentally slapped yourself. Snap out of it, Y/N. It’s your phone, not a K-drama lead! Still, the thought lingered, making your stomach churn. What if you’d imagined everything? What if it was all in your head?

You tried to shake the unsettling thought, but it stuck. Maybe you were losing it. After all, you weren’t exactly what anyone would call normal. You’d always kept to yourself, avoided making friends, and generally preferred your own company. Isn’t that how they describe psychopaths in true crime documentaries?

You shivered at the thought. Maybe Eunmi would understand. She was quiet, kept her distance from people too. You glanced across the classroom and spotted her sitting by herself. Perfect. You grabbed your stuff and slid into the seat next to her.

Eunmi turned to you, her brows furrowing in confusion. Without a word, she grabbed her things and moved to another seat across the room.

“Wtf?” you muttered, glaring after her. “Some people are so ungrateful. She could’ve just said she didn’t want to talk.”

You slumped back in your seat, fuming and plotting petty revenge in your head. But before you could dwell on it too much, the classroom door creaked open. Miss Shin walked in, her expression as flat and lifeless as her lectures.

History. Great.

You suppressed a groan as she began her lesson, droning on about wars and treaties in the most monotone voice imaginable. You weren’t saying history couldn’t be interesting—it totally could. But with Miss Shin? She made even the most exciting historical events feel like watching paint dry.

Why was she even hired as a teacher? She should’ve been a librarian or something.

You stifled a yawn, covering your mouth with your hand. The effort was pointless, though. Half the class was already yawning or staring blankly at their desks.

Your hand brushed against your pocket, the outline of your phone reminding you of the chaos from this morning. You couldn’t help but peek down at it. Was it just your imagination, or did it feel warmer than usual?

Stay calm, you told yourself. Don’t freak out. But the thought lingered—what if this wasn’t over? What if he—or it—came back?

You swallowed hard and glanced around the room. No one was paying attention to you, thankfully. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something about today was far from normal.

“So this…” Miss Shin droned on, gesturing at the board where her half-hearted notes were scrawled. Whatever she was explaining had already flown over your head. You didn’t care. You weren’t in the mood to pay attention, let alone write anything down.

You flipped open your notebook—still blank, as usual—and stared at the empty page. The thought of filling it with Miss Shin’s monotony made your eyelids droop. All you wanted was to go back home, crawl into bed, and pretend this bizarre day hadn’t happened. Maybe that was the real reason you were seeing things—exhaustion messing with your brain.

A faint ding from your pocket pulled you out of your thoughts. You frowned and pulled out your phone. A notification glared up at you:

“Write it down.”

What the…? You didn’t remember setting up anything like that. Before you could process it, you sneezed unexpectedly, the sharp sound echoing across the silent classroom. Heads turned toward you, your classmates throwing judgmental looks your way.

You tried to ignore them, but then your phone started to vibrate—loudly. The desk buzzed beneath your hands, and you could feel the attention of the entire room shifting onto you.

This was a nightmare.

Your classmates whispered among themselves, some shooting you annoyed glances. You were already the so-called “bad influence” in the school, the one parents warned their kids to stay away from. But this? This was next-level humiliation.

The phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. You tried pressing random buttons, but nothing worked. It was as if your phone—or he—was demanding your cooperation.

You sighed, gripping your pen. Maybe, just maybe, the only way to shut it up was to do what it wanted. As ridiculous as it sounded, you decided to test your theory.

The moment your pen touched the page and you started copying the notes on the board, the vibrating stopped. Silence finally returned, and you let out a breath of relief.

But your heart raced. This wasn’t normal. None of it was.

Your father had gifted you this phone before he passed away. It was sentimental, irreplaceable. But now it felt like a curse. A device that had taken on a life of its own—or, more disturbingly, a human form.

You glanced at your pocket where the phone rested quietly, as if nothing had happened. You couldn’t shake the thought that whatever this was, it wasn’t over. For now, though, you had no choice but to keep writing, pretending like everything was fine.

The park is quiet, save for the distant chatter of kids playing and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. You sit on a bench, your elbows resting on your knees, and your gaze fixed on the ground. Your phone lies next to you, placed carefully on the seat, as if you’re afraid it might suddenly sprout arms and legs again.

Your schoolbag acts as a barrier between you and the phone, like it’ll somehow protect you from whatever is going on. You sigh heavily, the weight of the day pressing down on you. “I should really see a therapist,” you mutter under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration.

The unexpected sensation of an arm draping casually over your shoulder sends a shiver down your spine. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as your head snaps to the side. And there he is—again. The guy who claims to be your phone, lounging as if nothing about this is strange.

“Why did you disappear this morning when my mom came in?” you ask, your voice a mix of confusion and exasperation.

He shrugs nonchalantly, leaning back on the bench like he owns the place. His posture is relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, his expression completely void of emotion. “Nobody else can see me except you.”

His answer is so matter-of-fact that it takes you a second to process. You lean forward, resting your forearms on your knees, and glance at him sideways. “Great,” you say dryly, “so not only do I have a talking phone, but it’s also invisible to everyone else. Just my luck.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the sky like he’s analyzing the clouds. The silence stretches, and you realize something that’s been bugging you since the first time he appeared.

“Do you even have a personality?” you blurt out, sitting up straight to face him. The question isn’t kind, but at this point, you don’t care. He doesn’t seem to have feelings, anyway—why would he? He’s a phone.

He finally turns to look at you, his face as blank as always. Then, without missing a beat, he says, “Apparently, the phone takes after its owner.”

His words hit you like a slap. Your jaw drops, and you feel a rush of indignation. “Excuse me? Are you saying I don’t have a personality?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he replies, completely unfazed.

You stare at him, stunned. Nobody’s ever said anything like that to you before. Sure, you’ve had fake friends talk behind your back and parents who sometimes pointed out your flaws, but being insulted by your own phone? That’s a new low.

“You’ve got some nerve,” you snap, crossing your arms.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re an object of mild interest. “I’m just stating the facts. You’ve been carrying me around all this time; I’m bound to reflect you.”

You scoff, turning away to glare at the horizon. The breeze ruffles your hair, and you feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You know,” you mutter, “for something that’s supposed to be mine, you’re awfully rude.”

“Rude?” he echoes, sounding genuinely curious. “I didn’t realize honesty was rude. Maybe that’s another reflection of you.”

You whip your head back toward him, your mouth opening to retort, but the look on his face—calm, blank, unbothered—leaves you speechless.

For a moment, you just sit there, glaring at him while he stares back with that same neutral expression. It’s infuriating. You slump back against the bench, throwing your head back and groaning in frustration.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” you say to no one in particular.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at you with something that might almost be amusement. “You kept me for years. This is just karma.”

“Karma for what?” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him.

“For ignoring the warranty,” he deadpans, and for the first time, you think you see the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glare at him, utterly done. “I hate you.”

“You’ll still carry me everywhere,” he points out, leaning back again and crossing his arms smugly.

You groan again, pressing your palms to your face because of how annoying he truly was. For a moment neither of you spoke.

“Why would you vibrate in class? That was so embarrassing,” you say, breaking the tension and changing the subject. You’re not about to argue further, so you sling an arm around his shoulder like you’re old friends.

He immediately stiffens and shrugs your arm off with a look of mild disgust. “Because you weren’t writing the notes,” he replies flatly, brushing off your gesture like you’ve personally offended him.

You blink, stunned. The audacity.

“And why do you care so much about that? You’re supposed to be my phone,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Because, well…” He pauses, and suddenly, that glowing screen appears above his head again. It’s flipping through your search history.

Your heart drops. “What are you doing?! Close it!” you hiss, panic bubbling in your chest as you glance around to make sure no one’s nearby.

He doesn’t even flinch at your tone, completely unbothered. “Relax. I’m just looking for something,” he says, his voice taking on an infuriatingly smug edge.

“I searched those things because they’re private,” you mutter, your frustration building. You ball your fists at your sides, resisting the urge to throttle him—not that it would make any difference. He’s a freaking machine.

“You shouldn’t have searched them if you didn’t want anyone to see,” he replies, his monotone voice now laced with an evil undertone. His smirk grows as the glowing screen halts, revealing a to-do list. Your middle school to-do list.

You feel the blood drain from your face. “No, no, no,” you mumble, already dreading what’s coming next.

“Let’s see,” he says, clearly enjoying this. He leans forward slightly, reading aloud:

001. Get A’s in at least three subjects.

002. Get a boyfriend before graduation.

003. Make at least one friend.

The list glows mockingly between the two of you.

You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re not seriously going to dwell on something I wrote as a literal kid,” you mutter, voice dripping with disbelief.

“Why not? You still haven’t checked anything off,” he points out, tilting his head like he’s genuinely curious about your failure.

“Because—” you start, your voice rising in frustration, “that was middle school! None of that even matters now!”

“Well, well, well... If I’m looking at your past history and the things in your other notes...” He trails off, his glowing screen flipping again as though searching for the most humiliating detail to dig up.

Then it stops. His screen flashes: 15% character development since middle school.

Your jaw drops. The sheer amount of disrespect—oh, lord. You point an accusatory finger at him, utterly offended by your own phone.

“That is so false! If I hadn’t had character development, I wouldn’t have stood up to the bullies in middle school. Or cut off all my toxic friends!” you argue, arms crossing tightly over your chest. The nerve of this guy.

He tilts his head, unimpressed. “That’s why it said 15% development. The other 85%? Still not there. Let’s just say, you need to study harder instead of spending hours watching those—”

You slap a hand over his mouth, glaring up at him despite the fact that he’s way taller. “SHUT UP!”

He doesn’t resist, just blinks at you like this is all beneath him. Meanwhile, you grab your water bottle and take a sip, trying to calm your boiling frustration. After a deep breath, you lower the bottle and mutter, “If you’ve turned into a human, why can’t you, I don’t know, switch to being female? Maybe I’d connect with you better.”

It’s not really a question. More of a passive-aggressive command for him to get out of your life entirely.

“Well,” he starts, completely unfazed, “cheap phones apparently only transform into males. If your phone was more expensive, maybe I’d be a girl.”

The silence that follows is deafening. His expression is as emotionless as ever, so he clearly doesn’t realize the massive mistake he just made.

You stare at him, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. Slowly, you lower your gaze, your voice quieter now. “It was gifted by my dad… my late dad,” you mumble.

His screen flickers uncertainly, but he doesn’t say anything. You sigh, pressing your palms against your face, trying to hold back the sting of tears threatening to spill.

Your dad had been the best—kind, patient, your biggest supporter. And then, when you were seven, everything changed. After he passed, your mom remarried. You didn’t want to accept the man as your stepdad, not when you still held on so tightly to the memory of your father.

It wasn’t until you were older—seventeen, to be exact—that you realized how selfish you’d been. Your mom had spent years grieving, and she deserved love, even if it hurt you to see someone else in your dad’s place.

The man was nice to you, patient even when you were rude. But every time you looked at him, it reminded you that your dad was gone.

The phone sitting next to you now—this phone—was your dad’s. You’d taken it after growing up, cherishing it because it had been his. Back then, it brought you comfort.

You never could’ve imagined it would one day transform into some smug guy with no tact whatsoever.

“If I wanted my phone to transform into someone… it would be my dad,” you mutter, swiping at a tear that threatens to escape the confines of your closed eyelids.

He stays silent for a moment, his screen flickering dimly before he mumbles, “But… wouldn't it be sad? Seeing him trapped inside a device?”

The softness in his voice makes you laugh—an awkward, bittersweet laugh. What were you even doing? Seeking comfort from your phone?

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion.

“Since you’re so smart and apparently great at giving correct statements, why don’t you figure out yourself why I’m laughing?” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He looks thoroughly puzzled, his glowing eyes blinking as though trying to process. Of course, he wouldn’t understand. He was a machine. A device that knew nothing about the complexities of the actual world.

Before you can explain—or tell him to drop it entirely—the skies open up. The first raindrop splatters onto the ground, quickly followed by another, then another. Within seconds, it’s pouring.

Your smile fades, replaced with pure horror as realization strikes. He’s your phone. Not a regular guy. Meaning— “You’re not waterproof!” you yelp, panic kicking in.

“What?” he asks, his confusion somehow even more clueless than before.

“We need to run!” you blurt out, already yanking off your jacket.

You grab his shoulders, tugging him down since he’s ridiculously tall—and far too proud of it. Wrapping the jacket over his head as a makeshift cover, you mutter under your breath, “I swear, if you short-circuit on me, I’m going to lose it.”

He mumbles something, but you’re not listening. You grab his hand, practically dragging him through the downpour. The jacket flutters slightly as you shield him, doing your best to keep him—and by extension, your phone—dry.

If anyone saw you, they’d think this was a scene straight out of a romance movie. The two of you running through the rain, hands intertwined, your jacket protecting his head.

But no. This wasn’t a romantic moment. Not even close.

This was you desperately trying to save your phone. A phone that was probably going to haunt you later by bringing up your middle school to-do list the second it powered back on.

The next day, you hug your pillow tightly, the soft fabric providing a fleeting moment of peace as sleep lingers in your half-conscious mind. The blanket drapes over you completely, cocooning you in warmth, and for a blissful second, you forget the bizarre events of the day before.

That is, until a cold splash of water shocks you into reality.

“WHAT THE HELL?” you hiss, bolting upright, water dripping from your hair and stinging your eyes. You frantically swipe at your face, blinking to focus on the perpetrator.

Standing there with a glass in hand and an infuriatingly calm expression is him.

“Just waking you up,” he says with a shrug, as if drenching someone in cold water is the most reasonable way to start a morning.

Your patience snaps. Without thinking, you grip his shoulders and push him down onto the now-soaked bed, your movements fueled by a mix of irritation and disbelief. You hover over him, faces mere inches apart, as you glare.

“If you ever pull that stunt again,” you growl, your voice low and dangerous, “I swear I’ll punch you. Hard.”

For a moment, he stares up at you, unflinching. His expression remains annoyingly blank, devoid of any real emotion. “You won’t,” he says flatly, his voice laced with the same maddening nonchalance.

The tension in the air is palpable, and just as you’re about to argue—or maybe prove him wrong—the sound of your door creaking open freezes you in place.

Your mother stands in the doorway, her expression teetering between confusion and concern as she takes in the scene: you, soaking wet and hovering over what appears to be… nothing.

You glance down, heart sinking.

The boy is gone.

In his place, lying on the bed, is your phone—completely ordinary, as if nothing ever happened.

You gape at it, then back at your mom, trying to string together some sort of explanation. But what could you even say? That your phone turned into a person yesterday, drenched you in water, and then vanished the second she walked in?

The bed is still soaked with the cold water your phone—now suspiciously ordinary—had poured on you moments ago. Your mother’s voice cuts through the tense silence like a whip, her tone sharp and unforgiving.

“Did you wet your bed?” she demands, though it’s not really a question. Her eyes are blazing with indignation, and you can tell she already believes the answer.

Your stomach twists in frustration. Of all things, this has to happen on a weekend—a day meant for rest, now utterly ruined by this bizarre, unbelievable mess. And all because of that darn phone.

“No, Mom… I don’t know how the water got there,” you mutter, keeping your voice as steady as possible. The truth is out of the question. Telling her your phone had somehow turned into a boy and splashed you awake would sound absurd even to you.

“So the water just appeared there by itself?” she snaps, crossing her arms as if she’s daring you to double down on your story. Her disbelief burns in the air between you, and you feel a spark of anger flicker beneath your skin.

Your mother has always been quick to anger, her patience worn thin ever since your dad passed away. You love her—of course, you do—but moments like this stretch your tolerance to its limit.

She huffs loudly, a sound filled with both exasperation and finality. “I expect this mess cleaned up before you go anywhere,” she says curtly, her words laced with a warning. Then, without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and shuts the door behind her with a thud.

You’re left alone in the room, staring at the wet mattress and the phone in your hand. The absurdity of the situation hits you all over again, and a bitter laugh bubbles in your throat.

“Thanks for that,” you mutter under your breath to the device, as if it could still hear you.

But it remains silent—an ordinary, lifeless phone. And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere within its circuits, it’s smirking.

You sit on the soaked bed, hugging your knees to your chest. The chill from the cold water clings to your skin, but in the biting cold of December, it doesn’t really matter anymore. The wet bed is just another indignity added to the list of things you’re enduring today—courtesy of your phone.

Your eyes trail to the closed door, and a heaviness settles in your chest. Your mom hardly speaks to you unless it’s about your studies. Anything else—your health, your feelings—just turns into a sharp yell, as though shouting could substitute for care.

With a sigh, you get up, water dripping from your clothes as you grab a cloth to clean the floor. Kneeling down, you watch the fabric soak up the water, leaving dark patches on the cloth as it gets heavier.

“Such a sad life I have,” you mutter irritably, throwing a glance toward your phone sitting innocently on the desk. Its stillness is almost mocking, like it’s pretending to have no part in this disaster.

Your lips curl into a taunting smirk as you direct your words at it. “Must be nice, huh? Creating a mess and then leaving me to deal with it. Why not become a human and help me clean this up?”

You roll your eyes, half-hoping—no, fully expecting—it to transform and lend a hand. But no. The lazy little piece of tech remains where it is, as lifeless as any other phone. The longer you stare at it, the more ridiculous you feel.

“Figures,” you huff under your breath, dragging the damp cloth across the floor. The absurdity of it all makes you question yourself. Did it ever really turn into a human? Or are you just losing your mind?

Either way, it’s not helping. And now, the floor’s dry, but your patience is wrung out completely.

“When we reach there, you don’t get to disturb me, Niki,” you say firmly to the guy walking beside you. He’s the embodiment of your phone—a fact you’re still trying to wrap your head around.

“Niki?” he repeats, tilting his head in confusion, his expression as blank as an untouched canvas. “Who’s Niki here?”

“You,” you reply with an exasperated sigh. “I’m naming you Niki. Or Riki, whatever. It’s too weird to keep thinking of you as my phone.”

“That’s a weird name,” he comments, his tone matter-of-fact.

Your eyes narrow at him. “Be happy I’m not holding a grudge for what you did this morning,” you snap, barely holding back your frustration.

“What did I do so wrong?” he asks, genuinely perplexed. His human brows knit together in confusion, and it almost makes you doubt his intentions. Almost. “You set an alarm, and I woke you up,” he adds, as if the logic is foolproof.

“You created a mess!” you counter, gesturing emphatically with your hands. “Yes, I set an alarm—but a virtual alarm. Not an invitation for someone to literally pour cold water on me in the middle of freezing winter!”

He stares at you, his innocent expression unshaken, and you groan in defeat.

Scolding him feels pointless. At the end of the day, he’s still a phone—albeit a bizarrely human one. And while his actions drive you up the wall, you remind yourself that yelling at him won’t change anything. Technology doesn’t have feelings.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

And now, here you are, on your way to a study session with two classmates. Not because you’re overly eager or dedicated, but because you’re failing your classes. Hard. And your phone—master of your life apparently—had made it a point to remind you of the ancient to-do list you’d scribbled in middle school.

The list wasn’t exactly groundbreaking:

i. Get a boyfriend. ii. Get a friend. iii. Score at least three A’s in school.

Simple, right? Wrong.

Studying alone never worked for you. If you tried, you’d inevitably end up daydreaming, scrolling through social media, or finding creative ways to procrastinate. So, you’d resorted to digging through the school’s study groups and joining the only active one left. You didn’t know who the other two members were, but that was a minor detail.

You grab your phone—yes, the normal phone, since Riki decided to turn back into his original form. You still cringe at how uninspired his name is, but for now, it works.

The plan is simple: fit into the study group, make a friend (or something that vaguely resembles friendship), and start checking boxes off the list. Not that your phone would ever know, you think with a sly smirk.

Shoving the device into your pocket, you make your way to the designated spot, but as soon as you see the two group members, you freeze.

It’s Eunmi and Jungwon.

Eunmi—the same girl who once shot you a disgusted look and turned her back on you like you were nothing more than yesterday’s trash. Oh, how you’d love to knock that smug grin off her face.

And then there’s Jungwon. Handsome, quiet Jungwon. You’ve never spoken to him, but he has an air about him that practically screams “perfect study partner.”

Suddenly, you realize how this could work in your favor.

Step one: Get a boyfriend. Jungwon’s good looks and his apparent lack of social drama make him the ideal choice. You’re not looking for love; you’re looking to cross a line off your list.

Step two: Make a friend. Eunmi? Ugh. As much as it pains you, she qualifies—even if you have to grit your teeth and fake it. If not her, then someone else will eventually fit the bill. Surely, you’re not that unfriendable… right?

Step three: Score three A’s. With Jungwon’s brains and a bit of effort on your part, that goal might actually be achievable.

It’s a win-win-win, you tell yourself, a cunning glint in your eye. You take a deep breath and plaster on your most convincing smile. It’s time to work some magic—your reputation be damned.

You slide into the seat opposite Jungwon, deliberately ignoring Eunmi. The phone in your pocket is entirely forgotten for now as you focus on your new plan.

“So, I guess I’ll be studying with you guys?” you ask, letting a soft, harmless smile linger on your lips while keeping your gaze locked on Jungwon. You casually unzip your bag, pulling out a battered zoology book and setting it on the table as if you’re here for serious business.

Jungwon, polite as ever, gives you a small nod. “Well, kind of. You can say that,” he replies. He doesn’t seem unfriendly, though you can tell by his tone that he and Eunmi have been in this study group for a while. Of course, that makes you the outsider. Not that it bothers you—this is just a stepping stone to your ultimate goals.

And then Eunmi speaks.

“What made you want to study all of a sudden, Miss Bad Grades?”

You clench your jaw but force your face to remain neutral, even though your fingers itch to grab a fistful of her perfectly styled hair and yank. How dare this girl try to ruin your impression in front of Jungwon? Sure, your reputation in school isn’t stellar, but she didn’t have to say it out loud.

“I wanted to do better,” you reply smoothly, keeping your voice calm and unbothered. Your smile doesn’t waver, though inside, you’re plotting about five different ways to get back at her if she keeps this up.

The study session has barely begun, and already, you’re wondering how you’re going to survive without snapping. You glance at Jungwon, hoping he’ll say something to shift the conversation, but he’s already flipping through his notebook, oblivious to the silent tension brewing between you and Eunmi.

The session drags on, and while your eyes occasionally skim the words in your textbook, your brain is busy analyzing the way Jungwon’s lips press together when he’s concentrating. You imagine how soft they must feel, how it would be to kiss him. But no, not yet. You can’t. Not until you’ve executed your plan.

Time slips away unnoticed until your phone starts buzzing in your pocket, jolting you from your daydreams. Internally, you curse. What does Riki want this time? That mischievous, human-turned-phone was always up to something.

Eunmi, of course, notices. She shakes her head in that condescending way that practically screams, See? I told you she’s not serious about studying. You don’t need to hear her words to know she’s silently plotting to turn Jungwon against you. The smug look on her face makes your fingers twitch.

“Such a bitch,” you mutter under your breath before quickly masking your irritation.

“I’ll—be right back,” you say with a sheepish smile, standing up from the table. The chair scrapes against the floor, earning you a scoff from Eunmi. She doesn’t even try to hide her disdain.

Jungwon gives a distracted hum, barely lifting his head from his book. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Could this guy act like he cares for once? I’m right here, desperate for your attention, and you’re more invested in spermatogenesis?

Your phone is still vibrating as you weave through the tables, making your way to the restroom. Once inside, you slip into a stall and lock the door behind you. Pulling out your phone, you press the power button like you’re interrogating a criminal.

“Hey, Riki? Why are you buzzing?” you hiss, glaring at the glowing phone in your hand. Frustration bubbles in your chest as you slump onto the toilet seat, trying to avoid drawing more attention.

Before you can even blink, the phone morphs, and there he is—Riki. Towering over you, his presence taking up the cramped stall like he owns it. You freeze, your eyes widening as you realize just how compromising this position looks. His knees brush yours, and his hands press against the walls, effectively trapping you in place.

“H-Hey! Get off me!” you stammer, squirming as much as the limited space allows. But even when he shifts slightly, it doesn’t make much of a difference. He’s still leaning in way too close for comfort.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he says, his voice low but cutting. “Why were you staring at Jungwon instead of finishing the chapter?”

The question knocks the breath out of you. You gape at him, your brain scrambling to come up with an excuse. How does he even know? He’s just a phone!

“That’s—none of your business!” you sputter, crossing your arms defensively.

“Oh, it is my business,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t I the one keeping track of your precious little checklist?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “One of the tasks is getting a boyfriend, isn’t it? So yeah, I was looking at him. Got a problem with that?”

Riki’s expression shifts, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something almost human in his sharp gaze. Disbelief? Annoyance? Whatever it is, it’s enough to make him scoff audibly.

“You’re thinking him? That guy? Seriously?” he asks, his voice dripping with judgment. “Your taste in men is worse than I thought.”

“Excuse me?” You glare, feeling your blood boil. “He’s charming and—”

“You wouldn’t know charming if it hit you in the face,” Riki cuts you off, rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh. For someone who used to be a piece of metal and glass, he’s got an awful lot of opinions.

Before you can retort, he turns back into your phone in the blink of an eye, falling toward the floor. You scramble to catch him, nearly fumbling in the process, and clutch him tightly in your hand.

“You are the worst,” you mutter, shoving him back into your pocket.

But as you stand up and unlock the stall, brushing yourself off, the thought lingers: Why did he get so worked up? You shake your head, pushing the question away. Who cares? It’s not like his opinion matters, right?

Right.

A week passes, and you’re still not fully adjusted to the bizarre reality that your phone occasionally transforms into a sarcastic, human-sized headache named Riki. It’s unsettling but oddly entertaining—though you’d never admit that to him.

The study group, on the other hand, is a battlefield you didn’t sign up for. Not because of the studying—oh no, that’s manageable. It’s Eunmi, who seems to have declared you her mortal enemy the moment you walked in.

Her latest tactics are as subtle as a neon sign. First, there was the juice incident. She accidentally spilled her drink all over your notes, forcing you to grit your teeth and smile like a beauty pageant contestant while internally screaming. You knew it wasn’t an accident—her little smirk gave her away—but yelling at her in front of Jungwon? No way. That would only play into her hands.

Then came the note-snatching debacle. Eunmi sweetly asked to borrow your notes, even though hers were perfectly fine. Next thing you know, there’s a loud rip as she flips a page too aggressively. Your precious, perfectly organised notes—ruined. You’re convinced she’s trying to provoke you into losing your temper, hoping Jungwon will see you as the unhinged maniac she wants you to be.

But you’re smarter than that. You refuse to give her the satisfaction.

Jungwon, oblivious as ever, doesn’t seem to notice the cold war brewing at the table. Over the past week, you’ve come to realise just how clueless he is—not just about Eunmi’s schemes but also about your less-than-stellar reputation.

How is it possible that he doesn’t know? You were practically infamous for your fiery temper in school. Yet here he is, helping you with notes, explaining concepts patiently, even sharing his own work with you—all without a hint of hesitation.

Sometimes, he surprises you even more. Like when he casually suggests the two of you study alone. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest each time he does, but you force yourself to decline.

Not because you don’t want to.

You do—desperately.

But according to your well-studied guide on “How to Win a Guy Over,” playing hard to get is essential. If you said yes too quickly, wouldn’t he stop finding you interesting?

So, with every ounce of willpower, you smile, place a hand over your racing heart, and politely refuse.

“Maybe next time,” you say, pretending to be unfazed, when really, you’re screaming internally.

You tell yourself it’s working. Jungwon seems more intrigued every day—or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to justify the agony of sitting through another study session with her.

Lately, Riki—or Niki, or whatever you had whimsically decided to call him—had taken it upon himself to discipline you. Whenever study time rolled around, he would shut your bedroom door with the finality of a prison warden, ensuring zero distractions.

At first, it was kind of helpful. You begrudgingly admitted that. But as the days went on, it started to get unbearable.

Without your phone—because your phone was, unfortunately, a human being now—there was no scrolling through your feed, no binge-watching your favorite group’s reels, and no celebrity TikToks. Worse, you hadn’t even heard TXT’s latest song or watched their new music video because someone refused to let you.

You tapped your pen against your desk, fidgeting with boredom. “Please,” you whined, turning in your chair to face him. “I studied for like, three hours, didn’t I? Now be a good boy and let mama see some reels or TikToks!” You added the last part with a teasing lilt, hoping to fluster him.

But you forgot—this was Riki. Your sentient, emotionally unavailable phone. Feelings? Not his thing.

“No,” he replied flatly, arms crossed like he was the boss of you.

“Please, Miki!” you tried again, throwing in some puppy-dog eyes for good measure.

He raised a brow, unimpressed. “Miki? Didn’t you already name me Riki?” His tone was laced with exasperation, like he couldn’t fathom how you’d forgotten the name you gave him.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you huffed, brushing off his sarcasm. “I swear, it’s just one music video. That’s it. I’ve earned it!”

He didn’t respond immediately, his face a mix of suspicion and resignation. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But just one video.”

Your face lit up as a glowing screen materialized above his head, displaying the thumbnail of TXT’s latest music video. As it began to play, you clapped in delight and sang along, fully immersing yourself in the moment.

But just as you were getting into it—pausing to admire Soobin’s part—Riki froze the video mid-frame.

“Enough,” he said, his tone as dry as the Sahara.

You glared at him, fists clenched as if contemplating whether punching him was worth the effort. Instead, you let out an exaggerated groan, slumping in your chair.

Riki ignored your dramatics, a timer popping up in the digital display above his head. It ticked down with cruel efficiency, mocking you.

“Can you believe this?” you muttered under your breath. “My phone is moody.”

“I wish I was with Jungwon,” you muttered, shooting a glare at the sulking figure in front of you. You didn’t even try to hide the exasperation in your voice.

Riki’s eyes snapped to yours, his expression hardening as if you’d just insulted his entire existence. “Why the blonde-haired guy?” he asked, his lips twisting into a bitter frown.

It was the first time you’d seen him show this much emotion, and it was shockingly clear—he despised Jungwon.

“He has a name,” you said defensively, crossing your arms.

Riki wasn’t having it. “So, you’re now his personal lawyer?” he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “This is why you don’t get good grades. Stop running after that guy.”

You blinked, caught between indignation and disbelief. “Excuse me?” His logic—or lack thereof—was baffling. He’d been the one insisting you get a boyfriend before high school ended. But now? Now he was acting like you’d committed some unspeakable crime.

Before you could form a retort, he sighed dramatically and transformed back into a phone, flopping onto your bed with a heavy thud.

You groaned, snatching him up. “What is your problem?” You pressed the power button, trying to unlock the screen, but the phone didn’t respond. No matter how many times you swiped or tapped, it stubbornly refused to work.

“Are you kidding me?” you hissed, your annoyance bubbling over.

From your bed, the phone-turned-human smirked, lounging like he owned the place before flickering back into a phone. The audacity.

“Aghhh, fine! I’ll study!” you snapped, stomping back to your desk. Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you plopped down, glaring daggers at the sulking phone.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him flickering in and out of human form, like some glitching video game character. One moment he was there, leaning against your pillows with his arms crossed and an unimpressed look; the next, he was just a lifeless phone.

It was almost…cute? No, no, you shook your head. There was nothing cute about your phone-human hybrid being this petty.

Still, you found your eyes wandering back to him more often than you’d like to admit. And each time, you caught the faintest hint of a smug expression on his face, as if he knew he was winning this ridiculous battle of wills.

“Yes, Mom, I’ll go! Just two minutes!” you shout, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a passable top in a rush. All this, just to take out the trash. A noble cause? Hardly. But it was enough to earn your mom’s approval.

Riki—or your phone, rather—lay silent on your desk. He wasn’t in human form right now, but if he were, you could already picture him sulking. He’d been unusually quiet since you decided to help your mom instead of following his meticulous study schedule. Not that you minded the silence; it felt like a small victory.

With a sigh, you grab the trash bag, sliding your phone into your pocket. “Be good,” you mutter under your breath, half expecting some smart-aleck comment from him, but the screen remains dark.

Slipping into your worn-out slippers, you trudge down the apartment stairs, the trash bag swinging lightly in your grip. The cool evening air brushes against your face as you step outside, breathing in the faint scent of street food from the stalls down the block.

“Phew,” you murmur to yourself, relieved to have made it out without any drama. That is until your heart nearly stops.

There, by the communal trash bins, is Jungwon. Casual and effortlessly perfect, dressed in a plain hoodie and jeans, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that shouldn’t look this good.

Your gaze drops to your outfit—a mismatched catastrophe of sweatpants, an old shirt, and slippers. You might as well be cosplaying a beggar (according to your mom).

Mentally cursing your life choices, you toss the trash bag into the bin, dusting your hands and praying for a clean escape. But before you can make your getaway, a hand touches your shoulder.

“You live around here?” Jungwon’s voice is light and curious, but it feels like a spotlight on your very soul.

“Uh, yeah… kind of,” you stammer, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous you must look.

“And that is…?” His voice trails off as he points behind you, his brows knitting together.

You turn slowly, dread pooling in your stomach. Standing a few feet away is Riki, in his fully human form, arms crossed, looking like he’s been summoned from the depths of your worst nightmares.

Your hand shoots into your pocket, fumbling for your phone. Except—your pocket is empty.

Your brain short-circuits. He can see Riki?!

“Boyfriend. Her boyfriend,” Riki announces sharply, his voice cutting through the moment like a knife. His eyes narrow at Jungwon, his disdain palpable. If looks could kill, Jungwon would have been incinerated on the spot.

Your mouth drops open, no words forming. Riki, your phone-human hybrid, is showing emotion. And not just any emotion—jealousy.

Jungwon’s lips part, clearly taken aback, but he quickly recovers, a polite smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh… I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Riki snaps, stepping closer and crossing his arms protectively.

All you can do is stand there, torn between laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the situation and wanting the earth to swallow you whole. This is your life now—your phone pretending to be your boyfriend in front of your crush. Fantastic.

“Is it true?” Jungwon asks, tilting his head slightly. His tone is soft, uncertain, like he’s piecing together a puzzle that suddenly doesn’t make sense. He had never known you had a boyfriend. The poor guy had even started thinking maybe—just maybe—you might be interested in him. But now? He thinks otherwise.

“Yeah… I think so,” you mutter, your voice barely audible as you glance at Riki. Confusion swirls in your head like a storm. Why on earth is this bastard acting like a full-fledged human, let alone ruining the sliver of progress you'd made with Jungwon?

“It’s 100% true,” Riki cuts in, his voice low and menacing as he steps between you and Jungwon. “So, I suggest you stay away from my girlfriend.”

Jungwon blinks, his lips parting slightly in disbelief. “Oh… okay,” he says after a moment, his voice a mix of confusion and reluctant acceptance. Relief flashes briefly across his face—better to find out now than after he’d fallen for you completely, he reasons.

He tosses his trash into the bin, bows politely—because, of course, Jungwon’s still a gentleman—and turns on his heel, walking back toward his apartment.

As soon as he’s out of sight, you whirl on Riki, fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “You ruined it, Niki!” you hiss through gritted teeth, your voice a harsh whisper to avoid attracting any curious neighbors.

Riki just shrugs, utterly unbothered. A screen materializes above his head, glowing faintly in the dim light. It displays a graph, bold and undeniable: Jungwon negatively affects your study efficiency by 60%.

“See?” he says, pointing at the glowing data like it’s irrefutable proof. “I’m doing you a favor. Jungwon’s presence is literally detrimental to your academic success.”

You stare at the screen, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You’re at a loss. How are you supposed to argue with statistics? It’s infuriatingly logical, and yet, entirely absurd.

Your foot taps impatiently on the pavement as you cross your arms. “Why do you hate Jungwon so much?” you ask, your voice sharp with exasperation. Deep down, you’re fighting the urge to smack him—though you quickly remind yourself that assaulting your phone probably isn’t the best idea.

“Like I said,” Riki replies, folding his arms with a dramatic sigh. “That boy ruins your studies. You could look for a boyfriend somewhere else.”

You groan, running a hand down your face. The memory of Jungwon’s hurt, betrayed expression as he walked away is burned into your mind. But there’s something even more pressing you need to know. You fix Riki with a narrowed gaze, your brow arching suspiciously. “Why did you say you were my boyfriend?”

For the first time, Riki hesitates. His usually confident demeanor falters, and a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding your glare like a guilty child caught red-handed.

“I mean… it’s the most effective method to turn a guy away,” he says finally, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you deadpan, but Riki presses on, completely unfazed.

“It’s just basic strategy,” he explains, nodding as though he’s a seasoned love expert. “I’ve read enough online to know that guys back off when they think someone’s already taken. Works like a charm.”

You stare at him, incredulous. The audacity of this device—no, this thing—is beyond anything you’ve ever encountered. “You’re basing my love life on… internet articles?”

“Trust me,” he says with a wink, flashing a smug grin. “I’ve got access to all the data.”

You groan again, louder this time, wondering if tossing him into the trash bin would solve all your problems. If only.

Riki trails behind you as you climb the stairs to your apartment, his steps eerily silent despite his human-like form. At your door, you stop abruptly and turn to him, panic creeping into your voice. “Turn back into a phone, Niki. Now.”

He folds his arms and tilts his head, looking every bit like a rebellious teenager. “You literally named me Riki. Can you settle on one name for once?” His tone carries a tinge of irritation, and you blink in disbelief at the audacity of your phone to talk back to you.

“Okay, fine. My dear Riki, please turn back into a phone—”

Before you can finish, your mother’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. “Y/N! Are you back yet?”

Your heart lurches, a surge of panic shooting through you. Your eyes dart to Riki, your expression pleading. “Turn back into a phone. Now,” you hiss under your breath, motioning wildly for him to do something—anything—before disaster strikes.

To your immense relief, Riki flashes you an exaggerated wink and morphs seamlessly back into your phone, the glowing screen dimming as he settles into your palm. You clutch him tightly, hiding him in your fist just as the door swings open.

Your mother appears, her usual stern expression replaced with something unnervingly mild. “Why are you standing there? Come inside and study.”

Her voice is calm—too calm. It sends a shiver down your spine. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost believe this gentleness was her true nature. But you do know better, and you don’t trust it for a second.

“Coming,” you mumble, stepping inside. Your stepdad is lounging on the couch, the rustle of his newspaper the only sound he makes. You deliberately avoid his gaze, moving as quietly as possible. Your footsteps are measured and light as you head straight for your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Once inside, you let out a long, weary sigh, your body sinking onto the bed. The room is dim, curtains drawn tightly shut to block out the evening light. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out Riki and place him beside you on the bed.

“Hey,” you whisper, exhaustion evident in your voice. “You can turn into a human now.”

Barely a second passes before a familiar presence materializes next to you. Riki sits there, leaning back casually against the headboard like he owns the place. His eyes sparkle with that same smug mischief, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

The two of you are lying side by side, close enough for your shoulders to brush. The thought hits you suddenly: if anyone walked in right now, they’d think you were a couple. The intimacy of the moment feels strangely... natural.

But you shake the thought away, annoyed at yourself for even entertaining it. You’re not interested in Riki like that. You’re not. Except...

You steal a glance at him. His human form is alarmingly realistic, right down to the faint curve of his lips and the way his hair falls perfectly out of place.

Maybe you’re not interested in Jungwon anymore. Maybe—just maybe—you like Riki instead.

But there’s no way you’d ever admit that. Not to him. The moment those words leave your mouth, he’ll launch into some long-winded lecture about how technology can’t reciprocate feelings. You’d never hear the end of it.

Riki catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What?”

“Nothing,” you snap, turning away quickly, cheeks heating up.

“Sure,” he drawls, his tone dripping with playful suspicion. “Keep telling yourself that, Y/N.”

You groan, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it. He laughs, the sound annoyingly human, as he ducks out of the way.

This is your life now, you think, burying your face in your hands. And somehow, against all odds, you don’t entirely hate it.

An idea sparks in your mind as you turn onto your side, your gaze landing on Riki. He’s sitting upright, leaning back against the headboard, his expression unreadable. You hesitate for a moment before speaking, voice soft yet teasing. “Hey… since you’re a phone—”

Riki tilts his head slightly, intrigued, the faintest arch of his brow urging you to continue. He lets out a curious hum, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he waits for whatever nonsense you’re about to spout.

For all his smugness, you remind yourself, Riki is still a phone. And phones are supposed to be smart, right? Smarter than this, at least.

You clear your throat, sitting up just enough to meet his gaze. “So, I’m in search of a boyfriend,” you begin, the words tumbling out too quickly. You falter for a second as Riki’s side-eye nearly makes you choke on your own sentence. His expression is the perfect mix of judgmental and unimpressed—eerily similar to your mom’s whenever she catches you slacking off on your studies.

“Of course, while studying too,” you add hastily, holding your hands up defensively. You know better than to ignore the unspoken priorities Riki seems to share with your mother.

He doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue. You take a deep breath, your next words tumbling out in one rushed, embarrassed blur. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you… you know, taught me how to kiss?”

Riki’s reaction is immediate and comical. His eyes widen, and his lips part as if he’s about to say something, only for his voice to falter into a confused sputter. “What??”

His expression is so innocent, so utterly clueless, that you almost feel guilty. But not enough to take it back. A tiny part of you is curious—what would it feel like, even if he isn’t technically human?

“Is that how single you really are?” Riki’s voice drips with mockery, his lips twitching into an amused smirk. “Seriously?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you throw the nearest pillow at him in a half-hearted attempt to regain your dignity. “Don’t act like you’re better than me,” you snap, though your voice lacks bite. “I’m just—curious, okay? And you’re the first guy I’ve been close to, so it’s only natural!”

Riki doesn’t look convinced. If anything, he looks even more amused. “Natural? That’s bold coming from someone asking her phone for kissing lessons.”

You roll your eyes, frustrated but undeterred. “You’re not just a phone! You’re—well, you’re you. And besides,” you mutter, lowering your gaze, “it’s not like you’ll judge me for being bad at it. You’re not even real.”

“Ouch.” Riki places a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Not real? I’m literally the only reason you’re not failing your exams right now.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Forget I said anything.”

But Riki isn’t letting this go. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” he says, leaning back with a smug grin. “Is it because you think I don’t understand emotions the way a human does?”

You hesitate, guilt pricking at the edges of your conscience. “No! That’s not—”

He cuts you off with a knowing look, his smirk softening just slightly. “Relax. You’re single. It’s pathetic, but I get it.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you grab the blanket and throw it over the both of you.

You roll closer to him, your face buried in his chest as you sigh dramatically. “See?” you mumble, your voice muffled. “I’ve been single my whole life. No boyfriend, no first kiss, nothing. You’re the only guy who’s stuck around, and even then, you’re technically stuck with me.”

Riki rolls his eyes, a mix of pity and exasperation crossing his face. “Wow. Way to guilt-trip your phone.”

You peek up at him, hopeful. “So… will you?”

He shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Is that a yes?”

Riki sighs, muttering something under his breath about how pathetic humans are. But he doesn’t move away, which you decide to take as a yes.

After all, he’s just a machine, right? He doesn’t understand what this means. Not really. And that’s exactly why you’re doing this—or at least, that’s what you tell yourself as your heart pounds in your chest.

Your eyes light up the moment Riki nods, the glowing screen above his head dimming to black. Without a second thought, you grab a pillow and plop it over his face as you climb onto him, pinning him down. Or at least, you try to pin him down—because no matter how much determination you pour into your stance, it’s painfully obvious you’re more like an ant attempting to subdue an elephant.

Still, you try to exude confidence, looking down at him with a smirk. “Only for research purposes… of course,” you announce dramatically, hands planted on his chest like you’re staking your claim.

Riki, unimpressed as always, rolls his eyes. “Yeah… research purposes,” he repeats with dripping sarcasm.

He shifts under you, and for a brief moment, you forget he’s a phone. Forget that his abilities extend far beyond your average human knowledge. Within seconds, he’s analyzing articles, tutorials, and even kissing technique videos from the depths of the internet. His hands move to cup your cheeks, startling you with the sheer firmness of his touch.

“Hey, gentle!” you mumble, your words muffled by the pressure on your cheeks. You raise a hand to tap against his shoulder, a mix of surprise and irritation bubbling up. “You’re squishing my face!”

Riki’s hands retreat instantly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. For all his snark and superiority, you realize he doesn’t quite know his own strength—or, perhaps, he doesn’t understand the delicacy required for moments like this. After all, he’s a phone. Why would he know?

He clears his throat, his tone shifting into something more clinical, more detached. “According to the articles—”

You don’t let him finish. Before he can launch into a lecture, you lean forward and press your lips to his, cutting him off entirely.

It’s messy, clumsy even, your inexperience showing in the way your lips move against his. But the taste of him—soft, cool, and faintly electric—takes you by surprise. Not that you’ve kissed anyone else before, but something about this feels… better. Different.

“Just feel,” you whisper against his lips, your breath mingling with his in the quiet room. For once, Riki doesn’t argue, doesn’t mock. His hands find their way to your waist, steadying you with an ease that betrays his otherwise flustered expression.

He’s stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. For a first kiss, you’re better than he would have expected, not that he’d ever admit it. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is what those articles meant by connection.

And then, just as he’s starting to process the whirlwind of sensations, you stop. You rest your head against his chest, your body growing heavier as exhaustion takes over.

“Wait—are you falling asleep?” he asks, incredulous.

Your response is a barely coherent mumble, your lips still lightly pressed against his. “Mhm. Tired.”

Riki sighs, frustration laced with disbelief. He feels the faint trickle of drool escaping from your mouth onto his, his lips parting in distaste. “Hey, you’re drooling—”

“Charge you in the morning,” you murmur sleepily, cutting him off again.

He stares at you, torn between exasperation and something he can’t quite place. He adjusts you carefully, shifting your weight so you’re resting more comfortably against his chest. He makes sure your head doesn’t slide too close to his charging port—because as awkward as this moment is, he’s not about to risk short-circuiting because of you.

Still, as he looks down at your peaceful expression, a strange sensation tugs at him. It’s foreign, unquantifiable, something no article or video could explain. He brushes a hand over your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, and lets out a soft sigh.

“Is this… what they meant?” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

The answer doesn’t come, but for once, Riki doesn’t feel the need to know.

You wake up with a soft murmur, the warmth of sleep still clinging to your skin. You realize, half-dazed, that your arms are wrapped around what feels like a body—Riki’s body. His form is strangely solid and comforting, and in your sleepy haze, you have no intention of moving. His warmth against you is too cozy, and the soft rise and fall of his “chest”—though artificial—makes you feel safer than you have in a while.

“Riki...” you murmur again, still unsure of what time it is, your words heavy with drowsiness. But then, you feel the slight shift of his body, and you hear his voice—distorted and rough, as though it's being dragged from the depths of a drained battery.

“My battery's low,” he whispers, a groan underlying his words. “Please charge me real quick...” His voice cracks, but you can't help but chuckle at how human it sounds, despite him being technically not a person.

You bury your face deeper into his chest, too comfortable to get up, and in a daze, you mumble, “Just five more minutes... I'm too cozy...”

But Riki doesn’t let you get away with it. There’s a slight, almost exaggerated sigh from him before he says, “No... It's literally six a.m.... Please get ready... for school.”

You groan in response, the panic setting in as you finally start to register his words. “Mom should've woken me up...” You shoot out of bed, suddenly scrambling to get ready. The weight of the morning hits you all at once—your mind still fuzzy but your body on overdrive as you throw yourself into a frenzy of motion.

Your fingers tremble as you tug off your pajama top, realizing with horror that you haven't even showered. You curse under your breath, glancing at Riki, who’s still next to you.

Your heart skips a beat. Wait.

“Riki,” you mutter, an unsettling thought popping into your head. You pause, standing mid-action, your clothes half-changed. “Did you always see me change?” Your voice cracks as you ask, and your cheeks start to heat up, a flush spreading across your face as the realization creeps in.

You’ve always placed your phone on the bed or on the drawer while changing. Could he have been watching all this time, even before his human-phone transformation?

You glance over at Riki, and to your surprise, you see his screen flicker with a rapid flush of red, like he's embarrassed. His voice, strained and hurried, shoots back at you, “NO!” It's a sharp refusal, almost defensive, and it makes you pause in your tracks.

“Did you...?” you ask again, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“I said NO!” His voice is forceful now, though still faint from the low battery, and you can see the unmistakable redness flickering across his screen. It’s such a far cry from the dispassionate, cold phone he once was, and it throws you off. Was this the same Riki who had no emotions at all when he first turned into a human? The same one who would have no qualms about anything?

The thought makes you chuckle nervously, trying to dismiss the awkwardness that crawls up your neck. “Okay, okay, I get it. Stop yelling.”

You roll your eyes and go back to getting dressed, though the entire room suddenly feels way smaller than it should. You can’t help but throw a glance at Riki again—who, despite being a phone, seems to be desperately looking away from you, his screen flickering like a bashful person avoiding eye contact.

As you change, you remind yourself over and over that Riki is just a phone—a very advanced phone, yes, but still just a phone. It’s only logical that he can’t be embarrassed. You try to shrug it off, but the blush still lingers on your cheeks.

Once you’re dressed, the urgency hits you again. You’re running late, and the panic sets in like a wave. You grab your bag and rush around the room, tossing items into it without thinking—until you remember.

“Oh shoot! Riki!” You scramble for your phone, your fingers fumbling as you finally find him on the bed. You look at his screen, blinking. Wait. Is he still charging?

But before you can get the chance to plug him in, Riki’s voice cracks again, a little louder this time, and it’s so faint you barely catch it. “You’re really going to leave me like this...?” he asks, almost accusing.

You freeze, your guilt swelling as you gaze at him, knowing that if you didn’t charge him now, he’d be completely dead by the time you get back. With a deep breath, you plug him in quickly, hoping the connection will last until you return.

But the weird thing is, for the first time, you realize that in a twisted way—this phone might actually be the one who understands you better than anyone else.

You’re practically panting by the time you get to school, the weight of your backpack pressing down on you with every step. Your stomach growls in protest, reminding you that in your mad rush, you forgot your tiffin at home. Great. Just great.

But the real problem is the five marks. The professor’s new rule is burning a hole in your mind: Whoever comes late will have five marks deducted. It's just five marks, but it might as well be the difference between life and death. Okay, maybe not life or death, but definitely failure.

You’re barely scraping by in math, and losing even those five marks would push you into the dreaded abyss of failure. You can already feel the weight of your mother’s disapproval on your shoulders, and you really don’t want that. Not today. Not ever.

Your school isn’t far—just a fifteen-minute walk—but with the panic setting in, your legs are moving faster than your brain. Walking = fine. Running = late. You’d prefer to walk but today, you’re in run mode, your heart hammering against your chest, your breath coming in quick, sharp gasps.

“Who even made schools?” you mutter under your breath, sweat trickling down your neck. You can already feel your body protesting against the injustice of it all. As if it weren't bad enough, your backpack feels like a weight you’re carrying to the moon.

You round the corner, spotting a few other late students sneaking in, looking as panicked as you feel. The guard is too busy talking to someone else to notice, and you take full advantage of it, slipping through the gate like a ninja trained by your mother herself. You’ve gotten really good at this.

When you reach the classroom, relief floods over you. The professor isn’t there yet. Thank goodness. You rush to the nearest available seat—right next to Jungwon. It's the only one left, and you’re not about to argue. You plop down with a loud sigh, feeling the adrenaline start to wear off, leaving you a little breathless.

But then Jungwon turns to you, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Does your boyfriend not come to our school?”

You blink. Boyfriend? Who—what?

“I have a boyfriend?” You ask, clearly puzzled, still catching your breath.

“Uh… the one I met last night when you were throwing trash…” he adds, trailing off awkwardly, clearly unsure of himself now. “Is he not your boyfriend?”

Your stomach flips. Oh, God. This is it. Your brain starts spinning, and suddenly your mouth feels dry. You can’t go back on yesterday's statement. You definitely can’t let Jungwon go back to your mom and casually mention you have a boyfriend. That would end with your mother’s legendary interrogation skills being put into full force, and you’re not sure you’d survive it.

You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.

OPTION (A) : You could admit Riki isn’t your boyfriend, but that would open a whole new can of worms, and you can already hear Jungwon’s voice in your head: “Wait, so who was that guy?” Not a conversation you want to have.

OPTION (B) : You could tell him that Riki is just a friend, but that might lead to even more awkward questions, and you have no idea how you’d explain that whole situation without sounding like you’re caught in a web of lies.

But before you can choose, the door creaks open, and the professor walks in, immediately starting the lesson. You have no choice but to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Yes, he’s my boyfriend.” The words come out, and you instantly regret them. You can practically hear the sound of your own gulp echoing in your ears. Jungwon, looking slightly taken aback, awkwardly nods, unsure of how to respond. He’s clearly not going to ask more questions—at least not here—and his attention turns back to the professor.

You breathe a sigh of relief, but the panic is still bubbling inside you. You’ve just added another layer of complication to your already messy life. Now, you’re officially that girl—the one with a mysterious, possibly nonexistent boyfriend who has a habit of turning into a human phone. What could go wrong?

You sneak a glance down at your phone, trying to be as discreet as possible. Back in the day, you would’ve been nervously fidgeting in your seat next to Jungwon, trying not to spill your awkwardness all over the place. But right now? You couldn’t care less about Jungwon. All you could think about was that handsome guy who had somehow turned into your phone.

Why are you so cute, Riki?

You tap your phone screen, waiting for it to light up, but nothing happens. You try again, your frustration building. Come on... please respond. This is getting ridiculous.

“Hey, Riki! Respond, please!” you whisper under your breath, glancing around quickly to make sure no one else is noticing your little outburst. Jungwon, who’s sitting right next to you, doesn’t seem to catch on. He’s too busy, probably thinking about his own thoughts. You, on the other hand, are glued to your phone, silently begging for Riki to do anything.

But no, nothing happens. It's like he's just… ignoring you. And that drives you crazy. Why isn't he responding? Was it because you're sitting next to Jungwon? Did he suddenly become jealous?

The thought of Riki acting all possessive, even from within your phone, actually makes you giggle. But your giggles quickly turn into frustration again as your screen stays blank.

So, you do what anyone would do in this situation: you bury yourself in your notes, hoping that focusing on your studies will distract you from the fact that Riki, your human-turned-phone boyfriend, is giving you the silent treatment. You're still a bit puzzled by the whole situation.

Finally when classes end, and your backpack feels impossibly heavy as you hurriedly shove your books inside. You’re already planning your escape when Jungwon calls out to you.

“Hey Y/n, would you be up for a study session? You can bring your boyfriend too…” His words trail off, clearly surprised by how quickly you’re moving to leave.

Your reaction is instantaneous: you bolt out of there like you’ve just been given an Olympic sprinting challenge, the door swinging behind you with a dramatic swoosh. You don’t even wait for a reply, practically disappearing from his sight.

Jungwon, stunned, blinks a couple of times before finally muttering, “What… just happened?”

“Must be her boyfriend,” Eunmi remarks, her voice strangely neutral instead of the usual sharp tone she reserves for anything remotely related to you. She looks over at Jungwon, her gaze lingering for a moment, before turning her attention elsewhere. Jungwon, though, is far less enthusiastic about packing his bag now, his thoughts clearly on something else.

Meanwhile, you can’t help but laugh a little as you make your way out of the building. There’s no way you were going to let Riki’s weird silence ruin your day. Besides, you’d figured it out—he's just being a dramatic phone, and you’re not about to let that control you. At least, not for now.

As you leave, you can’t stop thinking about how ridiculously possessive he’s been lately. Maybe he does feel something. You can’t help but smile, a little too fond of your human-turned-phone.

As soon as you get home, you plug Riki in, sighing in relief as the charging icon pops up on your screen. You can hear your mom in the background, rambling about your day at school, but honestly? You don’t have the energy to care. You flop onto your bed, completely drained, and let out a deep breath as you watch Riki slowly transform back into a human.

“Thank goodness,” you mutter, finally feeling a little more at ease.

“You should've just charged me in the morning,” he grumbles, still holding the charging wire in his mouth. It's almost comical how he’s still acting like a phone despite being human now.

“Sorry,” you apologize sheepishly, a small smile creeping onto your face despite how tired you are. But then, as the moment settles, a thought hits you, and you can't help but ask, “Do you ever think you'll go back to being a normal phone? Or am I stuck with you like this forever?”

Riki hums in response, the charging wire still hanging from his mouth. “Not sure.”

“Of course you're not sure,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. But a tiny knot of worry tightens in your stomach. The idea of him eventually disappearing back into your phone, of him going back to being just an object, stings more than you'd like to admit. He might be your phone, but the human version? He's been becoming something else to you lately. And you don’t know if you're ready to lose that just yet.

Two months had passed, and it was starting to feel like Riki was slowly slipping away. At first, it was subtle—just a few hours of the day where he stayed in phone form. But today? Nothing. No human version of Riki, just your regular, lifeless phone.

You poke at your lunch with a fork, but how could you even eat when your mind keeps wandering back to your phone? It’s just sitting there on the table, performing like a regular device, no magic, no human form.

“Is something wrong?” Jungwon asks, glancing up from his own lunch. Eunmi’s sitting across from you, not even trying to be friendly, as usual.

“You should watch your phone less,” Eunmi comments, and you roll your eyes, trying to ignore her. If only she knew how much your phone meant to you right now.

You swipe left and right, desperately trying to find something—anything—that could explain why Riki’s still not turning human. You’re not sure what you’re expecting, but this feels like some sort of betrayal from a phone.

“Hmmph,” you mutter under your breath, but it doesn't help. The weight of Eunmi’s voice still lingers in your mind, but you’re too focused on the empty feeling of staring at a screen that’s supposed to be connected to something more.

“Why is he not becoming a human?” you mumble, too frustrated to care that you’re speaking aloud. The problem? Only you know about Riki’s transformation, so you can’t even vent about it to anyone.

“What?” Eunmi asks, her eyebrow arching as she shares a confused look with Jungwon.

You wave it off, brushing away the awkwardness, and go back to stabbing at your lunch. But it’s no use—the food tastes bland, almost like cardboard. Honestly, at this point, the only thing that could make it better is if Riki turned back into the human version of himself and saved you from this mess of a lunch. But nope, your phone’s just sitting there, mocking you.

You somehow manage to finish the rest of the school day, the classes dragging by like a blur, but the one thing that kept bothering you was that Riki was still not turning human.

“Ugh, this isn’t working,” you mutter to yourself as you stand in front of the repair shop owner, trying not to look too ridiculous. You can already feel the weight of the situation—the shopkeeper can’t possibly know about your phone turning into a human, can he? That would be absurd.

“What exactly is the problem?” he asks, tilting his head as he takes your phone to inspect it.

You freeze. What exactly do you say? You can’t tell him that your phone is a person who’s been hanging out as a human every now and then, right? It sounds insane.

“Uh…,” you stammer, struggling for an explanation, but it’s useless. You’re not sure what to say that wouldn’t get you committed to some strange techy cult or a mental hospital.

“It’s all good, ma’am,” he says with a sigh, handing your phone back to you, like everything is totally normal. But if everything is “all good,” why isn’t Riki turning back into a human?

You leave the store, confusion taking over. The lighthearted, slightly strange feeling you once had about Riki being a human version of a phone has now been replaced with a gnawing emptiness. You can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gone for good.

Your bag feels heavier than usual, weighed down by the thoughts swirling in your mind. You drag yourself home, the steps feeling longer than normal, as if the world is slowly sinking into a gray, monotonous fog.

“How was school?” your stepdad asks, the usual cheerful tone in his voice, but you can’t bring yourself to answer. You barely acknowledge his question, as you’re still lost in your own thoughts. You hear your mom sigh, disappointed, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You head straight to your room, exhaustion taking over. You plug Riki in to charge, desperate to see that familiar human version of him again. The seconds tick by as you watch the charging light glow. But nothing changes. The charging is full. Riki is still… just a phone.

You sigh heavily, sinking down on your bed. What if he’s really gone for good? You can't help but feel like you're losing a part of your world, and suddenly, the idea of just using a regular phone feels... boring.

Tears well up in your eyes as you stubbornly mutter, “I won’t talk to you ever if you don't turn in now!” The words feel hollow the second they leave your lips, but it’s a lie you tell yourself. You would never stop talking to Riki, not for anything. But a small part of you is desperate for him to just... come back. You need to see him as a human again, even if you know that it might not happen.

“Please!” you whisper desperately, pressing your lips against the cold screen of your phone, leaving a red imprint there. It’s a pathetic gesture, but it’s all you can think of. A little kiss for him, as if that might somehow wake him up from whatever spell he’s trapped in.

“Fine. Don’t come,” you mutter, frustration taking over as you place the phone back on the study desk. The weight of the situation settles in as you slump down onto the bed, still in your school clothes. You don’t even care to change—you're too tired, too emotionally drained from everything.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there, staring at the ceiling, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep overtakes you, and you drift off in the quiet of your room, lost in the silence.

Suddenly, you feel it—the presence of someone standing above you. A familiar weight in the air, but not the same as before. You rub your eyes, blinking away the grogginess, and then you see him.

Riki.

He’s standing there, in front of you, and your breath catches. But then, your eyes widen in shock. His body is covered in marks. Red, faint imprints that make your face burn as you realize—those are from your kisses. The ones you left on the screen, desperate for him to turn back. It’s embarrassing, but there's no time for that now. You throw yourself at him, arms wide as you practically tackle him with a hug.

His shirt wrinkles beneath your fingers as you clutch it tight, a mixture of relief and frustration in your chest. You pull away, looking up at him, almost desperate. “Why did you leave? Why didn’t you turn back?” Your voice cracks, the raw emotion flooding through you, but the words tumble out in a mess of desperation.

But then, he pushes you away. You stumble back slightly, the sudden distance between you too much to handle.

“I couldn’t turn,” he says, his voice low, almost pained. “And I think it’s better if you don’t get too attached. I’m just a device, remember?” He speaks the words softly, but there’s a coolness to them that hurts.

You blink, the words settling into your chest like a stone. “Why can’t you stay like this forever?” The question slips out before you can stop it, eyes burning with the need to understand. You feel his thumb brush away a tear that’s escaped down your cheek, but it only makes you feel more fragile. “I don’t understand… How can a phone... with no feelings... like me... feel something?”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze softening for just a moment. And then, for the first time since this entire weird and wonderful thing began, he steps closer. Your heart races as he closes the distance, and before you can even think, your hands are on his shirt, clutching it like it’s the only thing that’s keeping you grounded.

You pull him into a messy kiss, lips moving against his in a rush of desperation, a wild need to feel him close. You kiss him over and over again, each one more frantic than the last, but just as quickly as he was there...

Your lips meet nothing.

You pull back in confusion, eyes wide as you try to make sense of it. Where did he go? You open your eyes fully, but there's nothing in front of you. Just empty space.

Your phone falls to the ground, the sharp sound of it hitting the floor snapping you back to reality. You kneel down quickly, heart pounding, and check it, relieved to see that it's still in one piece. No cracks, no breaks. Just a phone.

And then, it hits you.

You can’t keep holding on to something—or someone—that isn’t real. You swallow hard, tears welling up in your eyes again as you stare at the device in your hands, the phone that was once a person to you. The bittersweet smile on your lips isn’t one of happiness, but of acceptance and yet... sadness.

“Fine,” you whisper to no one in particular. “I’ll check off the three tasks on my to-do list. You’ll be proud of me.”

But as you stare at the phone, your thumb grazing over its screen, you know deep down that it’s not the tasks that need to be checked off.

It’s your heart.

YOU CAN JOIN MY PERMANENT TAGLIST BY SENDING AN ASK OR COMMENTING HERE ┊ THANK YOU FOR READING! I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS ♡

© SENASCOOP | DO NOT CLAIM AS YOURS

[antimony-medusa]

But what do you MEAN this fic where blorbo gets mind controlled might be kinky?

So I am kind of famous for saying that this fandom has a lot of untagged kinks and I get people in my notes pretty regularly going YES I"M BEGGING YOU TAG IT or YOU"RE DERANGED THIS IS PLATONIC, etc. Lots of strong emotions. But I also get people who are going uh, I knew something was going on, but I couldn't really identify it— what do you mean exactly? What kinks are you seeing?

So, this post is breaking down things I've seen and how in some cases, they start to cross the line into kink territory. These are all things that were being done platonically— no dicks were out, everybody's clothes were on (in most cases, not always with the dehumanization tropes)— but the focus of the narrative started to place special weight on specific features, experiences, or concepts— there were extended paragraphs that served no narrative purpose except to dwell on something— in a way that I started to go "the point of this fic is the squiggly feeling the author or reader gets on reading about this specific setup— this is getting kinky". And that is fine, I am not placing any moral weight on engaging in kinks— people just get wired sometimes to really like the concept of bondage— but a) sometimes it would be nice to get a heads up as a reader, b) if you like these things— there are tags out there that are FULL of this concept, you might like to do it or search it out on purpose.

So I asked some friends what things have they found in platonic fics that they went "ah. yeah. something is happening here", and this post is the result. A lot of these things don't exist in the real world or people don't necessarily want them to happen in the real world/to them, so it's understandable that a person can miss how they'd started to morph and become something new. But when we talk about kink in fiction we're often talking about things that either can't or we don't want to happen in real life, it's just that reading about them/writing them scratches our brain.

And also, to be clear, in no way do I mean that if you've written these concepts then you definitely have been writing kink. There are vanilla ways to do all of these concepts, and sometimes the idea of dehumanization is interesting to you from a narrative standpoint, for example. You can also engage with them in a non-sexual way— many ace people are very kinky— so I'm not saying that you've secretly been writing porn OR writing something you have a real desire to happen to you. Just to make that clear. However, if you keep coming back to a specific setup for writing or reading, it might be worth investigating if certain things scratch your brain in a specific way.

So.

Blorbo gets mind controlled and there's a detailed breakdown of their descent into this altered state and then they're just so biddable and out of it and vulnerable and the narrative places weight either on someone taking advantage of them in this state, taking care of them, or their own subjective experience having lost control: this is hypnokink. Hypnokink or mind control— lots of ways to do it, but there is a thriving hypnosis or hypnokink scene that you might want to look into. Sometimes this is played for horror, but even the horror stuff can be kinky if played in a certain way. This falls under a larger umbrella of "altered states" that is very popular.

Blorbo gets drugged/intoxicated, often against their will, and heavy narrative weight is placed on their experience while drunk/drugged and unable to control themselves or conceptualize what is happening: this is intox kink. Another altered state— and again this is sometimes used for horror, but even the horror can give you the special tinglies if the dread is mixed with something.

Blorbo is turned into a vampire or taken by a vampire, gets drunk from or drinks blood, and there's specific narrative focus on how good the blood tastes, blood from a wound trickling down over someone's body and maybe being licked up, a hunger being sated— so vampires are a longstanding trope that can be done in a strictly horror way, but a LOT of vampire tropes are deeply kinky along the ideas of possession, loss of bodily autonomy, fear/desire, and consumption. This, for example, I have definitely read dipping into bloodplay or consumption kink. Sometimes blood drinking scenes are directly metaphorical for sex, including narrative tension building to a release where someone feels so good, but also there are other elements, such as a focus on blood that gets kinky.

Blorbo has wings that get preened, and it feels so good they can't hold back instinctive movements and sounds (maybe bird sounds) and they're so grateful and bond so much with the person doing it with them— This is wing kink. This is actually the first trope in this fandom that I identified that some things were happening with, because I was reading these fics that had been recommended to me as family fluff going— am I crazy or is something else happening here? Wingfic has been broadly used as a platonic/familial trope in this fandom, however, the structure of the scenes in which it is written about sometimes has heavy crossover with wingfic in other fandoms, where they are using it as a smut trope— the fic just didn't have anyone literally orgasm at the end. But if there's involuntary sounds or movement from the person with the wings, a focus on how pleasurable it feels, a feeling of release or rightness that someone gives the person with wings, and then they cuddle afterwards— yeah.

Blorbo is terrified and chased by a monster of some kind, with a heavy focus on how frightened they are, how inexorable the monster is, and something bad going to happen, and/or the monster chasing them enjoying their terror— this can just be horror. OR it can be fear play or predator/prey. Sometimes it's both.

Blorbo is confronted by monsters (perhaps giants or aliens) who are much bigger than them and the threat of being eaten by them is narratively focused on, either bitten or swallowed whole. Sometimes in the narrative the eating happens, either safely or to their death— this is vore. Being eaten alive is also a horror trope so it isn't always vore, but it is sometimes most certainly vore.

Aliens or monsters/hybrids much bigger than blorbo have them as family/friends/romantic partners/captives: this is giant/tiny. Sometimes just a science fiction au but if there's a lot of weight being placed on how big they are and how small blorbo is, this could be g/t. Borrower aus can frequently start to fall into this category. If they're not THAT big but there's focus on things like "oh they can span my waist with one hand", this can be size kink, instead. (Note that to my knowledge the platonic version is giant/tiny and sexual is micro/macro— there's a thriving platonic scene I sometimes see when I'm cruising tags, so if you like this you might want to check that out.)

Blorbo is non-consensually touched, cuddled, or modified, and narrative focus is placed on this as a violation/outrage/loss of bodily autonomy: again, this is something that can just be a horror trope, but there is often a larger or smaller strain of consent issues in it. If blorbo doesn't want it at first but eventually feels at home in the nest and feels good, that's dubcon (dubious consent), and if they are fighting it and raging against it and will never be part of your family, that starts to overlap with noncon (non-consent). Blorbo's bodily autonomy is being non-consentually violated, which would put it under the consent issues umbrella. I think many people writing these tropes are simply focusing on captivity and bad things happening to blorbo— when one is a prisoner they automatically lose bodily autonomy, and I don't think that every fic set in a dungeon requires a consent issues tag— and additionally many people are writing from family settings that include bodily autonomy being violated (being forced to hug your aunt you don't want to hug, for example, is an example that many of us have experienced). Not every example of non-consensual touching is always consent issues. However, when the narrative focus is on the outrage and betrayal of it all, the loss of control, and/or the helplessness, this can start to serve a different narrative function in a story than simply illustrating that a family is touchy. I have read scenes that structurally function as a thinly-veiled metaphor for sexual assault, including things like blorbo being held down while they fight against what is being done to their body. Some of these could have used additional tagging. Note: because this is such a hot button topic I should mention that if you like writing or reading this I do not think that means you are a fan of violence happening in the real world— a) reading a bad thing happening on the page makes it containable and controllable in a way that the real world does not, people also like to read about murder and dismemberment— b) simply the presence of a happy ending tag on a fic contextualizes that the bad thing is something to be passed through in a way that again, the real world does not offer. This is a similar thing to torture, suicide, or slavery, where sometimes you want to see blorbo have a bad fictional time specifically in things that would be terrible in real life, and in your real life you do not condone police brutality or want these things to happen. Again, sometimes people like to read about people being eaten alive, and it does not mean they condone wolves on the streets.

Blorbo is captured by alien/fae and kept as a pet, sometimes kept in a cage or collared, unable to communicate with the people holding them: this is often tagged as dehumanization and it is that, but it also starts to contain elements of pet play. If there is an emphasis on having to eat pet food, be "trained" by their owner, leashing/collaring/crating— this may be pet play.

Adult or near-adult blorbo is adopted and take care of by a new dad who knows everything to keep them safe and loves them and can take care of them and they can just let go and be their new sonboy because Dad's got them: Right. So this is sometimes just someone writing a "wouldn't it be nice to be taken care of" fantasy. Sometimes this is Daddy kink. This is almost never tagged and in some cases that I have read it certainly deserves an additional tag. An adult Daddy or Mommy figure taking care of their adult Little who can just be taken care of and not worry is a d/s trope. In some cases, where you have an established adult with a job who gets taken by magical means who then finds their true home as a powerful being's new child where they don't have to worry about their former life and they mentally find comfort in their new role as sonboy, this may also be Caregiver/Little. Direct age regression (often written by people who experience it) is usually tagged appropriately, but narrative elements that nod to that while not actually being age regression, such as an adult being now treated as a child and the narrative presenting that as good, are remarkably common and often entirely untagged in certain tags/circles. If someone could look at your fic and expect adult peers and then this happens, you should consider tagging or phrasing your summary differently.

Blorbo has hybrid instincts that overcome their cognitive functioning and make them revert to an instinctive form such that they can only be calmed/soothed by another hybrid of a different type: now this at this point is basically its own trope and I am fascinated to see if this trope expands out of MCYT as people move to new fandoms. However, it shares a startling amount of overlap with omegaverse. One of the primary draws of omegaverse for many people is the biologically determined altered states and the fated-mates aspect, and hybrids reverting to instincts and needing particular care from a perfect family is often beat for beat things I've read in omegaverse, just platonic. When you have a biologically determined "protector" figure and a biologically determined "runt" whose job is to be taken care of and to submit to the protector, and this is required to calm the protector, it also has strong overlap with BDSM aus.

Blorbo is captured or contained and tied up, and narrative emphasis is placed on their experience of being bound and struggling against restraints or just how impossible to escape from the restraints are: this is bondage. I have had friends who are into this mention that they used to tie up their barbies as children, so again, as with all of these, this can be perfectly platonic— but something about that concept just seems particularly satisfying to the writer, perhaps it is more than just set dressing.

Blorbo is captured and there is strong emphasis on them being hurt or the waves of pain rolling over them as they are tortured: this is just an honourable whump trope, but a lot of whump tropes if handled in a specific way have strong crossover with BDSM. Lack of ability to move or restriction of senses, loss of control— or, as with this, an emphasis on pain or inflicting pain, which can cover sadism or masochism depending on our POV.

Blorbo is overwhelmed and only finds comfort in submitting to the authority of someone who they completely trust, whether because of past trauma or because of hybrid instincts: this is d/s, or domination/submission. If there's specific emphasis on allowing someone to take control finally makes blorbo's head go quiet, that's subspace.

Blorbo is marked or indicated as belonging to someone, either through something like an earring or a brand/tattoo or a magical mark, so that anyone who looks at them will know that they belong to someone: again, this can just be horror, but especially if it's framed as a good/satisfying thing, it also can contain strong crossover with BDSM, especially master/slave elements.

Blorbo is transformed and corrupted, often being bodily changed into a new form by aliens or fae or mobs: this is obviously body horror, but this can also be transformation kink. This is a narrative trope in SF and horror so someone can approach this completely innocently, but when handled in less of a horror way, it can take on other undertones. If there is a strong emphasis on the innocence and unprepared nature of blorbo before being changed into what someone wants them to be, this can be corruption kink as well.

Blorbo dresses up for a fancy event and there's emphasis on how specifically they look, or maybe blorbo is looking at someone else and thinking about how THEY look in their formalwear: sometimes this is just description and/or the author likes textiles. I have also read things where I think the author would get a lot of joy out of pursuing the formalwear kink tag.

Blorbo finally gets told that they did a good job and everyone is complimentary or a specific trusted figure is complimentary, they're appreciated and loved and good: sometimes this is just someone writing a fantasy of blorbo being appreciated. Sometimes this is praise kink. If blorbo is being held by their parent or mentor or trusted elder sibling who is telling them that they're good, everyone is wrong about them, they know that they're good, this could be praise kink.

Touch-starved blorbo finally is given good touch and they are overwhelmed and don't know how to handle it and it feels so good: I did even know this was a thing until I asked for examples, but a friend let me know that this falls under the "touch sensitive" or "sensation play" umbrella. If you have spent time in a touch-starved tag, you have almost definitely seen this.

Blorbo is overwhelmed and bursts into tears and either cries a lot or heavy narrative weight is placed on them crying at important moments when it all becomes too much: this is not always, but can certainly be, dacryphilia.

Blorbo fucks up and is made fun of by all their peers, placed on centre stage and just mercilessly mocked: sometimes you are just whumping the character, and sometimes this can be humiliation kink.

Blorbo is tickled. That's the whole scene/fic. Okay so you actually may know this if you cruise character tags, but tickling is a kink and there are several blogs devoted to it on this website. If the whole point of this scene is the tickling, the character losing control and being overwhelmed, the person doing it to them having them at their control— this may be the kink.

Blorbo just keeps sneezing at inopportune times, they keep losing control and can't keep themselves from being overwhelmed by this: this can be sneeze kink.

Blorbo has finally made it to safety, maybe after a time of privation and starvation, and then there's whole scenes with an emphasis on how much they eat, how full and round they're getting, maybe them eating to the point of getting sick, maybe burping, maybe them having difficulty moving because of how much they've eaten. Food as part of recovery or safety can just be a healing trope, and food as a metaphor for love and community is a favoured tag of many of us in the fandom, but if the emphasis is especially on the eating and the getting full, how full the person feels, how much they can eat— this could be feederism.

Blorbo is injured or killed and there's a huge emphasis on the wounds, dismemberment, focus on gore and how bad it is and how much they're coming to pieces: this can be guro. If the person dies at the end of it and there's emphasis on that, this can also be snuff. Or maybe it's just gore/MCD, but some fics and some scenes dwell on it in such a way that you start to ask if this is intended to be horror or if something else is happening.

Blorbo is dressed up beautifully and looks so good in their new outfit, maybe to the point that the person who dressed them doesn't want them to move, just sit and be admired: this can be dollification, or kinking specifically on being dressed.

Blorbo is going through a medical examination and specific focus is placed on the impersonal aspect, being manhandled or examined by tools or gloved hands, they are the somewhat-dehumanized medical subject of professionals: this is sometimes horror or dehumanization, but it can also be medical kink.

__

So. As you can see. There are a lot of possible kinks that can be handled in a platonic way, but this doesn't mean they aren't kinky. This isn't even everything possible, this is just what came up when I asked the group chat what they personally have seen where they feel that a platonic fic could have used additional tagging.

I am not saying that any of this is wrong to be interested in these kinks, either. People get wired a lot of different ways and sometimes you just feel a certain way about formalwear. Or bondage. Or vore. Or tickling. My point is just that if any of this resonates with you, you might want to consider adding extra tags to your work (you don't even have to tag "humiliation kink," "humiliation" works just fine), and you also might want to consider checking out some tags, because there is probably a vibrant community of people who also like that and who would both love your work and would love to share their work with you.

That's it. Go with god. Now if people are going to be in my notes going HOW CAN SOMETHING PLATONIC BE KINKY I have something to link them.

[funkopersonal]

Im quite literally so done with this shit. i keep on going back and forth between hiding all the i/p related tags, but then I realize that its seeped EVERYWHERE. It's in the motherhood tag, and jewish history tag, and everything else. I can't fucking escape it. I opened tiktok yesterday to see one of my favorite characters (iron man) weaponized to support the one group that wants to see me dead, the user saying that iron man would support palestine, and be an antizionist because he "spoke out against the public" and he wasn't like the sheep. It frustrates me to no end this horrible cycle of fucking misinformation that exists.

As a Gen Z, I simply do not understand how its reached this point? I can't even write all my feelings and information about how shitty this is in a single sitting because 1) it'd be too long and 2) my joints wont let me write that long. But how did it reach this point?

How did it reach the point where jewish/isreali stores are fucking marked to notify the public. Their windows are being broken and the stores are being robbed. How did it reach the point where jewish students on some campuses are told to stay home? how they're harassed out of specific areas, and campuses have been made unsafe? How did it reach the point that people literally have written "I ♡ Houthis & Hamas" and "no mercy for Jews."? How did it reach the point that there are nazi symbols, and hanging deadmans, and communist symbols being drawn on college campuses? How is it possible that students are calling for the end of jewish student unions and hillel international on campus? that'd be like calling for the end of the fucking muslim student organization, or disbanding an african-american affinity group. Which would never be acceptable, but apparently its fine when its jews.

I'm sick and tired of all the horrible conditions of palestenian cities being blamed on israel. Palestine is its own country. They had their own government until they elected Hamas to lead them. Hamas, who diverted all their funds to the military. Hamas, who uses hospitals and public spaces as their bases. Hamas, who built miitary tunnels under cities so that when they're invaded, the cities will collapse on itself. Hamas, who steals all humanitarian aid from its citizens. Hamas, who controls palestenian media and teaches hatred to its children. Hamas, who wants their citizens to become martyrs for their country, to die for their goal. Hamas, whose number one goal is to eradicate all jews. Hamas, who denies the existence of the holocaust. Hamas, who enlists children as soldiers and suicide bombers. Hamas, who has has never expressed an interest in a 2 state solution.

Is this the organization you consider freedom fighters? because i dont think they should ever, in any context, be called that. Hamas is nothing but terrorists.

Yes, the deaths and treatment of palestenian citizens is horrible. but no, this is not a genocide. Israel is trying to rid them of Hamas, because quite literally, no country should ever be forced to live in "harmony" with a terrorist group. Especially one who denies their existence and actively wants to kill them all. Israel has been letting palestenians get jobs in the country, has let palestine use their resources and water, all for years. They've let hamas continously bomb them, they've gotten used to a life of bomb shelters in every residence. Hamas has done nothing but crippled their country's own economy and society.

None of the surrounding coutnries want to let in palestenians, or live with palestenians. Egypt wants to annex Gaza, and Jordan wants the West Bank. In fact, they did own that land for a part of history! Yet Israel has let palestenians govern themselves for years, even when Hamas originally came into power, they didn't interfere. Not until they were provoked.

Yes, Israel has flaws. But welcome to the fucking real world, princess. Every country has flaws. Even America, you dipshits. This is not a little fandom for you to play sides on. its not some fictional world that has a black and white solution. Yes theres going to be deaths, just like in any other WAR. But you really can't call for the destruction of a country on the basis that they're trying to make sure they're allowed to stay a country? Because guess what honey bunchkins? "from the river to the sea" really doesn't mean what you think it does. It just means that you want to kill all jews, or at best, forcefully remove them and scatter them around the middle east. (to countries that have killed them in swaths in the past. To countries that have emprisoned jews for helping others escape. To countries that avidly hate jews and want them dead). I don't understand how that would mean peace in any way shape or form?

Not only that, but half of "protestors" and "activists" for palestine, haven't even done basic research. They dont know what river or sea theyre talking about. They dont know that "palestine" was not a palestenian state in 1948, but it was instead a BRITISH MANDATE, that was NOT fully occupied by palestenians. In fact, "palestenians" weren't a thing. Palestenians are just muslims and arabs from countries like syria, who lived alongside jews and christians in the same land (which was largely uninhabited for the most part). Yeah, you heard me right.

Honestly my thoughts on this issue are so scattered its so hard to make a solid points when I can just keep on going forever.

Fact is, Israel deserves to be a country. No one should be supporting Hamas. Everyone should be supporting the eradication of Hamas (and I mean Hamas not palestenian citizens). I don't get how these are debated, and seriously don't understand how citizens of america are so quick to support a terrorist group, to resort to antisemitism.

Im so done with this all. I cant believe we have to tell you gentiles that stoning a 13-year old kid for being jewish is horrible. That throwing a brick through an israeli-owned cafe in New York is horrible. That students not being able to be on campuses because of their religion or ethnicity is horrible.

This has to end.

Do your research, or don't speak (and terrorist-controlled propoganda channels don't count).

[olliesallamericanbitch]

Chapter One - Lando

Synopsis: As Cadillac gears up for their first-ever F1 season, Nicola and Y/n Vanderbilt take their time to familiarize themselves with the sport. Y/n finds herself befriending a certain curly haired muppet.

ynvbilt PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT!! MY MOMMY'S BETTER THAN YOURS!!! @pjrockefeller @jdgordy

↪️ pjrockefeller my mom's dead y/n, you went to her funeral!?!?!?

↪️ jdgordy I hate my stepmom

↪️ ynvbilt omg I forgot!!! @pjrockefeller rip Mrs. Rockefeller you are missed. @jdgordy can you say that on social media?

↪️ jdgordy if nobody knew now then there's something wrong with them

user420 not y/n making sure everyone knows her mom is THAT bitch

↪️ user711 we love a mama's girl

user7 haasbands are back bithces!!!

↪️ user3 *bitches and they're not haas drivers anymore

↪️ user7 leave me alone I'm dyslexic what should they be called then?

↪️ user0 cadillac... consorts?

↪️ user7 *le gasp* so alliterated, so original, so medieval, so.... perfect! CADILLAC CONSORTS!!!!

kmagnussen so thankful to @nicolavbilt for taking a chance on us

↪️ nicolavbilt @ynvbilt would've hated me if I didn't

↪️ ynvbilt THAT'S RIGHT! I'm the reason you're still on the grid buddy boy

landonorris buddy boy?

↪️ ynvbilt don't question my nicknames, nowins

↪️ landonorris I have 3 wins

↪️ ynvbilt lando threewins doesn't hit the same

↪️ landonorris what ever you say

ynvbilt because everyone and their moms kept dming me you're welcome

↪️ landonorris aww, don't be like that

↪️ ynvbilt 😝

user8 ^yall seeing this

↪️ user5 new wag?

↪️ user3 idk y/n's pretty iffy about dating

↪️ user5 @user3 for a good reason

landonorris you know you love me

↪️ ynvbilt if that helps you sleep at night

jdgordy it took us weeks, months even. white man did it in one day @pjrockefeller

↪️ pjrockefeller

user6 WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THEIR COMMENTS??

↪️ user2 Ikr I need the rumor to be confirmed expeditiously

↪️ user69 y/n doesn't date tho

↪️ user420 minds can change

↪️ pjrockefeller nah y/n's stubborn like that

Y/n's a rather private person, only sharing little candids of her life online. She's never been one for the spotlight, but with the circling rumors about her and Lando, y/n knew she should take a step back. There's just one problem... she can't. The thrill of it all enthralled her, or maybe that was the Vanderbilt part of her. The part that loved attention, even sought it out. This game with the press was too fun, she couldn't stop now. Not when there's others to play with.

cara's paddock: I know it's not much, but I'm still trying to get a feel for how I want this story to go. For right now, all chapters will be social media with little to no writing. The only chapter that is a fully written chapter is the Interlude. I hope you liked this and I can't wait to show you more.

taglist: @ferakillia @raynetargaryan2 if you want to be added to the taglist, leave a comment.

[infamous-if]

Ngl, Seven's special was very disappointing :( I just want MC to be loved and cherished without their ROs making them so insecure. Even G and Vic made MC feel important and loved, like they belonged together. And in Seven's it felt like MC didn't fit into their live anymore.

I guess my answer is spoilery so ///

I respect your perspective but I don't think I agree tbh I think Seven making the effort not to be the same overwhelming, intense person they were for their relationship's sake is trying to fit them in their life. Seven could easily revert back to their old ways and become even worse since they lost MC once, I can't imagine Seven being a healthy person to be with due to their intensity. Present Seven trying to be like their old self would probably be far too codependent and extreme out of their fear of losing MC.

The other ROs are making sure MC feels loved and important but they're not fundamentally changing themselves for MC. Seven is going against their nature and their personality to make sure they're a healthier version of themself for MC. And I'm not trying to be like kissing Seven's ass but it's hard to compare ROs who have never had a past relationship with MC to an RO who had one, fell out, and hated them for three years. It's just not as easy and it doesn't feel realistic to me to make it easy. I could've written a short full of fluff and I tried but it felt disingenuous and wasn't what I wanted to do lolol

It's also a non-canon short story that is written with an insecure MC. The point you're supposed to focus on is the message of the story as a hint for the route but everything else is written because it made it easier to convey that message. So MC being insecure isn't a canon thing, it's a Amy-felt-like-writing-mc-that-way thing lol

If you're worried, just reread the last line! You'll get what you're hoping for I promise lolol

[roosterforme]

Always Ever Only You Part 30 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley's excitement over the first set of ultrasound photos is unparalleled. He has never been so happy and so overwhelmed in his life, but at times he feels ill equipped to process everything that's happening. And the last thing he wants is to make you feel like he's growing tired of you.

Warnings: Swearing, smut, pregnancy topics, doctors, angst, fluff

Length: 6600 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Always Ever Only You masterlist. Gorgeous banner by @mak-32

Bradley wanted to be able to explain it to you, but he wasn't really sure he could. Sitting in the waiting room with you and anticipating an ultrasound to see the baby was honestly more than he ever thought he could have. You were more than he ever thought he deserved, and you wanted him anyway. But a baby? 

He barely had a baseline to build off of. His dad died when he was young enough that he only had a handful of fleeting memories. The sound of a laugh. Two big hands lifting him up when he fell. A lullaby sung softly as he drifted off to sleep. Besides the photos that you and he collected from his storage unit and the stories his mom recounted when he was younger, that's all he had.

But he could practically hear his mom telling him how excited Nick Bradshaw was to be a dad. Bradley could remember the joy in her voice whenever she told him about the way she would catch father and son goofing off together. She was adamant that Bradley cried almost nonstop the first day his dad was gone for a deployment. And now Bradley desperately wished he could remember these little details that made up their relationship. Because soon, god willing, he was going to be on the other side of things: the parent who loves goofing off and singing, but who also gets deployed and causes tears to fall.

It was all too overwhelming for him to put into words, but as he laced his fingers with yours, he knew he didn't have to figure out how to do everything all at once. 

"Are you nervous?" you asked.

Bradley looked at your open expression and immediately felt better. Talking through things and sharing his thoughts was the best way to keep from driving himself crazy while also letting you know how important you were. "Excited," he replied, kissing your cheek and ear. "Just really fucking excited. I've been thinking... about starting a notebook. Kind of for the baby? Like how sometimes I like to write down what I'm thinking and feeling for myself."

He still felt silly at times for sharing the notebooks with you, but you nodded with a little smile on your lips. "I love your deployment notebooks. I love what you wrote about me."

He reached for you and kissed you without hesitation. "I think I want the baby to be able to read about how much I was looking forward to meeting them. When they're older, I mean. They can read about how I feel like my heart is going to pound out of my chest right now. And how I can't wait to hold them and give them a name. All about how much I love their mom."

Bradley let you bury your face against his neck. It didn't feel like you were hiding from him so much as giving him a taste of the kind of response he'd get if the two of you were alone. "I like that idea." You kissed the side of his neck and said, "I adore you, Roo. You'll be the best daddy."

Bradley almost laughed when you jolted in your seat after the nurse called your name. "Come on back, you two," she said with a smile. "Hopefully mom and dad can leave with some new family photos."

"Holy shit," Bradley replied, palms suddenly sweaty. Baby photos. He was on his feet in an instant, ready to go. And maybe this was what his dad felt like. Perhaps his parents didn't know what they were doing either, but rather they just counted themselves lucky to go along for the ride. He wished one of them had left him a notebook.

You were smiling up at him as he reached for your hand again, and your fingers felt sure and steady all wrapped up with his. "I'm excited, too," you whispered, answering your own question from earlier while he ran his thumb along your rings. "And maybe a little nervous."

"I'm right here," he promised as the two of you followed the nurse into a room filled with equipment. "I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed you and then begrudgingly let go of your hand when the nurse gave you a hospital gown to change into. As she left the room with the promise that your doctor would be in shortly, Bradley dragged his palms across his khaki covered thighs as he sat down and watched you change. Even though you were suffering from near constant nausea, he thought you looked incredible. Your face was glowing, and you kept looking at him with adoration in your eyes. 

"Jesus," he grunted when you removed your bra. Was it possible that today he was the hornier one for once? "Sweetheart. Your tits," he whispered as he ran a hand over his face while you giggled. "Unreal." Then your underwear went sliding down your legs, and he reached down to help you out of them. "Hand me the gown," he told you as he folded your underwear across his knee.

You slipped into the gown when he held it open for you, and then you stood between his legs while he secured the ties and kissed you through the fabric. Your laughter filled the small room, and when the doctor walked in, she found you sitting on Bradley's lap while he ran his knuckles gently across your belly. 

"I'm Dr. Morris," she said, shaking hands with you as you stood and then reaching for Bradley's. "I love it when partners show up for appointments, too. It's a lot more fun."

He watched Dr. Morris help you up onto the table, immediately missing your warm body next to his. "I plan on being here for every appointment unless I'm deployed." Your smile faltered a little bit at his words, so he added, "And even then, I'd steal a jet and fly in for a few hours. This is that important to me."

Your smile was restored and then some. Bradley scooted the chair a little closer when you reached for his hand as Dr. Morris started to ask you some questions and enter them into the software. "Do you recall when you last menstruated? I'd like to calculate a due date assuming we find a healthy fetus."

Once you told her the date of your last period, Bradley blurted out, "Why wouldn't it be healthy?"

Now he had two pairs of eyes on him as you squeezed his sweaty hand. "It's very early," Dr. Morris said. "Complications are more likely to occur in the first trimester than in the second or third. And your wife is just between seven and eight weeks along based on her cycle."

"Oh," Bradley said, swallowing hard. You'd tried to tell him all of this information before, letting him know it was too early to inform your parents or Nat or any of your other friends. But it felt somehow wrong coming from someone else. He didn't like this information when it was laid out before him in the exam room. 

"It's okay, Roo," you told him, a sweet smile still on your face. So he nodded and watched your lips and the curve of your cheek as you answered a few more questions and asked about prenatal vitamins.

Then eventually Dr. Morris said the only words Bradley really wanted to hear right now. "Let's see what we can find with the ultrasound."

He was sitting on the edge of his seat, elbow leaning on the exam table as he gripped your hand for dear life. As excited as he'd been, now he was on the verge of being sick. What if he'd been too rough with you in bed? What if the football at the beach really did hit you in the wrong spot? What if all of the vomiting had been worse than either of you considered?

One thing was for certain. Bradley was going to love you no matter what, until his dying day. So he held onto your hand and kissed your knuckles as Dr. Morris squeezed lube onto a wand that looked a bit like one of the vibrators you had at home. "Is that for the ultrasound?" he asked, watching you spread your legs wider. 

"Yes," the doctor replied, and a huge computer monitor lit up. "We need to get really up close at this stage to be able to see anything, so we're doing a transvaginal ultrasound today. The ones you're thinking of that use a paddle on the belly will come later."

"Right," he replied, and as soon as she slipped the wand inside you, he watched you purse your lips in slight discomfort. "You okay, Sweetheart?" he whispered, eyes glued to your face for any sign of pain. But your pinched expression melted away, and your lips parted softly as you sighed and stared at the computer monitor. 

"Oh. Oh, Bradley! Look!"

When he turned toward the screen, he slowly stood as you pulled his hand closer to your body and held it with both of yours. Everything looked a little fuzzy at first, just some gray and black shapes. But then a cute little bean started to take shape as Dr. Morris adjusted the wand, and Bradley rasped, "Is that the baby?"

"Yes," she replied evenly, also watching the monitor. "And everything looks great."

Warmth spread through his entire body as Bradley huffed out a laugh while you giggled. He wasn't sure if his hand was shaking or if it was yours, but he leaned down and kissed your wrists before finding your lips with his. "That's our baby," he whispered, kissing you once more.

"It's adorable," you said, smiling nonstop. "Like a little bean, or a chicken nugget."

Bradley leaned on the table, keeping as close to you as he could. "I'm already so in love." He could feel tears in his eyes as Dr. Morris froze the screen. "Is it over?" he asked in a slight panic. In all honesty, he could happily spend the rest of the day right here with you and the baby, and he wasn't prepared to say goodbye yet.

"Just capturing some images," she reassured him. "Baby's first picture."

"Oh my god," Bradley groaned softly, and you ran your fingers through his hair as he ducked his head against your shoulder. "That's the first picture, Baby Girl."

"The baby looks just like you, Roo," you told him with a laugh, and he kissed you until the doctor cleared her throat.

"Let's see what we can find if we zoom in a little more."

With rapt attention once again, Bradley stared at the screen. It looked like the baby was bouncing around a bit, wiggling to an unknown song. "Is that movement good?" he asked. "And what's that little flickering spot?"

"Very good," she replied. "And the flickering is the heartbeat."

"The heartbeat?" That was inexplicably what threw him over the edge as a tear managed to squeeze its way down his cheek when he blinked. "Holy shit."

He just let his head rest against your chest and basked in the feel of your fingers in his hair as you whispered, "I love you." Bradley had no idea if you were talking to him or the baby. Or maybe both. Or maybe you loved Dr. Morris, because in this moment he certainly did as she snapped more photos. Maybe you loved everything right now just like he did.

"I love you, too."

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

Bradley was falling apart as you ran your fingertips along his scarred cheek. Or perhaps he was completely keeping it together. You weren't really sure. He had some tears in his eyes even though he was smiling, and the two of you were holding onto each other. 

"Do you want to listen to the heartbeat as well?" Dr. Morris asked, and the two of you responded at the same time. 

"Yes!"

She laughed and adjusted the ultrasound wand inside you which was actually extremely uncomfortable, but you were starting to think Bradley would cry harder when she removed it. And then you heard it. Dr. Morris adjusted something on the control panel, and set a device on your belly, and you could hear the heartbeat. 

"Why is it so fast?" Bradley asked, squeezing your hand. "That's like really fast."

Now your heartbeat was picking up, but Dr. Morris said, "One hundred and fifty two beats per minute. That's perfectly where it should be."

"Oh, okay," Bradley sighed, eyes transfixed on the monitor. "That's good then. That's a strong Bradshaw heartbeat right there. Can you take another picture? The nugget looks really cute like that."

You laughed and reached for him when she eventually shut off the equipment and removed the wand. At Bradley's request, she printed out enough copies of each image that you'd be able to give them to your parents, all of your friends and even Bradley's cousin Brenda in Virginia. 

"This seems like overkill," you whispered as the printer just kept going and going.

"It's not," he promised. "I need all of them to wallpaper my locker and fill my helmet bag. Just a bunch of pictures of you and now the baby, too."

"We'll get more ultrasound photos at the next appointment. And the next one after that," you reminded him. 

"Good. We'll have enough to wallpaper at home, too." Eased himself back down into the chair as you sat up a little bit while Dr. Morris cleaned up her workstation. 

"When is the due date?" you asked suddenly. 

"March 24th," she replied, and you and Bradley shared a smile. "Do either of you have any other questions for me?" she asked as she handed a massive stack of ultrasound photos to your husband who looked like he just won the lottery. 

"When can we find out if it's a girl or a boy?" he asked, looking through the images with a crooked little grin on his face. 

"In the second trimester," she assured him. "You'll make a special appointment for an anatomy scan."

You cleared your throat and said, "So... I've been really quite... I'm sure it's the hormones and everything, but I've been extremely aroused for the past few weeks." Bradley gave you a wide eyed look as you asked, "Basically, I want my husband around the clock right now, and I want to know if that's normal?"

He let out a strangled choking sound, and his cheeks started to flush pink as Dr. Morris said, "That's totally normal. Have at it."

You pressed your lips together before you quickly asked, "And rough is okay? Like pretty rough."

"Yep," she replied, completely unfazed by your words as Bradley looked like he wanted to run out of the room with his stack of baby pictures. "Anything else?"

A smile crept to your lips, one that Bradley would have probably found alarming if he were looking anywhere else except the door at the moment. "Actually, yes. I do have one more question for you, Dr. Morris. Based on the size of the baby and the date of my last period, can you tell me when you think the baby was conceived?"

"Sure," she replied, turning the monitor back on and scrolling through all of the information in your electronic file. 

"You did not just ask her that," Bradley whispered, his voice deep with annoyance and maybe a little bit of desire as you grinned at him and bit your lip. 

"I would say you probably conceived right around June 27th."

You squealed with delight as Bradley groaned. "Thank you so much, Dr. Morris. We'll see you again in a few weeks."

When she left the room, you hopped off the table and started to untie your gown, pausing to pump your fist in the air while Bradley held his forehead in his hand. "Okay, okay. You win," he whined as he laughed. "You win."

"I told you the baby was conceived in the Honda!"

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

Later that night, Bradley kept reminding himself that Dr. Morris said rough sex was okay. That seemed to be the only way you wanted it as you got on all fours on the bed and said, "Fuck me hard, Daddy." And Bradley was never going to be one to deny his wife anything she asked for. 

Beads of sweat were rolling down his face, occasionally dripping onto your back as he leaned over you. He was panting next to your ear as he went as hard as he could, fucking you until your knees buckled and he had to hold you up. "You know, I used to have a wife who liked it sweet sometimes. I wonder what happened to her?"

"You knocked her up," you gasped as he rubbed your clit with his fingers. 

Fuck, he was getting close, and your words were not helping in the least. "Come on, Baby Girl. Come for Daddy." 

A few more swipes of his fingers and a little more dirty talk, and you were coming. Holy hell, you were coming hard, which was a good thing, because Bradley needed a break. You released an unholy moan as your legs gave out again, and this time, he let you sink down to the bed as he grabbed his cock in time to come all over your ass and your back. 

"Roo," you gasped as he painted you up, and you met his eyes over your shoulder. "That's so fucking hot!"

"I'm glad you think so," he grunted before he sprawled out on the bed next to you on his back. "I got nothing left in the tank, Sweetheart. Do not ask me for more tonight."

You crawled over to kiss his sweaty face and whispered, "You did so good," as you patted his abs adoringly. "You're already the world's best Daddy." Then you leaned down and cleaned his cum from the head of his cock with your tongue, and Bradley moaned as you climbed out of bed. "I'm going to shower and get ready for bed."

He raised his hand in a wave or surrender, he wasn't quite sure which. Forty-five minutes of nailing you until you screamed his name was the most intense workout he'd had in weeks. He needed to hit his home gym in the garage a little harder. Maybe he could invite Jake over to lift weights with him, and then he could sneak away and take a nap while you and Jake had one of your gossip sessions. That actually sounded pretty great.

Bradley managed to get out of bed long enough to let Tramp out and brush his teeth. By that point, you were getting out of the shower and drying yourself off,  humming and sighing softly. 

"I know what you're trying to do," he said with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. "And it's not gonna work."

You looked at him with one eyebrow raised as you ran the towel across your chest. "I'm sorry. What exactly am I trying to do that's not going to work?"

He spit out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth, sending a glare at you in the mirror. "Look at your fucking tits, Sweetheart. Now you're just flaunting them."

"I'm literally just standing here."

He shook his head and kissed your forehead as he walked past. "You know what you did."

When you slipped in bed next to him, he pulled you close while you laughed softly. You were wearing nothing except for his old UVA shirt, and when you curled up next to him, he pushed you gently onto your back. Then he yanked the shirt up and shimmied under the covers so his lips were next to your tummy. 

He kissed up and down your side before laying with his cheek on your hip and one hand on your belly. "Listen kid, I don't know what you're doing in there, but I need you to chill, okay? Someday soon, you'll get to see how pretty and perfect your mommy is. Yes, I think about her all day long. Yes, I love her, but I can only take so much. Your old man is an old man."

You lifted up the covers, and Bradley felt your fingers in his hair. "No, you're not."

He kissed the spot just below your belly button before returning to his pillow. "I'll be close to thirty-eight when this little nugget arrives."

"That's not old."

When you curled up on him this time, he collected you in his arms. If you were surprised by his words, you didn't let on. "My dad died when he was twenty-nine. My mom died when she was forty-two. You're a bit younger than me, not that I mind. But my age is something I think about a lot. I'm older than all my friends. I like to be prepared for things before I jump into them. I like to feel out my surroundings. Except when it comes to you, apparently."

You snuggled in a little closer, voice soft as you asked, "What do you mean?"

Bradley kissed your fingers before lacing them with his in the dark bedroom. "I was all in with you as soon as you looked at me. Zero hesitation. No turning back."

You buried your face in his chest and moaned. "You can't just talk about me like that. It makes me insane for you," came your muffled voice, and Bradley laughed. 

"I guess I never had any hesitation about us having kids either. And I'm just saying... it's nice to have time to think about the baby before the baby actually gets here. But I'm also in my head a lot right now about my parents and how much more flying I've got left in me and how I don't actually know how the fuck to take care of a baby."

"Bradley!" Your voice was scolding as you propped yourself up on him. "We're a team. And I wouldn't lie to you. You're not old, and I'm pretty sure nobody actually knows how to take care of a baby until they have one in front of them. Then you just kind of do it, I guess. The fact that you are so excited about this pregnancy is at least half of what's turning me on so much. You will be the best dad imaginable, because you love me so well, and I don't doubt you have more of that to give."

He was exhausted, and your words settled over him like something he could physically feel. "I really am so excited. Today felt like a dream. I just want to cover the whole house in the ultrasound photos, and I can't wait to get another smaller paper airplane tattoo."

He felt your fingers trace his tattoo in the darkness. You knew exactly where it was without guidance just like he knew exactly where yours was. "You'll get it right here? With the baby's name on it?"

"Yeah," he whispered, starting to feel like he was going to doze off.

"I have a question," you said, and he squeezed your hand softly. "Earlier you asked when we can find out if it's a boy or a girl."

He smiled at the hesitation in your voice. "What's your question?"

Bradley could feel your heartbeat against his body, and he thought about how he had been able to see and hear what the baby was doing just a few hours ago. The beautiful sound of that rapid heartbeat that belonged to his child. 

"Do you care? If it's a boy or a girl?"

"No," he answered honestly. "Not one bit. I just care that it's ours."

"Me too. I'm happy either way." Your words sounded soft and dreamy, and he believed them.

"I love you both. Now let the old man sleep."

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

The rest of the week felt like a bit of a reality check. You tried taking the prenatal vitamins from Dr. Morris, but you threw them back up almost instantly every single time. "Just skip them," Bradley said on Friday morning as you threw up in the toilet when you were trying to get dressed for work. 

"I can't," you practically wailed. "They are supposed to keep me healthy so I can keep the baby healthy." You looked up at him from where you were sitting on the floor.

He sighed and checked the time. "Why don't you just stay home today? You're looking pretty green, and it's Friday anyway. Text Bickel."

Anger flared inside you. He was standing there looking nice and tidy in his khakis while you were on the floor turning yours into a wrinkly mess. And the reason for that was the fact that you had to deal with all of this shit. He just got to enjoy your libido while being excited about the baby. You really didn't want to start resenting him right now when you were leaving for Maryland soon.

"I can't just skip work on a whim like what I'm doing isn't important," you snapped. "I'm trying to get my presentation ready for Annapolis, in case you forgot you offered to help me with that."

He was on his knees in an instant with your chin in his hand. "Hey, that's not what I meant. I just don't want you overexerting yourself, especially since your work is important and you'll be traveling soon."

You still felt bitchy, even though he made you peanut butter crackers and took Tramp for a walk while you stayed curled up in bed for an extra twenty minutes. "That's right. I'll be gone for a week. I'm sure you're looking forward to having a break from the near constant sex."

You used the vanity to pull yourself to your feet while your stomach lurched, even though he was holding his hand out to help you. "Look at me," he demanded without touching you at all. You didn't want to, but you shifted your gaze to his face as he stood too. "If you really think that's true, then we have a serious problem. I'm going to assume that you feel the need to take your nausea out on me, and that's fine. I don't really mind. That's what I'm here for. But do not accuse me of ever wanting to be separated from you."

You pressed your lips together and just nodded as he leaned down to kiss your cheek. You didn't want to be away from him either, but you felt another wave of sickness rolling through your body.

"I need to go, Sweetheart. I'll stop and get you some of those ginger pills on my way home. Maybe they'll help. I love you."

After he left, you threw up again and fought the urge to throw the bottle of prenatal vitamins across the bathroom. Even now you were horny enough that you considered climbing back in bed with your vibrator to take the edge off, but you knew nothing would be as good as the real thing. And you'd have to apologize to Bradley before you could have that, and it would undoubtedly make you cry when you did. 

When you finally made your way back out to the kitchen, you found more peanut butter crackers arranged on a plate in the shape of a heart with one of the ultrasound photos next to it. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you tried to call your husband, but it went to voicemail. You listened to his raspy voice before ending the call and texting him instead.

I'm sorry. If you want Marry Me Rooster for dinner, pick up some chicken along with the ginger pills.

After you tucked the ultrasound picture in the new Bronco, you spent your whole morning sitting quietly with Cat, the two of you going over each presentation slide with a fine tooth comb. "Is that calculation correct?" she asked, pulling out a calculator. 

"It fucking better be. I did it myself. Months ago."

She looked at you with wide eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you lied, anxious that Bradley hadn't responded to your text. Two days ago, you were having the absolute time of your life with Dr. Morris, and now you wanted to scream. "Can we just finish this?" you said through gritted teeth as Cat checked your math which was obviously done correctly. 

"That's what we're working on," she said smoothly, using her mom voice on you and making your nerves prickle. "Finishing the slides so we can spend next week practicing and getting our notes in order for all of these meetings and cocktail receptions."

The last thing you wanted to do right now was pretend you were drinking alcohol while trying not to vomit. Nothing about this trip to Annapolis seemed appealing. And you didn't want to have to try to hide your pregnancy from your parents if you drove to see them one night. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Cat asked, and you had to steel your spine as you nodded. 

"I'm perfect." There was no point in making her mad at you when the two of you would be in close quarters for several days, so you rolled your shoulders and got back to work.

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

Asking Jake if he wanted to workout actually wasn't the best idea Bradley had come up with recently. It would be nice to have someone to spot for him at the weight bench, but if you were making his favorite dinner, he'd rather spend the time with you. 

"Fuck," he groaned as Jake followed him to the grocery store on his way home. Apparently he needed protein powder and didn't mind that Bradley had to stop for chicken. Of course now he had to try to discreetly grab the ginger pills that you wanted to try for your nausea. 

It ended up being easier than he thought since Jake took fifteen minutes to decide which flavor of protein powder he wanted. He was still looking at them when Bradley went back to that aisle. "Are you almost done?"

Jake shot him a nasty look from where he was squatting at the bottom shelf. "Listen, it would go faster if I didn't get hit on constantly when I'm wearing my uniform."

Bradley rolled his eyes so hard, he was afraid he'd get a migraine. "Keep it in your fucking pants. I'll meet you at my house."

Jake grabbed a container and followed him to the registers. When they passed a hot sauce display, he grabbed one and handed it to Bradley. "Get this for Angel, and maybe you'll get laid. Sounds like you need it."

"It's literally the last thing I need," he mumbled, but paid for it anyway along with the ginger and the chicken. When Bradley slid his credit card back in his wallet, he saw the corner of the ultrasound image he had tucked in there last night. He unfolded it and took a peek as Jake paid for his powder. You were everything. And the baby was everything. And he should have been a little more patient with you this morning. 

"You coming?" Jake asked, and Bradley shoved the nugget photo back inside his wallet before slipping it into his pocket. 

You were already home, and Bradley parked the blue Bronco next to the red one. Jake came careening into the driveway, stopping about two inches from the back of the new Bronco. "Show her a little respect, okay?"

Jake snorted as he climbed out. "You literally fucked the other car to bits. I didn't do shit."

Bradley groaned as he walked inside with Jake on his heels. The first thing he saw was you in the kitchen, feeding Tramp a treat. You had on some skin tight yoga pants and a little shirt without a bra, and you turned to him and said, "Can we talk?" He opened his mouth to tell you that you could have any damn thing you wanted, and then you said, "Hi, Jake," with a look of surprise on your face. "I didn't know you were coming over."

"Hey, Angel," Jake crooned, walking into the kitchen and pulling you in for a tight hug. Shit, Bradley forgot to text you and let you know he wasn't going to be alone. "Didn't see you at lunch today."

"I worked through lunch," you replied, your eyes on Bradley. "Are you staying for dinner?"

"Nah, just going to lift weights out in the garage with Rooster for a bit. I'll be out of your hair after that."

"You can stay if you want," you told him, but he was already heading toward the hallway bathroom with his gym bag. "Why didn't you tell me he was coming over?" you whispered. "I'm not even wearing underwear, and you left one of the ultrasound photos on the fridge."

Bradley quickly pulled it down and stuck it in the freezer on his way to get to you. "I'm sorry. I meant to text you, but then I got in the Bronco and forgot." Tears welled up in your eyes; he should be used to this by now, but he was not. "If you're horny, I'll take care of you as soon as Jake leaves."

You scoffed at him. "It's not that. I don't just want that. I wanted to talk. You're not just a gigantic, walking dick to me."

Jake cleared his throat, and you and Bradley both turned to see him standing there in his gym clothes. "I'll meet you out in the garage," he said with a smirk. "Take your time."

"I'll just be a minute," Bradley called over his shoulder, but you'd already started to open the chicken he set on the counter. "Do you want to talk now?"

"No." Great. You were giving him one word answers now. 

"Would you like me to get changed and get out of your hair?"

"Yes."

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

As soon as Bradley walked through the sliding glass door and headed for the garage, you broke out in tears. What the fuck was your problem? You didn't mind if Jake was here or if he stayed for dinner. You didn't want to completely discourage Bradley from hanging up the nugget photo. You just couldn't control your emotions, and you had zero patience today. And you couldn't stop running to the bathroom to pee. 

You decided to fill up some travel mugs with water and take them out to the guys to smooth things over. Tramp ran around in the grass as you walked across the yard, and you could already hear the two of them talking over their playlist as you approached the doorway. 

"Is Angel's ass bigger now?" Jake asked, pointing to the dirty calendar that Bradley hung on the wall and strategically covered part of with a post-it note.

Your husband shook his head. "Stop staring at my calendar," he replied as he added weight to one side of the bar. "And stop talking about my wife's ass."

"She's in a feisty mood today. You probably didn't even need that hot sauce to get laid, old man." Based on Jake's response, you were pretty sure neither of them had seen you in the doorway yet as you stood there awkwardly. 

Bradley's brow creased. "She's been a real handful, actually."

Jake hooted with laughter. "In the bedroom? Never mind, I don't want to know."

It took Bradley a few seconds to respond. "Can we talk about anything else other than my wife? Please? Literally any other topic would be great."

You turned on your heel and carried the waters back toward the house as soon as you heard Jake say, "Speaking of asses, you know who has a great one..."

They were out there for a full hour. You made what turned out to be perhaps the most incredible looking batch of Marry Me Rooster of your life while you stewed. Even your husband was already sick of you. Soon you'd gain so much pregnancy weight, your ass would probably be enormous. He'd probably have to close his eyes just to have sex with you. 

You froze as you were putting the chicken onto a plate. What if he couldn't stand the sight of you with a belly at all? All stretched out and weird? Bradley had probably glorified it in his mind, but you knew it wasn't going to be all that appealing when you were nine months along in the middle of March with stretch marks galore. You were already bloated enough that Jake noticed.

You were turning and looking down at your body when they both came walking back inside, out of breath. "Smells good in here. Are these for us?" Bradley asked, pointing at the waters on the island. 

"Yes," you whispered, afraid to meet his eyes. As soon as you heard his voice, you were horny again, but you didn't want to keep forcing him to have sex with you just because you couldn't help yourself.

Jake kissed you on the cheek, and when you told him he was welcome to stay for dinner, he said, "I'll take a raincheck. See you for golf on Sunday, Rooster," and headed out to his car.

"Do you think you can eat dinner?" Bradley asked you softly. When you turned away from him and nodded, he said, "You didn't have to wait for me if you were hungry. Do you want me to shower first?"

You burst into tears once again. "I don't know if I'm hungry. I don't ever know. Sometimes I just grow up. And I can't stop fucking crying! And I don't want you to be so sick of me that you'd rather talk about literally anything else with Jake, including someone else's ass."

"Whoa, whoa," he said quietly, spinning you around again. "I don't want to talk about anything else besides you, Sweetheart."

You shook your head and covered your eyes with your hands. "I tried to bring the waters outside. I heard you."

When you were pulled snug against his sweaty shirt, you felt slightly better. "Baby Girl. I was not about to get into a conversation with Jake about how I can barely keep up with you in bed. In order to keep my pride intact, I would at least want him to know you're pregnant if I'm admitting that you're wearing me out." He kissed the top of your head over and over.

"It feels like you're getting sick of me," you sobbed softly. "And you brought me hot sauce even though I can't eat it right now, and that made me so sad."

"I couldn't be less sick of you if I tried. I just needed to keep Jake off my back rather than let slip that you're pregnant, so I got the hot sauce. And it's completely my fault I forgot to tell you he was coming over, but I had a lot on my mind today."

"Like what?" you asked, inhaling how delicious he smelled even compared to the dinner you made.

"Like possible baby names and the look and feel of your pussy when I fuck you. Do you need me right now? Because I'm ready to go when you want me."

"So badly," you squeaked. "I'm sorry, Roo."

"Don't ever apologize again for wanting to have sex with me. I will be the one to apologize if I don't last as long as you need me to."

You nodded against him. "Well then I'll apologize for having a bad attitude."

"Do you need me to fuck the attitude out of you?" 

"Yes, sir."

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

Imagine how excited he'll be holding that baby in his beefy arms. Just stay calm, sweet Roo. The hormones won't last forever. Up next, we're going to Annapolis. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 31

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

@solacestyles

@daisyhollyxox

@wintercap89

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@chaoticassidy

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@sylviebell

@wkndwlff

@horseslovers2016

@gennyanydots

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@magicalmorg

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@ughthisisntright

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

[team7-headquarter]

I genuinely think any ship within the og Team 7 students would make sense. There're 0 reasons to fight about it, they're all just as justified.

Naruto was obsessed for yeeeeeaaaars with his teammates. He looked at them like they hung the moon and the stars in the sky for him. Sasuke and Sakura were the only boy and girl on Earth, lol.

Sasuke and Sakura were used to being cruel to put some distance between them and the world. Defense mechanism or not, Naruto was maybe the only person in the entire world that would never eat that up. He knew feeling lonely, he knew being hurt, he knew to feel useless... Fuck that, for him, there would never be as someone as awesome as his teammates.

His most important promise in life was to save Sasuke, for both his, Sakura's and his own sake.

In return, Sasuke and Sakura would never shut up about him either. His their saviour, their hero, their sun and the boy fills their lives with joy.

That's why any ship with him works!

For Sakura, it's that there was textual romantic tension with both of them for the entire series. Their chemistry and backstory were intentionally written. That Kishimoto decided on the canon ships in the end, okay, but any of them could have worked. If you can't feel the love between them, blame the writing and not the characters, 'cause it was clear that Kishimoto wanted people to think of them as a love triangle for some time.

Since the genin days, she was their it girl. No one touches Sakura, no one hurts Sakura, blah blah blah. In exchange, even when she wasn't strong enough, she'd use herself as a shield for them. It makes no sense, but she'd jump between any attack and them at any moment. She would run to them when they have lost their mind, not even scared of them as much as she was scared for them.

She defended both of them when other people criticized them. She also lost faith and tried to manipulate them or kill them at some point out of pure desperation of keeping one of them alive. She was the one left behind time and time again, they are her whole reason to be who she is and to be a medic nin. All she ever wanted was to walk alongside them, not behind them.

Again, it works.

With Sasuke is so easy.

Naruto and Sakura were obsessed with him to the point of following him to the literal almost end of the world. The definition of hatred being actually love, because they'd be at each other's throats about it. Their goal in life? Sasuke. The person they cried about at night? Sasuke. What would they wish upon a star? For Sasuke to come back.

And Sasuke couldn't stop thinking about them. In his mind, they were always there. They'd follow him, almost haunt him. They were annoying and rude and ignorant, they were stupid, weak even, he loved them so much that he convinced himself he needed to kill them, cut their bonds.

They harbor endless love for him and with time, he came to understand that's just how they were and accept it.

The loyal 12 years old that would rather take the attacks himself than let his teammates be in any type of danger, did a full cycle and came to be the devoted man that vowed to atone for his mistakes and return to them one day.

If they gave themselves freely to him and almost without a reason, Sasuke gave himself back with all the reasons in the world.

Do I even have to explain why narusasusaku works too or—????

Anyway.

I could never fight over what's the better ship when I know they are all insane about each other.

[lover-of-mine]

I keep trying to write a post about how Buck needs to choose, explain how Buck keeps dating people who present themselves as an option first and how Eddie dates people he tolerates because of per-pressure. And Eddie thinks he's not enough and Buck won't ask for more than he's given even though he jumps off the deep end to ensure they'll stay. But Eddie thinks not worthy of love and Buck thinks he's not allowed to ask for it. And even if Eddie reaches the realization first, he would never risk losing Buck, and since he thinks he's not enough, going there with Buck would mean losing him if he doesn't know Buck feels the same. And Buck is a people pleaser. He goes along with the flow, he waits for cues from the people he dates. So if Eddie asks him out, he will go with it without thinking and it will leave the question of "is this just Buck going along with the flow" because it is what Buck does, and that's Eddie, we saw the lengths Buck went to keep Taylor, we know how far Buck would go for Eddie, the lengths he would go to keep Eddie include acting like he's in love with him even if he's not sure. Making Buck stand up and go to Eddie "hey, I love you, do you want me" removes that question from the interaction. Eddie loved one person who didn't choose him. Eddie and Shannon got married because she got pregnant, she left, he asked her to come back, she asked for a divorce and then she died. She never chose Eddie. Buck keeps being chosen by these people, and yes, the relationships have flaws because they don't see all of Buck, but they meet Buck, they are interested, they make their intentions known. And that allows Buck to float through his love life. Eddie has been choosing Buck since the parking lot, but he never asked Buck to choose him. And because Buck was written as the love interest, he is always being asked, but these people can't handle all he is. Eddie knows all of Buck and he loves all of Buck already. Buck is the one who needs to see that and go get it. Because after the "I feel like she sees me" after Eddie kept trying to make Buck feel better or the "I can't stop thinking about him" after Buck went crazy and nearly broke Eddie's leg, the message Eddie is getting is that Buck doesn't want him. Dude is settled into being the best friend. Buck is the one who needs to make a statement because Eddie is the one making them since the "you can have my back any day." "There's nobody in this world I trust with my son more than you." "Because, Evan, you act like you're expendable but you're wrong." Everything about the 612 conversation. Buck is the one who needs to say the words. Because they're even on the actions. Buck is the one who doesn't use his words. He needs to not react when it comes to his love life.

(post about Buck and the love interest archetype he was written with)

[aeithalian]

Apollo and the demonization of power

I graduated and I'm back on my shit, y'all.

I saw this post by @apollosgiftofprophecy (hi Alder) about whether or not Apollo should have stayed mortal instead of regaining his godhood, and may I just say I 1000000% agree.

To summarize the post: if Apollo had chosen to stay mortal, his promise to Jason (to remember what it means to be mortal/human) wouldn't have meant nearly the same as if he'd gone back to Olympus. Regaining his godhood allowed him to chose to help people with his full ability and remember his humanity for however long it takes for him to fade.

And if I may add on: Apollo even talks about maybe choosing to stay mortal at some point in the latter half of the series, but eventually comes to the conclusion that to chose to stay mortal would be akin to running away from his problems. And he's right: if he chose to stay mortal, he wouldn't have to face Zeus again and he could shirk his responsibilities as an Olympian. So he decides against it (not that he really ever has the chance to chose). And I just love to take this as a great moment of character development and an insane amount of self-awareness for somebody who started their arc where he did.

But it also got me thinking. And, in short, I came to the conclusion that Apollo must be an idealist simply by the way he views power.

In this case, fiction reflects reality: villains want power. They want control. They want to squash rebellion. And that, typically, is an occurrence we typically only see with villains. Never with the heroes, who rarely want power outside of defeating their enemy. But here we have Apollo, who spends the entire series literally seeking power in his attempt to regain his godhood.

And that has morphed into something really interesting when it comes to representation of power in classical media. More often than not, power is demonized. It's seen as something inherently evil. If a character wants power for themselves, they're likewise seen as evil. Any one of your classical antagonists are going to, at some point in their stories, want power in any which way it presents itself. Voldemort of Harry Potter wanted to live forever. Sauron of Lord of the Rings wanted the Ring of Power. Palpatine of Star Wars wanted control of the galaxy. Zeus wants to rule the Olympians. The list goes on.

On the other hand, in stories where a protagonist seeks power to destroy their opponent, they eventually end up discarding their items of power because they don't want to be 'corrupted'. Harry Potter refused to use the Elder Wand. Frodo destroyed the Ring of Power. Luke Skywalker turned down the Dark Side. Even Percy Jackson declined godhood.

But Rick, in writing Apollo's character, takes an interesting approach and a fun subversion of this trope that I, for one, absolutely love. Previously, he'd written Percy to turn down godhood because he primarily wanted to maintain his humanity. To Percy, being a god and being human are two mutually exclusive concepts. They don't coexist. For Apollo, on the other hand, he accepts power out of a sense of duty, and vows to use it well in the spirit of his promise to Jason. There is no demonization of power. And to Apollo, humanity and godhood are not exclusive concepts. So what does that mean post-trials?

There are two perspectives at battle here. First is demonization: 'power is inherently evil'. But the idea that power corrupts is not necessarily a fact: in my opinion, power in and of itself isn't evil. Yes, it's dangerous, but it's more or less a blank slate. What you do with power, who you are when you have it, is what defines it. And that's a pretty nuanced take, and it comes with its ups and downs, requiring those powerful protagonists to be your most responsible, most dutiful, most kind characters who take up the mantle of power with the full understanding of what it means. Who's to say that you can't achieve power and use it well? So there's the other perspective: 'power is a blank slate'.

Let's look at power from a Zeus vs. Apollo perspective:

Zeus wants power (or at the very least, to maintain his power) as a way of controlling people, squashing rebellion, and maintaining order in the way he sees fit, without any sense of legitimate justice or care for others. It is Zeus' actions that make him evil, not his power.

Apollo, on the other hand, seeks power as a way of solving problems, creating solutions that benefit the greatest amount of people possible, and creating a lasting difference on others to change for the better, just as he did. More often than not, when he reminisces about having power in the series, it's more out of a place of 'this terrible thing wouldn't have happened if I were a god', or 'I could help better if I were a god'. Never once does he view power as a way of controlling or manipulating others. Power, to Apollo, is just the ability to love to the greatest extent possible (re: my meta on Apollo's fatal flaw).

But the interesting thing here is how Apollo views power in general, outside of his own. The idea of demonizing power doesn't even occur to him, despite the fact that he's been the subject of abuse for millennia. What's fascinating to me is the fact that Apollo, having been hurt so often by Zeus' power, doesn't ascribe that same generalization to his own person.

I find that very interesting: abuse does wacky shit to people's brains. By all means, that should have irrevocably changed Apollo's perspective on power as a whole, right? Not if you've learned to view power as something that is part of you, no.

I don't know how other gods besides Apollo view their own power, I actually think it's accurate to say that gods view power as something inherent to their nature. And, honestly, maybe it is. But that's besides the point.

Regardless of whether or not power is inherent to gods, Apollo, throughout his journey, realizes that it must go hand in hand with responsibility and humanity. Power is a privilege. That 'blank slate' perspective is one he learned in his trials, the knowledge that the power he has is something he shapes, and something he has no excuse for. If power is inherent, all of Apollo's wrongdoings are his own failings.

And that's even more interesting when you relate it to his relationship with Zeus. Apollo must likewise know that Zeus' wrongdoings are solely his fault, not a result of his power. It's a fascinating perspective of power coming from somebody who has none, who's been hurt by somebody who has so much. To maintain that optimistic view of power as non-corrosive when faced with your abuser is, I think, the glaring mark of an idealist.

So, what does this mean post-trials?

I think, along the same vein, there is a point where the idealist breaks. They have a glimpse of reality: all is not well. For Apollo, that's at the end of the series where he decides that Zeus is beyond all hope. Take this quote from the Tower of Nero:

Some fathers don't deserve [reconciliation]. Some aren't capable of it. I suppose I could have raged at him and called him bad names. We were alone. He probably expected it. Given his awkward self-consciousness at the moment, he might have even let me get away with it unpunished. But it would not have changed him. It would not have made anything different between us. You cannot change a tyrant by trying to out-ugly him.

More often than not, my favorite stories are the ones where the main character gains power, keeps it, and uses it for good. Aragorn accepted the crown of Gondor. Luke Skywalker chose to train a new order of Jedi. Apollo regained his godhood. And readers of any of my multichap fics know that I love to write this trope as well.

But, much like my mutuals and I have been yelling from the rooftops for LITERAL YEARS, Apollo's story is not over. And once the idealist has 'broken', like we see in the scene above, there's only one way it could go.

To see somebody mishandling their power in a way an idealist knows is corrupt is quite literally a recipe for revolution. Look me in the eye and tell me that the way ToA finished wasn't setting up a revolution. Do it, I dare you.

Regardless, it's safe to say that, at some point, somebody's going to take a look at Zeus and say "you know what? Anybody could do better." Just saying.

Anyways, vive la révolution.

[a masterlist of my other metas]

[johnnie-guilberts-eyeliner]

Johnnie Guilbert NSFW Alphabet

(first time writing, lmk how I did and pls pls pls request some more for johnnie guilbert if you enjoyed because i think hes insanely under appreciated and deserves more written for him)

A=Aftercare (what they're like after)

Definitely big into after care and does whatever he can to take care of you after

B=Body part (Their favorite body part of their partners+their own)

Partner-thighs, they're plushy and he loves squeezing them and loves the way they look when they are wrapped around his head

Theirs-Hands, he loves what he can do with them and he loves how they look around your neck

C=Cum(Anything to do with cum)

He prefers finishing inside to avoid mess but would ultimately do whatever you wanted.

D=Dirty secret(Self explanatory)

He definitely gets off to pictures of you when you're not w him and he's feeling frisky (or if he's js to shy to tell you)

E=Experience(How experienced are they?)

not really at all, except for giving head.

F=Favorite Position(Self explanatory)

Cowgirl-He dies a little bit every time you ride him, he seriously can't get enough of it. Or any position where he can touch you while making eye contact with you

G=Goofy(Are they more goofy or serious during the act?)

Definitely depends on what you're comfortable with but will most likely be the type to make a joke or two and then be really serious after that yk

H=Hair(How well groomed? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

Doesn't really need to do much since he's a natural blonde but will maybe trim it up if he feels like it. Doesn't care if you have any, he agrees that if hair wasn't supposed to grow there, then it wouldn't.

I=Intimacy(How are they during? Romantic aspect ofc)

He is the touchiest mf there is. Loooooooves to touch and see his hands all over you and more verbal than you'd think

J=Jack off (Random Masturbation Headcannon)

As stated before, he definitely Jacks off to you when you aren't around and he's feeling rather frisky so maybe like 3-4 times a week at the most

K=Kink(1 or more of their kinks)

Switch-loves seeing you on top and in control but will take the reigns every now and then

Marking-Loooooves to see bite marks and hickies and such all over you and loves it more when you leave them on him

Hair pulling-loves when you tug on his hair while he fucks you/eats you out

L=Location (Favorite place to do the deed)

Prefers the bed but will eventually escalate to the shower or maybe even the couch when no one is home 😈

M=Motivation(What turns them on? What gets them going?)

Literally anything you do could get him going because he's so infatuated by you, and I think he may be a bit sexually frustrated 💀 but loves skirts, lacy lingerie and fishnets specifically

N=No(something off limits)

Anything that could hurt you or him

O=Oral(Giving and receiving preference, skill. Etc)

is a GOD at giving head. About the only thing he's really experienced with and IT SHOWS. Does like recieving but poor baby would be too shy to ask so you'll have to offer

P=Pace(Are they made rough/fast or slow/sensual or other)

Anything you prefer because he doesn't wanna hurt you or make you uncomfortable

Q=Quickie(Their opinion on quickies)

Doesn't care for them much at all, he likes to take his time and cherish the moment

R=Risk(Do they experiment? Do they take risks?)

Will experiment within his boundaries and your own

S=Stamina(How many rounds can they go? How long do they last?)

Can last about 3-4 rounds before he needs a minute, if you're not satisfied don't you worry because he'll give you so much head to make up for it

T=Toys(Do they own/use toys on their partner or themselves?)

Doesn't own them for himself but would be down to try them if you brought it to his attention

U=Unfair(How much do they like to tease?)

He doesn't start the teasing often because he's too shy but will do it back if you start teasing him

V=Volume(How loud they are, What they sound like)

Quite shameless when it comes to this intimate time with you, doesn't care who hears

W=Wild card (Random NSFW headcannon)

He secretly loves to fuck you until he can see your eyes rolling into the back of your head and loves fucking your mouth/throat but will only do so if you ask him to

X=Xray(size of his- basically)

6 inches soft and abt 8.5 inches hard

Y=Yearning(How high is their sex drive?)

Higher now bc of you

Z=ZZZ (How quick they fall asleep after?)

Prefers to cuddle after sex and loves falling asleep like that, he'll fall asleep after he knows your asleep

[gublersg1rl]

cw: feminism rant, smut, sex, misogyny, porn etcetc

note: i’m not the best writer or very articulate… and i’m dyslexic LOL i hope this is understandable it’s kinda all over the place i fear

Once, I saw a woman on Instagram criticizing the porn industry, and I immediately knew there would be some man in the comments getting defensive. What I didn't expect to see was a man who wrote, "Women criticize porn as if they don't write about having sex with fictional men."

As someone who despises the porn industry but actively reads smut, id argue that women writing smut is a direct effect of the ways porn has impacted women's sexual expression.

Why do women choose to sexually express themselves through fictional characters and celebrities? If a teenage boy wants to have sex, he's just being a boy. If a teenage girl wanted to have sex, something had to have happened to her. That's concerning. Men can have a lot of sex. He's a man. Of course, he's going to want to have sex. Women can't have sex; women having sex is slutty. Nobody likes a whore. Blowjobs? That's normal. Eating a girl out? Don't be gross. Thats disgusting. Women can't sexually express themselves without being judged in society, but you know who won't judge them? People they understand they have no chance with, like celebrities and fictional characters. This is why a lot of queer men also partake in "fangirl" culture because queer sexual expression is also shunned in society, so there has to be some sort of outlet.

This brings me to my next topic, the difference between porn and smut. They're not different in the way porn was made for men by men and smut was made for women by women. If I went on pornhub, the first thing ill see is, "Big tits virgin teen girl gets choked out by massive 10-inch cock." Women aren't equal to men in porn. Porn makes women objects; in porn, women's sexuality does not exist. Women don't have sexual needs outside of what the man wants. Once, I heard someone say, "In a pornsick culture, women don't have sex; they perform it." Meanwhile, in smut, it's the opposite. Even if the writer is writing with sub and dom dynamics typically, there will always be an underlying sense of trust, with moments of obvious consent, whether that is verbal, a touch, or a glance.

This isn't to say women don't write about rough sex. They do. There are so many fics that involve extreme kink aspects, but more times than not, there will be that trust and consent.

But what if there's not? I've seen it. if you read smut, you've probably seen questionable tags, too. It's important to mention that just because mostly women write smut, there are straight men who do it, too. I've read smut, which was painfully obvious it was written by a man. That being said, women also write questionable... smut. Going back to my most recent statement, women are shown and taught that they are objects. So it's not completely absurd to say you will find smut written by women that objectifies them; when you condition someone to an idea, it's hard to unlearn that. It's hard to understand sexuality as a woman when society is telling you not to be slutty but to also submit and to perform for a man and his sexual needs because in a man's world, his sexual needs, by default, are your sexual needs.

Is smut damaging to women? Well, I'm not a psychologist. I'm just a nineteen year old girl who likes to read smut about Spencer Reid and is also a feminist. So, I do not know how qualified I am to answer this question, but what I will say is I think that as long as women are not writing smut and portraying themselves as sexual beings living for the sole purpose of men.... smut is a perfectly healthy way to express sexuality :) all in all porn is fucking scary, and so is men and sex and being intimate it’s all really scary but smut is an easy way to express your sexuality in a safe anonymous space.

[loveandleases]

LOOVVVEEDDDD the demo and can't wait for the update! I hope you don't mind that I got two questions, but I gotta ask: what kinda hobby options do you have written down for the MC? Also, how would all the ROs, plus Chris, Jade, and Aunt Em, react if MC's cooking is five-star restaurant levels good? (I imagine Chris is kicking themselves over losing a god-tier-chef MC who cooks as a hobby)

💗 Glad you enjoyed and I don't mind at all! 1. We have writing/reading, art (drawing, painting), gaming/watching anime, cooking, photography, music (could be singing/playing instrument), exercising.

I'm going into it with the thought that depending on the hobby the MC will have the chance to spend time with RO's even in a platonic sense as well as be used to further their business. (For example: an MC who likes to exercise has the chance to run into two RO's. MC who is into art can create a logo for their business) (2 is under the cut due to length)

2. 💩 Chris - Butthurt. Which is what we want! Clarke family curse is that they can't cook right? So Chris before MC relied on fast food or their parents chef. The only real homecooked food they had was from MC or Em when they visited. It's like throwing salt on a wound. Because now they're back to fast food, easy snacks. Because Jade can't cook a damned thing. Chris is pretty sure doggo enjoys watching as Chris mumbles about wanting a hot meal from time to time.

💀 Jade - In her eyes she doesn't have time to waste on things like cooking. Why would she bother when she can just have Chris take her out to some fancy dinner? The only reason MC bothers is because they have nothing else to do obviously. (She's jelly very jealous)

😇 Em - If MC is great at cooking then Em was the one who likely taught them the basics. So for Em, it's like winning a prize. All those little dinners they have Em can have MC help. It's refreshing to be able to have someone else in the kitchen with her, it's something she hasn't had the luxury of in many years. (She's really relieved that MC and Cam won't starve. Cam could screw up warming soup, so for Em it's a blessing.)

❤️ Cam - Oh it's like he won the lottery, and it's Christmas and his birthday all at the same time. Cam is an eater, he loves food. An MC who can keep him fed is like the cherry on top for him. MC would have to tell Cam not to bother them late at night, when he's up all alone on his laptop. He just wants one snack, honest!!! He will use puppy dog eyes, don't let them deter you!

💙 G - To them it's a nice ability to have. In fact, G will be curious as to why they only get cake's on their birthday. Shouldn't they be allowed more? Do they look like someone who doesn't enjoy the delicious taste of dessert? They would want to watch MC cook from time to time, see if they can pick up some of the things they do and surprise them later with a nice home cooked meal.

💚 Kara - Finally, someone who can cook and not kill her! She's thankful all too much, this will be the one time you see her tearing up when she realizes she doesn't have to eat another cold sandwich for work. She would want to help, Kara wants to bake. She wants to be able to make cute cakes and cookies. But, she should never ever be allowed in the kitchen. She's worse than Cam.

💛 M - Won't even notice at first, even when they see MC in their kitchen. They have no idea why MC is in there, M kinda lives off easy food, until their moms send them something. Even then they kind of forget to eat. So imagine their surprise when MC has a five star meal ready for them when they finally look up from their computer. Absolutely flabbergasted. Can MC try and make recipes they've seen in anime? Is it weird for them to ask? Sorry MC, but your cooking expertise is going to be wrote about.

💜 Isaac - They aren't the worst in the kitchen, they can make some delicious stuff but Isaac sticks to what they know. They haven't had someone actually cook for them since their mother died. It would be a bitter topic at first, Isaac not wanting to seem thrilled by the notion. Then they would make the offhanded jokes that MC knows the way to their heart is through their stomach. But they would begin to truly appreciate it, and eventually want MC to try making their mothers signature dish. (The one Isaac makes when they feel lonely.)

🖤 Ardent - As a wiz in the kitchen, don't think that's going to impress him so easily. In fact, don't think that MC can make better baklava than him. It would become a competition, Ardent far too cocky for his own good thinking that there is no way MC can be better in the kitchen than him. When he finds out that he actually enjoys MC's food, he will play it off like he's allowing MC to cook for him. Like he's allowing them to do him a favor. (he will be making moans of how delicious mc's cooking is) play it off like he's sore from working out.

[shunsuiken]

CAN’T TAKE MY EYES OFF OF YOU.

pairing. kamisato ayato x fem!reader

genre. fluff + he’s so fucking in love with you (we love to see it)

synopsis. your husband notices how you seem to look away whenever he makes eye contact with you. so tonight he finally confronts you in his own way.

wc. 0.8k

an. yall i love this man so much omg i cant i was literally blushing while writing this goodbye i'll see myself out now 🚶🏻‍♀️

“ah if only i was reborn as the mirror on your vanity," your husband sighs from behind you.

you laugh and swipe the last bits of your moisturiser on your cheeks. “why?”

“because you get all close and personal with it...” ayato trails off and stares at your figure with steady eyes. “...but not with me."

you raise your brows in confusion, and for some reason your heart skips a beat. "what ever do you mean?" you ask without even looking at him.

ayato walks towards your sitting-figure. tonight, his lavender stare is not one he looks at you with when he wants to share an intimate night with you. rather, it's one of curiosity. he wants to know why you look away every time he has his eyes trained on you. even now you do not meet eyes with him. why is that?

do you not love him as much as you used to? was there something he didn't realise he did wrong? were you bored of life as the yashiro commissioner's wife? he can't seem to think of any other reason for you to look away from him. besides, he loves your eyes! they're such a wonderful shade so he can only wonder why you turn away and limit the time he gets to stare into them.

while those thoughts flood ayato's head, your palms are sweating at how close he's become. panicked, you turn around and stand to meet his eyes at a less strained angle, using the back of your foot to nudge your chair underneath your vanity.

ayato's pout almost makes you laugh if not for how his eyes do not leave your face. you can already feel a herd of butterflies making themselves at home in your stomach at how closely he's observing your expression.

"you're doing it again."

"w- what?" you question, eyes flickering from his gaze to his vanity on the opposite side of the room.

ayato's brows crease ever so slightly, an ungloved finger rising so he can tilt your face towards his. "sweetheart, look at me please."

your cheeks heat up as your hands scramble for something to hold onto when you realise he's closed the gap between your clothed bodies. you then feel a hand planted on your waist. oh archons. "i- it's—it's going to be really difficult if you look at me like that!" your voice does nothing to defend you, high-pitched and breathy.

ayato tilts his head, as if wondering what you mean and you're not entirely sure if he's faking it or not.

you blink, moving your gaze away by an inch but your husband is quick to gently manoeuvre your jaw back so you continue to face him. your expression creases in protest. he only chuckles at your reaction, a smile finally appearing on his handsome face.

he traces circles with his thumb on your waist as an attempt to calm you down. after seeing how you've reacted to his forwardness, the yashiro commissioner is able to put two and two together. "tell me what's on your mind, dear." sigh, does he even realise your string of sanity is about to snap?

you're so out of it. you can't even bear to focus on his words when he studies your facial features like that—ooh that's not good for your heart. your bottom lip is quivering.

you are all he sees.

"n- nothing," you say in a hushed tone.

even after sharing so many lovely nights together, it seems that you still cannot handle the way he looks at you. adorable. he thinks. but he can't just leave his wife suffering all by herself like this. after all, what kind of husband would leave his wife in a state like this? hands pawing on his chest softly, lips curved in nervousness and eyes blinking as if to help you cope with his loving gaze.

"you say 'nothing' but so much is written across your face," a short giggle leaves his lips in amusement. "why don't you join me in bed, hm? i can look at you some more there."

you whine and shove your face into his shoulder. "don't mock me."

ayato takes his chance to pull you in between his arms for a warm embrace, sighing contently. "now i'm not mocking you, i'm simply saying that you are a delight to look at and as your husband, shouldn't i be looking at you the most?"

a playful scoff leaves your lips, momentarily lifting your head to meet his eyes. "oh don't say that—or your reports will come after you."

your husband groans, "darling, don't remind me. i've personally had enough looking at those useless documents." you then hear him click his tongue. "don't try changing the subject either, so join me in bed, will you?"

you sigh an exasperated 'okay, fine' before yelping as you're unceremoniously dragged on to the bed by your giggling husband.

[arom-antix]

Hey, just wanted to reach out to say that I found you pointing out and calling this person was really great and you shouldn't have apologized. It was incredibly true what you said, and to be honest it seems out of touch with the reality of a great deal of the japanese fandom, the nuances and their culture. Also, it was as you pointed out, extreme and may I say rude. I want to mention too that the way it was written, as if entitled of the knowledge and the 'explanation' made it all worse in context of the 'fucked up'. The original poster always gets away by using the 'well-written academic'' statement of their 'metas' as an excuse to do or say and make everyone else agree and if not, uses victim narrative and discourses exactly selecting wording for people to agree on it or feel bad.

I don't know if they tagging you in the way they did made you reblog and apologizing/backing up, but no one thought bad about you pointing it out. On the contrary, a lot of people had been bullied and discriminated by this person when they called them out/disagreed going onto lenghts of sending their friends to harass people, and the other persons can't even defend themselves because they are effectively blocked. To quite a few people in the fandom has been done, even accusing them as 'acephobes' (when they're not) or even Nazis by spreading lies. So yeah, I just wanted to say that. I think you were right to call them out publicly.

Thank you very much for this ask. To be completely honest I agree with everything you said here and don't actually feel bad about pointing anything out. I mainly apologised because I didn't want any potentially poor phrasing from my side to cause unnecessary hostility and because I myself have gripes with this person's behaviour but didn't want to cause a scene.

My honest opinion is that they have a serious issue with taking accountability for their own mistakes and highly overestimate their own intellect. If you're reading this, @thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai, sorry if I seem harsh, but it's true. I saw your post lamenting how you're the only academic meta writer / fan in the fandom and I didn't interact then because I honestly do not care enough to start that drama but with the information Blonndiec has just given me, I think it's necessary that someone calls you out.

You're not an academic. You're not beyond the mental capabilities of other fans. You're actually incredibly childish in your metas and analyses and I am not kidding when I say that I was halfheartedly writing essays more academic than every analysis I've seen from you when I was barely a teenager. I don't know how old you are and I frankly don't care. You're not as clever as you think you are.

Also, don't think I didn't notice that you didn't reblog my correction (link here to my correction and here to their "response" for those who didn't see that exchange) of your post so that you could control what your followers saw of the exchange. You're the opposite of an academic. You control information to tailor the narrative, you don't cite your sources properly if at all, you don't format your posts in anything close to how an academic analysis would be, you make unbased claims, you reference posts and canon material without in any way indicating where that information is from, you reference your own (equally unacademic) metas and your conclusions from them without indicating what post it's from or that it's your own theory this new one is based on and instead present it as a common fact, and I could go on and on and on. Your posts are also riddled with logical fallacies and you talk in absolutes and opinions when there's no canon basis to claim such things. I'm sorry, but that's not academic in the slightest.

To be clear, you don't have to be an academic to post on the Internet. You don't have to be anything at all. You could up front be a genuine idiot with no remorse and that's fine. But when you claim to be an academic and also put down the rest of the fandom for not being on your level, you have to be able to back that up. It'd still make you sound like a prick but at least your arrogance would have a basis. It currently does not.

I haven't personally seen the discussions that Blonndiec is referencing and I'm not going to claim anything definitive (because that would be unacademic of me, take notes) but if what they're saying is true and did happen as described, which I have empirical, if anecdotal, evidence to believe could very well be (a friend of mine has personally been blocked by you after they criticised you without actually mentioning your name which I of course can't prove is the reason for the block but the timing is awfully convenient), you should know that you should be ashamed of yourself.

If there's context missing, feel free to enlighten me and call out any incorrect accusations. You have every right to defend yourself. However, I encourage you to cite your sources since you're such an academic. If you don't, then it's just your word against Blonndiec and anyone else who might comment's word and that doesn't prove anything. Don't misunderstand, acephobia and nazi rhetoric should absolutely be called out but only if it's actually happening. False accusations can ruin lives. I hope you know that.

I'm not a fan of calling people out publicly and, again, thank you for this ask, Blonndiec. But considering many of the issues I've personally seen and those I've been informed of by second hand sources were posted publically, I don't really feel bad about calling this out. I could do a full breakdown of just the insulting "academic" comments alone and how there's no academia to be found in said academic metas and, Samurai, if you give me reason to, I will show exactly what I mean point by point (and academically just to give you an example of even low level academia).

If you respond to this, do it in a reblog. That's what a real academic would do. If I'm wrong and you can prove it, you'd have no reason to not show my post in your rebuttal. If I'm right, you'd have every reason to be upfront about your mistakes and how you intend to rectify them. There's nothing wrong with being wrong but there's a lot wrong with refusing to admit to it in a way that lets others peer review you (academic thing, look it up) and come to their own conclusions about the situation. That's what you did when you just @'ed me instead of reblogging my response. A true academic wouldn't hide a peer review. You'd know that if you were one.

I swing in many academic spaces and yet that doesn't make me any kind of expert and I don't claim to be one because I'm not. But since you want to be one so badly, reblog this with a response and show us all how smart you are. I'm dying to know what your academic take on this is.