#i fear for my life in the hands of conformity

[satosktty]

this is how i imagine satoru in any setting; i need to draw him exactly like this... just imaginging 1st year toru being kind of blank faced but still a shithead until they finally get to deal with him and everyone's like 'wow he's just autistic not a dickhead' yeah... my bipolar autistic rep princess..

[drdemonprince]

talk about leaving relationships that aren't working has me reminded of something i've been thinking about: leaving "relationships" with a social group that aren't working. the social is important here, like a sports team, or a group you hang out with, any and all gatherings of a social nature.

on one hand, the fact that there's no financial or housing entanglements make it easier to hit da bricks if it isn't working. on the other hand, groups are bigger than one person, so by leaving them you lose the connection vector, and more importantly, the social environment you engage with them in and the new people you meet through it. finding new social groupings that might be a fit also is also hard because there's always relatively fewer off those going around,

i don't have a good answer to this conundrum. i've certainly stuck with groups for too long because i didn't want to have nothing. and something, even though the vibes had gone rancid despite my efforts, mistakenly felt better than that.

A lot of the reason that people stick with bad social groups is because they have this organizational inertia that makes them easy to rely on. The group determines the outings, the traditions, the guestlist; the group decides how halloween and new year's and pride will be celebrated and with whom; the group shows up to your one-man show and sends you flowers when you're at the hospital.

People find it relieving to not have to do any of the work of figuring that stuff out themselves. But it results in a lot of frankly very immature social dynamics where people who do not even like one another hang out frequently because they share the same "group," outsiders are scorned, and people have very little agency over how they actually spend their time and whom they spend it with. An overreliance on one social "group" makes its members vulnerable to rejection as well, creating a silent pressure toward conformity and conflict avoidance.

It's Geek Social Fallacies (google it if you have not read the foundational early 2000's piece on this) and it's not a new problem. It is especially common among people who have either never had to set out and form a social group of their own, or who think they do not have the power to. Overcoming this stuff is an important part of every neurodivergent or queer outcast's life.

The solution is to mix and mingle among a variety of social groups, and not to overly identify with any one aspect of your life (be that a profession, identity, or hobby) that has connected you to a group. When you have multiple friend groups, you have places that you can float over to and find some peace and enjoyment in, even one everyone inside one group is beefing. You don't fear being disposed of so much. Because every group has its own dynamics, you can compare things and have a clearer view on interpersonal challenges. The absurd underlying beliefs and toxicity that a group have become more apparent and are no longer just what having friends means. It gives you multiple options of things to do on your calendar. Most importantly it gives you a choice.

The next level to diversifying one's social portfolio is actually exercising that power of choice to surround yourself with the specific people that you like, doing activities that you want to do, and building social connections that belong to you and not the group. Is your entire kickball team a bunch of backbiting, judgemental assholes, except for one or two people that you like? Well why the hell put up with the entire team when you can just invite those two cool people to hang out with you? Do you love conversations with the older divorce in your improv group, but hate the improv? Well fuck the improve and just invite Tracy over! Who do you actually want at your birthday? Only invite those people, and let some of your friends from other groups meet one another! If they dont get along well that is also fine!

People want socializing to be this one and done set in stone thing, but human relationships evolve as we grow and change, and we have to assert ourselves in making them what we want them to be. For anyone struggling with this stuff and really consumed by a social group's drama, let me just tell you the world is so much bigger than what one really up their own ass clique thinks, and you dont need to keep socializing like youre a 20 year old in a college acapella group forever. You can make decisions about your social life. Yes even if youre hell of awkward and Autistic. I still dont know how to initiate a conversation w a stranger and i manage to do this stuff! you really can do it and you must if you want things to improve and for your life to be yours. Read the hell out of Captain Awkward, she knows this stuff so well.

[crustyfloor]

There's a uniqueness about the production of Heart, because it's intentionally carefully meant to sound impersonal (at least compared to Take My Hand), and more like delicate pop-y mainstream music. (Just like Sweet Dream in that sense.)

Because Sua is like a mass-produced porcelain doll, she conforms to these expectations, and everything she is to the media establishes her as a product for advertisement. So I can imagine it like this, she's drawn up by strings and she starts up like a wind-up doll sings for you in her beautiful dress behind the screen, stagnant, her ghostly image forever immortalized as that, a beautiful face with a beautiful voice. But behind the facade, her bleeding heart and her profound emotions are just under the surface. It's a perfect encapsulation of her as a character

The reality behind her and Mizi's inevitable tragedy is like that too, a show to the aliens, eventually the curtains were to close on them, and the (poison glass will be in my mouth) (possibly an allusion for blood) means she knows she will die, and their story would conclude on that dreadful note, and Sua knew this all along as they would grow up together. The bitter-sweetness of their memories, and Mizi's love, knowing time is limited and the cruel truth looming, but still choosing to love despite it, even though it's selfish to wish for a paradise at the expense of someone else, she wants to be saved from the fate of dying with hurt and loneliness and fear just like her sister thought she would've alongside all those other unfortunate children in Anakt, because she was just pitiful. But she wasn't, and she wanted live differently than that when she met Mizi who changed everything for her

It's pitiful that she practically criticizes herself in this song for trying to find even momentary hope in a hopeless situation, the guilt of knowing how selfish this is and then thinking of herself as a coward for being afraid and running away, she had to keep the facade of perfection, she couldn't tell Mizi about the true complexity of what feelings she had, and she died with most of this sealed away in her heart

These feelings of hers are knowingly cruel, that's why "hurt" and "heart" sometimes blend within the lyrics, rather than wandering life aimlessly, she wants to feel belonging, to belong to someone's heart and memory, she wants to feel, and she doesn't want to fear living. Her sister's words impacted her so much, and Heart here expands on those feelings. Sua wants to fit into the comfort of their little world, in Mizi's heart. She wants Mizi to remember her even in the hurt because that's where her heart lies. This cycle would continue, Sua would leave a traumatic, irreversible impact on Mizi, the same way her sister did on her

And so comes the person under the mask, the twisted and selfish and desperate person Sua is behind her warm smiles or her model face that she doesn't want the cameras to pry into her and see or for Mizi to find out, she doesn't wish for the delicate and kind Mizi to know how she truly is with her twisted nature, doesn't want Mizi to one day see the worst of her and leave her or ever change because Mizi thought the world of her, didn't suspect a thing, always admired Sua's clean and kind nature.

(Maybe on that stage, she didn't want Mizi to look into her eyes with such love before she was going to do something unforgivable and heartbreaking, even though she felt truly free in that moment, no fear, true elation at being able to live out their dream, but then the facade broke)

Sua genuinely believes her heart is twisted, and that her heart would be "The worst blessing in your life." Because she was desperate to obsessively find comfort in Mizi's naivety. And then she would leave Mizi in disarray when, eventually, she knew it would all be over- they were each other's blessings, but the trauma and hurt she would leave Mizi with in the end would be cursed poison .

[kathaelipwse]

Signed, Sealed, Delivered | Bangchan

500+ followers special 🎀🐥

Trope: Slow Burn, Idol x Fan, Comfort & Healing, Love Through Letters Warnings: Mentions of insecurities, body image struggles, self-doubt, chubby!reader, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Word Count: 9068 words {Reading Time: 33 mins-ish} Songs to listen to while reading: My pace, youtiful, connected, mirror, you can STAY, hold my hand, grow up, hellevator, side effects, social path, cheese, time out, aliens, 19, 24 to 25, haPpy, stars and raindrops, sorry, I love you, I hate to admit, RUN, lonely st. , winter falls, railways Synopsis: What starts as a simple fan letter to Stray Kids thanking them for their music turns into an unexpected connection with Bang Chan. Through heartfelt letters, you share your deepest thoughts, fears, and dreams—never expecting him to truly see you. But when fate brings you face-to-face, you realize some words are meant to be more than just ink on paper. Author’s Note: This story is for anyone who has ever doubted their worth or felt like they didn’t belong in a love story. Chan’s warmth and kindness are a reminder that love isn’t about appearances—it’s about feeling seen. I hope this brings you comfort and a little bit of hope.

The silence in your room was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the desk lamp and the gentle melody of Stray Kids' "You Can STAY" playing on repeat. The melody, a comforting balm, swirled around you, a gentle embrace in the solitude. The scent of old paper mingled with the faint, lingering aroma of lavender incense, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere.

Your fingers, slightly chilled, traced the delicate embossed flowers along the edge of the stationery. It was a special set, reserved for moments of profound emotion, a gift from your grandmother, who always believed in the power of handwritten words. The paper, a creamy ivory, felt smooth and cool beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth that was beginning to spread through your chest.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. The music resonated within you, a silent symphony of the soul. Each note, each lyric, was a testament to the power of vulnerability, the courage to lay bare one's innermost thoughts and fears. You were about to do the same, to entrust your deepest insecurities to the very people who had given you the strength to face them.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, trembling slightly. You were about to write a letter, a confession, a thank you note that carried the weight of years of unspoken pain. How could you possibly articulate the profound impact their music had had on your life? How could you explain the way their words had pierced through the layers of self-doubt and insecurity that had built up around your heart like a fortress?

Dear Stray Kids,

The words, simple and direct, felt woefully inadequate. They were a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. You paused, the pen resting on the paper, and allowed the memories to flood your mind. The cruel taunts, the disdainful glances, the relentless pressure to conform to a narrow, unattainable standard of beauty.

You remembered the way you used to avoid mirrors, the way you would flinch at your own reflection, seeing only flaws and imperfections. You remembered the way you would shrink into yourself, trying to become invisible, to disappear.

But then, you discovered Stray Kids. Their music, raw and honest, spoke to the unspoken pain, the hidden insecurities. Bang Chan’s lyrics, in particular, resonated with a depth that felt almost personal, as if he had peered into your soul and written a song just for you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I needed to say thank you. Your music has been a constant companion, a source of strength when I felt utterly lost. Especially your songs, Bang Chan… they spoke to me in a way no one else ever has.

A lump formed in your throat, and tears welled up in your eyes. You had never shared your insecurities with anyone, not even your closest friends. It was a vulnerability too raw, too painful to expose. But writing to them, to the voices that had given you strength, felt different. It felt like a release, a way to acknowledge the pain without being judged.

I’ve struggled with my body image for as long as I can remember. The world seems to have a very narrow definition of beauty, and I’ve always felt outside of it. Your words, though, they reminded me that I’m not alone. That even in the midst of doubt, there’s strength to be found.

You remembered the first time you heard "My Pace," the way the lyrics had urged you to embrace your individuality, to walk your own path. It was a revelation, a gentle reminder that you were not alone in your struggles. Others felt the same way, others grappled with the same demons.

You wrote about the small victories, the moments of self-acceptance that had begun to sprout like fragile seedlings in the barren landscape of your self-esteem. You wrote about the way their music had given you the courage to look in the mirror and see not a distorted reflection of your flaws, but a person worthy of love and acceptance. You described the way a particular song, "Grow Up," had helped you to understand that it was okay to make mistakes, to stumble, to learn and evolve.

The pen moved across the page, a silent dance of emotions. You poured your heart onto the paper, each word a testament to the profound impact their music had had on your life.

I never expect a reply. I just wanted to express my deepest gratitude. You’ve helped me more than you know.

The words felt inadequate, a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. But it was all you had, a simple expression of thanks from a heart overflowing with gratitude.

You sealed the letter, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the paper, and placed it in an envelope. It was a small act, a message in a bottle cast into the vast ocean of the world. But it was also a declaration, a testament to the power of music to heal, to connect, to transform. As you placed the envelope on your desk, a sense of peace settled over you. You had released a burden, shared a part of yourself that had been hidden for too long. And in that act of vulnerability, you found a quiet strength, a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, your words would find their way to the hearts that had inspired them. You felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders, ready to accept the unknown.

Then the arrival of Bang Chan’s letters became a sacred ritual, a lifeline in the often-turbulent sea of your days. Each envelope, thick and bearing the weight of his words, felt like a tangible piece of him, a bridge constructed of ink and emotion, spanning the vast, silent chasm between your worlds. The subtle, lingering scent of his cologne, a complex blend of sandalwood, warm amber, and something uniquely, undeniably him, clung to the paper, a sensory echo that made him feel impossibly close, a whisper of his presence in your quiet room. It was a detail so minute, yet it amplified the intimacy of your correspondence, turning each letter into a cherished artifact, a testament to a connection forged in vulnerability.

As you carefully unfolded his words, the elegant script flowing across the page like a gentle, meandering river, a sense of profound connection washed over you, a warmth that spread through your limbs like sunlight after a long, cold night. He didn't offer platitudes or dismiss your insecurities with empty reassurances. Instead, he acknowledged them, validated them with a sincerity that resonated deep within the core of your being. He spoke of his own vulnerabilities, the weight of expectations that pressed down on him like an invisible, suffocating burden, the fear of falling short, of disappointing those who looked to him for strength and guidance. His honesty was disarming, a breath of fresh air in a world often choked with artifice and pretense.

Your replies became a sanctuary, a space where you could shed the armor of pretense and reveal the raw, unfiltered truth of your emotions. You shared your dreams, the fragile aspirations that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart like delicate, unseen wildflowers, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow, light and shadow. You told him about the books that transported you to other worlds, the music that resonated with your soul, the way the simple act of watching a sunset could fill you with a sense of quiet wonder, a profound appreciation for the beauty of the world.

He, in turn, opened up about the complexities of his life as an artist, the relentless pursuit of perfection, the sleepless nights spent in the studio, the constant pressure to innovate and create, to push the boundaries of his art. But he also spoke of the exhilaration of performing, the electric connection with STAYs, the profound sense of belonging that came from sharing his art with the world, the feeling of being understood and accepted.

“Sometimes,” he wrote, his words etched into the paper with a raw honesty that made your heart ache, a vulnerability that mirrored your own, “I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I want to be strong for everyone, to be the anchor that holds us all together. But sometimes, I just need someone to tell me it’s okay to be vulnerable, to admit that I’m not always strong, that I’m human too.”

His words resonated with you on a visceral level, echoing the silent battles you fought within yourself. You understood the constant pressure to project an image of strength, the fear of revealing the cracks in your armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface. You shared your own vulnerabilities, the way you flinched at the cruel comments about your weight, the way you avoided mirrors, the way you sometimes felt like a ghost, invisible and unseen, a whisper in a crowded room.

The letters became a lifeline, a sacred space where you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment. They were a silent symphony, a delicate dance of words and emotions, a testament to the power of human connection, a bridge built on shared vulnerability. You shared your deepest fears, your most cherished dreams, your quietest hopes. He shared his, the pressure of leadership, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the adulation of millions, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation.

One night, as you sat bathed in the soft glow of your desk lamp, the words spilled onto the page, a torrent of unspoken pain, a confession whispered into the darkness. “People like me don’t belong in love stories,” you wrote, the words heavy with the weight of years of self-doubt, the echoes of cruel words and dismissive glances. The darkness of your room amplified the quiet despair in your heart, making you feel utterly alone, adrift in a sea of unspoken pain.

His reply arrived a few days later, and it was longer, more heartfelt than any before. The ink on the page seemed to shimmer with an unspoken emotion, a raw vulnerability that made your breath catch in your throat, a testament to the depth of his empathy.

“(Your Name), love isn’t about a number on a scale, or the shape of your body, or the way the world perceives you. It’s about the soul, the heart, the connection between two people. It’s about seeing the beauty that lies within, the strength that shines through even in the midst of vulnerability. You are worthy of being loved, exactly as you are. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And please, never say you don’t belong in a love story, because you do. You deserve the world, and all the love it has to offer, a love that sees you for who you truly are, a love that celebrates your strength and embraces your vulnerability.”

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a gentle caress that soothed the scars of years of self-doubt, a gentle reminder of your inherent worth. You reread his letters, the words etched into your memory, a constant reminder of your own strength and resilience. The rhythm of your correspondence became a comforting constant, a quiet symphony played out in the still of the night. You would write, pouring your heart onto the page, and he would reply, his words a gentle echo of your own emotions, a testament to the profound connection that had blossomed between you.

With each letter, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions, a testament to the power of shared vulnerability, a bridge built on honesty and understanding. You felt seen, understood, cherished. But the thought of meeting him, of bridging the gap between your worlds, still seemed impossible, a distant dream. He was Bang Chan, the leader of Stray Kids, a star in a universe that felt light years away from your own.

Yet, a small, fragile hope bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart, a delicate flower pushing through the cracks of uncertainty, a whisper of possibility. It was a silent promise of something more, something deeper, a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation. The letters were more than just words on paper; they were pieces of your souls, shared and cherished, building a bridge between two worlds, two hearts, one word at a time, one shared vulnerability at a time.

The fan sign event loomed like a seismic shift in your reality, a terrifying yet exhilarating precipice. Winning the ticket had been a surreal dream, a distant, impossible star. Now, it was a stark, unavoidable truth. You were going to meet Bang Chan, the man whose words had been a lifeline, whose understanding had been a sanctuary. You were going to stand before him, face-to-face, after years of exchanging letters, of baring your soul in the quiet intimacy of written words.

The anxiety was a tangible entity, a cold, heavy weight that settled in the pit of your stomach, a knot of nerves that refused to unravel. You wrestled with the impulse to back out, to invent a sudden illness, to send a friend in your stead. But the thought of relinquishing this opportunity, of allowing fear to dictate your actions, felt like a profound betrayal—a betrayal of the connection you had painstakingly built with him, a betrayal of the fragile hope that had blossomed in your heart, a betrayal of the vulnerability you had shared.

The day of the fan sign arrived, a surreal blur of nervous energy and frantic preparations. You meticulously selected your outfit, striving for a delicate balance between comfort and confidence, wanting to feel seen but not overly conspicuous. You arrived at the venue hours before the scheduled start, the queue stretching around the block, a vibrant tapestry of faces buzzing with anticipation, a chorus of excited whispers.

As you waited, your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of your inner turmoil. You clutched your album, its cover worn from countless replays, a tangible representation of the emotional resonance you felt with his music. You rehearsed the words you would say, the carefully crafted phrases you had formulated in your mind, but they all felt inadequate, hollow echoes in the face of the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The scent of the venue, a mix of sweat, perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of stage lights, swirled around you, adding to the sensory overload.

Finally, your turn arrived. The line inched forward, each step an agonizingly slow descent into the moment of truth. You observed the interactions of the fans with the members, their faces illuminated with joy and adoration. You witnessed the warmth of Bang Chan's smile, the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine connection he forged with each person who approached him. The sound of his laughter, the gentle cadence of his voice, filled the room, a tangible echo of the man you had come to know through his letters.

Then, it was your turn. You stepped forward, your legs trembling slightly, and approached the table. The cacophony of the crowd receded into a dull hum, and the world narrowed to the figure seated before you. Bang Chan.

His eyes met yours, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The familiar warmth of his smile, the intensity of his gaze, it was like stepping into the pages of his letters, a tangible manifestation of the emotions you had shared across the distance. But there was something else in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, a silent question that hung in the air like a whispered secret, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

He froze, his pen hovering over the album, his smile faltering for a fleeting moment. His gaze searched yours, a deep, probing look that seemed to penetrate the layers of your being, to see into the depths of your soul. He whispered your name, the sound barely audible above the din of the crowd, yet clear as a bell in your ears, a hushed acknowledgment of your presence.

"It's really you. Finally."

The words hung in the air, a silent declaration, an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection you had built, the profound understanding that had blossomed between you. His voice was soft, intimate, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. The faint scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of sandalwood and warm amber, filled your senses, a tangible echo of his presence.

The moment stretched out, an eternity suspended in time, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. You managed a shaky smile, your voice lost in the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The fan sign became a blur, a series of fragmented images and sensations. You remembered the warmth of his hand as he signed your album, the delicate brush of his fingers against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You remembered the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to be searching for something in your eyes, something that transcended the boundaries of fan and idol, something that spoke of a deeper connection, a shared vulnerability.

He asked you about your day, your favorite songs, the details you had shared in your letters. His voice was soft, intimate, as if you were continuing a conversation that had never been interrupted. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, and you felt a sense of being seen, understood, cherished—a feeling that had been so elusive for so long. The sound of his voice, the gentle cadence of his words, was a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

As you moved away from the table, a sense of disorientation washed over you. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the familiar reality of your life shifting and rearranging itself. You had met him, the man behind the letters, the voice that had comforted you, the soul that had resonated with yours. And he had recognized you, not as a face in a crowd, but as the person he had connected with through words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You replayed the moment of recognition in your mind, trying to decipher the unspoken meaning behind his words, the intensity in his gaze. You wondered if he felt the same connection you did, if the letters had meant as much to him as they had to you. The lingering scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice—tangible echoes of your encounter—filled your thoughts.

You hesitated to write, afraid of shattering the delicate balance of your relationship. What if meeting him had changed things? What if the intimacy of your letters was lost in the awkwardness of a face-to-face encounter, replaced by the stark reality of your physical presence?

Then, a final letter arrived, slipped beneath your door, the paper slightly crumpled. The scent of his cologne was stronger this time, a tangible reminder of his presence, a whisper of his nearness.

“I don’t want to be just your pen pal anymore. Let’s write our own story together.”

The words were a declaration, a silent promise, a bridge extending across the chasm between your worlds. The fear and uncertainty that had clouded your mind began to dissipate, replaced by a fragile hope, a quiet anticipation.

You wrote back immediately, your heart overflowing with emotions you had kept hidden for so long. You agreed to meet him, to explore the possibility of something more, something deeper. The moment of recognition had been a turning point, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, that had set your hearts on a new course, a journey into the uncharted territory of your shared story. You were ready to write your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one tangible echo at a time.

The decision to meet Bang Chan outside the structured confines of a fan sign event was a leap of faith, a plunge into the uncharted waters of a relationship that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of written words. The anticipation was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a mix of excitement and trepidation that made your heart race.

The designated meeting place was a small, secluded café, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The warm, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. As you entered, your eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. Then, you saw him, seated at a corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp.

He looked different in person, more real, more tangible. The soft lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile—they were all magnified in the intimacy of the moment. The faint scent of his cologne, the same woody fragrance that lingered on his letters, filled your senses, a tangible reminder of the connection you shared.

The initial awkwardness was palpable, a silent tension that hung in the air like a delicate thread. You stumbled over your words, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding in your chest. He, too, seemed slightly flustered, his usual composure momentarily shaken. But as you began to talk, the familiar comfort of your letters returned, a silent understanding that bridged the gap between your nervousness.

You spoke of your dreams, your aspirations, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow. He spoke of his fears, the weight of responsibility, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the cheers of thousands. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like continuing a dialogue that had never been interrupted.

The quiet intimacy of the café, the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of cups, created a sanctuary, a space where you could be yourselves, unfiltered and unedited. You shared your vulnerabilities, the insecurities that had haunted you for years, the fear of not being enough. He shared his, the pressure to be perfect, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

With each shared confidence, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to him, your heart aching with the weight of his burdens, your soul resonating with his honesty.

As the hours passed, the initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a comfortable silence, a silent understanding that spoke volumes. You found yourselves laughing at shared jokes, reminiscing about the contents of your letters, discovering new layers of connection that transcended the written word.

He walked you home, the quiet streets of the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken emotions and shared understanding. At your doorstep, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours.

“I had a really good time,” he said, his voice soft, a gentle caress.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Can we do this again?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice filled with a quiet certainty.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of stolen moments and whispered confidences. You met in secluded cafes, quiet parks, hidden corners of the city, creating a world of your own, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes of the public.

You shared your favorite songs, your favorite books, your favorite memories. He shared his, the stories behind his music, the struggles and triumphs of his career, the quiet moments of reflection that fueled his creativity.

He listened to your fears, your dreams, your insecurities, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to his, the weight of responsibility, the longing for normalcy, the quiet ache for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

He became your safe space, a haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving. You became his, a source of comfort and understanding, a quiet anchor in the chaos of his life.

The connection between you deepened, a silent symphony played out in shared silences and whispered confidences. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

One night, as you sat in a quiet park, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. The touch was electric, a jolt of energy that sent shivers down your spine.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said, his voice soft, a whisper in the quiet night.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection that had blossomed between you. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.

A few months later, he introduced you to his members. The initial nervousness was quickly replaced by a warm welcome, a sense of belonging that made you feel like you had always been part of their family.

Seungmin’s playful jabs, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s protective warmth—they embraced you with open arms, their acceptance a testament to the bond you had formed with Chan.

“He’s been talking about you for months,” Seungmin teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We were starting to think you were a figment of his imagination.”

“He’s happier,” Felix added, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy. “He smiles more.”

Changbin, the quiet protector, offered a warm smile and a silent nod of approval.

Through it all, Chan never defined your relationship. You were just friends, a label that felt both comforting and inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the connection between you deepened, a quiet symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long.

The beginning of your story was a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared silence at a time.

Three years. Three years since the hesitant first meeting, the quiet sanctuary of the secluded café, the moment of recognition that had shifted the axis of your lives. Three years of stolen moments, shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The initial awkwardness, the tentative steps of your budding relationship, had long since melted away, replaced by a comfortable familiarity, a silent understanding that transcended the need for words. You had become an integral part of each other’s lives, a constant presence, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of your respective worlds. The silence between you was no longer a void, but a language of its own, a symphony of unspoken emotions and shared understanding.

The stolen moments, once a necessity born of secrecy, had transformed into cherished rituals, sacred spaces in the chaos of your lives. Late-night calls, hushed conversations in the quiet hours, impromptu visits to secluded corners of the city—they were the threads that wove the intricate tapestry of your shared life. You had created a sanctuary, a world of your own, where you could shed the weight of expectations, the masks of public personas, and simply be yourselves, vulnerable and authentic.

He called you when the pressure of leadership became an unbearable weight, when the weight of expectations threatened to crush him beneath its enormity. You listened, offering a quiet strength, a gentle reminder that he was not alone in his burdens. You reminded him to breathe, to find moments of peace amidst the relentless chaos, to remember the human being beneath the idol.

You called him when the insecurities that had haunted you for years threatened to resurface, when the cruel whispers of self-doubt echoed in your mind, a relentless chorus of negativity. He listened, offering a gentle reassurance, a quiet reminder that you were worthy of love, exactly as you were. He held you when the fear became a suffocating presence, his arms a safe haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

The members of Stray Kids had become a second family, their acceptance a testament to the profound bond you shared with Chan. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s boundless enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were the constants in your life, a reminder that you were loved, accepted, cherished, not as an outsider, but as an integral part of their family.

You had become a silent observer of their world, a quiet confidante in their moments of vulnerability, a witness to their triumphs and struggles. You saw the dedication, the passion, the unwavering commitment to their art. You saw the sacrifices they made, the pressure they endured, the unwavering support they offered each other, a silent symphony of camaraderie.

But through it all, Chan never defined your relationship with a label. You were just friends, a term that felt both comforting and woefully inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship, a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

On his birthday, October 3rd, you sat down to write him a letter, a culmination of the three years you had shared, a testament to the profound impact he had had on your life. The words flowed effortlessly, a silent symphony of emotions, a tapestry of shared memories.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words. You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his words.

The beginning of your story had been a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. Now, you were writing a new chapter, a chapter filled with love, acceptance, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared life at a time, one silent heartbeat at a time.

Chan,

Three years. Three years since the hesitant beginnings, the quiet sanctuary of our shared words, the silent language that blossomed between us. Three years since you became my sanctuary, my home, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of my life. I remember the first letter, the hesitant words of gratitude that sparked a connection I never dared to dream of, a fragile thread woven from vulnerability and honesty, a testament to the power of shared souls. You listened, Chan. You saw me when I felt invisible, a ghost in a crowded room, a whisper lost in the noise of the world. You understood me when I felt lost, adrift in a sea of self-doubt, a silent echo of the pain I carried. You cherished me, exactly as I am, flaws and all, a gentle reminder of my inherent worth, a beacon in the darkness.

You’ve held my hand through storms, both literal and metaphorical, your presence a steady comfort in the chaos. You’ve whispered comfort in the quietest of nights, a soothing balm to my wounded spirit, a gentle caress that healed the scars of years of self-doubt. You’ve shown me what it means to be seen, to be accepted, to be loved, not for who the world wants me to be, but for who I truly am, a soul laid bare. You’ve given me a home in your heart, a place where I finally belong, a sanctuary in the chaos of the world, a tangible echo of the comfort I found in your words.

And now, on your birthday, surrounded by the echoes of our shared memories, the silent symphony of our intertwined lives, I can no longer hold back the words that have been whispering in my soul for so long, a quiet chorus of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of my heart.

Chan, I’ve loved you for so long. Maybe I always have, from the moment your words reached into the depths of my soul and pulled me from the darkness, a tangible echo of the connection we shared.

Happy Birthday.

The final words hung in the air, a silent declaration that filled the room with unspoken emotions, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The momement he read it he looked up, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet symphony of unspoken promises. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a fragile thread woven from years of shared vulnerability, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

He rose, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room, his gaze never leaving yours, his presence a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters, a silent promise of something more. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a jolt of electricity that resonated through your body, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a silent symphony of hearts beating in unison, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and then, he kissed you.

The kiss was soft, tender, a culmination of three years of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a gentle exploration, a tentative acknowledgment of the unspoken language that had defined your relationship, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. His lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, a silent promise of something more, a fragile bridge between your hearts.

Inside your thoughts: It’s real. It’s finally real. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment. His lips on mine, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between our hearts, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. He tasted of warmth, of home, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in his words, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a fragile hope that whispered of a shared future, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

"I've loved you too," he whispered, his voice barely audible, a confession as fragile as a whispered promise, a silent echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the honesty that had defined your relationship. "For so long."

Inside Bang Chan's thoughts: Her words, a confession as raw and honest as the letters she had written over the years, echoed in my mind, a silent symphony of shared vulnerability, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. Three years. Three years of shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of our shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of my existence. Her kiss, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. She tasted of home, of comfort, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in her presence. She was my safe space, my anchor, the one person who saw me for who I truly was, flaws and all, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped around you like a lifeline, his warmth a comforting embrace, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his presence, a silent symphony of intertwined souls. The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

"You're my home," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a silent echo of the feelings that resonated within you, a raw vulnerability that mirrored your own, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. "You're my safe space. You're everything."

"You're mine too," you replied, your voice barely a whisper, a silent promise of forever, a tangible echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The members groaned in the background, a chorus of playful complaints, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface. "Finally! Now, can you please get a room?"

The moment was a turning point, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface, a love that had finally found its voice, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment, a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions, a mix of joy, relief, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were no longer just friends, no longer just pen pals. You were partners, lovers, souls intertwined, a silent symphony of shared lives, a tangible echo of the love that filled your world, a silent promise of forever.

The unveiling of your relationship, the whispered "I love you too" exchanged in the quiet sanctity of his birthday, was a cataclysmic event, a pivotal moment that irrevocably altered the landscape of your shared existence. The quiet sanctuary you had painstakingly constructed, a haven where vulnerability and honesty reigned supreme, was about to be exposed to the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent battlefield where emotions clashed and perceptions warred. The weight of that exposure was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a silent tremor of anxiety that threatened to shatter the fragile equilibrium you had painstakingly achieved, a storm brewing on the horizon.

The news, as it inevitably does in a world saturated with digital echoes and insatiable curiosity, leaked. A grainy photo, captured from a distance, of you and Chan sharing a quiet moment in a secluded café, accompanied by a sensationalized article that painted a distorted and often malicious picture of your relationship, spread like wildfire across social media platforms, igniting a firestorm of reactions. The responses were immediate, varied, and often volatile, a cacophony of voices echoing across the digital landscape, a symphony of scrutiny that threatened to drown out the quiet intimacy of your love, a silent war waged in the digital realm.

Some STAYs, the loyal guardians of Chan’s world, were overjoyed, their comments brimming with warmth and unwavering support. They celebrated your love, seeing it as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism and negativity. They shared your photos, wrote heartfelt messages, and created fan edits, embracing you as part of their family, a testament to the transformative power of shared joy and acceptance, a silent chorus of support.

Others, however, were less accepting, their words sharp and cruel, their comments laced with jealousy, resentment, and often, a deep-seated sense of possessiveness. They questioned your worthiness, scrutinized your appearance, and accused you of seeking attention, of exploiting Chan’s fame for your own gain. They saw you as a threat, an intruder in their idealized world, a disruption to the carefully constructed image of their idol, a silent battleground of conflicting emotions where personal desires clashed with the reality of Chan's life, a storm of negativity.

The online vitriol was a constant hum, a relentless barrage of negativity that threatened to drown you in a sea of doubt and self-doubt. You found yourself retreating into the quiet sanctuary of your shared world, seeking solace in Chan’s presence, his warmth a comforting embrace against the coldness of the world, a silent refuge from the storm raging outside, a fragile haven in the chaos.

He stood by you, unwavering in his support, a silent protector against the storm of public opinion. He addressed the rumors in a live broadcast, his voice calm and steady, his words filled with sincerity and conviction, a testament to the unwavering strength of his love, a silent declaration of his commitment.

“Yes, I am in a relationship,” he said, his eyes meeting the camera, his gaze direct and unwavering, a silent declaration of his unwavering love and commitment, a beacon of truth in a sea of speculation. “She is important to me. She makes me happy. She sees me for who I am, not for who the world wants me to be.”

He spoke of your kindness, your strength, your unwavering support, the qualities that had drawn him to you in the first place, the silent language of shared souls. He spoke of the connection you shared, a bond built on honesty, vulnerability, and mutual respect, a testament to the power of shared souls. He asked for respect, for understanding, for the privacy to navigate your relationship away from the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent plea for empathy and understanding, a fragile hope for peace.

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a testament to his unwavering love, a silent promise of protection and unwavering support, a beacon of strength in the darkness. But they also ignited a fresh wave of reactions, some supportive, some vitriolic. The online discourse became a battleground, a clash of opinions and emotions, a silent war waged in the digital realm, where words were weapons and perceptions were shields, a storm of conflicting emotions.

Chan's Instagram, once a carefully curated collection of artistic shots and candid moments, became a testament to your love, a silent declaration of his affection, a tangible representation of your shared world, a beacon of hope in the chaos. He shared silly selfies, cozy nights, handwritten notes envelopes, each post a silent echo of the love that filled his heart, a tangible representation of your shared world. He wanted the world to see his happiness, to understand that you were his safe space, his anchor, his home, a silent sanctuary in the chaos of his life, a testament to the power of shared love, a fragile hope for understanding.

The members of Stray Kids, your chosen family, rallied around you, their support unwavering and unwavering, a silent fortress against the storm. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were your shield, your fortress, your constant reminder that you were loved and accepted, an integral part of their family, a testament to the power of chosen bonds, a quiet chorus of support.

“He’s happier,” Felix said in a live broadcast, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy, a silent testament to the transformative power of your love, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in negativity. “He smiles more when she’s around.”

“She’s good for him,” Changbin added, his voice gruff but his eyes warm, a silent acknowledgment of the strength you brought to Chan’s life, a testament to the power of shared understanding, a quiet declaration of support.

The public scrutiny was relentless, a constant hum of judgment and speculation, but your bond with Chan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity, a testament to the enduring power of love. You learned to navigate the complexities of a public relationship, to filter the noise, to focus on the love that surrounded you, a silent sanctuary in the chaos, a fragile hope for peace.

You found solace in the quiet moments, the stolen hours when you could be yourselves, away from the prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny, a silent refuge in each other’s arms, a haven of peace. You found strength in each other’s presence, a silent understanding that transcended words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet understanding of shared souls.

You learned to appreciate the supportive voices, the fans who embraced your love, who saw your relationship as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism. You learned to ignore the hateful comments, the cruel words, the attempts to tear you down, a silent battle against the negativity, a testament to your inner strength, a quiet declaration of resilience.

The years passed, and your relationship became a part of the fabric of Stray Kids’ story, a testament to the enduring power of love, a beacon of hope in the chaos. Fans watched you grow, watched your love blossom, watched Chan’s happiness radiate like a warm glow, a silent symphony of shared joy, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke your name, the way he found solace in your presence, a silent acknowledgment of the love that filled his heart, a testament to the power of shared souls.

They began to understand. They saw the vulnerability, the honesty, the unwavering love that defined your relationship, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way you supported Chan, the way you understood him, the way you loved him for who he was, not for who the world wanted him to be, a silent declaration of your unwavering love, a fragile hope for understanding.

And in the end, that was all that mattered. You had found love in the midst of chaos, a quiet sanctuary in a world of noise, a testament to the enduring power of shared souls. You had built a home in each other’s hearts, a love that transcended the boundaries of fame and scrutiny, a silent symphony of intertwined lives, a tangible echo of forever, a testament to the power of shared souls. You had written your own story, together, one chapter at a time, a testament to the enduring power of love, a silent echo of forever's embrace.

--

[theseinfernalangels]

Humble opinions about ideal types

Look at me writing yet another thing! I’m a yapper y’all I’m sorry.

My opinions on the boys’ ideal types (I tried to stay somewhat gender neutral, but I ended up using more feminine terms anyway just because):

Aaric: He likes people who can make him think in a different light. I have no doubt that as a prince, he grew up pretty sheltered from other perspectives other than elite and wealthy. This changes, obviously, but I think that when someone is able to catch his attention with their passion or intelligence and then show him a new perspective, he’d find them super intriguing and want to spend more time around them. Then push comes to shove, and he’s in love. Also, would totally spite his family and marry someone who despised the monarchy despite being a part of it. He’s just petty like that.

Bodhi: Ah, Bodhi “That’s my wife!” Durran. As I and many other writers on here have established, Bodhi is a lover and a feeler. He likes being able to love on someone with no restraint whatsoever, even if that’s not their number one love language. Likes a little chaos balanced on the shoulders of discipline. 

When he’s fighting someone to the point of no return, on his knees with nowhere to run, he’ll just smile up at his attackers like, “Have you guys ever met the love of my life?” And obviously they’re like, “What the hell, no,” and Bodhi’s smile turns into a full on wicked grin as he goes, “You’re about to.” Sort of like Riorgail but instead of him burning the world down for his lover, he knows he doesn’t have to — because they’ll be the one to burn it, and he gets to hold them to his chest as they watch the Earth go up in flames.

Brennan: Eldest son meets eldest daughter energy. Those girls who are exhausted from having the weight of the world on their shoulders, the family therapists, the “I can and will do everything myself because none of y’all will do it right.” Brennan likes to be the one someone comes to for help (hello Mender!), and he also really enjoys taking those burdens and going, “I know you can do it all perfectly, but I’d like to do it for you.” He has to convince them to rest, to take a break for like five minutes, and can do it easily by running his hands through their hair and quietly murmuring, “I’ve got it, go sit,” into their temples. 

I also think that Brennan is a dreamer. He has so many aspirations that he’s wanted to accomplish, but ever since the Battle of Aretia, he’s resigned them to simple hopes. If he can find someone to listen to him ramble on about the most absurd things he can come up with, that’s when you know he’s totally gone for them.

Dain: Sloane. Literally just Sloane in any and all font. You would think he likes anyone who’s a stickler for rules like him, but the thing is that deep down, he both wants and needs someone to lead him out of that mindset and tell him it’s okay not to be the perfect soldier all the time. Proud, fiery, doesn’t really like listening…Plus tension, tension, and more tension. If they can piss him off enough that he breaks and is able to find solace in non-conformity, he likes them. He also likes a little guidance — help him be put back on the right track since he’s been skewed one way for over 20 years.

Probably also a little traditional and likes to be able to be the “strong one” — that’s just a man thing, I fear — but also wouldn’t mind if someone else were there to protect him. There’s a better way to word this, but I think that his mother not really being present kind of influenced the way he sees relationships. Needs some time to work out all of the things his shithole father grilled into him a young age before he can really allow himself to fully fall for someone. Time for some more ✨character growth.✨

Garrick: OH BOY. Okay, this is going to be so specific, but Gare likes people who can be his equal. If you’ve read anything I’ve written for Garrick, you know that my OC, Cosette, is a princess who got thrown into the quadrant against her will — but she’s still able to hold her own. If they can square their shoulders, look a General in the eyes and tell them to fuck off, he’ll be on his knees. Garrick likes to match his partner’s freak, but we all know he’s also a protector at heart. Can and will lay down his life for them, even if they’re totally against the idea. Kind of prefers a generally feminine energy, but that’s just my humble (but totally accurate) opinion.

Liam: Y’know those guys who look at people who could absolutely rock their shit and go, “Yeah, that’s what I want”? That’s Liam. He likes to be able to protect the people he loves, but if his lover is able to do the same? Gods, he’s a goner. He likes someone he can go toe-to-toe with, but he also loves an independent girlie that he can and will do things for. Remember, I said he’s an acts of service guy, and if he can convince you to lay down on him or lean on him when you’re injured, then you have his heart. Very similar to Brennan; he likes to be the one to raise the bar if you’ve never been treated right (and relishes in the fact that he’s the best you’ve ever had).

Ridoc: Two types of people come to mind for Ridoc — the most impulsive and fiery people you’ve ever met, or a strict, disciplined figure of authority (remember when he slept with someone in Leadership?). A decent amount of people ship him with Brennan, and it’s easy to see why. His cheeky nature is hard to pin down, and if someone can actually manage to one-up him, he’d be so down bad. But, on the flip side, if he can find someone else who’s even harder to pin, then he’d go crazy trying to catch them. He lives for the chase, the thrill, the catch, the back and forth that results when he has a pretty firecracker on his lap. Him and his partner go together like Coke and Mentos.

Sawyer: I think we already know, if his giant crush on Jesinia didn’t make it clear enough; Sawyer likes people that aren’t exactly hardened by battle the way he is. I get the sense that he’s a little traditional and just loves the idea of being able to come home to someone who doesn’t know the torment of war the way he knows it — up close and personally. Someone with a Scribe or Healer’s heart who is still strong in their own right. Of course, when a pretty dame is able to beat the hell out of someone or verbally grill them for disrespecting them, he does the audible *nervous gulp*, but I feel like he’s just really into soft people (which is why I made Kora for him). Soft can be both in temperament, or literally soft-spoken; I think Sawyer’s into those people who don’t really speak much in public, but get a tad louder and more bubbly around him. Cuteness!

Feel free to add on!

[scoobydoodean]

Okay real talk. Do you think Dean fears femininity or fears being exploited* and used for things associated with femininity: caretaking, softness, nurturing, etc. Again, it seems there is a subset of fandom that is very literal when seeing posturing and taking the least charitable, kink-shaming position imaginable.

No I do not think Dean fears being associated with these things. As someone who more or less identifies as a genderless blob (except when I don't) and has spent their entire life being deeply confused by "traditional gender roles" and what the actual fuck people mean when they refer to the "maculine" vs "feminine" along some kind of spectrum, I have a lot of trouble articulating my thoughts around this subject. That's also why I don't usually engage with it. But I think it's clear that a lot of people throughout Dean's life try to minimize his feelings and experiences by questioning (through the "traditional" lens of these things) his masculinity and/or associating him with the feminine. Dean has been on the receiving end of challenges to his masculinity and association with the feminine intended to criticize him far more times than he's pushed those narratives on others, though we know he isn't a stranger to the handle side of the knife. I think people sometimes look at the way Dean is mocked and assume that they're supposed to believe Dean feels humiliated by being associated with softness, nurturing, caretaking, etc. But I think it's difficult to argue that he is humiliated as much as he's frustrated, because he doesn't stop nurturing and caretaking and being soft despite it all.

What these moments do serve to illustrate is Dean being expected to play the role of an eternal happy-go-lucky playboy who can't be tied down in one breath then a nurturer who never thinks a horrible thought and always has energy to care for others the next. He's ridiculed for being rough edged then he's ridiculed for being too soft. These chameleon-esque expectations are designed in such a way that it is impossible for him to please anyone. When he is one thing, he is not the other, therefore he fails. When he is a brother, he isn't being a parent. When he's being a father, he isn't being a mother (again in the "traditional" lens) and vice versa. When he's angry, he isn't being loving and forgiving enough. When he's sad or depressed or lost, he's being a nancy. I think the impossible expectation—to be both "feminine" and "masculine" simultaneously in the traditional sense—is something a lot of people will find relatable. Especially if you grew up with one or both parents imposing traditional gender roles on you, then criticizing you for your nonconformity AND your conformity to those roles in turns.

The thing is that tender IS Dean's default, and I don't think he's ashamed of that as much as people sometimes try to make him ashamed, or he withdraws because he realizes he is being harmed through that tenderness and then he is ridiculed for not being tender enough (often by the very person whose actions caused him to withdraw). Dean is a killer with blood under his nails but also that's not who he is. He's a nurturer who helps children deal with their bullies and tends to cuts on his brother's hand and wants a home. He's a weapon but he loves hugs and tells his mother it's okay and he'll never leave her and tells his dad it's okay when he comes home a wreck (2.01, 5.16). He's the sword of heaven, but he also cooks for his family and wraps blankets around their shoulders when they're sick. I literally have a whole tag dedicated to how incredibly tender Dean can be, and I think it's a huge stretch to suggest that he's embarrassed in every one of the hundreds of scenes where that tenderness shines, or that he in some way rejects that tenderness. Angels have fallen from heaven in response to his capacity to Care. Kings of Hell have softened their cruelty. Gods have turned from the path of destruction. Countless people have been driven from possession by his voice reaching out to them calling them home to him (tag). Dean is the narrative heart of the story and the hearth of the house. Tender is his default, and he contains multitudes.

[velvetvexations]

"Women do traditionally feminine stuff because they are afraid of the men in their lives." Hilarious, because for me growing up all of the worst misogyny I faced was at the hands of other women, usually family and friends, and whenever I caved into the pressure to do feminine things I didn't want to it was specifically because I was seeking the approval of other women. None of the men in my life have ever forced femininity on me the way the cis women have. The people who made fun of me for dressing "badly" and not shaving and spread rumors I was secretly a boy were all girls. I kept trying to get into makeup, not because I wanted boys to think I was cute(all the guys who've shown interest in me have actually liked me just fine the way I am), but because I wanted the women around me to see me as one of them and I never felt like I was.

Even when women aren't pressuring me to do girly things I still feel the pressure because I'm the only woman I know who doesn't and it makes me feel like a freak. I don't care what the men around me think, a guy getting weird about my not shaving or wearing makeup would be instantly disqualified from my dating pool without a second thought, being raised a feminist very quickly inoculated me against giving a shit what men think, but the women? My whole life I have been trying so hard to be one of them and it's still hard work to ignore the annoying internalized patriarchal cisheteronormative bullshit in my head making me think I need to be more like them and less like me. And I genuinely don't know if there will ever come a day when I can hang out in a group of women and not feel like an imposter just waiting to be discovered and killed.

And I know that my experiences aren't universal any more than the person who originally said that's are, but like. It's just wild to me that trans people especially will chalk all of the pressure to conform to gender roles up to shitty men and completely ignore how heavily the patriarchy incentivizes women to not only violently police each other's femininity but also destroy ourselves seeking the approval of the very women who are violently policing our femininity.

EXACTLY.

I love cis women who our allies with all my heart and soul, but we need to stop being desperate for their approval. The cis women who DO care about us would be the first to admit they as a category need to do a lot better, so why do we pussyfoot around them being just as horrible to us as cis men can be?

With trans women it feels like we're just trying to link arms under the exact same oppressive patriarchy because it feels like that's what being a woman is, haha yeah, men hate us, I mean they hate us in different ways and you hate us too but what matters above all else is that we're the exact same thing right? Oh, sorry, like seventy percent of you don't believe that and are violently disgusted by the thought of coming anywhere near me? But I also fear men!

And trans men...

"Women are soooo scared of me, yeah you better cover your drink around trans men too, I mean not that I would do anything personally, but I could, because I'm a man, and that means I could oppress and hurt you, theoretically!"

Listen, bro, most cis women aren't scared of you, they're laughing at you, and frankly so am I, not because it's impossible for a trans man to be a person who's intimidating, but because you're so needy for validation that you've developed a patriarchy fetish you can't turn off.

None of this is to say we should ignore the crimes of cis men or that cis women aren't also another marginalized class, and again, I love cis women who're trans allies, they're amazing, wonderful people and I would never want to leave them behind or seem ungrateful.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hallowed

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Toxic relationship dynamics, face sitting, smut. Word count: ~1.3k

Summary: Her Early Medieval Literature essay is due, and Michael has his own cruel way of ensuring she stays focused.

Author's note: Can be read as part two of this fic, but also works as a standalone. Day six of the Smuffmas prompts - "future and face sitting". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She lounges on Michael’s bed, clad in only knickers and one of his t-shirts, a copy of the Canterbury Tales grasped lightly between her fingers. Her eyes move over the words of Chaucer, but take none of them in, how could they? His long fingers draw lazy circles on her ankle, her legs stretched out up to the pillows where he reclines, the duvet wrapped around his bare midriff while he reads from a textbook called the Book of Proof.

Life feels simpler since Michael has entered it, despite the turbulent beginnings. She has given up her friends, under his advice, and there is now far less pressure to conform. Her only focuses are her studies and pleasing him, the latter of the two she takes great pleasure in.

It is always on his terms; when they see each other, what they do, how they do it, and despite his obvious initial inexperience he is a fast learner. His ability to make her fall apart, to make her relinquish all control is something he does expertly. The slight fear she feels towards him only adds to the excitement; he could destroy her if he wanted to, but if she plays nicely then he won’t, and she is more than happy to play nicely when the rewards for doing so are as satisfying as they are.

She sighs, his fingers upon her flesh making her core throb with want, even from the simple gesture of absentmindedly touching her leg. She lets her book slip from her fingers, raising up on her elbow to look at him.

“Michael…” she whines.

He looks at her impassively, adjusting his glasses. “The first of your three essays is due soon, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” she responds with a roll of her eyes, flopping back down and stretching her arms above her head. “Early Medieval Literature.”

His hand moves from her ankle, fingertips ghosting over the exposed skin between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of her underwear. “And what have you written?”

She shivers beneath his touch, squirming slightly. “Am I really here to study?”

“I’ve no interest in sleeping with a failing literature student,” he pulls his hand away and she immediately misses his warmth. “So tell me.”

She groans in frustration. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably something about irony in the Merchant’s Tale.”

His textbook thuds closed and she hears the heavy sound of him dropping it onto the bedside table. When she chances to glance up at him she sees he is sitting straighter in the bed, his gaze hardened as he looks at her. “Probably?! You mean you haven’t started it? Have you even thought about your thesis statement, your in-depth analysis or how you’re going to conclude your ideas, if you’ve even had any?”

“Oh, come on,” she says softly, sitting up and reaching for him. “There’s still time. Can’t we just–”

“No,” he cuts her off. “I’ve been spoiling you, and it’s made you stupid.”

“I’m not stupid!” She protests. “If I remember correctly, it was you who called my degree a ‘glorified book club’.”

“You still need to try,” he tells her, frowning.

“You don’t try,” she argues with a shrug,” and marks in your first year don’t count towards the final degree.”

“I don’t have to try, but I still get firsts in everything. Marks this year may not count towards the final degree you get, but they count towards you keeping your scholarship. Think about your future instead of being a fucking brat for once in your life.”

His words are a sharp sting to her already fragile ego, and she lowers her gaze, fighting the sudden urge to cry.

“I’m not touching you again until your essay’s handed in and I’ve seen what your mark is.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief as she looks at him, searching his features for any indication that he’s being unserious. She finds none; he really means it.

“And you’re not to touch yourself. I’ll know.”

The next two weeks are torturous for her. On the occasions that Michael does invite her to his room, there is no more casual half dressed lounging on his bed. Instead, he has a study space set up for her at his desk, and won’t allow her to speak or leave until she has at least a thousand words written. 

They meet up in the library during free periods so that he can read through what she’s written, and her skin burns hot with humiliation each time he screws up a page and throws it into the waste paper bin, calling her arguments “lazy” and “uninspired”.

It lights a fire of determination beneath her, but bubbling under the surface is also a heightened state of arousal, driven by the lack of intimacy, and the fact that she finds that she likes it when he is so authoritative over her.

By the time she has finished, she has produced an essay that both her and Michael are satisfied with; it discusses the use of irony in Chaucer’s poem, the Merchant's Tale. She has used a number of excerpts and lines from the poem for analysis, revealing the instances of irony in each, and from this has determined that the irony Chaucer used in the Merchant's Tale is controlled.

Her eyes light up when Professor Ware hands it back, and she sees the 85% that’s circled at the top of it.

A first.

She feels giddy with excitement as she knocks on Michael’s door that evening, brandishing the now dog-eared pages at him as he opens the door.

“A first, I got a first!” She squeals, watching as he takes the essay from her, his eyes moving slowly over the top page.

“Hmmm,” he settles it down on the desk, removing his glasses and placing them on top. “Take off your jeans and underwear.”

“Wha–what?” She stammers, her grin fading.

“You want your reward, don’t you?” He asks, moving to lay back on the bed.

She swallows thickly, excitement fluttering in her lower belly, as she quickly complies, ridding herself of the clothing that covers her lower half.

“Come here,” he commands softly.

She joins him on the bed, a gasp leaving her as he manhandles her until her knees are positioned either side of his head.

“My clever girl,” he whispers. His words could be mistaken for softness, were they not directly juxtaposed by the rapid darkening of his blue eyes, and the way his thumbs drag across the indentations between her thighs and pelvis. “I knew you could do it, you just needed a little…push.”

He drags his tongue from her opening all the way to her pearl, and her jaw goes slack, the wet sensation making her clench as she falls forward, hands clawing at the wall in front of her.

His grip on her thighs tightens and he tugs her flush against his face, the sloppy sounds of him devouring her are lewd combined with the wanton cries of pleasure that tumble from her lips.

She feels her mind go blank as he inserts his tongue inside of her, keeping it rigid as she begins to grind herself in a circular motion, keeping his nose pressed against where she needs it most, desperately chasing the release she’s needed the last couple of weeks.

His hum of appreciation reverberates through her core, and as he withdraws from her, plush lips wrapping around her sensitive bundle of nerves she feels herself fall apart as the growing ache intensifies, completely at his mercy as he laps at her, while white hot waves of pleasure wash over her.

She raises up when it becomes too much, jerking at how oversensitive she feels and gazes down at him through heavy lidded eyes, breathless.

He looks like an utterly different person without his glasses, almost kind, though she knows better. His chin is shiny with her slick as he smirks up at her.

“You’ve worked so hard,” he says quietly, though the edge of malevolence to his voice is unmistakable. “But don’t worry, you can give that pretty little mind of yours a rest while I fuck you stupid again.”

She is powerless to resist as he tugs her back to his face once more, beginning the exquisite torture all over again.

Part one || Series masterlist

[orsinium-scholar]

Orsinium headcanon:

Due to it's remote location and firm extradition laws, Orsinium has become a popular choice for Altmer refugees. Those who survive the perilous trek find the city cold, often frightening to those with no familiarity for Orcs, but ultimately far safer than back in Alinor.

Most of them congregate in the outskirts of Orsinium Minor, in an area called "Little Alinor" or "the golden district". Though many struggle with poverty, a few have thrived by setting up businesses, the more flexible minded elves modifying traditional recipes to Orcish tastes and selling them as street foods. Of particular note is a variety of steamed bun, originally made as a small finger dish filled with sea food, now made large enough to fit in the hand and filled with cabbage and pork, which has become a staple breakfast food for blue collar orcs working stupid long hours and needing a hot breakfast.

However, many Altmer immigrants, whether intentionally or not, avoid interactions with Orcs, and as a result, have a reputation for being snooty at best, or outright suspicious at worst. They are also notorious for being skittish, shy, and particularly distrustful around strange Altmer, who might be Thalmor agents. Those of a more anxious disposition struggle between the fear of other Altmer and the fear of a people they are told are violent and dangerous.

However, the newer generation often adapts well, young flexible minds taking in the culture, making Orcish friends and picking up the language and trends. On the other hand, Altmer countercultures also arise, with some young Altmer clinging to their parents old ways, and looking down their nose at the other "corrupted" youths. Street fights are not uncommon.

Little Alinor is a place caught between two vastly different cultures, being dragged kicking and screaming out of rigid conformity. Though despite the cold stone and Wrothgar weather, it's still a safe home. As Arlith Urayel, purveyor of Arliths Gifts and known dissident to the Third Aldmeri Dominion states: "I live in a place where a single poorly chosen word can get my nose broken, and I am safer than I've ever been my entire life."

[maccakgae]

"but, tumblr user willielli, does this post of yours mean you believe any ship will be endgame as long as one of the characters is in love?" absolutely not, my lovely imaginary opponent! just being in love doesn't save a character from ending up on a losing side of a love triangle, au contraire, stranger things has a character exactly like that. and, as you might've guessed, it is no one other than steve harrington himself!

so buckle up, ladies and germs, we're doing an impromptu will&steve comparison/analysis! hopeless loverboys, fear me, i've come to dig in your guts-

just to preface, please note that i'm perfectly neutral on steve, which means i have not spent too much time thinking about his character, so i might be wayyyyy off here, but: i firmly believe that steve's endgame is going to be staying single & better for it, maybe finding someone in the epilogue. so, in other words... steve's endgame is exactly what some people on reddit envision for will, lmfao.

yeah, both steve and will are in love with their respective wheelers, both have dreams of happily ever after, but this is about where the similarities end. they are opposites when it comes to narrative ideas and character arcs, which is why their outcomes will be different.

first off, this point has been beaten half to death, but i'll repeat it anyway: stancy goes against the main message of stranger things, while byler supports it. in the jancy vs stancy love triangle, steve represents conformity: nancy choosing steve means leading a life terrifyingly similar to one of her parents, safe, but also miserable. this theme was first introduced in s1 with the jancy gun shooting practice scene, then amplified by murray in s2, and in s4 they repeated it via steve and his six nuggets talk. it's enticing, this image of happy and peaceful life, and while nancy is interested, she isn't won over by it in the end. steve represents an easy way out, but it also goes against what nancy, a very ambitious and driven woman, actually wants in life.

byler, on the other hand, is a queer relationship in the 80s, meaning it's the definition of non-conformity. the other, conforming option for mike (the center of this love triangle) is mil*ven, a relationship that was explicitly shown to be ridden with lies and play pretend. both of them are unable to be their true selves when with each other, both of them act like they are enjoying things they actually don't and are ignoring things they actually love. the biggest evidence here is mike's relationship with d&d in s3 and s4: he acts like he's too grown to be interested in the game while el is in the picture, then doing an 180 and joining the hellfire club the moment she's out. being with el is an obstacle to doing what he actually wants, just like it was for nancy with steve. will, on the other hand, shares mike's interests and encourages him to partake in them, be unashamedly himself.

the second aspect to this is how steve and will's character arcs (the romance parts of them, anyway) are actually total opposites. their starting points are mirrored: steve starts off in an established romantic relationship with nancy, confident and secure that nancy wants him; will is convinced that he will never fall in love — a romantic relationship is simply not an option for a gay kid like him. steve is proven to be incorrect, of course, when nancy doesn't get what she needs from him and breaks up with him, giving his head the biggest thump of his life and kickstarting his arc/development/redemption. the purpose of steve's love for nancy is for it to end up rejected, serving as an inciting incident that changed the trajectory of where steve's character was headed, allowing him to escape bad influence and grow from a douchey jock to the compassionate and open-minded person he is now. his arc is still not over, though, as steve is yet to find his worth, purpose and confidence, the lack of which manifests in his romantic failures, but i have a feeling he's not going to find that through nancy. just as for nancy this relationship means going against who she is, for steve it would mean a regression.

when it comes to will, his conviction is going to be challenged as well, since it's very obviously the Lie — stranger things is not a show that will reinforce a queer kid's belief that he will never be loved romantically. will's love for mike isn't tied to negative aspects of his character (unlike steve's, as his jealousy for nancy turned him into into a jerk and a bigot), as will was shown to be self-sacrificing, loving and supportive of both mike and el, unwilling to hurt them despite all the pain he's going through. moreover, the van scene is him giving up his love, conceding defeat without fighting, which comes as both an outcome and a reinforcement of the wrongful belief that romantic love is an impossibility for him. him ending up rejected would not be the cause of some character growth — there is no lesson to be drawn from a heartbreak for him. it's not giving a thump on his head to make him go in the right direction, it's headshotting a corpse.

now, will's position going into s5 was set up by the writers 100% intentionally. they chose to write themselves into this corner in which mike reciprocating is the only logical outcome, because it's a combination of several deliberate writing decisions. they didn't have to write will expressing that he will never fall in love, his struggle with his queerness could've come in a different form. they didn't have to write him have feelings for mike and mike only, it could've been anyone, existing character or new. they didn't have to write him in love, it could've been an infatuation or a childhood crush. they didn't have to write mil*ven lie to each other about who they truly are, they could've had a strong connection and understanding. they didn't have to write will giving up his love for mike and el's (dubious) benefit, he could've fought and gotten mean with it.

they could've written him being worse for loving mike, but they chose not to.

the writers gave both will and steve love triangles, and both of them are in the position of hopelessly in love third party as of s4, but their arcs are not parallels. both characters are in love, but love serves opposite purposes for them — for steve it's something to overcome and grow from, for will it's something to embrace and allow himself to have.

[vsa-pieldepapel]

what do you think Susie’s background is like? I saw you had a few drawings of Susie’s mom, have you changed your mind on it?? Btw lovely art :)

imma get real with you anon, those were just drawings about my own mother LMAO Susie just happens to have enough seeming mommy issues to be a comfortable conduit for that Well, the obvious is obvious. hunger and the state of her room suggest poverty, her attunement to complex moral situations and hope suggest emotional or material parentification (likely both), the aggression and fear of being insufficient suggest neglect at best and abuse at worst (again, likely a mix of the two). I also still think she fixated on Toriel because probably part of the distress is directly mom related and I also think that is why she is so strongly compelled to spite Carol! What is new and I found very compelling and relatable was the moving around a lot. Something that I have gradually learned that also comes up in deltarune is that a lot of people don't... move around that much. I used to wonder why cartoons as a kid showed moving as so traumatic for the protagonists that there has to be a lesson about how it's not the end of the world, because jumping between cities was so ubiquitous in my life i thought the cartoons were being dramatic... it was only as I grew up that I realised that people often spend 5-10 years in any given place obviously, this brings its own set of problems. On one positive-ish hand it makes you resilient to instability, you bounce right back and grow up fast. When I got kicked out of the house I simply figured out where to stay and in a week all my stuff was gone, the impact of it didn't hit until months after. On the other hand what she says is true. You don't quite ever get to belong anywhere. Nothing is taken for granted. People you know have studied their whole lives in the same school and have years of shared lore that you're not entirely privy to or included in. You have nostalgic attachments strewn all about. From my own experience, jumping around happens in two situations: your parents are separated and you're jumping between living with either of them, and your parents are finding better work/ opportunities. Given the implications of poverty it could easily be both. When your parents fight over who will take care of you you feel like a burden. You feel like you have to prove to them that you're worth keeping. It makes you feel left behind. This is even without speaking of the other socialisation stuff w/peers. Being a gnc girl and woman without ever caving to expectations of femininity is a grueling thing to do for little gain. You're constantly pulled between yourself and expectations. At times your mother will put you in uncomfortable, impractical dresses and bows and flatter you for conforming. Other girls treat you as either a pet to civilise, something to take pity on, or an alien, and where a gnc effete gay boy has at least the potential of girls taking pity on him and including him in their activities, boys in their cooties phase don't want you either and to have male friends that involves wrangling their sexism and proving your worth. Regardless of your sexual orientation you will be subject to lesbophobia. Its infuriating. The piano monologue made me cry because I too kicked and dented an instrument that belonged to another girl in extracurricular music classes that my mother paid for despite struggling to afford them, because when your existence feels precarious, anything better than you that makes you feel abandoned and incompetent makes you rage (I was 6 years old, so a kid that can't regulate its emotions). My mother had to pay for it and she asked me if I knew that I deserved to get physically punished for what I'd done and after I said yes she spanked me quite hard. I'm quite surprised at how similar her upbringing seems to be to mine. Not exact, but close enough to be resonant, which I'm sure is true of a lot of other people and is probably the point toby was making.

Ditto with not being chosen for anything, even stuff like P.E. class.

Feeling that someone loves you and will stay by you after years of feeling disposable and unstable is one of the most spiritually healing things ever, and in that regard krusie is about as satisfying as ralsusie, both platonically and romantically. Meeting who I love as my best friend saved my life. I also like that with Ral there is this parallel theme of not feeling sufficient-- both of them feel the same about themselves, but cherish and elevate the other... its good influence for both.

Everything given, Susie's tough as nails for a 17ish year old.

So no, not much has changed tbh. Other than me finding all this even more interesting.

[noirflms]

Can you do Sae x female reader x Rin? The brothers are fighting for her love

LOVE OH LOVE — itoshi brothers

i don’t do love triangles much but this is going to be comedic and not angsty ;) but here is your order‼️ ( i apologise for the later post )

itoshi sae is not blind to the ways his brother looks at you. sae sees the way rin looks at you with such a tender look in his eyes, the sparkle with a emotion that sae too knows well. it twists sae’s heart into a pit of turmoil — because no way in hell he’d ever let his brother up him with the romantics.

“you like [name]?” sae had asked out of the blue. rin is stunned. the younger of the brothers is in pure shock. rin had never once thought that his brother would ever notice such a thing. sae awaits on an answer, with each passing tick of the clock he itches for a conformation about his doubts.

“and what will you do, if i did like her?” rin bites back with the same energy. his eyes cold as he stares into the similar hues of his brothers. sae bites away at the inside of his cheeks as he glares down at his brother. he had been proved right and there is certainly no way rin was getting the upper hand here.

it is the hilarity of the situation that the two brother have been brought into. there stands a similarly too, and that is they like the same person, they like the same girl — that their heart is certain with the feelings towards her, but oh, so, oblivious are you, blinded by the fact that you cover their love for you with the glitter of friendship.

each and every time any of the two brothers had bet of that who would be able to take you on a date first. the bet always ends in vain for it is either of the two together with you, no dates, just sae, you and rin. their attempts are shutdown, their trial and error of unending methods are always blocked some way of the other.

but in the itoshi household, there is war. it is utter chaos. there are screams, there is hair pulling, there is punches and cut throat inner alpha male challenges, there is flying pillows and wwe body slam attack, there is also loud shout matches and choking instances, but none is the victor, for both either way will find their way into the chasm of horrors in love.

love is chaotic. it is hurting sae as much as it is hurting rin. it is like a rope around their neck that constricts them breathing whenever they feel for you. their love is binding in such a way that it has tied them down and not you. you walk unaware — you walk free.

but for love has got a grip on them, they fear that there is no escape and the least they could do is burn in this war. but it is weird to make you choose, of course it would be, you had seen the two since young, you had been together since young and there is no way in hell that you’d ever choose between them.

so they bite a bullet. they are and forever will be at war. but they would never make you choose, but they’ll try their best to forge their very own paths in your life. they will until the end keep trying, so you choose on your own, so you could break a heart and make one just the same. it is better this way.

it is this love, oh, love that makes one feel like a loser. it is love that has such a grip on the poor and fickle heart and it is this love that makes you insane, but for love between three is never lucky. the itoshi brothers will keep trying, until one day — there is one heart broken and one heart made.

NOIRFLMS 2024 ! all rights reserved - plagiarism is a crime , do not translate my works without permission.

[reveryfics]

Hii again !

There is characters i knew for years that when i'll truly discover them (in movies or series) i'll be obsessed. Loki is part of this, but Bucky too ! And i recently watch the Captain America movies (I'm a Marvel fan since my childhood but i hate Steve, so i just watch for Bucky 🥸). And now, I'm wondering how Bucky would react to the first time seeing a ftm person. Right after he remembers a bit of his past life

Thanks for reading me ;) i hope you're feeling well 🎀

The Understanding

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x FtM reader

Summary: Bucky could never wrap his head around how different everything was especially when it came to you.

A/n: Ahh I love the idea of him getting used to everything after what happened with Hyrda, plus the opportunity to do something cute with this idea! Incredibly validating to only watch for Bucky. Also thank you for the concern, I am doing better <3

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The city lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors through the panoramic windows of Avengers Tower. Bucky, perched on a windowsill, ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the strands clinging to his damp forehead. The night sky, usually a source of solace, offered no comfort tonight. It was a mirror reflecting the turmoil within him. Months had passed since the incident, yet the weight of his past and the confusion of the present pressed down on him like an inescapable gravity.

Sleep had become a fleeting visitor, replaced by a relentless cycle of intrusive thoughts. Images from his past – the war, the HYDRA experiments, the agonizing memories of loss – would flicker through his mind, followed by the unsettling questions of the present. Who was he now? How was he supposed to navigate this complex world when his own understanding of himself felt so fragile?

Then there was him. The young man who worked alongside Bruce, a whirlwind of vibrant energy and quiet confidence. Bucky would catch glimpses of him in the lab, his movements fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to the stiff, almost robotic movements that had become ingrained in him during his time with HYDRA. He'd overheard a conversation between Bruce and the young man, a conversation laced with vulnerability and a quiet desperation. Bruce, his voice laced with concern, was urging him to be cautious, to prioritize his safety while wearing a binder. He mentioned "trans tape," a term that was completely foreign to Bucky.

Growing up in a world where conformity was enforced with an iron fist, where anything outside the rigid norms of masculinity was met with scorn and violence, Bucky had learned to suppress his curiosity. He had built walls around himself, walls reinforced by fear and a deeply ingrained sense of what was "right." His initial encounters with the young man had been marked by awkward silences and unintentional microaggressions, fueled by his own ignorance and the lingering shadows of his past.

The guilt gnawed at him now, a constant, aching reminder of his own shortcomings. He had hurt someone he barely knew, simply because he lacked the understanding, the empathy, to see beyond his own limited worldview. He imagined the young man, his spirit dimmed by the weight of prejudice, forced to navigate a world that constantly questioned his identity.

A faint glow from the living room pulled him from his reverie. Tony, no doubt, burning the midnight oil. But as Bucky approached, he saw not Tony, but the young man, curled up on the couch, a melancholic movie playing on the screen. He was staring intently at the screen, a desolate expression etched on his face.

"Hey," Bucky called out, his voice hesitant. "Seat taken?"

The young man looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, followed by a weary smile. "No, all yours, big guy."

An awkward silence followed, punctuated only by the sounds of the movie. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to bridge the chasm between them. Finally, the young man spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "You could at least ask if you don't understand."

Bucky's breath hitched. "I-"

The young man turned to him, his cheeks flushed. "I understand that this..." he gestured vaguely around them, "isn't what you grew up with, Bucky. But you could at least try to understand, or... or ask if you don't." His voice cracked, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Bucky was paralyzed by indecision. Did he retreat, allow his fear and prejudice to dictate his actions? Or did he finally acknowledge the stirring within him, the burgeoning desire to understand, to connect?

"Explain it to me," he finally managed, his voice rough with emotion.

The young man seemed genuinely surprised. He had expected the usual dismissive comments, the same tired platitudes that had echoed through his life. "It's not like I chose to be this way," he began, his voice trembling. "I wouldn't choose to make my life a living hell, to be called slurs, to be abandoned by the people I love, just because I want to be happy." He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Everything has an explanation, but people don't want to listen when one is provided."

Bucky leaned forward, his eyes locked with the young man's. "I'm listening."

And so, the young man began to speak, his voice gaining strength with each passing word. He spoke of the agonizing dissonance between his internal identity and the expectations placed upon him by society. He spoke of the shame, the self-doubt, the constant battle to reconcile his true self with the world's narrow definition of what it meant to be a man. He spoke of the relief of finally finding acceptance, the joy of being seen and loved for who he truly was.

Bucky listened intently, the weight of the young man's words washing over him. He began to understand, not just intellectually, but on an emotional level. He understood the pain of being forced to conform, the suffocating weight of societal expectations, the profound loneliness of living a life that felt fundamentally inauthentic.

"I'm so sorry," Bucky whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't know."

The young man looked at him, his eyes searching. "I didn't expect you to," he admitted, his voice softening. "It just... it hurt, hearing someone I... I thought I could trust say those things."

Bucky reached out, his hand hovering over the young man's shoulder. "I wish I knew sooner."

The young man turned to him, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and hope. Bucky gently placed his hand on the young man's shoulder, offering a silent apology, a silent promise to do better. And as he sat there, enveloped in the quiet comfort of shared vulnerability, Bucky realized that this was just the beginning. The beginning of understanding, of healing, of a connection, maybe even something more that transcended the superficial and delved into the depths of their shared humanity.

[reaper2187]

Cairo sweet x female reader

As the school bell rings, a cacophony of chatter fills the hallways, mingling with the light scent of morning coffee and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Amidst this teeming sea of students, you find yourself drawn to a solitary figure perched on a windowsill near the library.

Her name is Cairo Sweet, and your gaze lingers on her with a curious mix of fascination and trepidation. Her face, framed by a cascade of raven hair, is a canvas of exquisite features: piercing brown eyes that seem to hold a depth beyond her years, a delicate nose, and a mouth that curves into a mysterious smile.

As your eyes connect, you feel an unexpected surge of kinship. She is an enigma, an outsider, like you

 You have always felt like a square peg in a round hole, never quite fitting in with the preppy girls who gossip and giggle in the cafeteria. But in Cairo's gaze, you sense a glimmer of understanding.

With a hesitant step, you approach her. 'Excuse me,' you say softly. 'I'm new here. I couldn't help but overhear that you're Cairo Sweet. My name's [Your Name].'

A faint smile crosses her lips. 'Nice to meet you, [Your Name].'

You sit down beside her, your notebooks open in front of you. The silence between you is comfortable, almost inviting. As the minutes turn into hours, you share stolen glances, whispered secrets, and dreams that have long been buried within.

Cairo tells you about her life before Miller's Creek, her nomadic childhood, and her passion for writing. You, in turn, confide in her about your own struggles and aspirations. For the first time, you feel truly seen and understood.

As the day draws to a close, you and Cairo walk together to your lockers. Your fingers brush against hers, and a spark ignites within you. It is a spark of connection, a desire to be near her, to explore the forbidden realms that lie beyond friendship.

But your burgeoning feelings are met with trepidation. This is high school, after all, and societal norms dictate that girls should only date boys. You fear the repercussions of breaking these unspoken rules.

Undeterred, Cairo leans in and whispers, 'I think you're amazing, [Your Name]. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.'

Her words embolden you. You take her hand and lead her to an empty classroom. The soft glow of the setting sun filters through the windows, casting a warm and intimate light upon the two of you.

With trembling lips, you confess your feelings. To your surprise, Cairo reciprocates. Her kiss is gentle, tentative, and yet filled with an undeniable longing.

In that stolen moment, time stands still. The world outside fades away, leaving only you and Cairo, two hearts entwined in a secret dance of love.

As you reluctantly pull away, Cairo whispers, 'This is against the rules, but it feels so right.'

You smile. 'Maybe we're destined to be rebels.'

Your secret rendezvous becomes a solace amidst the turmoil of high school. You carve out hidden corners in the library, linger in the shadows of the hallways, and steal precious moments together on deserted benches. Your love grows stronger with each stolen kiss, each whispered promise.

But the walls of silence cannot hold indefinitely. Rumors spread like wildfire, and soon you find yourselves at the center of a storm of gossip and condemnation. Some students whisper words of support, but many more cast judgment upon your forbidden love.

As the pressure mounts, you and Cairo face an impossible choice. You could deny your feelings and conform to societal expectations, or you could embrace your love and risk the consequences.

Together, you choose the latter. Hand in hand, you walk through the hallways, ignoring the disapproving stares and hurtful comments. Your love is a beacon of defiance, a testament to the power of the human heart.

In the end, your resilience and unwavering bond silence the critics. Cairo and [Your Name] become a symbol of hope and acceptance for all who dare to love beyond the confines of societal norms.

And as the years go by, your love story becomes a legend whispered among the students of Miller's Creek, a tale of two girls who dared to defy the odds and find happiness in the most unexpected of places.

[suzannahnatters]

Let Your Knights Weep

One of the big things I've had to train myself out of when writing medieval historical fiction?

The stiff upper lip.

This used to really bewilder my editor, who for some time attempted to nudge me away from having my grown men weep and wail and blubber, but for me it's an essential part of the setting. Whether in grief or fear, medieval people did not hold things back.

Here are some of my favourite quotes to explain.

First, a couple from two great 20th century medievalists:

CS Lewis in his Letters put it this way:

“By the way, don't 'weep inwardly' and get a sore throat. If you must weep, weep: a good honest howl! I suspect we - and especially, my sex - don't cry enough now-a-days. Aeneas and Hector and Beowulf, Roland and Lancelot blubbered like schoolgirls, so why shouldn't we?”

Dorothy Sayers, in her fabulous Introduction to her translation of THE SONG OF ROLAND, speaking of Charlemagne discovering Roland's body on the battlefield:

Here too, I think we must not reckon it weakness in him that he is overcome by grief for Roland’s death, that he faints upon the body and has to be raised up by the barons and supported by them while he utters his lament. There are fashions in sensibility as in everything else. The idea that a strong man should react to great personal and national calamities by a slight compression of the lips and by silently throwing his cigarette into the fireplace is of very recent origin. By the standards of feudal epic, Charlemagne’s behaviour is perfectly correct. Fainting, weeping, and lamenting is what the situation calls for. The assembled knights and barons all decorously follow his example. They punctuate his lament with appropriate responses:

By hundred thousand the French for sorrow sigh; There’s none of them but utters grievous cries.

At the end of the next laisse:

He tears his beard that is so white of hue, Tears from his head his white hair by the roots; And of the French an hundred thousand swoon.

We may take this response as being ritual and poetic; grief, like everything else in the Epic, is displayed on the heroic scale. Though men of the eleventh century did, in fact, display their emotions much more openly than we do, there is no reason to suppose that they made a practice of fainting away in chorus. But the gesture had their approval; that was how they liked to think of people behaving. In every age, art holds up to us the standard pattern of exemplary conduct, and real life does its best to conform. From Charlemagne’s weeping and fainting we can draw no conclusions about his character except that the poet has represented him as a perfect model of the “man of feeling” in the taste of the period.

OK, now let's dig into some quotes that I found just in Christopher Tyerman's Chronicles of the First Crusade and Joinville's Life of St Louis:

Truly you would have grieved and sobbed in pity when the Turks killed any of our men....

As for the knights, they stood about in a great state of gloom, wringing their hands because they were so frightened and miserable, not knowing what to do with themselves and their armour, and offering to sell their shields, valuable breastplates and helmets for threepence or fivepence or any price they could get....

When Guy, who was a very honourable knight, had heard these lies, he and all the others began to weep and to make loud lamentation....

They stayed in the houses cowering, some some for hunger and some for fear of the Turks....

Now at vigils, the time of trust in God’s compassion, many gave up hope and hurriedly lowered themselves with ropes from the wall-tops; and in the city soldiers, returning from the encounter, circulated widely a rumour that mass decapitation of the defenders was in store. To add weight to the terror, they too fled…

In the course of that day’s battle there had been many people, and of fine appearance too, who had come very shamefully flying over the little bridge you know of and had fled away so panic-stricken that all our attempts to make them stay with us had been in vain. I could tell you some of their names, but shall refrain from doing so, because they are now dead.

I could go on looking for quotes in all the other medieval literature I've read, but that would be beyond the scope of this Tumblr post.

In the meantime, this leads me to make some comments on how trauma was perceived.

In Jonathan Riley-Smith's The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, the author discusses the mental breakdowns suffered by the first crusaders during the second siege of Antioch, which caused many of them to flee at the moment of direst need:

In these stressful circumstances it is not surprising that the crusaders were often very frightened. At times, indeed, they seem to have been almost paralysed by a terror that they themselves could hardly comprehend. … When the crusade was bottled up in Antioch by Kerbogha's relief force it was gripped by such blind panic that there was the prospect of a mass break-out and on the night of 10 or 11 Juney 1098 Bohemond and Adhemar had the gates of the city closed. It is worth noting that many of those whom later chroniclers, writing after the events in comparative comfort in Europe, vilified for cowardice and desertion seem to have been treated more charitably by their fellow-crusaders, who must have understood what pressures they had been under.

--

In conclusion: the way we feel about things today in the English-speaking isn't necessarily the way people felt about things in the past (and this goes for other cultures, real or imagined, too). I'm continually catching myself writing people with stiff upper lips and emotional reservations, and having to remind myself that the culture was different back them. If a grown man wanted to weep, he could. That's a good thing. (Oh, and my medieval historical fantasy? Check out the Watchers of Outremer series on Amazon or wherever books are sold!)

[lushleona]

I HATE IT HERE. mattheo riddle

mattheo riddle x fem reader

summary ; in which mattheo is an artist in a businessman’s world… inspired by ‘i hate it here’ by taylor swift words ; 905 warning ; swearing

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Overhearing crunchy footsteps walking through the fallen autumn leaves, Mattheo snaps his sketchbook shut in fear that some random person would accidentally see his innermost thoughts. He’d been drawing by the Black Lake like he usually did when the voices in his head got too loud. Normally, no one else came out here to bother him, but it appeared that today was unlucky.

“Mattheo?” Oh, it was you who was coming to bother him. Guess his day wasn’t so unlucky, after all.

Taking a seat beside him with your back resting against the large tree behind you, you turn your head to look at him and place a kiss on his cheek.

“Did you just get bored or did something happen that made you feel the need to come out here?” You ask, looking down to watch as he mindlessly intertwines your fingers with his.

“How’d you even know I was here?”

“Answer my question.”

”Fine. Both.” He answers, his voice sounding strained as if he’d had the most tiring day of his life.

“You know I’m here to listen, right?” Trying to add to the reassurance, you give his hand a little squeeze. He sighs.

“I don’t wanna burden you. You’re always listening to my fucking problems.”

You can almost physically feel your heart clench at his words. Your sweet boy could never be a burden to you and frankly, it hurt to know that he thought of himself in that way.

“Talk to me.” Your tone is soft but there's something in your voice that makes it clear you aren’t leaving until he tells you everything.

“I just had a really fucking bad day.” He admits in a dismissive voice, as if it’s no big deal, like you shouldn’t worry about him. “And when I was in Potions, some people started talking about what they’re gonna do after they graduate.”

Your brows furrow and you nod in understanding as you let that sink in. It’s never been a secret that Mattheo didn’t exactly know what he was going to do after school ended, but you didn’t realize how badly that fact got to his head.

“That bothered you?” The answer to that question is obvious but still, there was an underlying need to ask it.

“Yes!” He snaps, his eyes burning with uncertainty and he takes a breath to calm himself before continuing. “It was all ‘I’m gonna be a Ministry worker,’ or ‘I’m gonna be an auror,’ or ‘teacher’ or whatever and I just… God, Y/n, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

You wanted nothing more than to help him, but you simply couldn’t. It’s not like anything you could say would miraculously make him realize what he wants to do for the rest of his life.

“Everything is so… dull and monochromatic. I don’t want to live in a world where I work 9 to 5 everyday in a cubicle. I just…. I hate it here.”

The mere possibility of living such a tight scheduled, boring, small life suffocated him every minute of everyday. He wanted more. He wanted to see the world, he wanted to be creative, he wanted to bring his dreams to fruition. He refused to become part of the system.

He was an artist at heart. Not many people knew that about him, but you did. He was lucky enough to be born with the ability to extract inspiration from anything in his sights. You, his friends, a song, an animal, architecture. Shit, even a random stranger he meets on the street could get the gears in his beautifully intricate mind to start turning.

Mattheo couldn't go ten minutes without feeling the urge to dump his thoughts onto a blank canvas. Talking wasn’t enough, he needed to create, he needed to use his hands.

His innovation is one of his best traits, one of your favorite things about him, and the idea of him ever giving it up was truly devastating. Taking a good while to think of what to say, you fidget around with his fingers in your hand.

“There’s so much out there, Mattheo. You don't need to conform to what the world wants you to do. I mean come on, you’ve never been one to follow the rules anyway.” You tell him.

“What am I gonna do?” He murmurs as he looks out at the lake, his voice filled with a deep sense of yearning.

“I don’t know. But I’ll be here to help you figure it out. I’ll be here with you for the rest of your life, if you’ll have me.” You whisper as he leans his head on your shoulder, his curls tickling the crook of your neck.

He scoffs, tightening his grip on your hand and snuggling his head deeper into your neck. “Are you stupid? Why would that even be a question? No dreams are worth living out if you’re not in them.”

“Good. ‘Cause you’re not getting rid of me.” You lean your head onto his. “I hate it here too but… It’s not so bad when you’re with me. Can I see what you were drawing?”

With an embarrassed blush flushing his cheeks, he hands you his sketchbook and you open up to the most recent page to find an extremely detailed illustration of… you.

© lushleona 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

the tortured poets department is really just on repeat 24/7. dare i say… her saddest album? anyways, i love the headcanon that mattheo loves to draw so i thought this would be sweet <3