#if you see a character that’s not on here just ask!

[sa1ntd1or]

omgomgomg can we please do the batboys with the “current boyfriend” prank 😭😭 like plssss they would crash the fuck outtt

˖ ֹ੭୧ CURRENT BOYFRIEND TREND ⊹ ࣪ ⑅

ˋ°•*⁀➷ batboys react to influencer!reader doing the "current boyfriend" trend !

ˋ°•*⁀➷CHARACTERS: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Aged up!Damian Wayne

NOTES: lowkey feel like i mightve made tim a bit OCC but at the same time hes a very analytical person and he doesn’t do well with sudden, uncalculated emotional curveballs... ENJOY LOL

BRUCE WAYNE:

TikTok Upload: @/yourusername Caption: doing the “current bf” trend on my boyfriend 

[VIDEO STARTS]

Your phone is balanced on a crystal decanter across the room. Bruce sits beside you on the velvet couch, looking like someone who was dragged into this against his will. But he’s here; suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, jaw sharp enough to cut diamonds.

You tap record, smiling as you nudge him slightly with your elbow.

“Okay,” you say to the camera, voice light and warm. “So my current boyfriend and I are finally filming the storytime of how we met.”

Bruce turns to you slowly, like you’ve just announced an alien invasion.

“���Current?” he repeats.

You smile innocently, giving a small nod. “Mhm!”

He blinks once. Then again.

There’s a pause. “Is there… something I should be aware of?”

You turn to the camera. “This man is so dramatic. We’re starting from the charity gala two years ago. Remember that?”

“I do,” he says carefully. “I also remember introducing you as my partner. Not my… temporary associate.”

You laugh. “You’re overthinking.”

“I’m a billionaire. I have to overthink,” he replies dryly, though his eyes haven’t left yours.

You reach over, patting his thigh affectionately. “Okay, so anyway—he spilled champagne on me and tried to offer me a check for dry cleaning. That was our meet-cute.”

Bruce clears his throat. “In my defense, I didn’t realize it was a one-of-a-kind custom gown. But I did replace it.”

“With a car,” you say to the camera.

Bruce adjusts his cuff. “It was a reasonable apology.”

You grin. “And then he asked me out by scheduling a business dinner and calling it a ‘strategic partnership.’ Romantic, right?”

Bruce shifts slightly, visibly trying not to look at the phone.

“…Can we go back to the part where you said current?”

To anyone else, Bruce looks blank-faced and unbothered, just mildly curious. But you—you know this man like the back of your hand.

The soft frown lines on his forehead begin to deepen, his knuckles slowly turning white. His brows furrow tighter.

But his eyes… his eyes hold concern. A mix of confusion and restrained frustration.

You can’t hold it in any longer, doubling over with laughter as you grab Bruce’s hand, muttering apologies between giggles.

“It’s a prank,” you say breathlessly. “I swear it’s a trend. I love you.”

Bruce sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Don’t do that to me.”

“Sorry, babe. I love you, promise.”

[VIDEO ENDS]

[TOP COMMENTS]

@/urmamalong: he’s not current he’s forever and he knows it @/user10293: she had my man stressing LMAOO @/cocunutstree: is no one gonna talk about how their first date was called a ‘strategic partnership.’ 😭😭

DICK GRAYSON:

TikTok Upload: @/yourusername Caption: “current boyfriend” trend on my bf… gone almost sideways LMAOO

[VIDEO STARTS]

The camera bounces slightly with each step as you walk down the bustling Blüdhaven street, hand-in-hand with the man beside you. Dick’s in a black tee and fitted jeans, hair pushed back by the breeze, sunglasses sitting atop his head. The sky’s golden, the light catching in his eyes just right.

You flip the camera to selfie mode, smiling wide.

“Hey guys,” you chirp. “My current boyfriend and I are on our way to grab dinner before hitting the show at the—”

Dick stops mid-step.

You blink when you realize he’s no longer moving with you, your arm tugged slightly backward. You turn to see him staring at you, one brow raised and mouth slightly parted in disbelief.

“…Current?” he echoes, tone flat. “Did you just call me your current boyfriend?”

You try to keep walking, brushing it off with a casual grin. “Yeah, babe. Lock in cmon—”

“No, no, no,” Dick interrupts, coming to stand directly in front of you now. “Rewind. Run that back. Did I hallucinate or did you say current boyfriend?”

You laugh, turning the camera slightly to catch both your faces. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” he replies, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but current boyfriend? Really? Like I’m on a limited-time lease?”

You bite back a grin. “You’re making a scene.”

He scoffs, a hand on his hip. “You made the scene. I was just trying to go get some overpriced sushi with my lifelong girlfriend.”

You burst into giggles.

“And now I’m wondering if I forgot an anniversary or something,” he adds, voice dropping low. “Are you mad at me? Did I miss something? Who even says that?”

You’re fully wheezing now, shaking your head and turning the phone off selfie mode to hide your face.

“It’s a trend, babe. I’m messing with you.”

Dick exhales through his nose, not mad—but definitely offended. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

You nudge him, still laughing. “You’ll live.”

“I better,” he mutters, taking your hand again. “But we’re gonna talk about that wording later.”

[VIDEO ENDS]

[TOP COMMENTS]

@/user1209381: i just know he replayed “current?” in his head for the next 6 hours @/jessicacookies: the way he STOPPED WALKING LMAOOO @/morningcrips: “I was just trying to go get some overpriced sushi” HELP 😭

JASON TODD:

TikTok Upload: @/yourusername Caption: current bf trend except he almost killed me😋

[VIDEO STARTS] 

You're walking through your apartment with your phone in selfie mode, the camera catching Jason on the couch behind you—black tank top, grey sweatpants, arm thrown across the backrest like he owns the place (because he does).

You flip the camera toward him as you walk over, smiling.

“Hey guys,” you begin sweetly. “So my current boyfriend and I are about to—”

Jason looks up. Blinks once.

There’s a two-second delay. His brows twitch.

“…What did you just call me?” he says, voice calm in the same way thunderstorms are calm before they hit.

You give him an innocent look. “My current boyfriend.”

Jason squints. “As in…?”

You hold back a grin. “My boyfriend… right now?”

He stares. Laughs once—just once—and without breaking eye contact, reaches forward and taps the camera off.

The camera is then turned back on again, except the vibe is completely different now.

The two fo you are curled up. in bed, the lighting low and golden. Jason’s beside you, arm slung around your waist.

He’s looking into the camera, dead serious.

��Just so we’re clear,” he says, “I’m not current anything.”

You try to hide your smile.

“I’m not a phase. I’m not a chapter. I’m the whole damn book.” he says, tightening his arm around you. “This isn’t a trial run. I signed a lifetime contract.”

You laugh. “Babe—”

“No,” he cuts in. “Because now everyone thinks I’m on borrowed time. Like you’re gonna trade me in for a newer model.”

You’re wheezing now. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being accurate.” He looks back at the camera. “Current. She called me current. Like a seasonal boyfriend. Like I’m fuckin’ Pumpkin Spice in October.”

You throw a pillow at him, giggling as he blocks it and grins.

“I’m forever,” he says smugly.

[VIDEO ENDS]

[TOP COMMENT] 

@/poopybanana: not him ending the video HIMSELF LOOL 😭😭 @/bookboyfriendreal: “I’m not a chapter, I’m the whole damn book” he was written by a woman. @/user3022: “she called me CURRENT. like I’m Pumpkin Spice.” okay okay i see @/chaosblossom: he’s gonna propose next week I can FEEL it

TIM DRAKE:

TikTok Upload: @/yourusername Caption: doing the trend EXCEPT I ACC ALMOST CRIED WTF

[VIDEO STARTS]

The camera opens with you walking through the city, phone held out selfie-style. The wind gently tousles your hair, and Tim’s walking beside you; hood up, hands in his pockets, slightly hunched like he’s trying not to draw attention.

You turn the camera toward him and smile. “Hey guys! My current boyfriend and I are on the way to the bookstore—”

Tim glances at the camera, gives a soft smile… and then blinks.

Pause.

You keep walking like nothing happened, but his steps slow slightly.

“…Sorry,” Tim says after a second, trying to keep his voice light. “Did you say current?”

You glance over, feigning confusion. “Yeah. My current boyfriend.”

He laughs, kind of. A single awkward breath of a chuckle. “Oh. Okay.”

The camera catches him looking off to the side.

He doesn’t say anything else, but you know him.

You know that face.

You know that he’s just gone full internal monologue mode. He's analyzing the exact tone you said it in, reviewing the past month of conversations, subtly scanning for signs of detachment that aren’t there. But he’s already halfway to a mental spiral.

You keep walking, just yapping at the camera. He’s still quiet.

“…You okay?” you murmur.

He nods too quickly. “Yeah, no, I just. I wasn’t sure if that was, like… a joke. Or if it was your way of easing into something else. Because, if so, that’s totally fine, I just—” He cuts himself off. “Never mind.”

You stop walking. “Tim.”

He finally looks at you. His expression is so soft it hurts. “It’s okay if you meant it. I just need to know how temporary I am.”

The TikTok absolutely catches the look on your face dropping in real-time.

You throw your arms around him without even stopping the video. “Baby. It’s a prank. It’s a trend.”

Tim blinks. “Wait—seriously?”

You nod, nose pressed against his hoodie. “You’re forever. My ride-or-die. My endgame. My everything. Come on, please know that I would never do that to you.”

There’s a quiet laugh, this time genuine. You pull back enough to see his little smile.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Good. Because I’ve already pre-ordered matching headstones.”

“Wait—why are you crying?!”

“Because I made you upset! And I made you rethink our whole relationship!”

He softly laughs at you, wiping a stray tear. “I should be the one crying, not you.”

“Shut up, Tim.”

[VIDEO ENDS]

[TOP COMMENTS]

@/emodetective: this man was one second away from dissociating 😭@/notahaterjustconfused: YOU COULD SEE HIM THINKING IN PARAGRAPHS @/traumaandbagels: she almost made him cry and then she started crying herself 💀 @/bookishnerd12: matching headstones?? no bc he’s already writing their vows…

AGED UP!DAMIAN WAYNE:

TikTok Upload: @/yourusername Caption: current bf check 😍 (he’s so serious for no reason omg)

[VIDEO STARTS]

The two of you are at a quiet rooftop restaurant: soft lighting, a skyline view, a candle flickering between you. Damian’s in a black button-down, sleeves rolled, silver rings catching the light. He’s sipping from a wine glass, eyes lazily scanning the menu.

You adjust your phone and hit record, speaking in a relaxed tone.

“Hey guys, just out with my current boyfriend tonight,” you say, panning the camera over to Damian.

He doesn’t react right away.

He lowers his menu slowly.

Then he turns to you, calmly.

“…Current?”

You offer a small smile. “Yup.”

He blinks once. Then again. Then sets the menu down.

“Forgive me—are we... breaking up over lobster risotto?”

You almost snort your drink.

He leans closer. “Should I order extra wine.”

You start giggling. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, you are being dishonest,” he replies, placing a hand over his heart. “I am not ‘current.’ I am forever, irrevocable, contractual—”

You laugh harder. “Damian—”

“I have memorized your Starbucks order, created a shared playlist, and added you to my emergency contact list,” he says, like he’s building a legal case. “I let you put glitter on my face last weekend. You think that’s temporary behavior?”

You cover your face with one hand, still laughing. “I love you, you dramatic baby.”

He leans back smugly. “Good. Then say boyfriend of three years, future husband, and sole heir to your affection like a civilized person.”

You reach over and boop his nose. “Whatever you say, Dami.”

[VIDEO ENDS]

[TOP COMMMENTS]

@/headbuttking: damian said ✨legally binding romance✨ @/user109312: him listing off relationship credentials like it’s a résumé 😭@/putaringonit: future husband? HE SAID WHAT HE SAID

[chow0w]

redesigning Six-claws!

I must've hallucinated someone requesting Six-claws, because I couldn't find it in my inbox by the time I was finished with this design! A little sad about breaking my streak of replying to asks instead of just throwing my redesigns out into the wind, but it's okay.

Here's my take on Six-claws! I had a great time doing this redesign, since the winglet books are actually some of my all-time favorites. I just love how charming the short stories are, and they honestly tend to be more concise than a few of the worse-written main arc books (No shade to Tui, writing is hard enough.)

I wanted to stay in line with the punk style I gave Thorn (+ eventually the other outclaws,) but I felt that it wasn't really sitting right on Six-claws, given his personality and background... he just doesn't really give me the vibe of someone who would spend hours on accessorizing, and view it as less productive than solving problems. Because of that, I tried to limit his accessories as much as I could - only keeping the outclaw tail band and a few neck/ear pieces.

As for his actual pattern, I tried to keep things simple with some spot/stripe patterns, keeping his color pallet relatively neutral and sandwing-ish since he's not meant to stand out all too much, outside of the talons.

This was a short post, but that's alright.. thank you all so much for checking up on this blog! My askbox is as open as ever, but please be sure to check up on my pinned post and see which characters are already in queue!

See you later (๑˃ᴗ˂)

[y3sterdaysproblem]

How does toxic!fwb Chris react if you bleed through your pants, and you didn’t know?

you and chris had been out all day despite your request to stay in bed and rot while you bled what felt like your heart out, lower back aching and tension headache persisting despite medication.

chris had tried to insist that some fresh air would make you feel better, and in the beginning it did, but now, nearly six hours into being out, you were ready to be home.

“one more store, i want to buy a new hat,” chris tells you as you walk through the mall, his hands resting in the pockets of his grey hoodie he always wore, seemingly in a great mood for once in his life.

“chris,” you groan, throwing your head back for a moment as you complained before picking it back up to glare at him. “my cramps are coming back, my head hurts and i’m tired. can you just order a hat online?”

he looks over at you and sighs, seeing how exhausted you looked. but you guys were passing the store on the way out, so in his mind, it would be a total waste not to go. “i’ll be fast, i know what i want,” he tells you, slinging an arm around your shoulder and placing an out of character kiss to your temple as he turned your bodies and rounded you into the store.

you followed, seemingly having no choice, but you parted from him to look at some of the hats on the other side of the store to distract yourself, wondering how hard it would be to convince him to buy you one. you’re about to ask him when you feel his presence behind you, hands gently wrapping around your waist.

you open your mouth to speak, thinking he’s just going to hug you from behind, but when you look down you realize he’s tying the sleeves of his hoodie at your stomach, his lips next to your ear.

“you bled through your shorts,” he says in a quiet whisper so nobody else hears, pulling away as you spin around with a horrified gasp, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “no,” you mumble against your palm in disbelief. this hasn’t happened in years.

you look down at your light wash, denim shorts, wondering to yourself why on earth you didn’t think to wear something darker on your heaviest day. “come on, i’ll get the hat another day. let’s get you to the bathroom.” chris grabs your hand from your mouth and guides you out of the store and to a family stall, opening the door for you. “wait here and i’ll go find you something, okay?”

you walk into the family bathroom and nod, still in disbelief that you’d actually bled through your fucking pants. it’s one thing to leak a little in your underwear, but this was rare.

after shutting and locking the door, you pulled the hoodie off from around your waist and hung it up, turning around in the mirror and looking over your shoulder. a shocked gasp leaves your lips when you realize how bad it actually is and it’s hard to fight off the tears that sting in your eyes. there’s no way chris was the only one that saw this.

it’s only about five minutes later when you hear a knock on the door and you rush to open it, pulling chris in who now holds a bag in his hand. he shuts the door behind him and pulls out a new pair of underwear and some black sweatpants, setting them on the counter. “here, change and put your old clothes in this bag,” he tells you, turning his attention onto you when you don’t answer.

“what’s wrong?” he asks when he sees your eyes brimming with tears, taking a tentative step closer to you. “it’s so bad,” you choke out, voice thick with emotion. god, you hated how easy it was for something to set you off like this during your period. “i’m so embarrassed.”

chris’s expression softens at your clear discomfort, hands reaching out for the button on your shorts. “it’s fine,” he says, his flat tone hiding any real displays of comfort. “nobody saw. i only noticed because i was staring at your ass.”

his words make you feel slightly better but not much, only enough to make you stop complaining and instead let out pathetic sniffles as he unzips your shorts. “c’mon, let’s get you changed so you can get in bed.”

you let him peel the denim off you but stop him when he reaches for your panties, hand grabbing his wrist gently. “i don’t want you to see it,” you tell him, looking down at where his fingers paused at the waistband.

chris sighs, tucking his fingertips in the tops of the seamless panties but not pushing them down. “i’ve eaten you out on your period before, i can handle it,” he tells you like it’s obvious. you cringe at the memory, still holding his wrist. “this is different, it’s.. it’s gross.”

he moves one of his hands up to your chin and tilts it upwards, forcing you to meet his gaze. “it’s fine. i’m a grown man, i can handle it.” you grumble in response and let go of his wrist, letting him slide your panties down your legs, instantly regretting it when you saw how much blood was actually in them. “oh my god, never mind, ew,” chris fake gags, leaning over so he can pull them off of your ankles.

“chris!” you whine in embarrassment, slapping his shoulder as he stood up straight again, not finding any amusement in the way he met your eyes again with a smirk playing on his lips. “i’m kidding,” he grins, throwing your underwear and shorts onto the counter by the sink.

you huff and head to the toilet to at least try and wipe up some of the mess, grumbling to yourself about how annoying chris was. he interrupts you by reaching out, his fingers holding something. you look up and see he’s holding a tampon, something you had forgotten to grab when you left your place. “where’d you get this?” you ask him, taking it from his hand.

“asked like four girls on the way back to the bathroom until someone had one,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal, like the thoughtful action doesn’t make your heart soar despite how miserable you are.

“thanks,” you say plainly, forcing down a disgustingly cheesy grin. he just hums in response and pulls out his phone to give you some privacy. once you flush and stand up, he hands you the brand new clothes he bought and puts your dirty ones in the now empty bag, holding onto it for you.

“ready?” he asks when you’re dressed and your hands are washed, putting his grey hoodie back on and zipping it up. you nod and walk towards the door. he lets you out and guides you through the mall with a gentle hand on your back and you can’t ignore the way his thumb rubbing over the exposed skin makes your stomach flutter.

[nickssidewitch]

🔥 Expose Accounts Ain't Got Shit On Me 😤 ~ The NDA Chronicles

Hello everyone on this glorious day! I hope you are all doing very well, and I wish you all the best!

There are some things I need to get off my chest.

And it is about- you guessed it- the infamous NDA accounts.

I will tag them so they can see this themselves, and so they can try to come up with their own fantastical justifications for all of the concrete proof I have of them being fakers who are putting themselves at actual legal risk. And the legal risk has nothing to do with some damn 156-page (weird number but okay) NDA.

So here are the two accounts in particular that I focus on, but there are more. @dollysturniolo WHI NOW GOES BY @dollsturns @coolasice01

Let me give y’all a bit of background on these two characters, because that’s all they are— characters that some weirdos (or one weirdo) hide behind. Dolly claims to be the girlfriend of Christopher Sturniolo. The @coolasice01 account claims to actually BE Christopher Sturniolo.

I've spent the past almost 48 hours talking to these accounts, getting to know their behaviors, personalities, and psyches- as well as learning about all of the lies they have told you all about who they are and who they are affiliated with.

There are other accounts probably claiming to be Matt’s girlfriend or Matt himself, but I don’t wanna lose more braincells talking to those nimrods.

So, let’s begin with the factual evidence that I've gathered:

#1- Where They Live

I had asked both the "Chris" account and the Dolly account about where they're from and where they live specifically, framing the questions as innocent moments of curiosity about certain fast food places and landmarks that those people would have probably visited or have been around in both LA and Massachusetts.

The gag here is that these landmarks either do not exist, are regional and do not reside in those specific areas, or are nowhere near the locations they've stated.

Here are screenshots of our conversations:

As you can see, I asked the “Chris” account about the fast food chain "Zaxby's" which is an American chicken shop. While it does exist, there are none in Massachusetts, and none in many states in the Northeast of the U.S. at all. It is a regional food place in the U.S., meaning that exists in certain regions (in this case, the South), and not in others. Also bone-in tenders… Huh?! 😭

I also asked about Firehouse Subs, as of which there are none in Massachusetts yet again. And they aren’t in Cali from what I recall as well but regardless, another lie.

Now we get onto Dolly. I asked Dolly where she lived in Cali, and she said an actual name of a place in California which I’ll give her credit for. However, when asking about specific landmarks in that area, I caught her in her own sort of blatant lies too 😭

I said “Do you live more towards The Forum or the Observatory Deck?” just to see what he answer was. Mind you, The Forum isn’t even near the area she said she lived by, and the Observatory Desk doesn’t exist, at least not in California 😭

I also asked Dolly about her time in Massachusetts, since she said that’s where she originally spent time and met the triplets. She mentioned how her favorite place was some lake that’s some minutes away from the boys’ home there, and when I fact-checked that info, it was correct.

However, when asking about specific landmarks there… lies.

Here is the screenshot:

As you can see, I asked about a Paul Revere statue. However, that statue doesn’t exist in that area. 😭

#2- The Ways They Text

Everyone who has ever communicated with a British person and an American person knows that while they both mainly speak English, the biggest differences can appear in text style, more importantly in the ways they abbreviate words.

One of the biggest differences in the ways words are abbreviated is the word "because". In the U.S., the word "because" is shortened as "cuz" or " 'cause". In the U.K, it is shortened as "cos".

Well, "Chris" here spells it like "cos". Same way as Dolly.

As someone who has never traveled to the U.K except once and hardly ever even sees his girlfriend, and also as someone who has traditionally spelled his because as "cuz" in previous texts we've seen publicized, him saying "cos" is highly unlikely.

Both accounts say "cos" and have spelled "color" like "colour".

#3- The NDAs/Documents/Legal Talk

This is probably the biggest part of it all, and the second most obvious inconsistency because, simply, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about 😭 I mean she said it her damn self.

Dolly brought up a document that confirms the Sturniolo Triplets LLC, which for those who don't know what an LLC is, is a document that pretty much gives the Sturniolo Triplets' name and brand legal and business protection. It also gives the Sturniolos' the ability to manage their own finances, their own real estate, their own employees, heir own teams, etc.

ZStar management, who their manager Laura owns, is technically a branch under the Sturniolos' LLC. The Sturniolos' technically, as of 2022, are Laura’s employers/managers/partners, not the other way around. All Laura and ZStar do is handle the exposure aspects of the Sturniolos' and their other stars, which mainly surrounds PR, scheduling events that grant them more exposure (Prada show was the biggest part of this), gives them brand deals, and can recruit or offer new employees/team members/networks/connections to work with the boys.

These are the documents she brought up to me as proof of her “owning” said documents:

Here’s the other gag: Both of these documents are in public domains. as they should be since they’re legal documents confirming the legal identities of the Triplets’ as a sole business entity.

She was in my DMs tweaking about how she can’t find the damn docs to give to the solicitor or whatever, when all she had to do was look up “Sturniolo Triplets LLC” on Google, as we all can do.

Here is the site you can use to look this info up, and I’ve done it here:

This is public information that all literally just says “We are our own managers. We own ourselves and our brand. We’re businessmen and we are the business, man.” (the last sentence was corny lmao).

Regarding the NDA, every single time I bring up the legal process of an NDA, she states that Laura forced her to sign it. Then she says that she wasn’t aware of what was on the paper when she signed.

Basically she’s just painting Laura as this demon who controls the triplets against their will.

When in reality, in the real business legal world, the triplets would be the ones giving ZStar the A-Okay for drafting and making her sign that NDA. So technically, based on her logic but implementing real facts, it would be the triplets who are the ultimate demons since they’re the ones who have all the power and the final say on business actions.

She cannot OWN the boys and tell them what to do. As of 2022, those boys have been their own owners and employers and managers. She works under them and is only in charge of PR and exposure as per what ZStar is about.

In the real world, if there was an NDA, first of all, these people would not have Tumblr accounts since Tumblr is probably the most public and obvious app that an investigator can use to prove that you are breaching the NDA. It is also very easy to doxx people on this app (please don't do this) because of the analytics features. So this app would be the least safe one to create an anonymous profile where you're secretly hinting at a secret relationship with a famous person.

Also, in the real world, the triplets would be the ones to clear the NDA since Laura works for them. So, technically the boys would be the bad guys in this scenario.

Lastly, I've spoken on how an NDA would be unethical in this scenario.

Here's the post where I talk about it:

https://www.tumblr.com/nickssidewitch/783013337716998144/yall-are-talking-about-ndas-in-this-app-as-if?source=share

#4- Not Knowing Video Information

A new video came out this Friday... hehehe, just in time.

So I just asked “Chris” what video is coming out this Friday as well as what Nick would be wearing.

Mind you, I asked at around 2 PM PST/ 5 PM EST, which is a half hour before videos are released. “Chris” said that he’s the one in charge of uploading the video and releasing the photodump.

When I asked what video would be coming out, he said it was something related to talking about tour.

He said Nick wouldn’t go in a rant and would be chilling.

He said Nick was wearing pretty much the opposite of what he actually wore.

Here’s the screenshots:

I mean they speak for themselves 😭

They also literally just don't know basic things about the triplets.

I lied about Chris saying on stream that he liked playing with dominoes. Chris Sturniolo has never even said the word dominoes in all of his digital footprint.

I even asked about him playing Red Dead Redemption and he said he did... Chris Sturniolo has never mentioned playing that game.

I also mentioned to Dolly that Chris said in a stream that he likes doggystyle.

Chris has never once spoken about his favorite sex position.

Dolly also said her and Matt were dating before she dated Chris which... would never happen. Brothers just don't do that. Like, ever.

#5- Sympathy Points

This is probably the most obvious giveaway that someone is lying-- when they constantly ask for your sympathy or they constantly need assurance that you believe them.

Dolly was also tryna be friends with me? Like girl, hell no.

This happened multiple times throughout my conversations with both accounts, and here is a screenshot since I literally can't post more than 30:

It's so pathetic, I'm sorry.

#6- Avoiding conversations because they're stuck in a corner and being confronted about their lies.

I think I can just show these without explaining them lol.

This is just two because of the image limit, but if you need more screenshots lmk.

Now, let's discuss tarot and energy readings.

If you believe in these as evidence, cool. If not, also cool, and you can skip this part! I’m sure the first part was concrete enough 😭😭

I did a tarot reading on whether they were actually dating Chris.

And guess what? Nope. That ain't happening.

Here's the reading:

I even did a reading for Dolly, but I won't share the screenshots because there are some information there that she has shared about herself that is personal and I don't want to make her feel any worse than she probably already does. I don't like weirdos, but I'm not an evil shrew.

The reading was me reading about how Chris will "cheat" on her and that she's actually going to find a future spouse soon, which the future spouse part is real.

But she kept saying shit like "Nah me and Chris can work it out" or "I'll figure it out when I get there" like bro that ain't how it works.

Why I think they are doing this:

I don’t know if it is more than one person creating this whole cinematic universe or if it’s just one. And honestly, I don’t care because either answer is pathetic 😭

But I hypothesize that the reason this whole narrative was created was:

To fulfill their own fantasies and delusions

To paint the triplets' lives as if they're living some nightmare or some angsty teen fanfiction

To fulfill their narcissism or ego by painting themself as this person with info about the boys and their lives that no one but them knows about

To make all the attention go on them

And tbh the worst case scenario is that this is someone with a severe case of some sort of mental illness who has used this as a way to satisfy whatever they're going through, and in this case they need actual mental help from a therapist or some mental health counselor and I wish them well.

Final Notes

This was a complete waste of my time, but I also had fun because it's the start of my summer break, and I get to expose people who aren't just being fake and weird towards others, but also helping those people not get themselves into actual genuine legal troubles.

I feel that they don't have a good grasp that what they've done is wrong, and they will constantly flip the script to fit their narratives.

Even with me posting all of these concrete facts with evidence, and maybe others will do the same, those same people like @dollysturniolo, @munchingmini, @coolasice01 will still find ways to flip the script to make people believe them.

Well I hate to break it to them, but it won't work. Not this time. We're all grown with minds and cognition of our own. We can all deduce that this whole thing is made up just using common sense and critical thinking skills. This fandom might be fucked up at times, but a good majority of people here are intelligent and can sense when someone is being ungenuine.

I would suggest, for your safety, to admit to lying. Unfortunately, I know you won't admit to fibbing, so in that case I'd suggest you leave the app. All you're doing by staying here is self-sabotaging, which is unhealthy. People are going to be rude and constantly attack you knowing that this whole thing is fake.

So please, for your sake and sanity, please leave, and get some mental help. The Sturniolo triplets are fine, and their energy will be better if there aren't horrible people who tells blatant lies about them on the internet.

Love y'all!

[aurescentia]

Thinking Thoughts about video game designer Eddie accidentally (unintentionally) putting a Steve lookalike in his game.

The kids... notice.

Steve only finds out when Dustin and Lucas are play testing the game before Eddie hands off a pitch for potential funding.

Steve and Eddie aren't even friends yet.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

"Dude, watch it," Lucas mumbles, knocking his shoulder into Dustin's. "Don't kill him before the checkpoint."

"Oh, sorry. How silly of me!" Dustin mutters back, hunching closer to the screen.

"Of course I'm trying to keep Steve alive. Stop backseating and wait your turn."

Steve can practically hear the eye rolls ping-ponging around their side of the room.

Mere moments later, they both let out an exasperated groan and start arguing in earnest as Steve walks over to them, curiosity piqued.

"Dude!! You killed Steve! I just told you to be careful!"

"Obviously I was trying," Dustin grits out, annoyed, "but you kept distracting me!"

"Alright, I'll bite. Why am I dead?" Steve asks, stepping up unnoticed behind them.

They both whip around so fast they nearly knock heads as they look up at Steve, embarrassed.

"Uh."

"Wow, I like- completely forgot you were here," Dustin says, unperturbed.

Like Steve wasn't the one to give him a lift here twenty minutes ago.

"Gee, thanks," Steve says, rolling his eyes. From this vantage, above them at Lucas' desk, he can see the screen they had just been arguing over.

Dropping between them, forcing both to squawk and get out of the way as Steve leans toward the screen. He has to get closer to make sure he's seeing this right.

It's... him. Sort of. A miniature, pixelated version of himself, slumped over, dressed in old timey knight-in-shining-armor shit, his sword leaned on the wall beside him.

He doesn't want to be conceited or anything, but the likeness is... undeniable. Tawny hair, smattering of tiny speck freckles. Hazel eyes that muddle into a greenish gold in pixelated form.

It's Steve, undoubtedly. Dead, with a sword through his heart.

He turns back to Dustin and Lucas, pointing blindly at the monitor.

"Why am I- why is that me?"

They shoot each other looks from over Steve's shoulder, mouths working as they search for a delicate way to phrase it.

"Well... It's not you, explicitly," Dustin starts slowly.

"Or legally. He's legally distinct from you!" Lucas adds, nodding frantically.

"Right, his name's not even actually Steve," Dustin says furtively.

"It's Severian, which he absolutely stole from Shadow of the Torturer, but he said he'd-"

"Gonna stop you right there, Henderson," Steve says, cutting him off before he could go off on some tangent long enough to bore him into distraction.

"Who is this he and why the fuck would he put me/not me into his game?"

Steve has a hunch. More than a hunch, actually. A bone-deep sureness that he needs confirmed about their 'cool, older game designer' friend that they loved to prattle on about all the fucking time.

"Eddie?" Dustin says, visibly cringing.

"But he doesn't know we call his character Steve. I don't think he even realizes it's one-hundred percent, undeniably you," Lucas hurries to clarify.

"It's just an in-joke. Something stupid we do," Dustin adds, nodding his agreement.

Eddie fucking Munson.

They weren't even friends. Not really.

So why did Munson, evidently without realizing, make a whole ass game with Steve as the protagonist?

[oldermenfucker]

dr robby and medical kink i need religiously!!! having her legs propped up all open for him to see and he’s torturing and teasing her. with gloves on of course. i do think he uses toys aswell

OH MY GOSH OH MY GAWQWWWWWDHEIXEJXHAOZBWOZBWJ YOUR MIND OMGGG SEND MORE THOTS IN!!!!! I’m starving for moreeee

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut! Y’all know me -> THE GLASSES STAY ON! Use of dildo, roleplaying doctor/patient, humiliation kink (not a lot but he mocks reader from time to time heheeeee), sex in on call room, p in v, kind of infidelity (but not really ITS JUST ROLEPLAY) finger sucking, breeding (cause let’s be real he won’t pull out), a little impregnating kink from Robby—oops English isn’t my first language<3

“On-call room. Now.”

Robby opens the text immediately, glancing around to see if anyone’s looking at him before he bolts toward the room. He manages to get inside without anyone noticing him.

“Dr. Robby…” he finds you sitting on the small bed, scrubs discarded on the shelves, and you are wearing… a gown? A patient’s gown?

“What’s going on?” He asks, eyes eating up the exposed skin of your thighs when you slowly bunch the cheap fabric around your waist, “What are you doing?”

“Lock the door, Dr. Robby,” you uncross your legs slowly, biting your lip as soon as you hear the clicking of the lock, “You should give your patients more privacy, that’ll make your satisfaction scores higher.”

“A patient? Is that what you are today?” He smirks, catching up on your game pretty quickly. Robby nods, faking understanding as he steps closer, towering over you, “Well then, what brings you here today, Ms…”

“Mrs. Actually,” you untie the strings of the gown, stripping yourself off before dropping the fabric on the floor, “Mrs. Robinavitch.”

“Lucky guy, Mr. Robinavitch I mean,” he hums, cupping your jaw to tilt your head up, “So, what is it? Are you hurt, sweetheart?”

“Mhm,” you nod bashfully, leaning back on your elbows as you open your chest more to Robby’s greedy eyes, slowly spreading your legs with a soft pout, “It hurts, doctor. I tried everything, but I can’t get it inside.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” he coos, kneeling between your thighs and pulling out a pair of gloves from the pocket of his jacket, “Where does it hurt? Gotta show me or I can’t help you.”

“Here,” you grab his gloved hand, guiding it from your chest down to your core, pressing his fingers over the damp spot on your underwear, “Make it go away, sir?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” with his free hand, he takes his glasses out and puts them, making you gasp softly and try to squeeze your thighs together. He huffs out a laugh, the feeling of his cold plastic gloves on your heated skin makes you tremble a little, “Now, what can’t you get inside there, Mrs. Robinavitch?”

“This,” you pull out a blue dildo, large enough to hurt but not as big as what Robby is hiding under his pants — it is enough to make his eyes go wide and his brown orbs disappear, “I tried all week to get this inside me, but I only could go a bit past half of it. Whatever shall I do?”

“Well,” he is stunned, to say the least, but the way you utter the words so innocently makes his cock throb in his cargo pants. Robby smirks, pushing on your chest until you are lying on your back before he grabs your legs and rests your knees on his shoulders, “We can’t have that, can we? We should start by stretching you out, what do you say? Open up the muscles a bit?”

“Anything, doctor,” you whine, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t break character, “Please, help a poor woman. I wanna satisfy my husband—“

“Tsk tsk,” he takes off your underwear, letting it dangle from one leg as he leans closer, “No small talk when I’m focusing on my patient. Let me examine you first, yeah? Didn’t get to read your medical records.”

“Of course, Doctor!” You grin at him but soon you are gaping at how hot he looks while he slowly pushes your lips aside by his thumbs, humming approvingly — as if he hasn’t dived between them a million times already.

“Such a pretty pussy you got, Mrs. Robinavitch,” he mutters, his chest heaving with anticipation as he drags his gloved fingers over your labia, slowly parting them before he makes a ‘tsk’ sound again, frowning a bit before his eyes meet yours in disappointment, “You’re all soaked through, how cute.”

You bit down your lip so hard when he leans down to give an experimental suck on your clit, and he has the fucking audacity to hum and frown in concentration while he rubs your wet cunt with his fingers.

“Why did you want to fit that thing in you, sweetheart?” He looks at you with such a sad look as if you are his med student that has failed an exam, and it awakens something so deeply primal inside you, “This tight little cunt can’t handle it.”

“That’s why I’m here, Dr. Robby,” you mumble the words as best as you can, throwing your head back when he prods you open with those damn blue gloves, leaning in to lick a quick yet firm strip from your entrance up to your throbbing clit.

“You want me to stretch you out, is that?” He grabs the dildo, acting as if he hasn’t used it on you for hours before he looks back at you with a mischievous smile, “What would your husband say when he finds out I have to fuck his wife with a fake plastic dick that is probably bigger than his?”

“He encouraged it!” Your voice comes out in a shriek, and Robby realizes how needy you must be to be acting like this, “He said to start with the toy and move to something bigger if you could.”

“What a thoughtful husband you got there,” he pushes the glasses back on the bridge of his nose, grabbing the dildo by the end of it before he slaps the heavy object on your aching cunt a few times, dragging the tip of it between your folds before he nudges your entrance with him, “But we don’t have something bigger here, darling.”

“Anything will be fine, Doctor!” You bite down on your knuckles when he pushes the dildo inside, slowly inching it in until he reaches the half.

You already feel full, but not stuffed enough to your liking. You know it, Robby knows it, because nothing will ever feel as huge as his cock, and he is going to make sure you take him up in your tight cunt in a few minutes.

“Is that enough, sweetheart?” He asks with such a pitiful tone it makes you clench around the toy hard. You shake your head, hands flying to hold onto his free arm, and he scoffs, “No? You want more? Greedy little thing—“

He pushes one more inch inside, and you throw your head back as it reaches deep inside you, hitting that sweet spot just right. He notices, of course he notices, and it tickles your brain when he starts chuckles in a tone you know he is making fun of you.

“I’m gonna make you come once over this stupid fucking toy, then I’ll give you something bigger to cry on, yeah?” It’s more like a statement before he starts thrusting the dildo inside you at a fast pace, making you fist the cheap itchy sheets of the bed while raising your hips to move them.

You nod mindlessly, not wanting to say a word or you’d be moaning loud enough for the entire department to hear.

It feels too good to hold yourself back, so when you are about to come you tap his arm, and he goes faster, enough for your body to go rigid for a minute, wetness dripping down from your swollen hole.

He doesn’t wait anymore, reaching down to undo his belt and pull the zipper of his cargo pants down before he pulls you to the edge of the bed with his hands under your legs, making your hips rest against his abdomen with how high he positions your thighs on his shoulders.

He grabs the pillow next to your head, placing it under your ass to make you comfortable before he lines himself up with your cunt, slamming himself inside you with an urgency he has never shown before — Robby is not a man of quickie, so it is a shock how fast he is slamming himself inside you.

You wail out at the penetration, screaming out his name in pleasure before he stuffs two of his gloved fingers in your mouth.

“Suck on them, sweetheart, busy yourself while I open you up for your husband—“ he loves how your eyes roll to the back of your head as he splits you on his fat cock, his glasses sliding down his nose, sweat beading at his hairline as he fucks you.

Then an idea pops in his head.

“Are you trying for a baby?”

Your brain short circuits, eyes widening at how breathless and needy he sounds. Too hot, too fucking sexy to handle his teasing, and now, he is the mastermind because he is too deep inside the character that he brings up this topic.

“Yes—“ you squeal when he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, placing them over your clit as his pace somehow grows faster, changing his angle so he can reach deeper.

“I’m gonna make you feel better, sweetheart,” he leans down, pushing your knees to your chest and you nearly black out from the pleasure if it wasn’t for his voice to keep you attached to reality, “I’m gonna fuck a baby inside you so this you aren’t this tight, what do you say?”

You can’t say anything, he doesn’t need an answer anyway, because in mere seconds, both of you are shaking and moaning into each other’s mouths as you come; you gush around his cock while he stuffs you full of his warm cum, painting your insides white with a deep groan.

“You’re a fucking menace, wife,” he whispers before pecking your lips, gently lowering your legs, and laying you on the bed completely, “Go home, there’s only an hour left from the shift. I bet you can’t walk.”

“Whose fault is that, husband?”

“Yours, entirely yours.”

You grin at him, knowing full well he is right, and you would do it again sometime soon.

[snottyped]

Hi! Could you do a story about an incubus coming home after a fight, tired and hungry, and he turns to his roommate or friend for help?

You asked for longer story ideas so if you want that you could start it earlier, show both the sexual tension between characters and his growing stress, and also have some comfort with pov patching up his injuries from the fight.

I would prefer gender/sex neutral reader but whatever you want is fine! I also specifically like when it's just, a world with demons and humans casually, and it's not a whole Thing.

For the sex I think emphasizing the hunger would be really hot. Rough, possessive, pushing the bottom to come again and again...

I know this is a lot, ofc take your liberties, thank you very much!

- @zeal-kitten 🩷

console me

incubus x gn!reader nsfw

The door slams open with a heavy thud. The apartment is barely illuminated by the soft, amber glow of the streetlights outside. A gust of cool air carries the faint scent of fresh rain, but it’s soon replaced by the unmistakable scent of blood, sweat, and frustration.

Dren stumbles inside, breathing heavy, his leather jacket torn in places, his dark eyes wild and burning with unspent rage. His jaw is clenched tight, and his fists are bloody, knuckles swollen from the fight he’d barely managed to escape.

You’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when you hear him.

You don’t even need to look up to know it’s him—his energy is electric, charged with the kind of raw intensity that always makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Still, you can’t help the small jolt of concern that shoots through you when you finally glance up and see him.

“Shit,” you mutter, pushing yourself up from the couch. “What happened?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze sweeps over you, his eyes dark with something dangerous and primal. It takes a moment for his anger to shift into something else—a different kind of hunger, one that makes your pulse spike in response. His lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I lost,” he growls, his voice rough, like sandpaper. “But I’m not here for a lecture.”

Your stomach churns with unease. He’s clearly exhausted.

You approach him cautiously, eyes scanning over his injuries. His shirt is ripped in places, revealing deep, red scratches along his chest, bruises already forming on his neck and arms. Blood drips from his knuckles, and there’s a faint tremble in his posture that he tries to hide.

“Let me help you,” you say softly, your hands instinctively reaching for him.

His lips curl into something darker, predatory. “You want to help me?” His voice drops lower, becoming something almost coaxing. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Please,” you say, voice almost a whisper. “Just let me clean you up. You’re bleeding.”

The incubus lets out a soft chuckle, a low, almost bitter sound. “You’re too kind,”

he murmurs, letting you gently pull him toward the couch. His body feels cold under your touch, as if his wounds have drained more than just his physical strength. You sit him down, kneeling beside him as you carefully start to inspect the cuts and bruises on his chest.

You’re focused, trying to distract yourself from the way your heart races and the strange pull you feel in your veins. He doesn’t make it easy, though, his scent filling the air, a heady mix of dark spice and something darker. Something dangerous. You can feel his presence pressing down on you, almost like he’s consuming the space around you.

You keep your hands steady, though, carefully wiping away the blood with a cloth, tending to each injury. But there’s something unsettling in the way he watches you—his gaze is fixed on you, hungry and intense, his breath shallow. As you work, you feel a sharp tug of desire snake through your veins. You try to ignore it, focusing on his injuries, but it’s hard when he’s so close, his body radiating an unnatural heat.

“I’m fine,” he finally murmurs after a long, heavy silence. “I’ve had worse.”

You don’t respond, though. You can’t. There’s something in his voice that’s off. His confidence is slipping, his usual arrogance replaced with a desperate hunger. You glance up at him, your fingers still gently tending to his wounds, and you catch the way his eyes flicker between your face and your hands.

“Dren,” you breathe, reaching for him.

“Don’t.” His voice is low, ragged. “Don’t touch me unless you mean it.”

You freeze. That tone—it’s not a warning. It’s desperation in a thin disguise. His pupils are blown wide, almost swallowing the faint red ring of his irises. There’s a tremble in his fingers. Not fear. Need.

“I don’t need patching. I need to fuck.”

Your breath catches.

You’ve lived with Dren long enough to know his kind doesn’t “just” have sex. For an incubus, it’s survival. Sustenance. But he’s never come to you for that. Always respectful, always distant in that maddening way. The tension between you a slow-burning thing, drawn tight over shared meals and sleepless nights, banter edged with something hungrier beneath. You’ve seen him bring others home, watched with a jealousy you didn’t dare name.

But now he’s looking at you like he’ll starve if you say no.

You don’t.

“I’m not a snack,” you say, steady, stepping forward. “If you’re going to take from me, you do it right.”

That’s all he needs.

He’s on you in a blink—pinned against the wall, mouth crushing yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. The taste of blood, salt and heat, fills your mouth. His hands are everywhere—desperate, greedy, trembling with restraint and breaking past it all the same.

You gasp into him, and he swallows it whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls into your neck. “Say it now.”

Instead, you slide your hands under his ruined shirt, feel the ridges of muscle beneath torn flesh. “I said do it right,” you whisper. “Feed.”

He groans like it hurts.

When he lifts you, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. He carries you through the apartment like nothing weighs him down. Not your body, not the exhaustion, not the gnawing ache burning through him like wildfire. He needs. That’s all there is.

The bedroom door slams. You land on the bed with a bounce and a gasp—he's already on you, ripping away clothes like they offend him, like they keep him from what he craves.

"You don't know what you're offering," he pants, dragging his mouth down your throat. "It's not just sex, not for me. It's you. It's coming until you can't remember your name. It's needing more even when you're begging me to stop."

"Good," you whisper, already aching.

He freezes.

And then he growls—low, hungry, dark as thunder. “Fuck. You’ll break me.”

The first time he thrusts into you, it’s rough—desperate, unrelenting. You cry out, body arching into his, every nerve alight. He moves like he’s starved, like he’s been holding back forever and the dam has finally burst. You can feel him feeding—not just the way his cock pulses inside you, but how your pleasure floods into him, recharging every part of him. He groans against your skin like your moans are better than food, better than air.

“You’re so fucking good,” he snarls. “So full of light, and it’s all mine.”

He’s not gentle. Not tonight. He fucks you through the mattress, hands fisting in the sheets, mouth everywhere—biting, kissing, tasting. Every time you start to fall, he drags you back, forces you over again. Again. Again.

“Dren—” You’re not sure if it’s a plea or praise.

“Don’t stop. Give it to me. All of it.”

Your body burns, stretched too tight, nerves sparking until you don’t even know if you’re crying or laughing or begging. He takes everything, and still you offer more.

By the fourth climax, your voice is gone. By the fifth, you’re only sobbing into his chest, trembling in his arms. He holds you close now, rocking into you slower, gentler—but still deep, still needy.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, voice cracking with something close to awe.

You nod, unable to speak.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheeks, your mouth—soft now, reverent. “You’re unbelievable. You didn’t just feed me, you healed me.”

You glance down at his chest. The wounds are closing already. Your body still aches, but his power wraps around you now—soothing, warm, sated.

And finally, finally, he collapses beside you, pulling you into the crook of his arm, holding you like a treasure.

“…Don’t think this changes anything,” you murmur sleepily.

He chuckles, low and wrecked. “It changes everything.”

And for once, you let it.

You wake with his hand curled around your thigh.

The room is dim, the sheets tangled. Your body hums with soreness in the best way. He hasn’t moved far—still there, still wrapped around you like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real. His breath is warm against your neck. But beneath the calm, you can feel it again.

His hunger. Not the starving edge from before.

This is something else.

“You’re not done,” you murmur without opening your eyes.

“No,” he whispers, voice like gravel soaked in honey. “But I’m going to take my time this time.”

You open your eyes to find him watching you—his gaze softened but still blazing. Not the same frantic need. This is devotion. Worship. Obsession.

“I should let you rest,” he says, brushing your hair back. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you looked when you came for me. How you gave yourself so easily. I can’t—” He swallows hard. “I’ve never had anyone like you.”

You reach up, touch his jaw. “Then don’t be careful.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you like a man drowning—pressing you into the mattress with the weight of his body, his need. But there’s reverence now in the way he touches you. Still rough—his fingers dig into your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear—but he slows down just enough to see you. Every arch of your back, every gasp, every plea.

When he pushes inside again, it’s deep. Slow. A grind that makes your toes curl, his forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling.

“I want to own this,” he groans. “Want to make you feel so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

“You already have,” you whisper, rocking up to meet him.

He growls low in his throat and starts to move faster. The pace builds again—rough, bruising, his mouth all over your skin, marking you with teeth and tongue and whispered filth.

“So perfect,” he pants. “So fucking mine.”

You cry out as he rolls you over, dragging your hips back. He takes you from behind this time, one hand gripping your throat, the other sneaking down between your thighs.

“Come for me again,” he commands, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I want to feel it. Want to drink you down.”

You’re already right there, everything too much and not enough.

When you come, it’s like fire—tight and sharp, clenching around him. He curses and pounds into you harder, chasing his own release, but never once letting you fall away from his grasp.

When he follows you over the edge, it’s with your name on his lips—gasped, broken, raw. Not just sex. Not just hunger.

Worship.

Later, he holds you in the aftermath, arms wrapped tight like he’s trying to anchor himself. You run your fingers over his skin, over faint scars and healing wounds.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

His eyes are closed, but there’s a faint smile on his lips. “I’ve never been fed like this. Not just flesh. You gave me... everything.”

You trace circles on his chest. “You can have it. Just don’t break me.”

He opens his eyes—glowing faintly in the dark.

“Never.”

And when he kisses you again—slow, deep, gentle—it’s not about hunger at all.

It’s about you.

[delopsia]

Happy belated birthday!!! 🥳🥳

For the celebration - Bob Floyd, Rhett Abbott and Robert Reynolds

Moonlight Bullriding - the boys cumming in their pants

👀 wow I haven't gotten a multi-character ask like this in forever ⭐Join my Starlight Stampede Event! ⭐

Moonlit Bull Riding — Send any kind of thought or request for your rider(s)

Bob Reynolds °.•☆

Your mouth flutters over the thick material of his sweatpants, pressing chaste kisses into the outline of his cock, only pausing long enough to mouth at the tip, wetting it with your tongue. Bob gasps, squirming out from under you and further up the bed. "You're not getting away from me that easily," you murmur, speaking directly against him. The rumble of your voice sends his back arching up, babbling something incoherent under his breath.

Your hand rises to gently squeeze him, wrapping your lips around his cock head once more. Hands paw at your forehead, futilely trying to push you away. He's so cute, you're hardly even doing anything to him and here he is, wriggling like a damn worm. "Does that feel good?" You already know the answer. He's so, so easy to read, but you want to hear him say it. "Uhuh," whimpering under his breath, "feels...feels..." A sharp whine cuts through the bedroom air, Bob's cock twitches beneath your touch, his hips rising up off the mattress. A familiar saltiness greets your taste buds. "Already?" Giggling, you draw away and replace your mouth with your hand, rubbing firm circles into his tip. A beat passes, and he gasps. "I didn't—I didn't mean to, oh my god." He sucks in a breath, holding it for a moment. Then, sitting up, excitement glistening in his wide eyes."We can do that again, right?"

Rhett Abbott °.•☆

Between the low groan rumbling in your ear and the way he twitches against your thigh, you can do this all day. Rhett's hand tightens on your waist, absolutely shameless about how he chases the pressure of your leg between his. Anyone can walk past and see you. This alleyway is only so remote, someone is bound to come walking down here and stumble across the sight of a cowboy grinding on your thigh. "You're gonna get us caught," you warn, fully aware that he doesn't give the slightest damn about that. Not like this would be the first close-call, or the second, or the third. "No 'm not," the heat of his breath burns right into your sensitive neck. But that's not the answer you're looking for. Your fingers tangle in his hair, yanking his head back and— "Shit," Rhett's eyes roll back, his mouth hanging open. And you can feel his cock twitching through his jeans, cumming without the slightest ounce of warning. "I don't remember you being this easy," teasing. Has he always been this sensitive about having his hair pulled? Teeth nip your ear, his breathy whimper sending a shiver up your spine. "Let's see if y' can last any longer than me, huh?"

Bob Floyd °.•☆

"You're not slick," Bobby's breath tickles your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. "I can feel exactly what you're doing." "Good," you hum. Your eyes remain glued to the television, remaining as casual as possible. As if you're not perched in his lap, lazily grinding your ass into him. "I want you to feel it." His dejected huff is almost too loud, but nobody looks your way. Thank god Maverick likes his action films, your cover would have been blown a long time ago if this were a quiet, yearning romance. Bob's head thumps against your shoulder, a faint noise bubbling out of him. The roar of the movie covers up the louder one that follows. Frankly, that's the only thing fueling your to keep moving, grinding your ass into him in loose circles, in spite of the strain its putting on your thighs. His arms curl around your waist, squeezing you as hard as he can, and you think that might be his teeth sinking into the back of your neck. Vaguely, you feel him twitch against your ass. Once, twice. A faint moan chases it. You peer over your shoulder. "Did you just...?" Bob's flushed face is the only answer you need. "I might've."

[starsapphire]

re: prev ask and tim's foot-in-mouth syndrome — i think people make too much out of tim's "it was terrible for me to see your parents die" monologue in alpod because like, yeah it was objectively a little tactless, but the scene is written so bluntly and gravely because marv wolfman was trying to impress upon the reader just how profound an impact the graysons' death made on tim, and how this defines his character; he did this by way of having tim try to impress upon dick how much of an impression the event made on him.

and the thing is, tim isn't just saying this unprompted. he is very much thinking about how even discussing the story will cause dick pain! he literally tells dick he doesn't want to tell him the story because it will hurt him. dick is the one who insists that tim tell him the entire story, and tim still apologizes to dick both before and after he does so:

a lot of people also seem to believe that tim said something along the lines of ''watching your parents die was the worst thing that ever happened to me'' which. is absolutely not what he said. he never centres his own feelings on the event, and he never implies that it was worse for him than for dick. he only said that — understandably — it was frightening and he had nightmares about it:

and also like. what was tim supposed to say instead of "it gave me nightmares"? what do you want him to say here. "oh yeah my first memory was watching your beloved parents fall to their brutal deaths. but it didn't affect me at all and i actually never cared" ???? come on now

the most objectively tactless or foot-in-mouth line tim has in this entire scene is "my parents [...] forgot all about it [...] but for years i kept having having the same nightmare over and over again." and of course we can argue that it was tasteless for tim to essentially be saying he had imagined himself, somewhat positively, in dick's shoes — but again, this was really wolfman using the medium of character dialogue to emphasize that tim idolizes dick! this entire arc is tim's character introduction; there are multiple instances where the "logical" line is altered in favour of exposition and backstory. wolfman is balancing dialogue with the need to introduce tim drake instead of just having it blandly written out in one long block of third-person text.

all this to say, tim drake absolutely Does have an issue with putting his foot directly into his mouth as a kid, but his backstory scene in a lonely place of dying is not at all a good example of this. luckily there are many others. always remember to be accurate with your tim drake hate

[naggingatlas]

my friend's father is in a coma, let's help them reach their goal

no real way of paraphrasing it, my friend kole is in a very precarious situation right now and i would like to help her. please read the gfm's description.

every donation above a 50$ will get you a fully rendered work of one character, 100$ - of two, etc. smaller donations are just as appreciated and will result in sketches, plain and colored.

kole is one of my best friends and seeing her and her family like this destroys me. any, any help is welcome: please share this with whomever you can, with people who are in the means of donating especially. if all of my followers donated 5 bucks they would be way over the goal. thank you all for being here.

rules for commissions + more examples undercut and in my #yaurt tag:

dm me proof of your donation to the gfm and art/description of characters. i do practically anything. any further questions can be discussed from there + basic rules of ethics.

im just going through my clip studio files but if you remember a piece by me you can always ask for "something similar". thank you again.

[chow0w]

could you design Qibli? he’s my fave character!!!

Don't worry, Qibli is actually one of the more requested characters. @shionin and @fantasykiri5 also asked to see a Qibli redesign, and here it is!

(I kind of thought Qibli was second-most requested, but it's actually Queen Scarlet which is really surprising)

Either way, here's my Qibli redesign! I've loved Qibli since his introduction, so this was honestly really great to finally do - although I will admit this redesign isn't very similar to how I imagined him as a kid, since most of my interpretations of the WoF characters were based on MAPs which generally made Qibli less orange. Regardless, I'm pretty happy with this design and I feel like it fits him in its own way.

Moving over to the details: Qibli's scales haven't really been changed too much: he uses a color pallet similar to most canon interpretations, with the added full-body freckles and sunspots to keep things consistent throughout his design. I always wondered why the freckles were only on his face? Although that does make a lot of sense actually... a lot of people only get freckles on their face, me included. (Now I'm wondering why that didn't make sense to younger me!) Qibli's frills and wings had the most drastic change - I added a lot more orange/umber hue to them, and focused on sunstreak/spotty/sun-like patterns - I was definitely running with that freckle theme a little.. but it's also kind of cute because it parallels Sunny, and you could argue that Qibli and Sunny are both Thorn's kids.

Speaking of; Qibli still has his outclaw band, as well as a few other sparse alt accessories. Deciding his alternative-ness was something I debated a lot on: While I think it's reasonable that Qibli would lean heavily into alternative fashion because of his outclaw status, I also think he would have toned it down slightly out of a desire to appeal to the other students at jade mountain. Sad, but very in-character for someone so concerned with the opinions of others.

--

As always, I'm so grateful to all of you who've read this far and continued to support my redesign blog!! I appreciate all of the notes, asks and messages you've left me - and I'm so excited to keep posting!

If you're looking to request a character to be redesigned, I have an open askbox - but please check my pinned post to see who's on the list already. By the way, it's totally okay to hit up my inbox just to ask if you can get tagged for a certain character's redesign!

[kingkaisen]

CRUEL — Satoru G.

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: He screwed up. He knew he was going to die soon. Desperate to hear your voice just one last time, Satoru decides to call you.

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ only || heavy angst, character death, descriptions of blood and injuries, brief mention of smut, canonverse, friends to lovers…

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2K

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: (Spoiler warning) just to clarify, this does not follow the way Gojo died in the manga!

As Satoru Gojo stared at the bright stars in the night sky, a sad smile formed on his blood-coated, dry lips.

This death was cruel.

Not just the nature of it — his internal organs scrambled to hell, holes decorating his body, or rather, what was left of it, leaving him no choice but to lay in a pool of his own blood that turned the back of his messy white hair crimson red — but the one thing Satoru often silently prayed to a god for, to the universe, to whoever was listening, was to not die alone. Please.

But no one was around. Even the uncut grass surrounding him that would serve as his place of death was void of insects.

How cruel.

It was his fault.

A team of the strongest special-grade curses and curse users he had ever seen ambushed him in what was clearly a thoroughly planned attack. After all, they couldn’t beat him with their own strength and power. Satoru Gojo was the strongest for a reason. But they knew about his weakness: you, his best friend.

One of the curse users started spouting off personal information they had gathered about you. Your full name. Your address. They even bothered to mention how you’d often go to the grocery store every Thursday evening.

Next came the threats — the brutal, unspeakable death they wanted to subject you to.

Satoru should have known better than to lose his temper. He knew — he knew — those bastards just wanted to get him all riled up, but his better instincts fled his exhausted brain and nothing was left except burning rage.

Adrenaline worked in his favor at first. He killed them all.

But he was careless with his own life, leaving himself open to attack. And now, here he was, paying the ultimate price. Dying, and dying alone.

Cruel.

Satoru didn’t understand why he was searching around for his phone at first, patting his ripped, wet clothes. The thing was bound to be broken or soaked in his own blood by now, rendering it useless, but it was worth a shot.

Pulling it out of his right pocket made him all too aware that most of his right leg was missing. But he couldn’t think about that right now. His final thoughts wouldn’t be centered around great concern over his own body, or rather, what was left of it. They would be centered around you.

His blurry blue eyes stared at the cracked phone screen he held above his face. His finger clicked the power button, and when he saw that dull screen flicker to life, he figured that perhaps, in some sick twisted way, his prayers had been answered.

Trying to find your contact was pure hell. He could hardly see, which pissed him off greatly, because he wanted to soak in every photographed detail of the picture you and him took at the Cherry Blossom Festival last spring that served as his home and lock screen.

It would be his last time seeing that bright smile of yours. It would be his last time remembering the sweet treats you both shared. He’d always let you have the last bite.

“Why didn’t I kiss her that day?” Satoru thought. “Why haven’t I kissed her at all? What the hell is wrong with me?”

A tear rolled down Satoru’s bruised cheek. The thought of dying without having kissed you was unbearable. He had found himself in the perfect First Kiss Scenarios several times but chickened out at the last minute, thinking that he had time . . . time to build up the courage to ask you to be his. To turn a friendship into something greater.

But it was too late now.

It wasn’t fair.

He couldn’t die yet, he couldn’t. He fucking couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Not when he hadn’t yet told you he was in love with you. Not when his lips haven’t touched your soft ones in a deep, passionate kiss. He imagined it quite often. Pulling you close, his hands either on your waist or cradling your breathtaking face. The kiss would last until your lungs burned from a lack of significant air, or until both of your unwavering urges to smile interrupted it.

He hadn’t touched your body beyond the regular, friendly ‘hey, how are you?’ hugs and your cuddling sessions on the couch during monthly movie nights. What would it have been like? To have your warm figure underneath him, your faces inches apart, as you moaned his name softly?

Perhaps, having sex with you would spell the difference between hooking up with someone versus making love, because when he closed his eyes at night and imagined your first time together, those sinful thoughts were lust-filled, that much was true, but at its core, they were romantic. He vividly pictured the sight of your stunning eyes. Holding your hand during. Running a warm bubble bath for you afterward. All of those little, heart-warming things; he imagined it more than the sex itself.

But it was too late now.

It wasn’t fair.

At the very least, he hoped he could hear your voice one last time. You truly loved to ramble. Hearing you go on, on, and on about whatever crossed your mind was one of the circumstances that made him fall for you, as it always made his heart skip a beat.

Now, he wanted to hear you go on, on, and on about whatever crossed your mind as his heart started to give out.

Satoru dialed your number, pressed the speaker button, and rested his phone on his slow-rising chest. He waited. After a couple of rings, your voice, filled with blissful unawareness, came through his phone.

“Damn it, ‘Toru. Your phone call made me lose my game,” you said playfully. “What’s up?”

“Sorry.” Satoru’s voice was hoarse. Lower than usual. Lacking its usual enthusiastic tone.

“You okay?” You asked worriedly.

“I’m fine . . . just woke up from a nap . . . is all.”

“At this hour? It’s almost time for bed!” You paused. Satoru could hear you sip something — must’ve been another cup of that new, flavored tea you purchased last week and raved about on a daily basis, he guessed.

Continuing on, you said, “Well, anyway, if you want some company, you could come over and spend the night. You were coming over tomorrow for dinner anyway.”

“I won’t be able to make it.” A string of blood slipped from Satoru’s mouth as he spoke.

“Oh, well, no worries. You’re still coming tomorrow then, right? I got everything we need to try to make noodles from scratch. You wouldn’t believe how long the line was at the grocery store today. This lady tried to cut in front of me, claiming she had ice cream or something, and I was like, boo-fucking-hoo, I have ice cream too. I let her cut in front of me though ‘cause she handed me five dollars. That’s just how long the line was. People were paying other people to get in front of them. Let that sink in. Crazy, right?”

That was right. It was Thursday. Your favorite shopping day. If Satoru had the energy, he’d smile at the thought of you strolling around a store, smiling happily at the sight of your favorite snacks being on sale.

“Tell me more about . . . about your day,” Satoru asked weakly. He wanted to hear your voice. He had to hear you ramble to him, just one last time. God, he loved it more than anything.

“Hmm,” you shuffled around a bit. “Well, I didn’t do much. Aside from grocery shopping, I spent some time playing that game I told you about, walking around town, um, that’s about it I think. Oh! I found this cute shop selling mochi! I bought you some. It was a brand-new shop too. It still smells like fresh paint in there. The owner was nice as well. There was this other place selling lemon milk, which sounds kinda gross, but it’s basically just creamy lemonade I think, but I could be wrong. I think I’ll let you waste your money and try it before I do, just in case it’s disgusting. But yeah, that was my day. How was yours?”

“I’ve had better days. I don’t really . . .”

Satoru was cut off by his own choking. He coughed, then coughed again, coating his chin with that crimson-red fluid.

“‘Toru? Are you sure you’re okay? Are you sick or something? Is that why you took a nap?”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Satoru whispered.

He wasn’t certain you heard him at first, as you were quiet for a brief moment.

“No, no, I’m gonna worry about you. I’m always gonna worry about you,” you said. This time, it was Satoru’s turn to meet your words with silence.

“‘Toru?” You called out.

He tried to speak. He wanted to. But he could only cough and choke. Choke and cough.

“Okay, I’m on my way to your house. You sound horrible, like when someone’s drinking water and it goes down the wrong pipe, you know?”

“I’m not home,” Satoru responded.

“Where are you then?”

He could hear the worry in your voice.

“Satoru, where the hell are you? What’s going on?”

He coughed. More crimson-red.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m checking your location. You’re scaring me right now.” You paused for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was distant. Satoru gathered that you had put him on speaker as you checked your phone for his whereabouts. “You’re . . . it looks like you’re in the middle of nowhere. I’m on my way. What exactly happened? Were you walking to the store or something and passed out? When I get there, you’re going straight to the ER, I don’t care if you just have a small cold-”

“I’ll be dead by the time you get here, sweetie.”

The silence that followed his words snapped his slow-beating heart into pieces, because just as his heart was shattered, your world was as well, and he couldn’t stand being the reason for your suffering.

Another tear fell from his blue eyes, splattering onto the grass below him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so . . . sorry. I just wanted to keep you safe-” Satoru coughed again.

“You’re messing with me, right? This is some sort of prank or-or sick joke?” Your shaky voice softened. “Right?”

Satoru stared at the luminous stars above. They reminded him of you. Bright and pretty.

“Look up. The stars are bright and pretty like my sweetie,” he once said to you amidst a late-night walk.

You gave him a goofy grin that matched his own, swatting at the hand he pinched your cheek with. “Stop it, that’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard. And it doesn’t even rhyme.”

“Yeah it does, depending on how you say the word pretty. I’m the poet-in-the-making here.”

“It doesn’t rhyme, you fool.”

The corner of Satoru’s lips twitched as if his soul wanted him to smile at the memory. But he refused to waste his dwindling strength on smiling. He needed his strength for something else right now: to tell his sweetie the truth.

Because, damn it all, he refused to die without you knowing how he truly felt about you. It was the best he could do, seeing as he would never, ever get the chance to kiss you.

How cruel.

“Listen . . . I know we’re just friends, but . . . I’m in love with you. I wish I told you sooner, sweetie. But I kept it to myself ‘cause . . . I didn’t wanna fall in love with you. Loving someone means having someone you could lose, and the thought of losing you killed me . . . I couldn’t handle it. But now, there’s nothing about you that I don’t love. You don’t know what your smile does to me. And I could listen to you talk for hours, nonstop. I’m pretty sure I already have. I love hearing your awful jokes, and hearing you sing, even when you’re out of tune. It still sounds perfect . . . to me. I love the little frown you make when you can’t make decisions . . . the way your eyebrows would pinch together . . . then you’d always a-ask me. What milk to buy . . . if you should mop first or do laundry first . . . what to have for lunch. God, you’re just so-” Satoru coughed. Crimson red.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I know you never believe me when I tell you that, but you are. My eyes weren’t prepared to handle the sight of your pretty face the first time we met. I had a headache for three days. Three days. I swear it’s the truth. That’s just how gorgeous you are to me. And I wish I could see you one last time. No . . . no I wish . . . I wish I could’ve kissed you. I’ll never get the chance now, not in this life at least. I don’t know h-how any of this . . . afterlife mess works, but I hope . . . I’ll get to see you again. I really . . . I really . . . I re . . .”

His words were becoming incomprehensible. His eyelids felt heavy. The twinkling stars above seemed less like stars, but blobs of fuzzy light.

“Satoru? Please, keep talking. I need you to keep talking,” you said.

He could hear the rumbling engine of your car through the phone.

“. . . Trying,” Satoru mumbled, though uttering that word? It took more energy than it should have.

“This can’t be happening. Not you, ‘Toru, not you. I can’t lose you. I-I won’t be able to handle it . . . I can’t handle it.”

He heard you sniffle as you started to cry. He could imagine the tears streaming down the soft cheeks he wanted to stroke and kiss so desperately.

“Satoru?��� You called out urgently when he didn’t respond.

“I’m here,” he whispered, but the words that rolled off of his red tongue were so low, you couldn’t hear him. He wanted to scream it, but he couldn’t speak above that pathetic whisper so easily carried away by the brisk wind.

How cruel.

“Come on, Satoru! Don’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me,” you cried. “Please don’t die, don’t do this to me . . .”

Satoru closed his eyes — an act that wasn’t of his own choosing.

It felt as if he was falling asleep. Falling asleep while floating in a pool or lake. But, in reality, he was dying in a pool of his own blood.

—

“‘Toru!”

The loud shout of his name made his eyes snap open.

Just how much time had passed?

He wasn’t staring at the stars above, but at you, his sweetie. Your face was right above his.

His breathing sped up. His heartbeat quickened at the sight of you, and more and more uncountable tears fell from his eyes. The sight of you alone was quite literally taking his breath away.

“Oh my god. I found you,” you fell to your knees in the blood-soaked grass, pulling his head in your lap as gently as you could. “The ambulance is right behind me. They can fix this, right?”

“You’re . . . here,” Satoru whispered. You leaned down, turning your head to the side until your ear was practically pressed against his lips, trying to hear his barely audible words. “I won’t . . . die . . . alone.”

“That’s right. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” you sniffled. You turned your head, your eyes staring at his lips.

You kissed them without a thought. Damn the blood, damn it all — this was not how you wanted your first kiss with your best friend to go, but you knew from his confession that it was his dying wish. You could feel Satoru use his little energy to kiss you back with as much passion as a dying man could. Your tears splattered against his cheeks.

When you pulled away and moved back a smidge, your face only an inch away from his, you whispered, “And I love you too. Do you hear me?”

His messy white hair — no, it was practically red now, crimson red — shifted as he nodded weakly, his hair tickling your face.

“Can you . . .” Satoru paused. You turned your head yet again, almost ear to lip. He tried to speak once more. “Can you . . . talk to me?”

“About what?”

“Anything,” he coughed. His blood sprayed across your cheek and nose. Crimson red. “Hurry. Sweetie, please hurry.”

His eyelids were getting heavy. Call it a feeling from his impaired gut, but he gathered that when his eyes closed this time, they wouldn’t open again. The faint sirens he heard in the distance couldn’t save him.

All he wanted now was to hear his sweetie ramble on, on, and on.

“Do you remember when we-we went on that trip to the beach together a few years ago?” You stroked his forehead with your trembling fingers, staring into his glassy eyes. “That stupid seagull took my sandwich, and you tried to avenge me, but the seagull won that fight. I’ve never seen someone run away from something so fast in my life. Remember that? You, um, bought me a new sandwich afterward and spent our entire beach trip trying to fight a bird. You wouldn’t hurt it for real, even though you could have. You’re too kind for that, even if it did yank your hair at one point. You probably didn’t get a chance to notice how beautiful that beach was, though. So vast and blue. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would have felt like to get married there. When I had that thought at the time, the only person I could imagine as the groom was you. That’s when I knew I was in love with my best friend. I knew that I’d . . . life . . . you . . .”

Satoru could no longer understand the final words you would ever say to him. He couldn’t hear you anymore.

His eyes closed. He couldn’t see you anymore.

The last thing he felt was your hand shaking his shoulder as if trying to awaken him from death itself, but as his chest rose and fell one last time, he couldn’t feel you anymore either.

How cruel.

♡ — @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @thequeenofcurses @he11okitty-mari @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @levisfavoriteteashop @insomniacbehaivour @preciousamethyst @kxmorrx @iwanttohitmyself @ellaumbrella1 @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @deadrevenge @koikohib @http-bell

[fateunwritten-if]

Please Stop

Hey everyone,

I want to take a moment to address something very important because I’ve been getting a lot of messages lately that completely miss the point and some have even gone way beyond just “asking for more content.” After I posted about harassment toward authors in our community, it seems a few anons have taken it upon themselves to harass me personally.

This is exactly the kind of toxic behavior that has driven talented creators and many others away from this community. They left because they were made to feel unsafe, disrespected, and unwelcome. And honestly, I don’t want to see that happen here or to anyone else.

1. Asking for more content is not harassment — but harassment is harassment. Fans are excited, and wanting updates is totally natural. I love that enthusiasm! But there is a massive difference between a polite question or a respectful request and repeatedly sending unwanted or invasive messages especially after someone has said, “stop.”

2. Writing is hard work and emotional labor. Creating stories takes time, emotional energy, and care. It’s not just “typing a story” on a whim. Creators don’t owe anyone instant updates or constant content just because they share their work publicly. Demanding updates like it’s a job you’re paying for ignores the passion behind every word, and it can be really draining.

3. Sharing work publicly does not mean inviting harassment. When creators share their work online, they’re sharing a part of themselves, yes. But that doesn’t mean opening the door to disrespect, sexual harassment, or personal attacks. Everyone deserves to feel safe and respected in their own creative space, including me.

4. Characters can be attractive. that’s part of storytelling. But we are not those characters. I am a real person with feelings and boundaries. They are real people with feelings and boundaries. Receiving unwanted sexual messages directed at me personally is hurtful. Being objectified or called a “tease” is unfair and wrong.

5. I do not enjoy or seek obsession or harassment. Creating stories is my passion and my way to connect with others — it’s not an invitation for personal invasion, obsession, or harassment. Those kinds of accusations or behaviors are hurtful and damaging, not only to me but to the community as a whole.

I will be turning off anon for a while, thank you.

- Amelia <3

[cryoculus]

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[raddixie]

In a world where certain powers are branded as curses, those who bear them are quietly erased from public life—sent to an isolated institution disguised as a prestigious “private school.” There, they’re taught to suppress their abilities. To be safe. Palatable. Normal.

But behind the sterile courtyards and ever-watching eyes, something festers. The halls echo with stories no one dares to repeat. And some students… simply disappear. No one talks about them. No one asks. Staff gets colder, and the rules get stricter.

You are one of the cursed—harboring a truth even the institution doesn’t understand. As the cracks begin to show, you’ll uncover secrets buried beneath concrete and silence. But the deeper you dig, the more you risk losing yourself—to the power inside you, and to the place that wants to bury you with the rest.

Because here, being cursed isn’t the worst thing you can be. Being noticed is.

“They say it’s harmless, and I let them believe it. But if they ever saw what it costs me to stay this quiet… they wouldn’t just scream. They’d disappear.” — MC

Genre: Dark Academia, horror, mystery, supernatural, thriller.(+18)

Demo Release : To Be Announced

Customize your main character’s gender, appearance, personality, and sexuality.

Your choices will shape the MC’s purpose, morality, and ultimate ending.

Rebel against the system—or conform to survive.

Romance, befriend, or antagonize one of six uniquely powerful individuals.

Hadrian – 20 (He/Him)

Power: Can temporarily raise the dead, though they only obey him while reanimated.

Personality: Calm, burdened, protective, emotionally distant.

Appearance: Ash-brown, slightly wavy hair kept medium-length. Deep forest-green eyes. Pale skin with dark under-eyes and pronounced eye bags. 6'3

Style: Minimalist and somber—black turtlenecks, layered coats, heavy boots. Wears a silver ring on a chain from someone important.

Mannerisms:– Stands still while others move, like he's observing. Rarely speaks. Avoids eye contact when emotional. His hands are always cold.

Quote:

"You shouldn’t follow me into the dark. Not everyone comes back from it… and I won’t be able to pull you out."

—

Fenric – 22 (He/Him)

Power: Sees others’ fates and can alter them—at the cost of self physical harm.

Personality: Brave, impulsive, stubborn, self-sacrificing.

Appearance: Jet-black, slightly messy short hair. Piercing icy-blue eyes that shimmer when his power activates. Deep tan skin with cool undertones. 5'11".

Style: Urban-street layers—hoodies, worn sneakers, bandages. He wears a thread bracelet, knotting it each time he changes a fate.

Mannerisms: Winces at visions. Bites his cheek when frustrated. Uses sarcasm to mask pain. Frequently checks the time.

Quote:

"I already saw how this ends. But hey—just for you, I’m willing to rewrite it… no matter the cost."

—

Elias – 19 (He/Him)

Power: Feeds on strong emotions—leaving others drained.

Personality: Charismatic, sarcastic, intense; a wild card.

Appearance: Thick, tousled chestnut-brown hair. Hypnotic amber-gold eyes. Warm caramel skin with sun-kissed undertones. 6'1".

Style: Ripped jeans, vintage tees, layered jewelry. Smells of smoke and sandalwood. Has tattoos that seem to subtly shift in certain light.

Mannerisms: Smirks constantly. Leans close when emotions are high. Always fiddling with a lighter or coin.

Quote:

"Careful, darling. Feel too much around me, and you’ll be left emptier than you knew you could be."

—

Lira – 21 (She/Her)

Power: Sees the future in her dreams.

Personality: Quiet, introspective, emotionally distant.

Appearance: Long, straight silvery-white hair, usually worn loose. Pale lavender eyes that glow faintly in sunlight. Porcelain skin with cool undertones. 5'5".

Style: Ethereal—flowing skirts, high-collared blouses, shawls. Often barefoot indoors. Wears a crystal pendant for protection.

Mannerisms: Blinks slowly while thinking. Hums to herself. Sometimes pauses mid-sentence when experiencing a vision.

Quote:

"I dreamed of you before we met. You were smiling… but the world around you was falling apart."

—

Nova – 24 (She/Her)

Power: Can twist or erase memories

Personality: Loyal, stubborn, protective, combative when provoked.

Appearance: Dark auburn hair tied back in a practical ponytail. Sharp hazel eyes flecked with gold. Deep brown skin with warm undertones. 5'9".

Style: Tactical streetwear—cropped jackets, combat boots, hidden pockets. Wears a utility belt at all times.

Mannerisms: Crosses her arms when thinking. Instinctively positions herself between others and danger. Rests her hand near her hip, ready to act.

Quote:

"I’ll protect what matters—even if that means taking something from your mind you weren’t ready to lose."

—

Selen – 20 (She/Her)

Power: Controls and manipulates emotions.

Personality: Calculating, cunning, deeply wounded by past rejection.

Appearance: Blonde hair, sleek and shoulder-length. Cold gray eyes. Smooth, cool beige skin. 5'7".

Style: Dark elegance— loves makeup, bold lipstick, sleek eyeshadows. Wears an intoxicating perfume. Can't go anywhere without her phone.

Mannerisms: Smiles when angry. Tilts her head while reading people. Uses touch strategically—to comfort or unnerve.

Quote:

"Don’t flatter yourself—I don’t need powers to make you feel something. I just know exactly which part of you to break."

Content Warning:

False Grace explores dark and mature themes, including emotional manipulation, trauma, mental health struggles, death, institutional abuse, gaslighting, and body autonomy.

May include references to:

Psychological distress

Violence and blood

Graphic depictions of death and corpses

Emotional and memory manipulation

Themes of disappearance, isolation, and loss of identity

Sexual content (optional)

Player discretion is advised.

—

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

This is my first original interactive fiction—and honestly, my first original work ever. (I also don't know how to English cause....yeah..) I used to write fanfics (but we don’t talk about that…), so diving into something this big has been both terrifying and thrilling.

False Grace is still very much a work-in-progress. I’m learning as I go—coding, design, pacing, everything—but this project means the world to me. It’s my biggest undertaking so far… and probably my angstiest, too.

I’m nervous to share it, but also so excited to share it with the rest of you (hopefully soon)

@interact-if

[nickssidewitch]

😈 Exposing the NDA Accounts ~ Part Two 2️⃣🧨

I told y'all I know what I'm doing. Whoever unfollowed because of my little shenanigans, come back! 😭

Obviously, y’all saw the straight-up lies made. and you also saw the (horrible, immature, stupid) rebuttals made by those who are a part of the whole NDA scheme.

So, I have a part two to add some updates.

After they were freaking out to me about posting Part One, they came flooding to my DMs with anger and feelings of betrayal, and how I lied to the, and how they were crying, and yadda yadda yadda...

The accounts are @dollysturniolo @coolasice01 @munchingmini

The “Chris” account was so mad 😭 So I was like “Okay, let me see proof.” I asked for concrete proof, which I specifically requested a photo of them all together with Dolly or the girl claiming to be Matt’s girlfriend. I framed it like "As long as you have a third-party (who would be me) to verify that you're telling the truth, then people are more inclined to believe you. The logic behind that is that when you want people to believe a secret you’re spilling, whether it’s the full truth or a full lie, you need an outside source to verify everything, kind of like an intervention.

There were some hiccups before I got what I wanted. It was the obvious liar tricks pulled right out of their hats, like "She's insecure about the way she looks so she won't give you anything", or "My hair looked bad in that photo so I put my hoodie on and it won't be obvious", or yadda yadda yadda.

But I didn't give a fuck. I pressured until they gave me the photos.

So, I got my photos. And dear God or whoever's up there in the universe, they were the worst pieces of evidence I have ever seen.

The first photo I got was of the boys, excluding Nick, and some friends when they were obviously still young and in high school. I recognized Matt's ex Nicole next to them, not that that's relevant, but it provides extra context to the photos. Keep in mind, the characters like Dolly and Chris and Matt have all claimed to have known each other for almost a decade, so this checks out time-wise.

"Chris" blocked out Doll's face because she's insecure... or whatever.

However, that image was easily traceable and I reverse-image-searched it and voila: It popped up on Pinterest as an old throwback photo from their Snapchat. And I saw what she looked like.

And that is not Doll, that is one of their high school friends that even popped up in one of their earlier, now-deleted, vlogs. Dolly is British, and the girl doesn't have a British accent in the videos I remember seeing her in. It was straight-up American, and especially Bostonian.

Also, all of the characters claim that Doll is much older than the boys'. My thing is, if she's much older than them, it would be weird of her to hang out with them when they're 14-15 year old teenagers. But let's gloss over that since the "characters" gloss over how weird that is too.

There's another photo too. This one took a lot more convincing to get, but I finally got it! It is a picture of her and Chris. "Chris" posted and deleted that picture fast, so I had to be fast AS FUCK to get a screenshot. I'm impressed with myself.

Now, here's the the thing: Maybe if you're looking at it on first glance, or if you aren't wearing your glasses, or if you're just not a Chris girl, then that photo seems convincing.

But please use your eyes. That photo is a real photo with real people. It can't be reverse-searched. But why do I say it's not Chris? Because it is doctored. Like obviously.

Now I'm impressed by Doll- or whoever's- tech skills because by gosh it looks pretty good. But as someone who knows a thing or two about editing photos and figuring out what's real and what isn't, it was pretty obviously fake.

The photo was a pic of Chris masked over an actual man's, maybe AI was used to mask Chris's face over the actual guy's, or maybe it was FaceApp, or just some really good photoshop.

God he's fine as hell. You know what Doja Cat said about noses.

Here’s some pics of Chris. Now let’s compare them, shall we? 🥰

The eyes are the main giveaway. One eye looks normal with a reflection, while the other has no pupil, and the reflection is not where it should be based on the positioning of the photo and where the main lighting is coming from in the photo.

The tip of this man's nose is longer than that of Chris's.

The real Chris's cupid's bow and arch is wider than that of the man in the photo's.

The real Chris's mustache stops more centimeters away from his lips compared to this man's. The hairs of Chris's mustache and facial hair in general are darker than those of this man's.

Chris has a square jaw while this man's jaw is triangle shaped, and no, the hoodie isn't obscuring anything. Even if the hoodie is removed and you see that bit of shadowed jaw, the angle of the jawline is different than that of the real Chris Sturniolo's.

There's other miniscule details, such as the way the hair fibers of her hair over his face are fuzzy rather than obvious strands which should be obvious since its a dark substance over something light, the hairs create a shadow on the man's face rather than creating actual lines as hair usually does, his hand literally not Chris's hand as it is fuller than Chris's, and the shadows are not where they should be in this photo based on the lighting and angles.

There's a lot more things we discussed in details such as Chris's kinks which, based on tarot, were all lies.

I mentioned how Chris is a submissive, chain-using, piss kink foot lover... which are all very untrue.

So, yeah they're faking it. 😭😭 I'm super curious of how they're gonna try to explain all of this. Let's stay tuned. 🤷🏾‍♀️

Again, sorry for causing y'all anxiety with those fake kiss-ass posts. I won't scare y'all like this again LMAO.