#it’s not about safety is about control!

[cupofteatoyou]

Dreaming in Blaugrana pt2

You didn’t move for a long time.

Not after the door closed. Not after her footsteps faded down the hall. Not even when the buzzing in your ears quieted enough for your own heartbeat to feel loud again.

You just stood there. Half-in, half-out. Of the suit. Of your lie. Of everything.

The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of everything she didn’t say.

You peeled the rest of the suit off slowly, like maybe if you did it gently enough, the shame would come off with it. It didn’t.

The Cat Culer head still sat on the desk beside you, grinning like it didn’t understand what it had done. Like it hadn’t broken something.

You wanted to shove it in the duffel. Hide it. Burn it.

Instead, you slumped into your chair and stared at the empty doorway, Like maybe she'd come back.

She didn’t.

And even if she did, you weren’t sure which part of you she’d be looking for—the mascot, or the lie.

You thought the worst part would be her finding out. The embarrassment. The exposure. But it wasn’t.

The worst part was knowing she wasn’t upset that it was you.

She was upset that it was you the intern.

Because that version of you—the one who ran cables, clipped mic audio, nodded silently while she barked directions—wasn’t someone she’d ever let close. Wasn’t someone she’d let in.

It wasn’t about the secret.

It was about where you came from.

You were staff. And in her world, that meant something. It meant distance. It meant professionalism and protocol and polite nods that never cracked into anything real.

You weren’t just behind a mask. You were behind a camera. Behind a badge. Behind everything she kept herself safe from.

Because around staff, Alexia had rules.

Around staff, she wasn’t a person—she was a product.

An image. A brand. A checklist of the right words and the right smile and the right lighting.

She gave interviews like a machine. Took direction without flinching. Let the boom mics dangle inches from her face without ever acknowledging the person holding it.

To staff, she was the captain.

To staff, she was untouchable.

And she liked it that way.

Because being “Captain Putellas” meant she didn’t have to be anything else.

She could shut the door behind her eyes and coast through every interaction on muscle memory. Professional. Polished. Distant. Safe.

And you broke that.

Not just as the mascot—but as you.

Because the whole time she’d been opening up to Cat Culer—laughing, venting, offering pieces of herself she didn’t give to anyone else—she hadn’t realized it was someone who already saw her when she didn’t mean to be seen.

Someone who’d filmed her on her worst days. Caught her quietest moments. Chosen what parts of her got shown to the world.

You weren’t a stranger.

You were staff.

And to her, that was the same as betrayal.

Because you weren’t supposed to be real.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

Not outside the suit. Not in her world.

And now?

Now she couldn’t figure out where you ended and the lie began.

You blurred the line.

And for someone like Alexia—who lived her life inside clean boxes, perfect soundbites, and tightly managed control—that wasn’t just uncomfortable.

was terrifying.

Because if she admitted the intern could be someone she’d fall for...

Then what else had she gotten wrong?

Then maybe the walls she’d built weren’t really walls at all.

Maybe they were windows. And she’d been seen this whole time.

You still showed up.

Not as often. Not with the same spark. But enough that no one questioned it.

The suit still fit. The paws still bounced. The tail still swung when you needed it to. But every time you pulled the head over your face, something in you flinched.

It wasn’t comforting anymore. It wasn’t safety. It felt like a lie.

And not the fun kind—the kind with pranks and silent jokes and wide-eyed kids tugging at your fur. No. It felt rotten now. Like wearing someone else’s skin. Like stepping into a character that no longer belonged to you.

Because being Cat Culer used to feel like freedom. Now it felt like hiding.

And the worst part? She didn’t even look for you anymore.

After that night, after the mascot head on the desk and the silence that felt too final—Alexia never brought it up again.

You saw her in passing. On the pitch. In hallways. In media rooms filled with lights and noise and tension so thick it held everyone hostage.

She nodded, sometimes. Once, maybe, she said hi. But it wasn’t for you. It was for the space you filled. The staffer. The silhouette. The role.

You weren’t the one she confided in anymore. That person didn’t exist. You weren’t you, either. Not really. Just something in between.

Because Cat Culer still danced at halftime and hugged kids and made Mapi snort-laugh on the sidelines. But every cheer felt heavier now. Every high five, more hollow.

You'd become a ghost wearing fur.

And the truth clawed at you more every time you put the suit on.

That you’d once meant something to her. That she’d laughed with you, shared with you, trusted you—not because of who you were, but because of who she thought you were.

And now? Now even pretending felt disgusting. Because she wasn’t falling for the mascot anymore. And she definitely wasn’t falling for you. It wasn’t just the silence.

It was the way things changed in small, invisible ways. Quiet shifts only you seemed to notice.

Alexia didn’t come to you during warmups anymore. Not to sit beside you. Not to nudge your shoulder. Not to talk about drills or bad boots or long days.

She used to look for you. Now, she looked through you.

Sometimes, she arrived early, trained hard, and left before you even zipped up the suit. Other days, she stayed late—but the second you stepped onto the pitch, foam paws flopping, tail bouncing like always, she’d suddenly remember a meeting. A lift. A stretch.

You could count the number of words she’d said to Cat Culer in the last three months on one hand.

And none of them had been for you. Not really.

Once, you joined Mapi and Patri on the grass for a mock drill—the kind where you were the “opponent” and everyone took turns sliding in to tackle you like chaos gremlins. The girls were cackling. Patri tried to fake a red card. Ingrid filmed the whole thing for Instagram.

You glanced up, heart flickering.

Alexia stood near midfield, arms crossed, watching. For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe— But when you tripped dramatically over a cone and flailed backward in your usual slow-motion death fall, she didn’t smile.

She turned away.

Walked straight toward the bench and didn’t look back.

Another time, you heard her on the sideline. Mapi was complaining about losing a passing game to the mascot, and Alexia—without missing a beat—just muttered:

“Stop letting the cartoon outplay you.”

Not “they’re good.” Not “they’re funny.”

Not you.

Just the cartoon.

Like you were nothing more than fur and foam and a dumb tail flopping in the wind.

And that stung more than silence.

Because at least silence could pretend it didn’t know you.

This? This was cold. This was careful.

And maybe worst of all—this was what boundaries looked like. Rebuilt. Reinforced.

You didn’t know what hurt more— That she couldn’t look at you the same way anymore Or that maybe she never would again.

It wasn’t just you who noticed. Mapi saw it too.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just started watching a little more closely. Her eyes would flick to Alexia whenever you entered a room. She’d go quiet when Alexia walked past without a word. Without a glance.

One afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of the grass in full costume—legs stretched out, paws resting in your lap—when Mapi jogged over and dropped beside you with a sigh.

She didn’t say much. Just passed you an energy drink and pulled her sweatband off with a wince. Her knee was taped again. Same as always. You bumped her shoulder lightly with your foam arm. She smiled, distracted.

Then her eyes drifted across the field. Alexia was walking off. Alone. No wave. No playful jab. No shoulder bump. Just... gone. Mapi watched her for a beat too long.

“You notice it too, huh?” she muttered finally. You didn’t move.

Mapi didn’t look at you, just twisted the cap off her drink and stared straight ahead. “She doesn’t talk to you anymore. Not like she used to.” You stayed still. Silent.

“I mean, I get it. She’s not good with... this kind of thing,” she added, gesturing vaguely. “Feelings. Shit that doesn’t fit into her little system. Especially when it comes from someone she wasn’t expecting.”Another pause,Then, softer: “But still. It’s shitty.” Your chest tightened.

Mapi leaned back on her palms and exhaled hard. “She used to look for you, you know. Like, before anything started. I'd catch her scanning the field, waiting for the cat to show up. Like it made her day better.” She didn’t say it to be cruel. Just honest.

“But now?” she continued. “Now she sees you coming and turns the other way.”

You dropped your foam head into your hands, mask hiding your face even though she couldn't see it.

Mapi nudged your foot with hers. “Whatever happened… it’s eating both of you.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. And she didn’t push.

She just sat beside you until the sun dipped low enough to paint the pitch in gold again. Until the others filtered off the field. Until you were the only ones left.

Then she stood, brushing grass off her shorts. And before walking off, she said it—low and certain: “She’s mad. But not at you.She’s mad that she let herself care.” And you just sat there, head in your paws, heart somewhere it couldn’t reach her. Not anymore.

You lasted a few more weeks. Not because you wanted to. Because you didn’t know how to stop.

You kept showing up like muscle memory. Like the act of being there might make something inside you feel right again. You filmed interviews with shaking hands. You sorted clip reels until your eyes blurred. You stood in the media room with your hoodie pulled tight, trying to shrink small enough that even the silence wouldn’t see you.

You laughed when Mapi joked. Nodded when Carla gave instructions. Played the part. But it was all mimicry now. Hollow.

Even the mascot didn’t feel like yours anymore.

Every time you reached for the suit, your chest clenched. The fur felt heavier. The paws, stiffer. The Cat Culer head, once something like safety, sat on its shelf like a stranger. Its smile looked smug now. Cruel.

You still wore it sometimes. But only when you had to. And every time, it felt a little more like punishment. Because no matter how good you were at pretending, she never came back.

Not like before.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you weren’t here for her. That this was still your job. But the truth was... it used to be more than that.

Cat Culer had given you belonging. Had made you feel like someone. Had carved out a space where you could breathe, even if it was through mesh eyeholes and three inches of foam.

Now it just felt like pretending to be a version of yourself that no longer existed. And being you—just you—wasn’t enough to stay.

So one quiet Friday, when the team was away for an away fixture and the office was nearly empty, you cleaned out your locker.

You didn’t leave a note.

No email. No message. No goodbye. Just silence. Because there wasn’t anything left to say. Not to the club. Not to the staff. And definitely not to her.

You didn’t want to explain yourself. Didn’t want to answer questions or sit through awkward sympathy or worse—understanding. You didn’t want to hand over a flash drive or leave behind a letter. You didn’t want to wrap it up in closure.

You just wanted it to stop.

So you walked away.

One morning, you packed your things from the locker flat you’d barely had time to decorate, and by the afternoon, you were gone. The uniform stayed in the locker, untouched. The duffel with the mascot suit still zipped and heavy in its corner. The lanyard probably got deactivated without anyone noticing.

And that was fine. That was the point.Because you didn’t want to be remembered. Not as the intern. Not as the mascot. Not as the girl she used to talk to. You wanted to be no one again. It was easier.

Now you made coffee.

Six-hour shifts behind a corner café bar, pressing espresso and wiping down counters while your coursework blinked at you from a half-broken laptop in the backroom. It was quiet, mostly. You liked quiet now.

There were no jerseys. No cameras. No mascots. No her.

You could breathe here.

No one cared who you were. No one stared. No one expected you to smile or perform or hold yourself together just long enough to get through another shoot.

Here, you were just another face in an apron. Another student trying to make rent. Another girl watching strangers walk past the window and wondering what it would feel like to be unafraid again.

And some nights, when you closed the shop alone and the world felt still in a way it hadn’t in months, you wondered if she even noticed you were gone.

If she’d said anything. If she missed the silence beside her. If she missed you—even if she know who you were.

But most nights, you didn’t think about her at all. You couldn’t. Because if you did, the ache would come back. The one that told you she almost saw you. And then chose not to.

You didn’t expect anyone to reach out. Not really.

You’d vanished so quietly, it felt like erasing yourself. Like closing a door behind you and pretending the room never existed. You assumed that once you were gone, life at the club would move on—faster than you did. Cleaner.

And mostly, it did.

Except for Mapi.

She found you a week later.

Not through some big dramatic search, but through the most Mapi way possible—an Instagram story.

You’d posted a blurry photo of your cappuccino art, not even thinking. No caption. Just foam and sunlight and a chipped ceramic cup. You barely had ten followers.

But she saw it.

Two hours later, she walked into the café like she owned the place. A hoodie pulled over her curls. Sunglasses. Casual as ever.

She didn’t say hi. Didn’t say I missed you. She just leaned on the counter, popped a piece of gum into her mouth, and said, “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

You blinked at her. “How did you—”

She held up her phone and tapped your post. “Amateur mistake. Next time, don’t geo-tag.” You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And just like that, she made herself a regular.

She started showing up every couple of days. Never in team gear. Always in that deliberately under-the-radar way that screamed don’t recognize me while still somehow drawing attention anyway.

She’d sit at the corner table by the window and call it her spot after the second visit. Always asked for the same drink—iced coffee, no sugar, oat milk—and always insisted she wasn’t here for you.

“Free coffee,” she’d say with a shrug. “That’s the only reason I show up. You owe me for years of emotional trauma.”

And sometimes, she’d stay for hours—sunglasses pushed up into her hair, ankles crossed, flipping through a magazine she didn’t read. Other times, she wouldn’t even order. Just walk in, ruffle your hair behind the bar, and walk out again with a smirk and a wave.

It was stupid. Pointless. Quiet. But it meant everything. Because she didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t ask about the club. Or the suit. Or Alexia.

She didn’t ask why your hands still trembled when you steamed milk. Or why you sometimes went quiet when certain songs came on the speaker.

She just kept showing up.

And that told you enough.

She wasn’t there for the coffee. She was there for you. Even if she’d never admit it out loud. And for the first time in months, you let yourself believe it—Maybe someone had seen you after all.

Late afternoon. Slow shift. You were wiping down the espresso machine when your phone buzzed in your apron pocket. You almost ignored it. Probably spam. Probably nothing. But something made you check.

It was a picture. No words, no explanation—just a glitter-covered digital flyer with Mapi’s face photoshopped onto a unicorn mid-gallop, a party hat tilted over one eye, confetti raining from the sky behind her. It said “MAPICHELLA – You’re Invited (Not Optional)” in Comic Sans.

You blinked. Then the second message came through:

MAPIII: "My birthday. You're coming."

Just like that. No greeting. No room for debate. You stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Your first instinct was to say no. To type something polite. Gentle. A soft excuse.

“Can’t make it.” “Busy that night.” “Hope it’s fun.”

But before you could craft your letdown, another message arrived.

MAPIII: "Don’t even think about saying no. I know where you work, remember?"

Of course she did.

You smiled, despite yourself, even as something tight coiled behind your ribs.

"I’m not really good at parties."

There was a pause. Not long. But long enough to feel the weight of it. Then…

MAPIII: "Good thing I didn’t invite you for your party tricks. I invited you because I want you there."

Simple. Blunt. Real.

And you hated how much it made your chest ache. Because it had been months. Months of you slipping away, letting the city swallow you, rebuilding your world with silence and coffee beans and textbooks. You hadn’t asked anyone to look for you.

But Mapi had. And she never stopped.

You stared at the screen, unsure what to say. Part of you wanted to ask who would be there. To calculate your risks. To figure out how much proximity to her you could survive.

But you didn’t. Because deep down, you already knew. And even deeper—you knew it wouldn’t matter.

"Won’t it be… weird?"

You didn’t specify. Didn’t say her name. You didn’t have to. Mapi replied almost instantly.

MAPIII: "You being not there is what’s weird.You showing up and eating cake like a half-functioning human? That’s normal. You’re my friend. Come."

Your throat tightened. You started typing another excuse, fingers shaking just a little.

But then the last message came in.

MAPIII: "If you don’t show up, I’m sending someone to drag you there. In your apron. With a to-go cup glued to your hand."

That got a laugh out of you. The kind you hadn’t felt in weeks—sharp, involuntary, genuine.

You didn’t text back. Didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either.

And that night, when your shift ended, you lay in bed with the party flyer still open on your phone, thumb brushing over the glitter filter like it might tell you what the hell you were supposed to feel.

Because part of you wanted to forget. Part of you wanted to stay buried. But part of you—stupid, fragile, stubborn—missed something.

Not the job. Not the mascot. Not even the past.

You missed belonging. And maybe—just maybe—you missed her, too. Even if you weren’t ready to admit it. You didn’t even want to come.

You’d told Mapi that. Twice. Maybe three times. She ignored you every single time.

So now here you were—pressed into the corner of someone’s apartment you didn’t recognize, wrapped in the softest hoodie you owned like it might shield you from the noise, the lights, the memories.

The party was loud. Overfull. Bright. Glittered with birthday balloons and half-empty bottles and a playlist that jumped between club bangers and chaotic throwbacks no one ever admitted to knowing all the words to. People moved like water—shifting, laughing, clinking glasses—and you were doing a decent job of blending in.

Until you weren’t.

“—and this one,” Mapi’s voice cut through the crowd like a spotlight, and your stomach dropped. You turned just in time to see her grinning like a troublemaker on stage, her drink raised, one arm gesturing straight toward you.she was drunk, no she was wasted. You know she didn’t meant to outed you, not like that.

“Faceplanted so hard in the Cat Culer suit during halftime once. I swear, if we’d had that on video, it would’ve gone viral.” The words hit before you could duck.

Someone turned.

Then another.

And then—

“Wait... you were the mascot?”

A few eyes widened. Jaws dropped. One hand literally slapped another person’s shoulder.

“No way.”

“Shut up. That was you?”

“Yo, I knew it. I knew you had to be an athlete under there. You were too good.”

“Okay, but like... you’re actually stupid hot. Why the hell were you hiding in a giant cat costume?”

You laughed—awkward and soft and not quite real. “Bad decisions. Mostly.”

Someone from the far side of the kitchen shouted, “Y’all, we’ve been tackled by a supermodel this whole time and didn’t even know?”

The teasing kept rolling.

“I swear, you danced better than half the squad.”

“You were better at interviews too, honestly. You had the drama down.”

“You did that backflip at the open house! I thought that was a stunt double!”

Compliments wrapped around you like confetti—bright, silly, kind.

But beneath all of it, something sharp pressed against your ribs.

Because not one person said, “Wait, weren’t you the intern too?” Not one, “You filmed that Barça documentary, right?” Not “Didn’t you do all the graphics during the Liga campaign?” Not even a faint, “Weren’t you the girl holding the mic at the tunnel?”

They didn’t remember that version of you.

The one who stayed late, edited their highlights, clipped their press quotes.

They remembered the cat. The chaos. The costume.

Not the person.

And you tried not to let it show, but your smile wavered. Just a little.

That’s when Mapi appeared beside you, like she felt the shift without needing to hear a word. Guilty was shown at her face.

She leaned in, voice low so only you could hear. “Hey. I’m sorry it’s just slipped” You looked at her. Didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Her smile faded—still warm, but quieter now. “You okay?”

You nodded, even though your throat was tight.

She didn’t push. Just stood there with you, shoulder to shoulder, holding space like it was second nature.

“They’re not trying to forget,” she said gently. “They just never knew where to look.”

Your eyes burned for a second too long. You blinked it away. And then—

You felt it.

That pull. That static in the air. The weight of someone’s gaze settling between your shoulder blades.

You turned.

And there she was.

Alexia.

Near the hallway, half-shadowed by a flickering string of fairy lights. Drink in hand. Still. Composed. And looking directly at you.

Your breath caught.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Her expression didn’t change. Not much. But her eyes—they were quietly wrecked in a way that no one else would’ve noticed.

Just you.

Because you’d seen them soft before. Lit up with laughter, with trust. You’d felt her shoulder brush yours in a silent joke, watched her smile like it belonged only to the cat who couldn’t speak.

But now?

Now she didn’t smile.

She didn’t come closer.

She just looked at you.

And in that one look—without a single word exchanged—you felt the full weight of the distance she’d built between you.

Not cold. Not cruel.

Just… unreachable.

And then she blinked.

And looked away.

And left.

Like she hadn’t been staring at the version of you she couldn’t quite face.

You swallowed hard and turned back toward the crowd, where the laughter hadn’t stopped. Where the music kept pulsing like nothing had broken.

But something had.

Not publicly. Not loudly. Just… quietly. Inside your chest.

Mapi was still next to you. She didn’t say anything this time. Just placed a hand on your back and left it there.

Warm. Steady.

And you didn’t have to say a word for her to understand. You were grateful And you were hurting. At the same time.

You were cornered by the snack table, balancing a plastic cup and a half-full plate of chips, when Patri appeared beside you like she’d been summoned by the scent of your awkwardness.

She leaned a forearm on the counter, too casual to be casual, and looked you up and down with a grin that didn’t hide what it was.

“Didn’t recognize you without the fur,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.

You laughed, nervous but polite. “Yeah, I get that a lot tonight.”

“Right,” she said, eyes still on you. “It’s just… weird. You were funny as hell in the suit. And now you’re just…” She tilted her head, her grin sharp and easy. “Kind of stupidly cute. Unfair, really.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

She chuckled at your reaction. “Relax. I’m not trying to marry you. Just saying—if I’d known it was you under there, I’d have started flirting months ago.”

You smiled, the practiced kind. Friendly. Harmless.

“That’s sweet,” you said, trying not to sound like you were dodging it, even though you absolutely were.

Patri leaned a little closer. “Is it working?”

You laughed again, the sound light but distant. “You’re very charming.”

Once again, you felt it.

A gaze.

You didn’t have to look—you knew.

But you looked anyway.

Alexia stood by the far wall, pretending to be in a conversation that wasn’t holding her attention. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes weren’t.

They were on you. On Patri.

[xoxosierralane]

| ᴏғғɪᴄᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴʟʏ |

✎ from sierra: hello hi there, my first time posting a fic on tumblr let’s hope i did this good..! and i also hope you guys enjoy this little chapter and lmk if you would like another, im also open to any ideas and writing tips. also ty to @sierrale8ne @thaatdigitaldiary & @bueckersbitch for some tips when i asked they def helped, you guys are lovely also check them out 🌺

✎ synopsis: when an overworked pre-med student wakes up late for class, the last thing she expects—aside from the existential spiral mid-lecture—is to be roped into tutoring UConn’s star point guard, Paige Bueckers. Paige is charismatic, cocky, and somehow always talking. The reader is sleep-deprived, sarcastic, and trying desperately to avoid any and all distractions. But when tutoring sessions turn into unexpected walks home, avoiding Paige becomes impossible. She’s not just a classmate—she’s a slow, sneaky problem. And worse? She lives next door.

✎ warnings: language

There are few sounds in this world more horrifying than your alarm going off thirty-five minutes after your class already started.

The second my eyes fly open, I know something is wrong. It’s that eerie, sun-too-bright, birds-too-loud kind of wrong. That creeping, soul-leaving-my-body realization as I blink at my phone screen and see the time:

9:53 AM.

Class started at nine. I should be halfway through pretending to understand biochem pathways by now, not halfway to a heart attack in bed.

I launch out of my sheets like a woman possessed, nearly tripping over the half-folded pile of laundry on my floor and banging my shin on the corner of my desk. (Why do dorm room desks always have the sharpest edges known to man?)

“Okay, okay, it’s fine,” I mutter to myself, pulling on the first pair of jeans I can find and a hoodie that may or may not have toothpaste stains on it. “You’re only, like, an hour late. People have survived worse.”

My hair’s still in the braids I did last night, thank God, because if I had to fight edge control and lateness at the same time, I would’ve just dropped out on the spot. I grab my bag, shove in a half-closed notebook, and toss a granola bar in my pocket like it’s some kind of sacrificial offering.

By the time I get to the lecture hall, I’m fully out of breath and lightly sweating. Cute. Nothing says “serious STEM major” like showing up late and looking like you just ran a 5K.

I try to sneak in, pulling the door open as quietly as possible (which means it creaks like it hasn’t been used since the Civil War), and immediately feel a hundred pairs of eyes swing in my direction. My professor pauses mid-slide.

“Nice of you to join us,” he says dryly, not even bothering to hide his smile.

“Sorry,” I mumble, keeping my head down as I scurry to the only open seat in the second row, of course. Because the back row? The safety zone? Taken. God has favorites, and I’m clearly not one of them.

I sink into the seat and pretend I didn’t just make a grand entrance. The girl next to me—blonde, tall, looks suspiciously like someone who could dunk on me if given the chance—glances over with a raised brow and the tiniest smirk.

“Rough morning?” she asks, her voice warm, a little teasing. It’s got that slightly drawn-out edge to it, like she grew up saying “pop” instead of “soda.”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t.”

She puts her hands up in mock defense but doesn’t stop smiling. Great. A morning person with cheekbones. Just what I needed.

I turn back to the lecture, trying to catch up on whatever enzyme he’s ranting about. Paige—yes, Paige Bueckers, UConn’s golden girl, sitting next to me like this is her seat or something—keeps glancing over at me every few minutes, like I’m the entertainment for the day.

Which, fine. I probably am. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

The lecture drones on, a blur of chemical structures and way too many acronyms. My brain’s already in fight-or-flight mode, and I’m trying to copy notes from the slide like my future depends on it—which it kinda does, because if I bomb this class, there goes med school, and if I don’t go to med school, then what? Sell overpriced vitamins on TikTok? Start a podcast about burnout?

I sink lower in my seat, hoping to disappear entirely.

“Alright,” the professor says, tapping his remote like it owes him money. “Can anyone explain the mechanism here?”

Silence. Beautiful, holy silence. For a second, I think we might all get away with it.

Then—

“Maya?”

I freeze. My neck actually creaks when I turn my head up to look at him. “Sorry?”

He smiles like this is fun for him. “The mechanism. For the rate-limiting step of glycolysis.”

Of course it’s glycolysis. Of course it’s this unit. I glance down at my notes, which may as well be scribbled in a dead language, and I swear my soul briefly exits my body.

Okay. Think. You’ve studied this. You’ve done flashcards at 2 a.m. like a responsible, sleep-deprived adult. You can do this.

“…Hexokinase?” I offer, which I immediately realize is wrong because his eyebrow twitches.

“Not quite,” he says. “Anyone else?”

I want to melt into the floor. I want the Earth to crack open beneath me and swallow me whole like a Greek tragedy. Why would you call on someone who was just 50 minutes late and visibly unwell?

I drop my gaze to my notebook, which now has a sad little doodle of a frowning mitochondrion in the margin, and let myself mentally spiral.

Maybe this is a sign. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me to give up and open a dog café somewhere in Portland. Maybe academic success is a capitalist scam designed to break me emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Maybe—

“You were close,” a voice whispers next to me, low enough that only I can hear. “It’s phosphofructokinase.” I glance over. Paige’s lips are twitching like she’s trying not to laugh.

Oh. So she’s not only annoying and smug—she’s smart, too. Fantastic.

I give her a blank look, then scribble it in the margin like I knew it all along. I don’t thank her. I’m not that gracious yet.

The professor moves on. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and slouch back into my seat.

I don’t even know how Paige knows that answer. I swear she’s never said a single academic thing in class before—usually just nods like she’s vibing through the lecture, and now suddenly she’s a glycolysis expert?

I glance at her again. She’s leaned back in her chair like she doesn’t have a single worry in the world. Her hoodie sleeves are pulled over her hands and she’s tapping a pencil against her notebook, looking out the window like she’s half-listening, half daydreaming.

God, I hate her.

Not really. Just enough to feel mildly personally attacked by her existence.

By the time the professor finally wraps up, my brain feels like someone stuck it in a microwave on defrost. Half-melted, barely functioning, and emitting a faint hum of defeat.

I’m already halfway through mentally mapping my route to the dining hall—food, nap, forget this day ever happened—when I hear the worst possible words.

“Maya, could you stay back for a second?”

I freeze with my laptop halfway into my bag. No. No. Please no. My stomach drops, already bracing for the we’re concerned about your academic performance speech. Or maybe he’s just gonna roast me for being late. Publicly. Again.

Next to me, Paige doesn’t move. Which is weird because usually she’s the first one out the door, bouncing off to whatever practice or photoshoot or press interview she’s contractually obligated to pretend she enjoys.

“You too, Paige,” the professor adds casually.

Ah. So it’s a group scolding. Cute.

I glance at her. She shrugs, and somehow even her shrug is smug. Like she already knows what this is about and I’m the one being dragged into something against my will.

Once everyone else filters out, the room goes quiet in that awkward way classrooms do when it’s just you, your mistakes, and the person paid to evaluate them.

The professor folds his arms. “I’m going to get right to it,” he says, eyes flicking between us. “Paige has been… struggling a bit to keep up.”

I blink. Paige?

She doesn’t even flinch. Just shifts her weight to one leg and tilts her head like, yeah, and?

“She came to me earlier,” he continues, “asking for extra support. And I mentioned you, Maya.”

My brain short-circuits. “Me?”

“Yes.” He gestures vaguely, like this makes perfect sense. “You’ve got one of the top quiz averages in the class. And I know you don’t have a lot of free time, but I thought you might be willing to help.”

I open my mouth to respond, and nothing comes out except a confused squeak.

Paige, meanwhile, is suddenly all charm and dimples. “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” she says sweetly, looking at me like I’m the answer to her prayers instead of the barely-holding-it-together girl who almost cried during a glycolysis question.

I stare at her. Then the professor. Then back at her. This is a setup. Has to be.

“I mean,” I say slowly, “I guess I could… help out. A little.”

The professor claps his hands once, like this was the easiest part of his day. “Great. Work out whatever schedule makes sense. Maybe start after the next lecture?”

“Sounds perfect,” Paige says, and I swear there’s a glint in her eye. Mischievous. Knowing.

I nod numbly, the weight of this decision already settling on my shoulders like a second backpack full of regrets.

As I head for the door, I mutter under my breath, “This is going to end badly.”

“Sorry?” Paige pipes up behind me.

“Nothing,” I lie, faster than a reflex. “See you later.”

She grins, following me out with way too much pep for someone allegedly struggling. “Can’t wait.”

And I suddenly remember: this is the same girl who walked in late the first week, said “yo, do we need the textbook for this?” in front of the whole class, and then somehow got a laugh out of the professor.

God help me.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in the library, clutching three textbooks and a syllabus I plan to set on fire. This day has already been long enough, now apparently, Paige “needs a little help” with some of the material. And apparently, I am just the student for the job.

I hate when people say “it’ll be good experience.” It always means work I don’t want to do for free.

The librarian waves at me as I step in—Ms. Marie, always with the peach-colored cardigans and peppermint candies. “Back again?”

“Like a bad habit,” I mumble, shooting her a smile. “Just grabbing some stuff for tutoring.”

“Ooh. Teaching now?”

“Trying not to cry in public,” I answer, and she laughs like I’ve said something adorable instead of tragic.

I spend way too long in the aisles, gathering books and stalling. Mostly thinking about how good I’m gonna sleep when I get back to my apartment. Seriously. The second my cheek hits the pillow? Instant peace. Probably coma-level sleep. I should be studied for science. Sleep is my love language. Sleep is the one thing in my life that hasn’t betrayed me.

I’m still mentally composing a love letter to my bed when I round a corner and see her—Paige, standing near the checkout desk, talking to one of the guys from the men’s team. He’s smiling like he thinks he has a chance. Good luck with that. Paige Bueckers is gay as fuck.

I snort before I can stop myself, just a short, soft laugh—but she hears it. Her head turns. Our eyes meet.

Oh.

She looks surprised. Not mad, not even curious, just… like she wasn’t expecting me.

And now I’ve made eye contact. Like a dumbass. I quickly duck back behind the shelf, gripping a biochem book like it’s a shield.

Great. Just great. Nothing says “competent tutor” like spying on your student and laughing at her across the library.

—

I give it a minute before circling around the long way and heading to the study room Hanes booked for us. Small, quiet, lots of windows. I stake out the seat closest to the door in case I need to make a dramatic escape.

Paige walks in a few minutes later, all long legs and blonde hair and that basketball-player stride—like she owns the space without trying to. She doesn’t say anything at first, just drops her bag and slides into the seat next to me.

I brace myself. Here we go.

She pulls out a notebook, then a pen. Then nothing. Just sits there.

I glance at her, waiting for her to do… something. Say something. Start. Breathe.

“Are you gonna, like… open the textbook, or…”

“I was letting you do your thing first,” she says, like I’m the one who showed up five minutes late and smelled like citrus gum and lavender hand cream. Her voice has that easy, confident rhythm to it—Minnesota smooth with a little edge, like she grew up chirping boys on the blacktop.

I give her a look. “My ‘thing’ is desperately trying not to cry while re-reading the same paragraph seven times.”

She smiles, wide and real. “Relatable.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward exactly, but quiet enough to make me weirdly self-aware of how close our chairs are. I pull out my laptop to have something to do with my hands.

“So,” I say, flipping to the study guide, “Professor Hanes said you’re struggling with the last few sections. You’ve looked at the review packet?”

Paige shrugs, leaning back in her chair a little too casually. “Kind of. I just—I don’t know. I get the gist, but some stuff doesn’t stick.”

“That’s usually how it works when you don’t study.”

She raises a brow at me like she wasn’t expecting me to have teeth. “I do study.”

I raise mine right back. “Instagram Reels don’t count.”

Her mouth twitches. It’s either amusement or offense. Could go either way with girls like her.

“You always this friendly?”

“No,” I deadpan. “Usually I’m meaner.”

That gets a laugh out of her—low and genuine, like it surprised her. She leans in slightly, chin propped on her hand.

“So why’d you agree to help me?”

“I didn’t,” I reply, flipping a page. “Hanes kind of voluntold me. Said it would be ‘good practice.’”

“Bet you were thrilled.”

“Overjoyed. I love giving up my one free evening to explain gen chem to someone who probably uses Gatorade as a chaser.”

Another smile from her. This one lasts a little longer.

“You always this funny?”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” I mutter, but my mouth won’t quite stop twitching.

We get into the material slowly—me talking through concepts, her asking questions here and there. She’s actually more focused than I expected. Still fidgety, still Paige Bueckers in all her tall, confident, knows-people-are-watching energy—but she’s trying. I can give her that.

Halfway through, she lets out a sigh and scrubs a hand over her face. “Okay, but why are there so many exceptions to every rule? Like, who made these up?”

“Science,” I reply. “Also colonialism.”

She tilts her head. “You’re not wrong.”

Another beat of silence. Then she asks, “What’s your major?”

“Pre-med. Bio track.”

She whistles, low. “Damn. That’s sick.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. If you enjoy stress-induced migraines and disappointing your family.”

Paige grins. “Bet your mom’s proud of you.”

“She is,” I admit, softer now. “But I also think she thinks I sleep more than I do.”

Paige’s voice is light when she says, “You don’t strike me as a slacker.”

“I’m not,” I say, yawning. “But if I had one wish? It would be to sleep for a solid twelve hours. Maybe fourteen. Maybe forever. I love sleep. Like, I would marry it. I’d elope with sleep to another country and never text anyone back.”

Paige chuckles. “That’s dramatic.”

“That’s survival,” I correct, grabbing a pen to tap against her notes. “Now stop stalling and write that formula down before I cry.”

She leans in again, not writing yet. Just watching me. “You kinda mean.”

“You’re kind of loud.”

“Touché.”

We keep working, but the space between us softens just a little. There’s something about the way she shifts a little closer when I’m showing her something, or how she asks questions like she actually wants to know the answer. She’s still full of herself, but in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes and pay attention.

And then there’s the eye contact. God. Paige Bueckers and her Olympic-level commitment to staring directly into my soul.

Like—I’m trying to explain the electron configuration of potassium, and she’s looking at me like I might be the answer to something she’s been trying to solve for years. Icy blue eyes, lashes curled to the heavens, a little swipe of mascara like she knew she’d be making people nervous today.

And by people, I mean me. Specifically me.

It’s honestly kind of rude. Intimidating. Possibly illegal. There should be a warning label or something: DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH PAIGE BUECKERS UNLESS YOU ARE READY TO BE HYPER-ANALYZED AND POSSIBLY SEDUCED.

Because I swear—I swear—the way she looks at me? It’s not just eye contact. It’s eye-to-future-entanglement contact. Like she’s trying to hypnotize me out of my panties with just her stare and that stupid smirk she keeps trying to hide behind her hand.

Focus. I need to focus. This is chemistry. Not chemistry-chemistry. I’m not gonna be another gay kid that fails a class because I couldn’t stop thinking about some pretty basketball player with really good hair.

No offense to everyone else who’s fallen into that trap. (none taken)

“Okay,” I say, tapping my pen against my notebook and not looking at her eyes again, “that’s ionic bonding, which means we’re finally done with chapter four.”

Paige stretches her arms above her head with a small groan, the hem of her hoodie lifting just enough to flash a sliver of skin. I look away instantly, like a respectable person. Like someone not currently battling the urge to spiral into a gay panic over five seconds of midriff.

“Thank God,” she sighs dramatically, flopping back in her chair like she just ran drills for two hours. “You know, I think I actually learned something.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I am surprised,” she grins, tugging at the sleeve of her hoodie. “You’re kinda scary-smart.”

I blink. “Scary?”

“In a good way,” she adds quickly. “Like, in a ‘you could probably build a robot army and take over the world but choose not to’ kind of way.”

“…Thanks?”

She smiles like she means it. Like maybe that was a compliment in her language. And for some reason, it sticks with me.

I start gathering my things, stuffing pens and half-crumpled notes into my backpack like the burnt-out academic I am. “Well, we’re scheduled again next Thursday unless your Coach pulls you for something.”

Paige doesn’t move to leave. She leans back in her chair, arms folded behind her head, watching me with that same annoyingly intense gaze.

“You always study here?” she asks casually, like she didn’t just spend two hours fighting for her life over basic chem.

“Sometimes,” I reply, zipping up my bag. “It’s quiet. And the librarian doesn’t hate me.”

“That’s a plus.”

“You?”

She shrugs. “Ehh usually with the team. Or, like, wherever has food.”

I hum, trying to keep the conversation from stretching too long. I’m not great at lingering—especially not with people like her. The kind of person who walks into a room and owns it without even trying.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, already planning my post-study nap in vivid, loving detail, but before I can escape—

“You wanna walk out together?”

I pause, blinking at her.

Not because it’s weird. But because I hadn’t expected it. Most athletes don’t even remember the names of their TAs, much less offer to walk them out of the library like it’s some sort of… soft exit interview.

I glance at the clock. It’s getting late. But also, she’s looking at me like I’m someone worth lingering around.

“Sure,” I say. Casually. Like my heart isn’t already doing cartwheels.

She grins, standing to her full height (good holy 6ft..), and my only thought as we walk side by side toward the doors is God help me, I might be in trouble.

Because Paige Bueckers is something else.

And apparently, she’s not going anywhere.

—

The night air hits us as we step out of the library, and it’s just cold enough to make me regret not grabbing a hoodie. Of course, Paige doesn’t seem bothered at all. She walks like she’s immune to weather. Or like the wind parts just for her. Probably both.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Awkwardly so. My favorite kind.

Then, Paige starts talking.

And when I say talking, I mean talking. Like she hasn’t spoken to another human being all day and I just unlocked the floodgates.

“So, like, I’ve had the same pair of slides since I was fifteen, right?” she says, hands in the front pocket of her hoodie. “They’re disgusting. Like, actually offensive. I think they’ve developed their own bacteria strain at this point. But I can’t get rid of them. They’re like emotional support shoes. You ever have something like that?”

I blink. “Uh…”

She barrels right past my lack of response. “And then Aaliyah tried to throw them out once when we were on the road and I almost tackled her in the hotel hallway. She was like, ‘Paige, they smell like shit.’ But they don’t. They smell like loyalty.”

She grins at her own joke. I say nothing.

Not because I don’t want to. But mostly because what?

I nod along, mostly to be polite. Or maybe out of shock. I’m not really sure.

She keeps going. “Also, can I ask you a question? Why do all chemistry textbooks weigh as much as small toddlers? Like, what are they putting in there? Guilt? Disappointment?”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, which unfortunately only fuels her further.

She talks about basketball. Then her best friend’s dog. Then how she’s still mad Chipotle took her favorite salsa off the menu. She has opinions on everything from cafeteria chicken to the superiority of Apple Music over Spotify (she’s wrong, but I let her have it).

And the weirdest part?

It’s not annoying.

It should be. But it’s not.

I listen. Mostly because I’m stunned by how easily she fills the space between us, how her voice softens when she gets excited and how, even when she’s rambling, she makes it feel like you’re part of the story.

It’s… unsettling.

I don’t do people like her. I don’t get people like her.

And yet here she is. Walking next to me. Talking like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

And then, as if this night couldn’t get any weirder, she slows down in front of my building.

I stop too.

Paige pauses, looking at the entrance. Then looks at me. “Wait—you live here?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, pointing to the left. “Top floor.”

She blinks. “Shut up.”

“I will not.”

She grins, pointing to the right. “That’s my building.”

I stare at her for a second. Then glance up. Then back at her.

This cannot be real life.

“You’re telling me we’ve lived next to each other this whole time and this is the first time I’m finding out?”

I sigh. “This is just great.”

“Great?” she echoes, clearly amused.

“Yeah. Fantastic. Love this for me.”

She’s still smiling like this is the best coincidence to ever happen. Like fate just personally delivered her a win.

I just shake my head, digging my keys out of my pocket. “Well. Thanks for the walk. And the verbal TED Talk.”

She bows slightly. “Anytime.”

I turn to head inside, pausing with my hand on the door.

“Hey,” she calls.

I look back.

“Same time Thursday right?”

I nod once. “Sure.”

She salutes me with two fingers, still grinning, then turns and jogs up the steps to her building.

I stand there for a moment, key still in hand, trying to process everything. The tutoring. The talking. The proximity.

This is going to be a nightmare.

I let myself into the building, already craving sleep and silence and maybe a three-day nap. But even as I make it upstairs and fall face-first onto my bed, one thought keeps bouncing around my head like it’s got a key to the place:

Paige Bueckers is going to be a problem.

[theorahsart]

Please enlighten me about the french revolution

Here's 5 key things I see people most commonly not consider that I think greatly impacts how they interpret events:

-There was much 'state sanctioned' violence in France long before The Revolution started. The early clashes in the Revolution (ie. Storming of Bastille) didn't just come out of nowhere. People were genuinely fearing for their lives and felt they had no other choice. This same fear and anxiety haunted the rest of the Revolution.

-The Monarchy wasn't just killed for purely idealogical reasons. Louis and Antoinette essentially started a war against their own country. They posed a very real danger to people's lives, and even then the choice to kill Louis was a long deliberated one. The country was at war, people felt they had no choice.

-It's right to acknowledge that the amount of suspicion going around during The Terror was excessive, and it became arguably too easy to accuse and arrest people. It's wrong to assume people were accused purely on basis that they 'didn't share the same opinions' as those in power. The country was at war. Rightly or wrongly, most people were arrested because they were suspected of threatening the safety of France, not because the Jacobins simply wanted to eradicate anyone who didn't share their values.

-There were many, many events over several years that justified people becoming so overwhelmingly concerned with stamping out counter-revolution and being excessively suspicious. Such as: Aristocrats gathering personal armies and sending open threats about destroying the Revolutionaries, or once trusted heroes surprising everyone with secret betrayals (see Lafayette or Mirabeau for good examples), and all of these threats and spies and assassinations happening whilst the country was at war.

-THE COUNTRY WAS AT WAR. Every reductive criticism I've seen of the Revolution seems to dismiss that everyone was making choices against the very real fear that at any minute their hard fought for human rights and democracy could be taken away if they lose one more battle to a neighbouring country. It was basically 'kill the enemy or lose an entire country to war and oppression', that's the mindset politicians were in at that time.

One rly basic thing that I have to explain all the tie (just cos I'm making a comic about him so I get many comments on him specifically lol):

-Robespierre was only one person and didn't control the entire country lol Evidence generally points to him actively avoiding having any power as much as possible. The only executive power he had was in the last year of his life, and he still shared that with 11 other ppl, who had a chance to vote each other out of their committee every month. There wasn't some long term plan to take him down after he'd ravaged the country for a year. It happened very suddenly in an atmosphere of paranoia and extreme anxiety, when he made a bad speech that set off alarm bells. He was then *accused* of tyranny/conspiracy/etc etc. That didnt mean he actually was a tyrant. Loads of politicians across the years had similar accusations used against them. Robespierre was as much a victim of the irrational suspicion and anxiety of The Terror as anyone else at the time.

One final long note:

Every bad moment in the Revolution was A Group Project, it's naive and reductive to put the blame on any single person. I also think its naive and reductive to try frame The Revolution as being a failure or a success. We take for granted all the freedom, protections and choices we have today. Those things never existed back then, it was all entirely new and scary and no one knew wtf they were doing, or if it would last. History doesn't seem to ever have neat tidy success or failures when so many people are involved.

Perhaps the one tangible aspect of the Revolution is it's undeniable impact on modern day human rights and political systems. For me personally, I would want people to focus on this aspect of Frev and how they created those things, alongside all the violence that was frankly, very normal across many European countries during that time.

Like, people go on about how monstrous and vengeful the Guillotine was, either romanticising it or demonising it. But the kind of capital punishment that existed pre-Guillotine was much more barbaric. The kind of capital punishment that exists in modern day USA is much more barbaric (a death that was over in seconds is more humane than pumping someone with chemicals that burn your insides slowly and paralyse you so that you don't cry out in pain in front of whoever is watching you die. In case you hadn't guessed I'm very very against the capital punishment laws in USA =_=)

I went to a UK museum recently and read an article in a Bath newspaper from 1790s. Two boys were publicly hanged for stealing some food.

Considering that 1790s France was a) dealing out a style of public execution that was less painful/quicker than hangings and b) working very hard in attempts to ensure that boys such as that had free education, a right to vote, and protection of rights, so that they'd never have to be arrested for stealing bread to begin with- which of these countries is more barbaric at that time? Why do we frame the Revolution as barbaric and not the wider culture it was clumsily attempting to evolve from?

That was rly long lol But those are the things I want everyone to consider first before they begin any of the more nuanced opinions/discussions I'd LOVE to be having with strangers on Instagram.

FYI Im NOT an expert so I might still be wrong about any of these points nad I will VERY HAPPILY accept that, if any awesome respectable well read ppl call me out. And thats the last thing rly, just trust that it's an endless journey and you're always gonna be learning new things all the time when it comes to history.

[ummachistaamenos-blog]

undermine

summary: Ana’s a Brazilian engineer who, by total chance, meets Pedro at a coffee shop in LA. What starts with coffee turns into a friendship with benefits—full of desire, intimacy, and longing. Between trips, daily texts, and random meetups, they build something deep—something made of skin, quiet affection, and all the things they never say out loud. A year later, she surprises him on his birthday, and all those feelings they’ve been trying to keep on the sidelines? Yeah, they spill over. warnings: age gap (ñom), smut, dry humping, oral (m. receiving), jealous!pedro, possesive!pedro, short story, two parts story word count: probably 6,000 words side note: Just another story, another little experiment. this one’s gonna be short—I think just two parts—and I’ll try to drop Part 2 either tomorrow (April 17) or by the 18th at the latest. the whole story’s set during his birthday earlier this month, with a tiny bit of flashback at the end of part 1, ok? got the gif at pinterest, not mine but i believe is from @ a7estrellas (?) something like that, sorry. lemme know if you’re into it, and I’ll be back with part 2! part 1 | part 2

∞

"Hello?"

"Ana? It's Lux!" The voice on the other end was giddy. "Everything's set, we'll be on location by five. You'll make it just fine, yeah?"

Ana smiled, juggling her passport and carry-on.

"Oh thank God! I was scared I'd be late. You're sure I won't be intruding, Lu? It's his birthday... family time and all—"

"Intruding? Girl, he's been DYING to see you. Won't stop complaining about your work schedule. Never seen him this antsy."

Ana laughed awkwardly.

Does she know?

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious! Now hurry up, everyone's excited."

They said their goodbyes and Ana pocketed her phone. Her pulse raced—hard to tell if it was the line or the thought of seeing Pedro. She wanted his scent, his warmth...

As the immigration officer stamped her passport, Ana's mind wandered. Did Lux, Javiera and Nicolas know? They were so close. Had they noticed how she and Pedro crossed way beyond friendship? Because when they were alone, it wasn't just affection. It was hunger. It was bodies. A craving so sharp it ached sometimes.

And it'd been weeks. Weeks without his touch, his weight, those rough hands and raspy moans. The way his teeth grazed her ear, her scalp, her throat. The thick veins on his—Jesus. Control yourself. You're at border control.

Later, showered and fed at the hotel, Ana met his siblings at the rendezvous point with hugs and warm chatter. Lux was vibrating, holding a cake with a single candle.

"Surprise! You're delivering this," she said, thrusting it into Ana's hands.

"Me?!"

"Obviously! You're his best present today. Go on."

She definitely knows. Lately, they hadn't been great at hiding it anyway.

As they walked toward his trailer, close friends and crew joined in, some filming, others grinning. Pedro was inside, oblivious, when the singing started.

"Happy birthday to you—"

He bolted to the doorway, eyes widening. He smiled at the crowd, at his siblings—then froze when he saw Ana holding the cake.

His breath hitched.

"No..." he whispered. "You."

She smiled shyly and waved. "Happy birthday, amor."

He moved without thinking. Took the cake, handed it to Lux, then pulled Ana into him like the world was collapsing. A hug so tight it said everything he hadn't yet voiced. He buried his face in her neck and breathed.

Like coming up for air after drowning.

Her scent. Lavender, vanilla, jasmine, sandalwood, patchouli, coumarin. Her favorite notes—of course he remembered. They'd talked about it that night she'd lain in his lap, tracing his fingers while explaining how she loved perfumes that balanced sweetness and depth. He'd laughed, claiming ignorance. Now he was addicted.

On her skin, those notes transformed. Became more than fragrance—they were presence. Memory. Intimacy. To Pedro, this smelled like home. Like safety. Like relief. Like opening the door after an endless day to the right silence, the right touch, the hug that unravels you. It smelled like slow Sunday laughter, bare feet on kitchen tiles, tomato sauce splattering as she danced to Lana Del Rey while he pretended to hate it but sang along anyway.

It smelled like good wine and hands wandering under shirts, like stolen kisses between cabinets and muffled moans against cold countertops. It smelled of raw, reckless want—the kind that ignites without warning and burns like wildfire.

But above all, it smelled like peace.

And peace? That was rare for Pedro. Priceless.

So he lingered there, face buried in her neck, breathing deep. Not just to memorize the scent—but to remind himself that somehow, without explanation, this was the only place left in the world he wanted to be.

"I missed you so much," he murmured against her skin.

Ana shut her eyes and smiled into his shoulder. "Me too."

And for that moment, surrounded by candles and laughter and applause, nothing else existed. Just them.

Pedro finally pulled back just to look at her. "You have no idea how badly I needed you here today."

Her eyes glistened. "Now you have me."

And for once, he forgot everything. All he knew was how much he needed this—even if he'd never dared say it out loud.

∞

The day one.

The sun hadn’t even fully shown its face yet when Ana finished her last set after lifting. The time difference between Houston and L.A. messed with her body clock a little, so waking up early just happened. She was walking light-footed between the gym and the house the company had rented for her and her friends during their three months of training out there. Underground Natural Gas Storage—it was turning into a new obsession, and she was there to learn it.

She was strolling, headphones dangling around her neck, when she spotted a little coffee shop a block over with a cute sign: "Café Baum."

"Oh my God. Minas coffee? Thank you, Lord," she muttered to herself, picking up the pace.

That’s when she saw a guy standing next to a black car—clearly fancy. He was messing with something in the back seat, distracted, and when he shut the door, he didn’t notice it stayed half-open. Ana liked walking alone, people-watching, taking in her surroundings. It wasn’t weird for her to notice the guy. She hesitated for a second. Not a dangerous neighborhood, but still, leaving a door open… figured she’d say something, especially since she was heading to the same coffee shop.

When she walked in, he was already in line. She approached calmly and tapped his shoulder lightly.

"Hey, sorry—" she said with a soft smile.

He turned around, and Ana’s eyes went wide.

It was Pedro Pascal. The Pedro Pascal, right in front of her, with that half-surprised, half-charmed smile. And he was gorgeous. Way hotter than on any screen. Golden skin, brown hair with silver streaks, messy in that effortless way, and his eyes—damn, those warm honey-brown eyes looked like they saw everything. He was wearing a simple dark tee and a light jacket, but he still oozed magnetic charm. And his smell? Oh my God. Woodsy, warm, intoxicating. Ana had to focus not to take another deep inhale like a total freak.

Meanwhile, seeing her stunned face, he went straight to the obvious.

"Yeah, yeah. We can take a pic if you want," he said, friendly but automatic, like he did this every day.

Ana let out a quick, genuine laugh and shook her head.

"No, no! Not that, sweetie... I just wanted to tell you about the door. Your car door. You left it open."

Pedro blinked twice, clearly thrown, then smacked his forehead with pure embarrassment.

"Oh my God... Sorry! What an idiot," he said, almost blushing. "Thanks for telling me. I’m a disaster with this stuff. Gonna go fix that now."

He rushed out of line, and Ana, grinning to herself, went up to order. When he came back, he still looked kinda sheepish.

"I feel like such a dumbass with that whole ‘celebrity moment’," he started when he got back to her. Ana thought he was adorable—the attitude, the charm, the obvious embarrassment and the humility that followed. Did it make him even hotter? Hell yes.

"At least let me buy your coffee. To make up for my shame," he said.

"Didn’t have to, but… if you insist," she replied, faking thoughtfulness with a raised eyebrow.

"I insist. Hard," he shot back with that lopsided, dimpled grin that could melt an iceberg.

They grabbed their coffees and shuffled away from the counter, kinda awkward. A short, comfortable silence settled between them.

"Look… seriously, sorry again. It was automatic. Happens more than I’d like," Pedro said, running fingers through his hair.

Why so damn hot, Ana thought.

"It’s fine. Was funny, honestly," she said, grinning. "And to be fair, you’re an amazing actor. Love your work."

Pedro smiled, genuinely surprised, his gaze softening. "Thanks. That means a lot, really." He studied her closer, like he was actually seeing her for the first time. "You’re from Brazil? Caught a little accent."

"Yeah, Northeast. But I’m in Texas now. Here with coworkers for training."

"Nice. I’m Chilean. Love running into South Americans here. Feels more like home, you know?"

"Oh, totally. We’ve got that same energy. More warmth, more random chatter, more… intensity," she laughed.

"Yes! Exactly!" He laughed with her. "So what do you do? Coffee biz, or just a professional appreciator?"

He slid into a nearby table and gave her a silent join me look. Ana sat across from him.

"Chemical engineer. Here for a course on underground natural gas storage."

"Brains and beauty. Solid combo," Pedro said lightly, but Ana caught a mischievous glint in his eye.

Or am I hallucinating? she wondered.

She flushed a little, pretending not to hear, and laughed. "And you? How long’ve you been acting again?" she teased.

"Oof, low blow. But fair," he chuckled, tipping his head back. "Since… forever? Theater, TV, movies. Not always, but a long damn time. Only recently people started recognizing me on the street, though." He smirked.

Pedro watched her—the way she fiddled with her cup, how she glanced out the window with a half-smile. There was something hypnotic about her. She wasn’t trying to impress him. And yet. The conversation kept flowing easy, natural. Like they’d known each other. And with every word, the quiet attraction burned hotter.

Neither knew it yet, but this wasn’t just coffee. It was the first chapter of something neither expected—but both had secretly wanted for a long damn time.

Ana’s cheeks warmed every time he smiled. She felt weirdly teenage right now, and that was strange. It’d been forever since she’d felt that—the light flutter, the electric buzz in the air. And it wasn’t just the fame. It was the man in front of her. How he listened like she was the only thing that mattered. How his eyes stayed locked on hers like nothing else existed. Like she was interesting. Beautiful. Special.

Pedro was hooked too. There was something about Ana that didn’t fit the usual mold. She was gorgeous in this effortless, quiet way. Her fair skin always looked slightly flushed, and the contrast with her long, straight black hair gave her this ethereal, almost cartoon-princess vibe. Her eyes were expressive, talking as much as her mouth—and her mouth… yeah, he’d already noticed how hard it was to look away.

"So you liking LA so far?" he asked.

"A lot. Thought I'd hate it, but I'm loving it. Probably 'cause I haven't hit traffic yet," she answered with a laugh.

"Ah, so there's still hope for you," he said, grinning wide.

"What about you? You living here full-time?"

"Yeah, for now at least. Shoots are here, and it's easier for everything. But I miss Chile sometimes. The food, the people... speaking Spanish with everyone."

"Same. Portuguese is a needy language. It misses being spoken," she said.

"That's poetic. You write?"

"Just technical reports," she laughed.

"I'm already a fan."

They talked for over two hours—laughing, trading stories, teasing. Ana talked work trips; Pedro ranted about chaotic film sets and insane directors. They tossed Spanish and Portuguese phrases around, laughed at the differences. The chemistry was thick. No awkward silences—just pauses loaded with meaning.

When she finally got up to leave, both their hearts did a little protest. Pedro stood too, clutching his empty cup, hesitating.

"I know this might sound weird… but can I see you again? Lunch, dinner, more coffee… any excuse works," he said, dragging a hand through his hair—a nervous habit, she realized.

Ana smiled, eyes bright. "Yeah. Any excuse works."

The cell signal was still spotty when Ana finally answered the call. She was in the immigration line at Heathrow, exhausted and buzzing with excitement. It was only noon, but the line was endless and she was starving.

[thelastsurvivinggirl]

‘The last survivor’

Slenderman x reader

You never believed in Slenderman.

Just a childish horror story. A myth invented by the internet and passed around by bored kids. Your group of friends, of course, was obsessed with that stuff — creepypastas, horror games, rituals from Reddit.

You even tried summoning things before, always ending in laughter when nothing happened.

But this time felt… different.

They talked you into going to the forest. Late October, cold fog creeping in, dry leaves crunching beneath your boots. There were eight of you — enough not to be scared.

Among you was Adam — the joker, the one who always scared others for fun.

He organized it all.

Brought printed instructions for a “ritual to summon him” from some obscure forum thread that promised “you’ll hear him breathe.”

—This is gonna be epic, — he said. — C’mon, it’s just for fun.

You didn’t participate. Sat a little ways off on a fallen log, just watching them stand in a circle, lighting candles and reading that dumb text. You were just… there.

An observer.

Maybe that’s what saved you.

Nothing happened. Not really. Adam jumped out from behind trees a few times, tried to spook people. Everyone laughed. You all went back to town and eventually home.

The next day, the first note appeared.

“He watches.”

Taped to the school’s front door. Then another — on Sophie’s backpack. Then Max found one inside his textbook.

Everyone figured it was Adam again.

His kind of joke.

He denied it — not very convincingly.

Then came a different note. This one wasn’t written in the same handwriting. It looked rough, smeared. There were dark stains.

And a drawing — a tall, faceless figure, with limbs reaching out to smaller people.

That’s when things shifted.

People got nervous. Some joked about it, some just stopped texting. Then Thomas disappeared — the one who, during the ritual, had laughed:

— How can anyone be scared of that crap? What, he eats little girls or something? Gross. — Everyone laughed at him.

Then he was just… gone. Didn’t show up to school. Phone off. Cops said maybe he ran away — trouble at home.

The next day, another note. Left on the bench outside school.

“I see you.”

One by one, your friends vanished. Sophie. Max. Alina. And after each disappearance — another note. Always short. Always that same figure.

Police started looking at you.

You were there when they found the notes. You were the last one left. They didn’t believe in urban legends.

They believed in patterns.

And you? You stopped sleeping.

At night, something flickers outside your window. The kitchen table — one you’re sure you cleaned — sometimes has black smudges, shaped like fingers.

And every time — a new note.

The last one.

“You are not alone.”

On it — a drawing of you. Scribbled in rough, frantic lines. Sitting in your kitchen, back turned to the viewer. Behind you — Slenderman.

Bent over you. His mouth stretched into something that’s almost a smile. His arms… inside you.

You glance around your kitchen. Everything looks normal.

But something feels… wrong.

The silence is too deep.

And you think you can hear… breathing.

Is this the end?

No.

You didn’t know why you grabbed the knife.

It was dull, a regular kitchen knife. Nothing special. But the moment your fingers wrapped around the cold handle, a strange feeling settled in — not safety, no, but some illusion of control.

Something, anything, that might let you fight back. It wouldn’t help — but it made things feel slightly less hopeless.

The house was silent. Too silent.

You locked all the windows, double-checked the doors.

You even shoved a chair under the handle like they do in movies. But deep down, you knew — it was all an illusion. If he wanted to come in, nothing would stop him.

Then you found the ninth note.

"Mine."

It was different. Neatly written, almost calligraphic, as if someone took their time — wrote it with a strange tenderness. No terrifying sketch this time. Just your name.

Simply your name.

And a heart — crooked, black-and-white. But still… a heart.

It was more terrifying than any horror drawing.

What was this? A threat? A confession?

You remembered how it sometimes felt… like he wasn’t just watching. He was studying. Not hiding — waiting. Sometimes, in mirrors, you’d catch a glimpse of a dark figure behind you, but it wouldn’t move.

Wouldn’t attack.

Just stood there.

Always silent. As if something was holding him back.

You heard breathing again.

You turned — nothing.

But the knife was already raised.

— Leave me alone! — you shouted into the empty room.

No answer.

But when you looked at the wall, you saw something new — a message, scrawled in a dark, viscous fluid. It was still wet, glistening faintly, and you had no idea what it was.

"Never."

And something in the air shifted. Not the temperature. Not the sound. But the very mood of the space around you.

Like the air had thickened.

Like arms, invisible, wrapping around your chest — holding tight.

Like an embrace you’d never escape.

Ever since you saw that message traced on the wall, everything began to fall apart. You weren’t afraid of him — you were afraid of what your life was becoming because of him.

Disappearances had become part of your reality. One by one: friends, acquaintances, neighbors. And each time — you were the last person to see them.

It wasn’t just a coincidence anymore.

The police had stopped asking questions — now they were looking for evidence. They were watching you.

And then something real appeared.

A metal container, left outside the police station.

Inside — a piece of cloth, soaked in blood.

A fragment of human skin with your name carved into it — rough, but unmistakable.

It turned out to be Adam’s body...

No fingerprints.

No camera footage.

Nothing but your name — like a brand burned into flesh. You sat across from them, listening to their dry questions, staring into their tired eyes.

They weren’t looking for a suspect anymore.

They were trying to pin it all on you.

You denied everything.

You knew who was behind it.

You knew how it all began.

But you would never say it out loud — no one would believe you. Because the moment you said it — Slenderman — it would be over for you.

They’d call you a delusional killer.

You knew he was leading you to this moment — that Slenderman would plant something else soon…

And that would be the final nail in your coffin.

A psychiatric hospital.

Empty walls.

Pills.

Cameras.

He could reach you there without effort. You didn’t have the strength to argue anymore. They didn’t believe you. You had to find a lawyer.

And somehow, despite doing nothing wrong — you felt guilty.

It was all part of his design.

A methodical calculation.

His goal wasn’t just to break you —

It was to make the world turn against you. So that when everything was taken, he would be the only one left to “accept” you.

You cried at night.

When the rain rattled the windows. When your mother avoided your gaze. When people you knew crossed the street to avoid you.

You felt like an animal. A monster. And then… it got worse. Your mother screamed during the night.

You woke to the sound of her voice — unbearable, hoarse.

You ran to her room, your heart pounding in your chest. She was asleep with her eyes wide open.Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Her hands clutched the blanket in spasms.

— Mom! Wake up! Mom!

Her eyes finally focused. Her breathing was ragged, broken.

— I... I saw him...— she whispered. — Tall... no face at all. H-he...

She choked on a sob. You had never seen your mother like that, not even in tears.

— ...he was ripping my heart out... and I couldn’t wake up... it must have been that sleep paralysis people talk about?

You held her tightly, trying to calm her down.

— It’s okay, Mom… you’re just tired. It was just sleep paralysis…I’ve had it too, — you lied. — It’s just the stress. Everything’s going to be fine…

No.

He showed you that he knew.

Who you valued most.

Where to strike.

And you would never allow that.

Not again.

You felt something solid inside you — a clarity, a need to tear his heart out for what he’d done to you. For daring to threaten your family.

That night, you left the house without a word. You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t warn anyone.

This wasn’t a heroic gesture — it was surrender.

You gave up.

The moment you stepped into the forest, the air thickened.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest.

Your pulse was erratic, panicked.

Arrhythmia.

Your legs felt weak.

Each breath came with one question: Now what?

He was waiting.

You knew it even before you saw him.

And when you stepped into the same clearing where the ritual had once been performed, he emerged from the dark — soundless, like a shadow that had finally taken form.

Tall.

Disturbingly thin.

Faceless — yet you felt his stare like a blade to your skin.

He stood in front of you.

Unmoving.

And the world around you stilled. Froze. Your hand clutched at your jacket near your heart.

— What do you want…? — you asked, barely more than a whisper.

No answer.

But something shifted inside you.

Not a voice. Not a sound — just a sensation.

“I knew you would come. It was only a matter of time.”

And that���

was the most terrifying part.

Because maybe…

he was right.

[hancfubuki]

perhaps he pushed him too hard. caleb realizes that he messed up by showing sides of himself that were meant to be kept as a secret. the atmosphere between feels like it cracked, heavy with tension because of his sudden shift. his mind feels like a battlefield of contradictions, and he feels the click coming, as it always did, stripping him away from rafayel's warmth and kindness, because he seems to forbid himself from getting affection, unconsciously. something deep inside twists him into something colder, something sharper, something he despised. and as he lays pinned beneath rafayel, legs splayed in a position that made his breath catch, that makes him feel so vulnerable and humiliates, the realization begins to seep in. the lemurian simply looms over him, a predator poised with intent, his voice like a velvet blade that sliced through caleb's defenses with precision. sally, his hands are steady and commanding, but right now? they are clench at the sheets beneath him, unsure whether to fight back or surrender.

it's not fear what he feels, it's the gnawing ache of recognition of knowing that the shift inside him is not just some fleeting impulse. ah.. the implant is humming faintly, feeding the darker edge of his thoughts, nudging him towards control and domination, the insidious desire to command everything and everyone around him. because control is safety and vulnerability is weakness. even though he reacts to the sharp dig on his leg, a grunt leaving his lips after being maneuvering so easy, he can tell rafayel grip is not necessarily cruel but firm. it feels like these actions are forcing him to confront that part of himself that sought dominance at all costs. this grip is not only physical but emotional as well, how easily the lemurian could turn the tables on him.

he even numbs the other's actions, being unable to feel any touch as rafayel continues to speak. it feels like a reprimand, and he couldn't help but lower his head as he allows the other to do whatever he wants to him. maybe he simply is not fit for rafayel, and his initial sense of self-consciousness surfaces to cloud his brain again. he will never be enough, for rafayel or anyone, as long as this... thing, lives inside of him. yet, he cannot bring himself to talk about it, to speak the truth and explain the reason behind his sudden shifts. why feeling so vulnerable forces him to act up like this. he cannot talk about it, he cannot even mention it, as he doesn't even know where it lays.

“you might get off on being hurt or controlled, but i’m not in the mood for it.”

the words sting more than caleb would have wanted them to, becase they are not just a rejection of his actions, but a mirror that holds up to the part of himself he didn't want to face. the part that wasn’t the charming and kind captain, the daring leader. it was the part of him shaped by the implant, by the years of being honed into a weapon, by the relentless demand for perfection that had stripped away his ability to just be. he swallows hard, his throat tight as he stares up at rafayel, whose hands now let his legs rest, waiting. his final words echo in his mind, realizing that one more false move and he could lose whatever this is, forever.

nicely... the thought almost made caleb laugh bitterly, trembling in silence. how long had it been since someone had asked him to do anything nicely? anyone had expected something soft from him, everyone expected obedience and brute force. his chest tightens, nsre if he ever could do something nicely.

"i..." his voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat as he speaks, hesitant, as if the words themselves were fighting him. his gaze changes again, more softer, even watery. some sort of plea, remembering his own words to break him gently. this is a situation he caused by himself, and he knows playing victim won't work as rafayel is just following his requests. yet it makes him regret it, as he does want to be treated nicely, sweetly, tenderly. he wants to be took care of in the same way he does to others. so why is it so hard not to sabotage himself? he blushes softly, looking away from rafayel, fixing his gaze on a shadowed corner of the room. 'i don't want to be like this.' he wants to say, yet the words don't seem to come through, in fact, he is not able to say it out loud because that would lead to more questions he doesn't wish to answer right now. he feels his breathing steading little by little, ignoring the whisper of control that is starting to fade away.

"i'm sorry." he says, barely above a whisper. his hands, unclenched from the sheets, trembling as they move to rest lightly on the other's arms, caressing them softly, wanting to feel something else, different from the internal struggle he currently has. "i'm terrified of losing control, of letting myself want too much and being left with nothing." perhaps he should go, stand up, leave everything behind for once. buut that mean running away instead of facing his own head. "please... continue." it's not an order, nor a demand. it is a plea, fragile and human, the most vulnerable that caleb has allowed himself to be in years.

It always comes abruptly. Like there's something in Caleb's head that clicks into place at moments that causes him to act up, act differently, act out of the bounds that Rafayel had started to learn of. The frustration he had anticipated, and if he were honest-- he had planned for. He couldn't help tease and annoy him to see his reaction, but for the most part, he had truly meant to worship him to the best of his abilities. The Lemurian watched as his wrist was held tight, didn't fight back as his waist was grabbed and the world spun before he was pinned down onto his bed. His back arched from the grip, and the air was knocked out of him. The subdued, adorable Caleb that he had teased was no longer there, replaced by the version of him more similar to when he had tried to make Rafayel plead and beg, that sharp light in his eyes that demanded obedience.

The Lemurian lays still, eyes blinking slowly as the other towers over him now, the soft rustle of sheets next to his ears loud in the silence as his hands come to rest on either side of his head. A dark, intimidating figure, he's sure. Blue and pink irises shine as his eyes are opened wide, beady and surprised. But he can't bring himself to feel the pressure his enemies must have under his gaze, not as much as a normal human might have been at being pinned by a man this tall and large, powerful with magic that could control your bodily movements or more as they pleased. What was once a tender mood of worship and affection suddenly switches into tension, a challenge in the other's eyes as he gets close. Rafayel breathes a lung full of air, lashes trembling as fingertips glide over his sensitive neck. Caleb was taking advantage of it, he's sure, how his touch over his scales makes his whole body shiver with delight, gaze lowered and a wry smile paints his lips. The Lemurian doesn't speak, lets Caleb continue his mouthful of demands till he's done, his breath warm against his lips, against the shell of his ear. Rafayel reaches for the other's legs, holding his thighs as he had before as if finding an anchor, smoothing his hand down the underside of it till he reaches the back of his knees.

"I haven't gone against my word."

His grip tightens with inhuman strength, tugging Caleb towards him and using that momentum to raise himself up. The pull turns into a push and he shoves Caleb onto his back, now back on his knees as he's towered over the man, eyes shadowed by his bangs. Rafayel has either leg held by the back of his knees, bends and pushes as far as the captain's flexibility would allow and a bit more, shoving him into the precarious position that's sure to have him blush or conflicted. Unhurried, the Lemurian puts his weight down even more, his grip bruising as he keeps the man still, shoving him as far into the mattress as physically possible to keep him trapped. When the younger lifts his head, Caleb gets an eyeful as his expression changes from tender adoration to indignation. "You have some unwarranted accusations there, Captain." Dark red swirls in his eyes as his gaze moves from the other's face and down low to where his hips are lifted off the mattress, knees pushed so far up he might as well have them to his chest, maybe with a bit more force and training his flexibility, he could get them up to his ears. "I said I would like to kiss and touch you everywhere, show you my worship. Is that not what I have done until you rudely interrupted me? Unlike you, who said you would follow my pace yet flipped me over so crudely." The man throws an accusatory glare, an invisible force keeping Caleb's left leg locked where it hands in the air as he digs his thumb into his thigh, running a bruising line down the middle exposed to him, until he's reached the swell of flesh.

"You call me spoiled, but your impatience and demands speak otherwise. Feel threatened that you can't order me around like your men, Captain?" A dangerous, dark little laugh passes the Lemurian's lips, his thumb where it circled the edges of the swell now going further down, dipping into where he feels heat. "When I asked you nicely to turn around, I had planned to start again from the top," Rafayel whispers into his ear, forehead resting on the mattress as his thumb draws up and down with intention, any and all pleas ignored. "Kiss the specks of stars and run my hands down with my lips trailing after them, press my fingers in where your muscles are tense, massage you till you're weak and sighing breaths of pleasure at every touch." He bites his ear, leaving marks behind. "Then I would move my hands, crawl down while you're loose and vulnerable, and kiss the swell of your back, squeeze you tight," he does exactly that, large hands groping the soft mound before his thumb returns, this time circling his heat, the pressure of it forcing the muscle to loosen. "Just as you so easily assumed I would take you, I may let you take my fingers," he sighs softly when the tip of his finger catches at his entrance, an interlude to what could've been. "--watch you writhe as I curl deep inside your walls and pin you with the ocean's weight so you're forced to take it slow and steady till you're begging me to hurry. I would let you grind your hips, taking my fingers deeper or lend you my hand or even my mouth to thrust into if you begged me nice and sweet."

Then his hand stops, slipping away.

Rafayel sits back on his knees and lets the human's legs fall back down to the mattress messily. Back to square one, the same position they had before Caleb decided to be a brat. "I have no interest in commanding you of anything. You might get off on being hurt or controlled, but I'm not in the mood for it." He exhales, shaking his head. "You're free to use your power to get your way. If what I offer isn't something you enjoy, then push me off. But," he raises a hand to his lips, pretending to be deep in thought before his stern gaze peers down. "I will take them as a sign to stop completely." Disobey, and he would get nothing, left throbbing, frustrated and wanting. In contrast to the cruelty of his words, Rafayel puts a hand gently on his inner thigh and spreads it outward, leaning forward an inch. "What would you like me to do, sunset? Tell me in your words, nicely." He's not here to teach him basic manners. "May I continue, or would you like to test how serious I am?"

[fruitless-vain]

Man MIL must be feeling like she’s lost all control because she’s gone from pretending like she’s an innocent angel being bullied to attacking Jack at every chance she gets.

Today’s drama consists of more talking shit about jacks father and grandfather (who were incredibly good people that she loves dearly, who both died unexpectedly) as well as calling Jack an animal abuser.

Which is cute coming from the lady who’s made four attempts at killing my birds + endangering their safety in this past week alone, has only ever owned extremely obese cats, and gets quite defensive if you even lightly suggest they’re a touch chubby (they’re like 30 pounds, cats smaller than Yoshi and weight 3x the amount, feels like a solid brick when you touch it and this is the least overweight cat she’s had), has kept her cats as outdoor cats, is egregiously outdated on ethical training + nutrition, and has never taken her cats to the vet except for requesting sedatives to drive them here

But yes, my wife who would sell a kidney to pay for medical bills, never hesitates to do something that would make them happy, helped me build a dedicated bird room, scooped up a street dog, continues to put her best efforts in to training, structures her day with keeping the animals healthy and safe first, and is usually the first one to want to rush home so no one is kenneled for long is totally the lesser owner in this situation.

[anunkindncss]

LONG-ASS, BAT-SWINGIN’ PSA FROM YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD TRASH DAD (YES YOU MAY REBLOG ME):

i swear to the gods above and the internet demons below, if i have to see one more round of the same tired, petty, high school drama energy in the rpc i am going to start throwing metaphorical furniture. or a bat. maybe a literal bat. someone get me a bat.

we’re gonna talk about a few things i do not understand and am rapidly losing patience for in this little roleplay community of ours. sit down. hydrate. bring a snack. or don’t. i’m not your mom. but i am pissed.

1. BLOCKING PEOPLE BEFORE YOU EVEN KNOW THEM. what are you doing. no, seriously—what are you doing. look. blocking is valid. it’s important. it’s necessary in many cases. but if you are blocking people for… following you? reblogging your promo? writing the same muse? because “they gave me weird vibes” after doing absolutely nothing to you? i’ve got news: you’re not setting boundaries, you’re playing judge, jury, and executioner of vibes you made up in your head. you do not need to block someone just because they exist in the same space as you. curiosity is not a crime. following someone because you share muse interests is not a threat. no one’s out to steal your thunder. we’re all just feral writers clinging to shared hyperfixations like they’re life rafts.

2. THE GREAT REBLOG WAR OF 202X. i promise you, reblogging a post from the person you saw it from is not a personal attack. yes, i agree: try to reblog from the source when you can. it keeps things clean. it helps with credit. we love that. but if someone reblogs from the person who popped up on their dash? that’s not theft. that’s how this damn website works. you’re not losing notes. you’re not being disrespected. you’re seeing a feature function the way it was designed. if it truly matters to you, say it nicely in the post itself. don’t vaguepost. don’t softblock. don’t act like someone pissed on your fic just because they hit reblog from a mutual. some of you treat content circulation like a sacred ritual and lose your minds if the incense is lit out of order. breathe.

3. DNI LISTS THAT ARE LONGER THAN MY WILL TO LIVE. listen. i get it. truly. safety and boundaries are critical. you do not have to interact with everyone. you do not have to let everyone into your space. that’s not what this is about. this is about the weaponized, condescending, high-horse energy of DNI lists that start with “no minors” and end with “people who write canon characters with feelings i disagree with.” what happened to just… blacklisting tags? scrolling? having a spine and a filter? you don’t need to turn your blog into a digital moat. you can just curate your experience quietly. because let me tell you, no one is reading your DNI list like a legal document. they’re reading it and thinking, “damn, this person seems exhausting.”

4. SHITTING ON OTHER WRITERS FOR WRITING THE SAME MUSE DIFFERENTLY. you are not the official licensed owner of your muse. you are not the final word on interpretation. people write characters differently. that’s the beauty of it. that’s literally why roleplay is compelling. because it’s your take. your lens. your experience. if someone writes a softer version of your muse, or a darker one, or a more chaotic one—you can just… not follow them. you don’t need to snark in the tags. you don’t need to start drama in discords. and for the love of god, you don’t need to talk shit behind their back like we’re in some HBO drama. this is tumblr. it’s a hellsite for niche gremlin creativity and emotional trauma bonding. act like it.

IN CONCLUSION, BEFORE I GRAB THE BAT: this place could be so good. so freeing. so collaborative. As a matter of fact... it actually USED TO BE. but y’all keep trying to turn it into a gated community with HOA rules, secret vendettas, and self-appointed sheriff energy. let people exist. let them write. let them breathe. drink water. block quietly. tag your triggers. let go of the need to control every facet of your dash and your mutuals. and for the love of everything sacred and unholy, stop making people feel like they’re one wrong FC or meme reblog away from exile. we're here to write weird little stories and explore weird little feelings through the faces we like and the words we care about.

stop making that feel like a crime.

-Trash (overthepettyandunreasonablebullshit) Dad.

[yuurivoice]

Is Emrys even someone who can be defeated...? He seems insanely powerful and like the final boss of the entire universe, my good friend Finneas has it difficult enough as it is with all the things happening in the Beyond-

That's probably a good question. 😂

Where we find ourselves throughout Origins and into EoE is a time where some people are aware to varying degrees that Emrys is Not Right, but they are essentially just.......fucked?

It's sorta like...what if you were subjected to a truth you genuinely couldn't begin to comprehend how to address? You look around and the way of the world just...is. You cannot outrun the ignorance of this Rot, you can't grab someone and try to make them remember faster than it can be erased.

You either flee abroad, or you live among it, with knowledge that no one else can comprehend. Burdened with unknowable truth.

Emrys hasn't eradicated the people who know. I haven't figured out why, but I'm leaning towards him being so unbothered by their existence and confident in his control that he might just revel in their misery and despair. Like it entertains him to watch the dread. He would otherwise be very, very bored.

There are only a handful that know how powerful he truly is, while others can only imagine, or may not want to know.

Those among the Anointed are the most aware, having been directly under his command and executing his orders. From there, it's second hand information, perhaps shared with loved ones or allies. Then, there are likely those who have an inherent resistance to it. Or maybe Emrys took joy in watching as a member of one family or community went mad as everyone around them began living a history that never existed. All across the land, just playing duck duck goose and seeing who would be so lucky as to remember what came before.

Until they all die out, and it's forgotten once and for all.

So yeah, it's fucked!

Echoes of Evalas begins where our rag-tag bunch of unlikely allies seek to fight back, but cannot agree on a course of action. Some think bloodshed would be a mercy, others want to save the lost, and some would rather escape to safety across the sea. No solution is perfect, but decisions need to be made.

What they cannot account for is Finneas, who has peered beyond this world and seen things no mere man was ever meant to see. That truth might be enough to rock the boat and bring about change.....or, it would break the minds and spirits of all who were enlightened.

How their stories intersect and what choices are made is where the fun really begins...but first I want to establish our cast with the Origins series!

[niyoriix]

Hiii it’s me again! :,) but I was wondering if I can request reed Richard’s and sue storm with a teenage daughter? Headcanons please and thank you! ( ˘ ³˘)

Hi Nice seeing you again! Hopefully this is what you wanted🫡 feel free to req again if I missed it!

Reed & Susan with teen!Daughter

(SideNote: I got carried away..it's pretty long.)

Warnings: Characters probably act OOC and Ig just fluff

⋆.˚ ★—Sue and Reed have always wanted children of their own, they always saw how their long time friends had children and a beautiful family. Now they have one, and they couldn't be happier. Ever since you were born you've been the star of the family.

⋆.˚ ★—Johnny absolutely loves you! Instead of chasing girls and going on those awful interviews, he's with you. Always spending his precious time with you, Spoiling you with gifts(Much to sues dismay since she already spoils you too much..) Ben adores you, the moment he saw you he was in tears, it reminded him of the day his own child was born. He treasured you, always a good person to depend on. Reed, he couldn't help but cry. You were his blood, his child whom he'll love and care for no matter what. He held you with care and love. Sue was full of joy. she had always Wondered what a mix of her and reed would look like, and now she's got her answer. The team loves you more than anything.

⋆.˚ ★—And now you're a teen. Your family was quite sad to see their babygirl slowly growing. It was a mourning moment for them, But they soon got over it and accepted it(Fairly quick lol)

⋆.˚ ★—Reed and sue still sometimes baby you, not often but still a little annoying since you're a teen and don't want to be babied. They've definitely tried to stop those habits though.

⋆.˚ ★—Since you're a teen and probably very extroverted since y'know, your parents are Susan storm and Reed Richards. You're probably very popular and go to A LOT of parties. Johnny supports it but the others don't, they know you can protect yourself but they can't help it, they Don't want you getting hurt.

⋆.˚ ★—In a rare case you DO get hurt. Reed gave you a specially made gadget to diffuse the situation. Once the person tries to threaten you or touch you with ill intent, the gadget will instantly alert nearby officers and alert the fantastic 4 tower. They take your safety very seriously as any other parent would for their child. If you have powers(you probably do) and you have full control or somewhat, their a little more lenient but still somewhat cousious.

⋆.˚ ★—moving on to the more cute stuff! You and sue have very often mommy-daughter dates, going to spas,going to the beach, pottery dates and all sorts of girly things. If you're not very girly then that's fine too! Doesn't matter as she'll accept every part of you.

⋆.˚ ★—You and Reed have a lot of science related daddy-daughter dates. He mostly works with you on your school projects and such, not all of it is science related though. You go on movies dates and building Legos(mostly coming up with your own designs/buildings instead of following instructions.) dates too.

⋆.˚ ★—Since Reed and sue are often busy. So they like to send you little holographic messages through the telecom watch, reed gifted you.

Mom: Hi honey, hope everything's going alright. I'm almost done with work, hopefully In time for Dinner! Lots of love💕

Dad: Hope you're doing good squirt. me and your mom have been thinking about a family vacation this month. Just so we can have some more time together as a family.

⋆.˚ ★—If you were ever interested in anyone, I think although reed is pretty chill I still think he'd be pretty protective. Sue would be delighted though. The person you're seeing needs to prove themselves first, by showing him your safe and being taken care of, also by telling him shitty dad jokes.

⋆.˚ ★—moving on to power related things! If you have sue's power to be invisible, make shields and heal then she'll definitely be the one training you(obviously) or maybe reeds power, OR maybe you have your own separate power. then they'd probably both teach you things, probably doing research on your powers and testing it. They hope your powers are not TOO destructive or will harm you in any way.

⋆.˚ ★—Most likely if you become really good with your powers and able to fight better, then you'd probably be added into the team. unless that's not what you want! They are perfectly fine with you not wanting to join the team and just being a normal human.

Hope you enjoyed¡★have an amazing day or night! Reqs are always open!

[darkmaga-returns]

A key official at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) responsible for monitoring vaccine safety and reports of vaccine injuries may have mishandled or deleted official records subpoenaed by Congress, Sen. Ron Johnson (R-Wis.) alleged earlier this week. The New York Post first reported the story on Thursday.

Dr. Tom Shimabukuro, director of the CDC Immunization Safety Office, maintained the records in question. Shimabukuro previously authored a key paper and participated in public messaging claiming the COVID-19 vaccines were safe and effective for pregnant women.

Johnson, chairman of the U.S. Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, requested the records in a subpoena sent in January to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS). The subpoena pertained to an investigation into internal COVID-19 vaccine safety communications.

According to the New York Post, the subpoena led HHS to discover “potential discrepancies” in the emails maintained by Shimabukuro.

“HHS officials recently informed me that Dr. Shimabukuro’s records remain lost and, potentially, removed from HHS’s email system altogether,” Johnson wrote in a letter he sent earlier this week to U.S. Attorney General Pam Bondi, FBI Director Kash Patel and HHS Principal Deputy Inspector General Juliet Hodgkins.

Johnson called Shimabukuro’s possible mishandling of his official records “highly concerning.”

Journalist Paul D. Thacker, a former U.S. Senate investigator, said, “Every American should be concerned about government scientists deleting or hiding federal information to shape a political agenda. That information belongs to the taxpayers.”

[reveryfics]

aaron (twd) retrieving something m!reader lost

Pocket Watch

Aaron Raleigh x Male Reader

Summary: A botched supply run left you missing something vital, and Aaron is set on retrieving it.

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long, I wasn't sure what to write for this request. I also apologize I'm not ignoring requests, I'm just getting so many as of late.

TW: Slight violence - Fighting - Slight angst - Fluff

The heavy iron gates of Alexandria creaked open, protesting against their hinges as the battered caravan rumbled through. Dust billowed from the tired tires, coating the already grime-streaked vehicle in another layer of decay. You brought it to a shuddering halt within the relative safety of the walls, the silence of the community a stark contrast to the guttural snarls and desperate cries that had echoed in your ears just hours before.

With a weary sigh, you pushed open the driver's side door. The metallic tang of walker blood clung to you, a grim testament to the day's horrors. Streaks of it painted your skin and clothes, mingled with the crimson of a deep gash on your forearm and the darker, sickening stain that could only belong to a fallen comrade. You moved with a stiff, almost robotic gait, every muscle protesting the strain of the run.

Dragging Nickolas from the passenger seat was less an act of assistance and more a forceful extraction. You shoved him roughly against the side of the van, the impact eliciting a grunt of surprise and pain. The dam of your pent-up fury finally broke.

"You reckless, brainless idiot!" you snarled, your voice raw with exhaustion and grief. "One of our own is dead because of your sheer, unadulterated stupidity!"

The commotion drew attention. Heads turned, conversations ceased, and soon a small crowd had gathered, their faces etched with concern and curiosity. Among them, their expressions a mixture of authority and apprehension, were Deanna and Aaron. You weren't one for public outbursts, your usual demeanor one of quiet resilience. The raw anger radiating off you, the bloodied state of your person, spoke volumes about how catastrophically wrong the scavenging run had gone.

Nickolas, his face pale and contorted with a mixture of fear and resentment, didn't take your berating silently. He spat back a string of weak excuses and accusations, his words only serving to ignite the dying embers of your rage. In a flash, your control snapped. You swung a fist, connecting with his jaw with a sickening thud. He stumbled backward, his feet tangling, and he crashed to the dusty ground. Before anyone could react, you were on top of him, a primal fury driving your blows.

Aaron, ever the peacemaker, surged forward, his strong arms wrapping around your torso, pulling you away from the prone Nickolas. Deanna, her eyes sharp and assessing, moved quickly to defuse the volatile situation, her calm voice cutting through the tense air.

"That's enough!" she commanded, her gaze firm. She turned her attention to you, her expression softening slightly as she took in your bloodied appearance. "Tell me," she said, her voice low and steady, "what happened out there?"

You wiped a smear of walker blood across your cheek, leaving a red trail in its wake. Turning to face Deanna, your chest heaved with ragged breaths. "It was Nickolas," you began, your voice thick with bitterness. "He got cocky. We'd cleared a small building, thought it was safe, but he had to go poking around, making noise. He altered a hoard, drew them right to us."

You paused, the memory of the ensuing chaos a fresh wave of nausea. "He just… left us. Me and Sarah. He took off, didn't even look back. We were surrounded. We tried to fight our way out, but there were too many." Your voice cracked, the image of Sarah flashing before your eyes. "Sarah… she got bit trying to help me. She pushed me out of the way."

Your fists clenched. "And then, when I finally managed to get to the van, he was already inside, trying to leave me behind. He didn't even care that he'd gotten her killed, that he almost got me killed too."

Deanna's eyes narrowed, her gaze hardening as she looked towards Nickolas, who was now slowly picking himself up, clutching his jaw. "Nickolas," she said, her voice laced with authority, "come with me." She gestured with a curt nod towards the community center. Then, turning back to Aaron, she said, her tone gentle but firm, "Aaron, please take him home. He needs to rest."

Aaron placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his eyes filled with concern. He guided you away from the lingering crowd, the silence between you heavy with unspoken understanding. The walk back to the small house you shared with Eric felt long and arduous, each step a reminder of the day's brutal events.

He settled you gently at the worn wooden table, the familiar grain a small comfort in the chaos of your mind. "Stay here," he murmured, his voice soothing. "Let me get you a wet cloth." He disappeared into the small bathroom, the sound of running water a temporary distraction.

Left alone, your fingers instinctively went to the pockets of your blood-soaked jacket, then to the canvas satchel slung across your shoulder. A knot of anxiety tightened in your chest as you rummaged through your belongings. "Damn it," you cursed under your breath, frustration mounting with each fruitless search. Your fingers brushed against loose bullets, a crumpled map, a broken knife – everything but what you were desperately seeking.

Aaron returned, a damp cloth in his hand, his brow furrowed with concern as he observed your agitated state. "What's wrong?" he asked softly, his voice laced with worry.

"My pocket watch," you said, the words catching in your throat. "It's gone. I can't find it."

You explained, your voice thick with emotion, how it had belonged to your great grandfather, a gift just before he passed away. It wasn't just a timepiece; it was a tangible link to a life before, a small piece of history you carried with you. In this brutal new world, it was more than just sentimental. It was a grounding force, a tiny flicker of hope you often relied on, second only to Aaron himself.

Aaron nodded carefully, his eyes filled with understanding. He gently took your hand, his touch a silent reassurance. He began to carefully wipe the grime and blood from your face, his movements tender and deliberate. "I'll go find it for you," he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours.

You shook your head, a wave of exhaustion washing over you. "No, Aaron. Don't. It's not worth it. Not worth risking yourself." The thought of him venturing back out into the dangers you had barely escaped sent a fresh wave of fear through you.

Aaron knew how stubborn you could be, a trait he found both endearing and frustrating at times. He also knew the depth of your attachment to that watch. He nodded slowly, outwardly letting the matter drop. "Okay," he conceded, his voice gentle. "We'll let it go for now." But in the quiet recesses of his mind, a promise began to form. He would find that watch. He would bring back that small piece of your past.

As the day bled into evening, the sky outside painted in hues of orange and purple, you finally succumbed to exhaustion. The conversation with Deanna had been draining, a recounting of the horrific events punctuated by her thoughtful questions and quiet assurances that Nickolas would face the consequences of his actions. Sleep offered a temporary reprieve from the gnawing grief and anger.

Aaron waited until your breathing deepened, until the rise and fall of your chest was slow and steady. Then, with a silent sigh, he slipped out of bed, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his bare feet. He dressed quickly, his movements practiced and stealthy. Using the crude map you had sketched earlier, the landmarks you had described, he set out into the twilight.

The journey back was eerie, the familiar paths of Alexandria giving way to the shadowed wilderness beyond the walls. It took him several hours, the moon a silent guide as he navigated the overgrown terrain. Finally, he recognized the dilapidated gas station you had described, the skeletal remains of a few abandoned cars scattered around it. He scanned the area, his eyes sharp and alert, and soon located the small cluster of walkers you had mentioned, drawn to some unseen lure.

Aaron reached into his pocket, retrieving a small handful of firework poppers he had salvaged from a pre-apocalypse novelty store. With a flick of his wrist, he scattered them across the open ground. The sharp cracks and pops echoed through the stillness, a brief, unexpected burst of noise. He waited patiently, concealed behind a rusted-out truck, until the shuffling forms of the walkers began to shamble towards the sound, their attention momentarily diverted.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Aaron moved swiftly and silently, his eyes scanning the ground. The area was littered with debris – shattered glass, twisted metal, the detritus of a world gone mad. It took him what felt like an eternity of searching, his hope dwindling with each passing moment. Finally, near a crumbling section of an old chain-link fence, a glint of metal caught his eye.

He hurried towards it, his heart quickening. There, nestled amongst the weeds and dirt, lay your pocket watch. He carefully picked it up, his fingers brushing over the intricate engravings on its surface – a delicate floral pattern intertwined with your initials. A small smile touched his lips. He had found it.

The first hints of dawn were painting the eastern sky as Aaron slipped back through the gates of Alexandria, his mission accomplished. He moved with a renewed sense of purpose, his steps light and quick as he made his way back to the house. He eased the bedroom door open, the hinges groaning softly.

You were still asleep, curled up beneath the worn sheets, just as he had left you. He gently placed the pocket watch on the bedside table, its silver surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Then, he quietly slipped back into bed beside you, pulling you close.

You stirred almost immediately, a soft smile gracing your lips as you snuggled into his warmth. It took a moment for your sleep-fogged mind to register that he was just getting into bed. A small frown creased your brow. "Where'd you go?" you mumbled, your voice still thick with sleep as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows.

Aaron simply pointed towards the nightstand. "I went to find this," he said softly, his eyes filled with affection. "I knew how much it meant to you."

Your gaze followed his gesture, and your breath caught in your throat. There, lying on the wooden surface, was your pocket watch. A wave of relief and gratitude washed over you. You reached out, your fingers tracing the familiar engravings, a genuine smile finally breaking through the lingering shadows on your face.

You set the watch back down and turned to Aaron, your eyes shining with unshed tears. You reached out, cupping his face in your hands, and pulled him into a gentle, heartfelt kiss. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Thank you so much. But please," you added, your tone laced with concern, "don't ever risk yourself like that again."

He kissed you back, his lips lingering on yours before he slowly pulled away, his gaze earnest. "I can't make any promises," he murmured, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

[charmingradiobelle]

I think this TikTok ban is going to be the thing to radicalize me bc wdym the US’s top priority for the last five years has been banning a foreign social media app that doesn’t steal any more of your data than Meta, but not gun control or women’s rights to their bodies or the economy crisis or global warming or homelessness or world hunger or literally any fucking thing that actually matters?

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I'm not going back to Gusu with you.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[messiahzzz]

it’s been almost a year now… is the bg3 fandom finally ready to talk about how gale’s “hubris” is the sole product of actively feeding his insecurities further and straight up denying him help & guidance when he was at his lowest and needed it most. it’s not one of his core traits and never was. he isn’t some closeted power hungry monster that is just waiting to be enabled. what he wants is admiration, recognition and acceptance. which is also what he sought from mystra before the orb disaster happened. he had no desire whatsoever to become a god himself or challenge her rule, he simply wanted to be seen as sufficient in her eyes (“to serve her better”). to be as equal as he could possibly be in a relationship with a literal deity. he has a deep passion for magic and knowledge that affects almost all areas of his life and enjoys the display thereof. he wants to be the smartest person in the room and enjoys when his work is recognized. he may be perceived as arrogant when it comes to his skill, but he IS NOT hubristic. it truly takes so little for him to be wholly content.

[ominous-faechild]

Okay, first of all—GENESIS casually turning his chronic illness arc into villain origin story? Chef's kiss. The man said 'if the system won't heal me, I'll rewrite the system' and honestly? Respect the grind (while also being deeply concerned).

Ohhhh, Genesis grinds...

[hurriedly sweeps up particles of ground-up bones] :>

BUT YEAH! He's a super interesting character because, despite the many atrocities he commits, he genuinely thinks he's doing the right thing. He's working toward the greater good! Who cares if people are getting experimented on now, he'll create a world where nobody ever gets sick! Where nobody's born with 'imperfections'!

And, well, if you don't agree with him?...

[sweeps up more ground-up bone particles] :>

... well. That can be... resolved. :>

And Cricket's whole deal—this poor artistic bug-boy just trying to survive while magic keeps yeeting him into new traumas? I'm EMOTIONALLY INVESTED. The fact that his ADHD humming literally turned into physical bug traits is inspired. Also, the way you've built this world where magic is both a lifeline and a curse? SO GOOD.

Ohohoh, it ain't the magic yeeting him into trauma...

Though, actually! The humming and such isn't what caused the bug traits—that's actually a side product of what I call "his alignment"!

Cricket is naturally strongest with certain types of magic: earth, nature (forestry, animals, and bugs), and "stabilization"-oriented stuff. That's reflective of his earth-nature-order alignment.

Because he's most comfortable with strongest with those things, Cricket naturally gravitates toward those spells, and has strengthened that alignment in the process. Through channeling those elements more frequently, he's been Changed to "more closely match" them.

And, well, long story short: the Changes someone receives is directly related to both someone's alignment and what Changes them—and Cricket most often uses spells oriented toward nature!

Also low-key hilarious that the Wizard Council is out here like 'please stop carving apocalypse runes into your arms, Greg' while Genesis is just [redacted for crimes]

To be fair, lol, a lot more of what they'd maintain is the potential for doing crime with runic magic lol

They'd mostly try to ensure safe practices were held/used/taught for everyone's safeties, try to keep only people with clean backgrounds within the field (let's not talk about how the marginalized are criminalized here...), and mostly do so through the controlled release of tools and information.

They'd more so be the people who set regulations... while simultaneously working to expand on the field themselves. Luckily, they're not corrupted, right? :D

.... right???? :'D

Also, the mental image of Cricket and Genesis ever facing off lives in my head rent-free now. The dropout vs. the guy who became.the curriculum? The bug-boy vs. the walking magical disaster? I would perish. (End the fight with a kiss pretty please lol)

IT'S SO GOOD OMFG

But, as much as Cricket needs it, tbh? Idk if any singular character is going to get the honors of finishing off Genesis. Because bro's made a lot of enemies, and Cricket's... well, Cricket.

(I love you, buddy, but you can't even beat Benji in a fight without runes. You aint doin shit to Genesis.)

Also, it could and would never end in a kiss lol. Not only are both of them straight and head-over-heels for specific women, but Cricket would absolutely despise Genesis for what he's done, and Genesis would look down on Cricket for—I shit you not—"being a failure".

Also, if Cricket's mom doesn't have a 'proud parent of a magical entomology student' mug, we RIOT."💖🔥

SHE DOESN'T KNOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

(but she does have a t-shirt reading "proud parent of an arcane master" LMAO)

An additional thing about (@ominous-faechild original; do not steal /lhj) runic magic within my writing!

Styluses are essentially the world's early version of wands. They're made to draw runes, but require surfaces to draw on. They always encase—or utilize as the writing utensil—a conduit (an object containing pure magic, ready for use by anyone). After the invention of wands, styluses are often used as "baby's first wand", so to speak.

In other words: styluses become the giant pencil you give a toddler budding wizard for them to begin to learn runic.

For perhaps predictable reasons, artists are often recruited as wizards. Dyscalculia and dyslexia (although not named in-universe) are known to be a particular struggle for budding wizards, however.

Hugo “Cricket” Tinoco from Waves of Misfortune is an example of both. He was sponsored by the Minoguan government to join a runic academy thanks to being a skilled artist, but was eventually forced to drop out due to struggles “recreating” the runes.

(He's got dyscalculia.)

Wands aren't too dissimilar from the tool in Marvel's Doctor Strange that allows them to write in midair. They often resemble the stereotypical image of a wand, and serve as what's essentially a magic pencil that can write in midair.

However, twist: oftentimes, wizards will etch their most-commonly-used spells spells into the sides of their wands. With that, they can then later filter magic through those runes and quickly, easily, and frequently re-use their preferred spells.

Similarly, many more advanced wizards carry around staves—which are essentially larger wands—with larger conduit cores and many, many, many more runic sigils littered across their casing.

While this may seem to (and does, in fact) simplify the art of spellcrafting, there is a risk to relying on previously-etched runes: the caster has to remember where they've put each, or learn to distinguish between them by feel.

Considering the fact that they're often etched as small as possible both to fit more and to keep a possible enemy from seeing what spells you have at the ready... it is very dangerous, indeed, to rely on pre-etched spells. The practice is highly advised against except for master practitioners with several years of experience... and practice.

"Getting a new wand" is also highly frowned upon in this case, because if the caster fails to put their runes in the exact same spots...

Well.

Some "problems" can emerge.

(unlike last time, i've got this pretty solidified in my mind. i just wanted to share because, again, i thought y'all'd find this cool)