#or is none of this reasonable to begin with!!!

[hedwig221b]

Hiii, I love ur work. U r an amazing writer but now they leaving me wanting more. I’m not sure if you’ve done this already but do u have any recs for size difference sterek? Please and thank u!! ❤️

Thank you! Most of these are pwp but maybe that's a plus lol

Compatibility by SinQueen69

Only compatible Alpha’s and Omega’s smell good to each other, everyone else smells awful so when Derek and Stiles scent each other in the woods that day, they can’t stay away.

The Hoodie by PersePhonesDreams

Stiles didn’t mean to keep Derek’s hoodie—really, he didn’t. But the oversized, ridiculously soft thing quickly became his favorite comfort item, a piece of Derek he couldn’t quite let go of. It’s not like Derek would notice anyway… right? When Derek unexpectedly shows up at Stiles’ window one quiet night, Stiles’ not-so-secret attachment to the hoodie is exposed, leading to a conversation that changes everything. Cue awkward confessions, teasing smiles, and the realization that maybe Derek doesn’t mind Stiles keeping more than just his hoodie.

so now you've got the best of me (come on and take the rest of me) by mangotangos

"It doesn't matter how hot Derek is, how Stiles barely comes up to his shoulders or how Derek's hands could probably fit really snugly around his waist. None of it matters, because he's basically a glorified babysitter for the foreseeable future and Stiles wants him out. Operation annoy Deputy Derek Hale into leaving begins now." ~or, the one where Stiles' dad hires Deputy Derek to be Stiles' bodyguard, Stiles hates him on principle and then 2 seconds later falls in lust (and love) and tries to seduce him into bed with his sexual prowess.

Cherry by j560

"He promised himself he wasn’t going to think about Derek at all when he got it done. That he wasn’t picking this piece out because red was Derek’s favorite color. But he couldn’t stop himself from hoping maybe this time Derek would notice and say more than two words about his new piercing. That he would take Stiles seriously for once, and recognize all the newfound confidence Stiles could feel himself thriving off of. He hoped Derek would do something other than stare." OR Stiles keeps getting piercings until one sends Derek over the edge.

The Wolf God by SinQueen69

A magical barrier kept the Wolf God Derek safe when his Rut hit, but it unexpectedly allows a human through.

reverence by pocarisu_danshi

"Morning.” Stiles says, still sleepy. He’s fucked out tired and loose and sluggish, up most of the night until he’d passed out onto the pillow they shared. Derek rumbles a response, the timbre of his voice low and strong. “Morning.” He bends and kisses Stiles’ forehead, who takes the kiss with his eyes slipping half closed and a hum in his throat. Derek regards him. Focused on Stiles like he sometimes gets, eyes mottled and gold but not demanding.

I’m Knot A Pretty Boy by KnottheWolf

Day 8: Size Difference- “Do you always offer rides to strangers.” Derek grunts, wishing he could cross his arms but is stuck standing there staring at the Alpha. “Only the pretty ones.” Derek feels his cheeks go impossibly red at that, his ears burning up like candlesticks as he thinks on those words, he’s never been called pretty before. Handsome. Yes. But pretty? Nobody ever called him pretty; Derek was hairy, muscular and tall. Qualities that were often looked down upon on Omegas whether they be male or female, society had such constraint views on what an Omega should and shouldn’t look like. Often times he was mistaken for a Beta, once in awhile an Alpha, but when it was discovered he was actually an Omega people seemed to walk around him like he was a pariah.

Don't Be Cocky by Spindiver

For reasons, Derek wants to get a Prince Albert piercing. The only shop in town belongs to Stiles Stilinski. Who knew that Derek's life of lonely isolation was about to get a proper shake-up? “Hey”, he says, in greeting, “what can I help you with, this morning?” Given the man’s size and somewhat surly demeanour, Stiles is not expecting the voice of the giant to be so measured and polite. “My name’s Derek Hale, I have an appointment booked for 11 o’clock.” “Right”, says Stiles, coming out from behind the counter, he gestures towards his workspace, one of three rooms off the lobby of the shop. “Come on through, my name’s Stiles, I run this place. I have to confess, the appointment book didn’t say what you were after.” He raises an eyebrow at the man, now sitting gingerly on the padded worktable in the middle of the room. He’s starting to look ever so slightly uncomfortable. “Oh, I um…I’m looking to get a Prince Albert”, he mumbles.

Don't Feed the Wolves by Amazonia_8

Stiles took the dare, because what else was he supposed to do when the whole lacrosse team was chanting his name? Even though the werewolf pack had left Beacon Hills years ago, nobody was stupid enough to set foot on the Hale property. Except, apparently, Stiles. Now he's got a feral werewolf following him around town with the sole purpose of claiming Stiles as his own.

Only Me

He held Stiles’ face like it was the most precious thing and licked Stiles’ neck like he owned it. A kiss was the first thing to greet Stiles in the mornings they spent together, and at nights, it was the last thing he felt on his face. Each time was more desperate than the last. Derek told him he was made to be kissed. It was a reward, a pleasure, a relief. And then, after all of this, he would disappear. For two days, three, or for a week. Stiles would choke from the thought that this time he definitely ruined it (how? god, how?), and then, in a click of a light, Derek would come back as if he were always there. Calling from a hidden number, cupping his chin, tugging Stiles closer with his hand splayed on his back, so big and insistent. Kissing, loving, refusing to let go. But only in a closed room, in the darkest corner of a restaurant, in a black sports car with its windows thick and tinted. Stiles dreaded saying goodbye.

Desperate

Derek understood perfectly well how young Stiles was. Just how many times did he stop himself from digging his teeth into that lovely neck to claim him? Maybe, next time he shouldn’t. The thought, wild and sudden, came to him, and once it did, there was nothing he could do to get rid of it. If he got Stiles pregnant, then the omega would be his. Fully his. They would be bound for life. Stiles wouldn’t refuse the mating bite, then. Stiles was his omega. Derek would do anything to keep him. Anything.

Untouchable

The day Stiles Stilinski entered the Berkeley campus was the day all the alphas went absolutely fucking nuts. See, omegas were rare, even more than redheads. Got to be extremely fucking lucky to even see one in a lifetime. They were supposed to be these ethereal creatures of beauty and elegance, irresistible and blinding. And Stiles Stilinski was exactly that.

Treasure

"I know you don’t trust me,” Derek grunted. When Stiles inhaled to retort, Derek caught his chin and pressed a finger against his lips, making the boy freeze in place, eyes impossibly wide. “Don’t argue. I expected it. Wolves don’t trust easily, too. I just wanted you to know that… I’m sorry. I was selfish and didn’t see what was in front of me. You don’t need to worry. I’ll take care of everything.” It was a thought that grew in his mind, spread to his heart and took root there, reincorporating into a deep desire and a vital need. Derek will take care of him and his little pup, he’ll bring the hearts of his enemies and put them at the boy’s feet. He’ll court and he’ll conquer.

[masterlist link]

[yvaineseleneposts]

Split Ends and New Beginnings

A/N: Just a fluffy piece. It's a slow burn.

Requested: no

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Reader

Words: 7k

Warning(s): none

Nico Hischier didn’t usually tag along for errands like this. A salon appointment wasn’t exactly high on his list of weekend priorities — especially during a rare break in the season. But when his sister Nina asked if he wanted to come with her to get her hair done, he said yes without hesitation.

Time with her had been scarce lately, and he missed her — the normalcy of her voice, the way she kept him grounded when the schedule got too hectic or the noise of his career got too loud. And maybe, if he was honest with himself, there was another reason too. One she hadn’t let go unnoticed.

“You’ll come with me?” she asked. “I swear, you’ll like the place. My hairdresser’s your type, if that’s even still a thing for you.”

He’d just laughed her off. But now, standing inside the small salon with its warm, plant-filled corners and quiet ambient music, Nico understood what she meant.

She was standing at the front when they arrived — effortlessly composed, with a smudge of dark color on her wrist and a teasing look in her eye when Nina introduced them. Her handshake was light but confident. There was no gushing about hockey, no awkward glances. She met his gaze and held it, like she had no idea who he was — or didn’t care.

That alone made him sit up straighter.

“So you’re the brother,” she said with a smile, turning to Nina. “I see the family resemblance. Except he’s got a lot more hair to manage.”

Nico laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been kind of letting it do its thing.”

“Well,” she said, eyes scanning his head like she was already making mental notes, “it’s got good shape… under the chaos.”

He sat quietly while Nina got her hair done, sneaking glances at the mirror, at the way her hands moved — quick, precise, creative. She talked to Nina like they’d known each other forever, slipping between jokes and gentle instructions. Every so often, her eyes flicked to Nico, just for a second. Nothing suggestive. Just... curious. Familiar, almost. He caught himself watching more than once.

As they were leaving, she looked over at him. “You ever think of getting that cleaned up? I do guys’ cuts too. You know, if you ever get tired of that whole shaggy hockey mystique.”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “That an offer?”

“Just a professional observation,” she said, already turning back to the front desk. “But if you want to read into it, that’s on you.”

He did.

____

A week passed. Then ten days. Nico tried not to think too much about it, but he found himself lingering in the mirror a little longer. Pushing his hair back. Wondering if he should do something about it. Or if going back too soon would make him look obvious. When he finally returned, he made up some excuse about needing a trim before a shoot. The salon was quieter this time — no sister to hide behind, just him and the sound of scissors snipping in another room.

She looked up from the chair she was finishing. Her surprise was subtle, but there.

“Back so soon?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Figured I should see what all the hype was about.”

She motioned him over. “Sit down, mystery man.”

As she ran her hands through his hair, Nico found himself relaxing in a way he didn’t expect. The conversation flowed again, naturally — slower this time. She asked about the team, but not in that bright, fan-girl way he was used to. Just interest. Just listening.

He didn’t flirt — not really. She didn’t either. But their words skimmed close to something unspoken, something easy but loaded. The kind of thing that settles in the chest and stays there for a while.

By the time she spun him toward the mirror and he saw himself — lighter, cleaner, more like himself — he wasn’t thinking about how his hair looked anymore. He was thinking about how good it felt to sit still. To be seen without performance. And how rare it was, in his world, to leave somewhere not wanting to move on too quickly.

She handed him a card with his next appointment time scribbled on the back.

“Come back in four weeks,” she said, and then, after a pause, added, “Or sooner, if you feel like it.”

He took the card and smiled.

“Sooner sounds good.”

____

It wasn’t quite four weeks. More like two and a half.

Nico showed up on a quiet Thursday, no hood, no sunglasses this time. The weather had turned brisk, that strange in-between phase where you can still pretend it's not fully fall, but you know it’s coming. He stepped into the salon, instantly greeted by that familiar smell — something warm and botanical, grounding.

She looked up from the counter, surprised, but not displeased.

“You again,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t I tell you four weeks?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling as he slipped off his jacket, “but I’m bad at waiting.”

She waved him toward the chair. “Clearly.”

It wasn’t even about the haircut, not really. His hair hadn’t changed much. But he didn’t offer excuses. And she didn’t ask. Instead, they picked up right where they left off — no small talk, just a gentle slide into the kind of conversation people usually save for late nights or long drives.

She talked about the salon — how she’d started sweeping floors at sixteen, how it wasn’t what she expected to love, but she did. She mentioned her mom in passing — something about how she used to cut her bangs in the kitchen with sewing scissors, laughing too hard to care about symmetry. She didn’t say much more, and Nico didn’t press.

In return, he shared pieces of the road. Not the headlines or game highlights — she didn’t care about those — but the quiet parts. The way hotels all start to smell the same. The weird comfort of being anonymous in certain cities. The way he still called his sister when the travel started to feel like floating. Their banter softened that day, less sharp, more honest.

“I used to think people like you were untouchable,” she said, combing through his hair near the end. “You know. Hockey players. Athletes. The kind of people who exist on screens.”

“And now?” he asked, voice low.

She tilted her head, pretending to assess the back of his neck. “Now I think maybe you just need someone to tell you when you’ve got product buildup.”

He laughed, but something in her tone lingered — like maybe she had thought he was untouchable, once. And maybe now she wasn’t sure what to do with the fact that he wasn’t.

When he left that day, she didn’t give him a card. She just looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and said, “You’ll come back when you need to.”

He nodded. But the truth was, he already knew when he would.

____

The visits kept happening. Not regular enough to feel scheduled, not close enough to call intentional. But always… just in time.

Sometimes she’d be finishing up with someone else and he'd sit quietly in the corner, watching the way she moved, the way she listened. Other times, it was just the two of them — long appointments that should’ve taken 30 minutes but somehow lasted an hour.

They didn’t flirt, not in the way people usually do. There were no dramatic glances or lines. Just… closeness. Familiarity. Shared silences that felt full instead of awkward.

One rainy evening, she paused midway through trimming around his ear and said, quietly, “You ever feel like your life’s happening somewhere slightly to the left of where you are?”

Nico blinked. “All the time.”

She nodded, not explaining. He didn’t ask, but he remembered that moment more than anything else she said that day.

It would be months before anything shifted clearly between them. But in that slow build — appointment by appointment, word by word — something unshakable was growing. It didn’t need declarations. Just time.

And Nico, for the first time in a long while, was willing to wait.

____

By the time January came around, Nico had been to the salon more times than he could reasonably explain — especially to himself. His hair didn’t need trimming that often. But still, he showed up. Every few weeks. Always with something casual to say, always with the quiet hope she’d still smile when he walked in.

She always did.

It had started to snow that day — not the dramatic kind that shut down cities, just a soft curtain falling steadily, muting the outside world. He came in a little later than usual, the sleeves of his coat dusted white. She was alone in the space, her last client already gone. The lights were low, music playing something soft and piano-heavy through the speakers.

“Forgot I had you today,” she said, brushing hair off her apron. But her voice didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, it sounded like maybe she'd needed the interruption.

“Lucky me,” Nico said, pulling off his coat.

She didn’t ask what he wanted done — she never really did anymore. They both knew the appointments had become something else. He sat in the chair, and she moved behind him, fingers combing through his hair like she’d done a dozen times before.

But something was different this time. He was quiet. More than usual. She noticed.

“Tired?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Long road trip. Weird energy. Hard to explain.”

She didn’t push. Just kept working, the comb gliding through his hair, fingertips grazing the side of his neck.

Then, halfway through the cut, her hand stilled.

“You okay?” he asked, turning slightly.

She was quiet for a beat. Then: “Do you ever wonder if you’re making it harder for yourself? By not saying things?”

Nico froze.

His chest tightened with a rush of recognition — not panic, but something close. A pressure that had been quietly building since the day they met. He met her eyes in the mirror.

“All the time,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was certain.

She looked back at him — not coy, not flirty. Just there, open and vulnerable in a way that felt more intimate than any touch.

“I think I’ve been coming here for reasons that have nothing to do with my hair,” he added, almost a whisper.

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “I know.”

The air shifted. Not with drama or declarations — but with the simple truth of being seen, finally, at the same time.

She set the scissors down, brushed the loose strands off his shoulders. The haircut was technically finished, but neither of them moved. Not for a while. Something had settled between them — warm and fragile. A weightless kind of gravity.

Outside, the snowfall had thickened, soft and steady. The city felt slower, quieter. Nico glanced toward the window, then back at her.

“You done for the night?” he asked.

She nodded, starting to sweep around the chair, but he gently took the broom from her hands.

“Come walk with me,” he said. “Just for a bit.”

She hesitated, just for a second, then reached for her coat. “Alright.”

The cold hit them in the face at first, but it wasn’t sharp — it was the kind of cold that wrapped around you, crisp but clean. They walked without much of a destination, their footsteps muffled by the snow underfoot. The city lights glowed soft gold through the haze.

They didn’t talk at first. Just walked shoulder to shoulder, hands deep in their pockets, both content with the quiet. But Nico felt something pressing behind his ribs. A truth, not heavy, just waiting.

“I leave tomorrow,” he said finally, voice low.

She looked at him, but didn’t stop walking. “Where to?”

“West coast swing. Couple weeks on the road. Then All-Star break, then back again.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ll be gone a while.”

He watched her profile in the low light. “Yeah.”

A pause stretched between them, filled with breath and snowfall.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say anything,” he added. “But… I really like being around you. Talking to you. It’s been the only thing lately that’s felt—” he exhaled, searching, “—normal. But in a good way.”

Her eyes softened. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t,” he said, more firmly now. “That’s why I am.”

She stopped walking. Turned toward him. “So what are you saying, exactly?”

He looked down, smiled. Then back up at her with a quiet certainty that surprised even himself.

“I’d really like to keep talking to you. Even when I’m not here.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him for a moment, eyes searching. Then she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her phone, and handed it to him without a word. Nico took it, thumbed in his number, and handed it back.

“No pressure,” he said, stuffing his hands back into his coat. “You don’t have to text. Just… if you feel like it.”

She gave a soft, almost amused smile. “I think I’ll feel like it.”

They started walking again, this time a little closer than before.

And as the snow thickened around them, the city blurred into silence — but the space between them felt clearer than it ever had.

____

The first text came the night Nico left.

Nico: Made it to L.A. In-flight movie was awful. The lady next to me sneezed no less than 14 times. Hope your night was better.

She smiled when she saw it. Not just because it was funny — though it was — but because it felt like him. Easy. Familiar. Like he was still near.

She waited ten minutes before responding. Not because she was playing games, but because she read it three times first.

Her: Quiet salon today. One client canceled, another brought her dog. He wore a sweater and judged me the entire time. 9/10 experience.

From there, it didn’t stop.

Some nights it was short — a photo of the pregame meal, a sarcastic “rate this hotel carpet,” or a blurry picture of the sky from the team bus. Other nights, it was longer. He told her about the quiet between games, about the pressure that crept in at 3 a.m. when no one was watching. She sent voice memos sometimes — little rants about weird clients or the music she played in the salon when no one was around.

And then one night, she caught herself staring at her phone. Hoping for the little buzz. Missing it when it didn’t come.

Missing him.

____

It was two days before she said it, tucked inside something else, like maybe if she disguised it well enough, it wouldn’t feel like too much.

Her: Had a long day. Wouldn’t have minded one of our weird hair-salon therapy chats right about now. Guess I’m getting used to having you around.

She didn’t expect a reply right away — time zones and game schedules — but it came quicker than usual.

Nico: You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.

Then, a second message.

Nico: I miss it too. Talking to you. Walking with you. Just… you.

She stared at the screen for a long time before responding.

Her: I didn’t expect to miss someone I barely knew. But here we are, huh?

Nico: Feels like I know you more than most people I’ve known for years.

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to.

Because by then, the silence between texts wasn’t empty anymore. It was full — with everything they hadn’t said yet. And somewhere between his late-night hotel rooms and her quiet evening closes, something soft and real was beginning to take shape.

Not rushed or labelled, but real.

____

The snow hadn’t let up much. It came in waves — soft and endless, like the city itself was trying to slow everything down.

She was in the salon late again. Winter did that — clients shuffled in after work, delayed by weather, and lingered longer than they should’ve. She didn’t mind. It gave her time to think. To wonder if he was thinking about her too.

She hadn’t heard from him yet that day. That wasn’t unusual. Game days were packed. Still, she found herself glancing at her phone more than she wanted to admit.

Just after eight, the doorbell chimed.

She looked up, halfway expecting a walk-in she’d have to turn away. But it was Nico.

Snow in his hair. Backpack slung over his shoulder. Tired, but smiling in that quiet, boyish way that had started to live in the back of her mind.

Her breath caught. “You’re—what?”

He shrugged, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Flight bumped up. Got in a few hours ago. I figured... I don’t know, maybe I’d just show up.”

She didn’t move for a second. Just took him in — real, here, more grounded than he’d seemed on the screen.

“I didn’t expect you,” she said.

“I know.” He took a step closer. “But I wanted to see you. Before anything else.”

A pause. Not tense, just full.

“Clients?” he asked, gesturing at the empty chairs.

“Last one left twenty minutes ago.”

“Good,” he said softly. “I was kind of hoping you’d still be here.”

She reached out then — not fully, just a light touch on the sleeve of his jacket, grounding herself in the fact that he was real.

“I missed you,” she said, quiet like a confession. “More than I thought I would.”

Nico’s eyes softened. “Me too. You don’t realize how much space someone takes up until you’re halfway across the country wondering if they’re thinking about you too.”

She smiled, that familiar tug of warmth rising up between them again. “I thought about you more than I’d like to admit.”

There was nothing dramatic after that. No kiss. No music swelling in the background. Just her walking to the back to hang up his coat. Him watching her like she was the only calm in a world full of noise.

And then — like it was the most natural thing in the world — she made tea. He swept hair off the floor. They talked, slow and close, like people with no reason to rush.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, something finally — fully — began.

The salon lights clicked off with a quiet hum, and they stepped back into the cold.

Nico held her coat out without a word, and she slipped into it, the silence between them soft, like a worn-in sweater. No pressure. No question marks. Just two people quietly orbiting the same truth.

“You look wiped,” she said as they reached the curb.

“I am,” he admitted. “But not in a bad way.”

She smiled. “That’s specific.”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “It’s like… I’m tired, but I don’t want the night to be over.”

They stood like that for a moment, streetlight catching the edge of her breath.

Then he said, “You want to come over? Nothing big. Just a movie. Maybe fall asleep halfway through and pretend we watched the whole thing.”

She gave a soft laugh, but didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. That actually sounds perfect.”

His apartment was quiet, dimly lit, still a bit in post-road-trip disarray. She didn’t seem to mind. Kicked off her boots by the door, slipped into the corner of his couch like she’d been there a hundred times.

Nico tossed her a blanket and set a mug of tea in front of her without asking. She looked at it, then at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Since when do hockey players drink chamomile?”

“Since I started talking to someone who makes fun of me if I don’t.”

She smirked. “Sounds like she’s very wise.”

“Oh, definitely. And ruthless.”

The movie they picked didn’t matter. Something familiar and soft around the edges — just enough story to justify the quiet, not enough to compete with the weight of the day.

Twenty minutes in, her head drifted against his shoulder. He stilled. Not because he didn’t want her there — but because he did, so much, and he didn’t want to move a muscle that might make her leave it.

She murmured something unintelligible. A half-dream sentence. He looked down, caught the way her hand had curled beneath the blanket, one knuckle brushing his thigh like an unconscious tether.

And that was it. No kiss. No rush. Just her breathing even beside him. Him watching the screen but not really seeing it. He reached down slowly, threading his pinky with hers. Not to wake her. Just to feel it. Just to know she was there.

The morning arrived like a whisper. Pale winter light slipped through the edges of the curtains, casting soft shadows across Nico’s living room. The TV was still playing — some looping screensaver, muted and glowing — and the air held that quiet stillness reserved for the earliest hours.

She woke first.

Blanket half-tangled around her legs, head resting against something warm and solid. It took her a second to place it — the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint smell of cedar and clean cotton. And then her eyes opened fully. Nico was still asleep, head tilted slightly, mouth parted just enough to give him away.

She froze. Her immediate instinct was panic. Not the real kind — just the kind that whispers, God, I fell asleep on him, and Was I snoring? and Did I drool? Quiet mortification in the shape of every self-conscious voice she'd tried to ignore.

She sat up slowly, careful not to wake him. Too late.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then locking onto her. A sleepy half-smile tugged at his lips. “Morning,” he said, voice rough and low.

“I—” she started, brushing her hair out of her face, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to crash like that. I was just... tired, I guess.”

“You’re allowed to be tired,” he said, still smiling. “It’s not a crime.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, trying to hide the flush creeping into her face. “Still. Not my most graceful moment.”

He leaned his head back on the couch cushion, watching her with that calm, steady gaze that never rushed her.

“Truth?” he said.

She glanced at him. “Okay.”

“I slept better last night than I have in weeks.”

The words settled between them, warm and real.

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He reached for the mug on the coffee table — cold by now — and shrugged. “Maybe it was the chamomile. Or maybe it was falling asleep next to someone who doesn’t need anything from me but... this.”

She didn’t say anything for a beat. Then softly: “I liked it too.”

He smiled again, that quiet one she was starting to think was reserved just for her. Neither of them moved for a while. There was no pressure to. The kind of silence that used to feel heavy now felt like peace.

Eventually, he stood, stretched, and offered a hand.

“Come on. I make terrible coffee. You should witness it.”

She took his hand, fingers lacing with his easily now.

“I’ll rate it out of ten,” she said.

“Oh, it’s a three. But the company’s a solid nine-point-eight.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And the point-two deduction?”

“For falling asleep during the movie.”

She laughed, and he looked at her like it was the best sound he’d heard in weeks.

____

It had been a few weeks since that morning on the couch — since that sleepy, accidental closeness started shifting into something neither of them wanted to name too quickly. They hadn’t talked about it outright. Not yet. The tension was still wrapped in light touches, lingering glances, shared meals that stretched longer than they should have.

And that would’ve been enough. Until it wasn’t.

It started small. A missed text. Then another.

Then a day where he didn’t come by, even though she’d said she was keeping the evening free. By the third day, she was trying to convince herself not to care. He didn’t owe her anything. They hadn’t defined this. She wasn’t his girlfriend. But that didn’t stop her chest from tightening when the salon doorbell chimed and it was someone else. Again.

He finally showed up after closing, face drawn from travel and practice and something else he hadn’t said out loud.

She didn’t turn when he walked in. Just kept sweeping hair into the pan.

“I tried to call,” he said quietly.

She nodded, but didn’t look at him.

“I’ve been—” he started.

“Busy,” she said, cutting him off. “I know. I get it.”

He stepped closer. “You’re upset.”

She dropped the broom, turning around. Not angry — just tired in a way that came from caring too much, too quietly.

“I’m not upset that you were busy,” she said. “I’m upset that you didn’t say anything. You pulled back, Nico. And I felt it.”

His face flickered with guilt. “I didn’t mean to. I just… when things get crazy with the season, I go on autopilot. I shut down. And I didn’t want to drag you into that.”

“I was already in it,” she said, voice softer now. “I was already in this. Whatever this is.”

A long pause stretched between them. Then, finally, he said it.

“I was scared.”

She looked at him, unsure.

“Scared that I’d mess it up,” he added. “That if I let this become real, I’d ruin it. That you’d see me in the worst parts of the season — the tired, burnt out, closed-off parts — and decide it’s not worth it.”

She exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

“I already see you,” she said. “Even the messy parts. That’s not what I’m scared of.”

“What are you scared of?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“That you don’t feel it as much as I do.”

He stepped in, close enough to erase the air between them.

“I do,” he said, voice low and steady. “I feel it every damn time I see you. Every time I don’t see you.”

Her breath caught. He reached for her, not quickly, but carefully — like asking a question he already knew the answer to. She didn’t back away. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her cheek. Then, finally, like it had been waiting in the wings all this time — he kissed her. Soft, but certain. Not rushed. Just right.

She melted into him, hands fisting lightly in his jacket, her mouth finding his like it had known the way all along. It wasn’t perfect — it was breathless and raw and a little shaky — but it was real.

And when they pulled apart, she didn’t look away. Neither did he.

____

One day she decided that she wanted to watch him play. See what all the fuzz was about. The arena felt louder than she expected. Not just from the crowd, but from the way the sound echoed inside her — the music, the announcements, the scrape of skates against ice. It was a world she didn’t quite belong to, not really. But she was here for him.

She sat near the glass, a friend of his had arranged the seat — not center ice, not VIP, but close enough to see everything. Close enough to see him.

She hadn’t told him she was coming.

Not because it was a surprise. Not really. But because part of her didn’t want to make it about her. This was his space. His rhythm. She just wanted to be part of it — to witness it without interrupting.

And then he skated out for warmups, and she caught herself holding her breath. He moved like someone born to it — fast, sharp, effortless. The Nico she knew, but somehow different too. More focused. More contained. But she could still see him in there — the way he tapped a teammate’s glove, the tilt of his head during drills, the quiet smile he gave to the equipment guy.

He didn’t see her. Not at first. But then — during a break in warmups — he coasted toward the glass, wiping his face with his glove. And when he glanced into the crowd, his eyes landed on her.

He stopped. Just for a second.

Surprise flickered across his face, followed by something warmer. Something he didn’t bother hiding.

He skated off again without a signal, but it didn’t matter.

She saw it in the way his shoulders dropped a little. In the way he moved after that — looser, lighter. Like knowing she was there gave him just enough more.

The game was a blur of noise and tension. He played hard. Took a few hits. Made a sharp assist in the second period that brought the crowd to its feet.

She didn’t yell, didn’t cheer like the fans around her. But she smiled when he looked up after that pass, and for a split second — even across all the noise — he looked like he was searching for her again.

____

After the game, the tunnels were a maze of concrete and controlled chaos. She waited near the players’ entrance, hoodie pulled up, pretending to scroll through her phone. A staff member had said he’d come out that way. When he finally did — hair still damp, suit jacket slung over one shoulder — he spotted her instantly.

“Hey,” he said, walking straight to her.

“Hey,” she echoed, voice light. “Good game.”

He stopped just short of touching her — public space, people everywhere — but the look in his eyes said what he couldn’t.

“You came.”

“I did,” she said. “You looked good out there.”

His smile was slow, a little crooked. “I always feel better when you’re watching.”

She rolled her eyes softly, but couldn’t hide the blush.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

She fell into step beside him, and as they disappeared into the cold night, he reached for her hand — casually at first, like it didn’t mean anything. But it did, it meant everything.

____

It started with a photo.

Nothing dramatic. Just a candid — Nico, in jeans and a beanie, walking out of a downtown café. She was beside him, laughing at something he’d said, their hands barely touching.

Someone caught it. Posted it. By the next morning, it was everywhere.

“Devils Captain Spotted With Mystery Woman — Who’s She?” “Hischier’s Off-Ice Chemistry Heating Up?” “Hockey’s Most Private Star Might Not Be So Private Anymore.”

She didn’t even know until a friend from the salon texted her with a screenshot.

is this you???

Her stomach dropped.

Nico called her five minutes later.

“Hey,” he said, before she could say anything. “You saw it?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” he added. “I didn’t think that would happen. I should’ve warned you it might.”

She sat on the edge of her bed, phone pressed to her ear, heart doing something complicated and unnameable. “It’s not your fault. We weren’t doing anything.”

“I know,” he said, quietly. “But that doesn’t matter to them.”

There was another pause — not strained, just full of something new. A shift.

She cleared her throat. “So... what now?”

He hesitated.

And then: “That depends. Are you okay with people knowing?”

She blinked. “Are you?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he admitted. “I’ve always kept this part of my life locked down. But with you...”

A breath.

“I don’t want to keep you a secret.”

The words landed with more weight than either of them expected.

She smiled, even as nerves danced under her skin. “That’s a very un-hockey-player thing to say.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, well. You’ve been a bad influence.”

A beat passed, warm and honest.

“I want to do this right,” he added. “If you’re in — I’m in. Fully.”

She let the quiet settle between them. Then: “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m in too.”

They didn’t make a statement. They didn’t need to. But the next time he walked into the arena, she was beside him. Not tucked behind. Not rushed in a back entrance. Beside him.

And when someone called her name — the press had found it by then — Nico didn’t flinch. He glanced at her, then down at their joined hands, and he smiled. Let them see.

He didn’t make a big deal of it. That’s what made her nervous.

Nico mentioned it offhand one morning while she was brushing her teeth in his apartment — toothpaste still in his mouth, voice muffled.

“My sister’s coming into town this weekend,” he said. “And my mom too. I was thinking… you could come by. Say hi.”

She blinked at him through the mirror. “You want me to meet your family?”

He shrugged, rinsing. “You’ve met my team. This feels less scary.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve cut your teammates’ hair, Nico. I wasn’t emotionally invested.”

He leaned against the doorway, grinning. “You’re saying you’re emotionally invested now?”

She tried to glare, failed, and nudged him out of the bathroom with a laugh.

When Saturday came, her nerves hit at the door.

He was calm — casual jeans, sweater, sleeves pushed up, completely unbothered. But she felt it in her chest: that low, persistent hum of what if they don’t like me? or what if I say something weird and ruin it all in thirty seconds?

She held a bottle of wine so tightly her knuckles went white.

“You’re not going into battle,” Nico said gently, noticing. “You’re just meeting my mom.”

“That is a kind of battle,” she muttered.

He grinned and kissed her temple. “Trust me. She’s going to love you.”

His mom opened the door, and the first thing she did was smile — warm and kind, with the same eyes Nico had when he was tired but happy.

“You must be her,” she said in a soft Swiss accent, pulling her into a hug before she could panic.

Dinner was cozy. Real food. Real laughs. His sister teased him mercilessly — which felt like a rite of passage — and his mom told stories that made Nico bury his face in his hands.

She didn’t speak much at first, but every time she looked at him, Nico gave her a small nod, like, You’re okay. I’ve got you.

Halfway through dessert, his sister leaned toward her, grinning.

“He’s lighter around you,” she said quietly. “We’ve seen it. We like it.”

Something in her chest unclenched.

After everyone had left, the apartment was quiet again. She sat on the couch in her socks, finishing a glass of wine.

Nico dropped beside her, thigh brushing hers.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “I think I survived.”

He smiled, and after a moment, added, “My mom already asked if you’ll come next time we’re home.”

She laughed softly. “She’s fast.”

“She likes you. They all did.”

There was a beat of silence, comfortable now.

Then she leaned her head against his shoulder. “It’s weird. Tonight felt... normal.”

“In a good way?”

“In the best way.”

He took her hand, lacing their fingers, then kissed the top of her head.

“Get used to it,” he murmured.

____

The road trip was long — two weeks, five cities, and enough flights to make Nico forget what day it was most of the time. She knew the schedule. He’d sent it to her with highlights, times they might FaceTime, cities that had decent Wi-Fi. But even with the planning, the missing crept in early.

They had been through distance before — in the beginning, when things were still new, still unsaid.

But now?

Now it felt different. He didn’t just miss her presence. He missed the feeling of her. The grounding. The way she touched his arm without thinking, or made fun of his playlists, or stole his hoodies and left them at her place like breadcrumbs.

She missed him too — but not in that dreamy, butterflies-in-the-stomach way. It was heavier. Like looking at an empty chair across the room and knowing it should be filled. By day four, their texts had shifted.

Nico: did you eat today?

Her: barely. salon’s slammed. you?

Nico: protein bar and a pretzel. crushing it.

Her: i miss you in an annoying, obvious kind of way.

Nico: yeah. same. come to pittsburgh?

She stared at the message longer than she should have.

Her: what?

Nico: next game. I’ll book the hotel. flight. everything. just say yes.

Her: nico…

Nico: i know. it’s a lot. but i hate missing you like this. and it’s not just about the game. i want you around. my world feels better with you in it.

She stared at the screen, heart pounding.

It wasn’t just about a plane ticket. It was about what they were becoming — no more pauses, no more halfway in.

She typed, deleted, retyped.

Her: okay. send me the flight info.

The hotel room smelled like him — faint cologne, laundry soap, and something warm underneath it all. He met her in the lobby, ball cap pulled low, hand reaching for hers before either of them said a word.

They didn’t kiss right away. They just held on. A tight hug. Like breath after too long underwater.

“Hi,” she whispered against his chest.

“Hi,” he murmured back, eyes closing.

It was the best part of the trip — not the game, not the hotel, not even the room service pancakes the next morning.

Just this. Being in the same room again and realizing that the missing hadn’t broken anything.

It had only proved what they already knew.

____

She didn’t fully understand the game, but she understood him.

And that was enough.

Pittsburgh was loud. Electric. The Devils played hard — Nico harder than usual — and when the final buzzer sounded and they’d edged out a win in overtime, the entire bench erupted.

He didn’t look for the cameras or the crowd. He looked for her. Found her.

She was on her feet in the third row, clapping, beaming — cheeks flushed, eyes wide. And when their gazes met across the glass, she didn’t mouth anything.

She just smiled like she was proud. That was better than any cheer.

He found her waiting in the same hotel lobby afterward, damp hair from the post-game shower, jacket half-zipped, grin wide.

“I’m starting to think you’re my lucky charm,” he said, pulling her into him.

She laughed softly, fingers curling into his sleeves. “One win and I’m a charm now?”

“Absolutely,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “You’re coming to every road game from now on.”

“You’re not that rich.”

“I will be if you keep showing up.”

They both laughed, but there was something else under it. A look they hadn’t shared yet. A weight. An invitation.

Back in the room, the noise of the world dulled. They didn’t rush.

He kissed her slow, like there was time. Like they could stretch it out across hours. Her shirt came off first — soft cotton, then warm skin — and she leaned into his hands like she already knew the shape of what they were building.

He traced every inch of her like he’d been memorizing her since day one.

When they made love — and it was that, unmistakably — there was nothing performative about it. No pressure. No script. Just quiet gasps, long glances, whispered encouragement.

After, she lay curled beside him, one leg tangled over his, fingers resting over his heartbeat. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Then, in the hush of post-game adrenaline and shared breath, Nico murmured into her hair, “I don’t know how I did any of this before you.”

She lifted her head to look at him, eyes soft, searching.

“You don’t have to anymore,” she whispered.

And he didn’t say it out loud — I love you — not yet.

But it lived in that moment.

In the stillness, in the way they held each other until sleep pulled them under, in the feeling that for the first time in a long while, home wasn’t a place.

It was a person.

[rewvyu]

A Veteran CN Stylist's lament: Feels like Miraland is fading away

Today I came across a post that I felt compelled to share, because I really do understand and feel where the OP is coming from. I hope that Stylists around the world know that if you're feeling the same way, you are not alone.

Translated from a Xiaohongshu post by a Nikki games veteran: (my note: As this is translated by me, there may be some error here and there. I have changed some wording to provide better context instead of providing a literal translation.)

How should I even start? I have been playing Nikki series games since the 2010s, although I am not a very active player, I have always paid attention to each series. I am heavily invested in the story from Love Nikki, I can even name every nation's speciality, locations, important characters, and even the current storyline. It is also from Love Nikki, I fell in love with Nikki because she represent a gentle yet determined girl. I was filled with excitement and anticipation when Infinity Nikki was announced as the open-world version of Miraland, because I want to see and experience the world of Miraland and its beauty. However, the story development since launch till now has been filled with disappointment. I couldn't feel the connection with the world, and even more-so I couldn't feel immerse, this is exacerbated and reinforced by constant flip-flopping by the developer. Especially since the beginning, Pear-Pal which shares the same pronunciation as 'No Stress' [context: Pear-Pal in mandarin is '美鸭梨—mei ya li' and 'No Stress' is '没压力—mei ya li'], which is a tablet that the Stylist Guild have handed out. Every Stylists have this personal tablet, which is something that Stylist can feel associated with. However, the developer have since changed the design, in 1.5 update it has become clear that Pear-Pal is merely just a User Interface (U.I.) to them and with this changes it have lost it meaning and association to 'No Stress'. The pages within Pear-Pal which was supposed to be design and made by the Stylist Guild in collaboration with Kilo the Cadenceborn, a blue dragon, to be filled with knowledge of outfits and cultures accumulated over the many years of Miraland history has now been reduced to season names instead. Now, do you really think that the Stylist Guild and Kilo will do that? The answer is no, so this lore has now disappeared. Within the current storyline, a Snow Mermaid appeared in the Sea of Stars and Serenity Island, what is the reason behind all these? Did the developer ever considered this before? Why did Nikki became the Snow Mermaid during the destruction of the Sea of Stars? I do not mind that this new generation of Nikki game have a new story setting, but now I don't even get it any more. Whether if it is related to earlier Nikki games' lore, and whether if it is Infinity Nikki base logic or character-building, none of it gives me a sense of belonging to the world and all I feel is just emptiness.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Slide behind the cut, who asked for interdimensional shenanigans and is getting “interdimensional whoring for Timkon”. Bullying your alternate self into having the best sex of his life with his bestie counts as "shenanigans", right? Right?? (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Well, at least his other self knows how to package a check-in in a way Kon will be able to relax for. And Tim himself knew enough to loop an arm around Kon’s waist when his other self said “good boy”, which is the only reason his other self doesn’t get knocked on his ass by two hundred and fifty pounds of incredibly dense half-Kryptonian muscle made out of DNA evolved for a much higher-gravity environment than Earth’s. 

Well, that’s why he’s the one facilitating this interdimensional threesome.

“There we go,” Tim hums. His other self shoots him a dirty look again–probably on principle at this point, really, he figures–and Kon doesn’t even try to stutter out an apology or make an excuse. Bonus benefit to sleeping with an easily-overwhelmed version of him, Tim notes: he stops apologizing for existing a lot sooner, and therefore Tim is kept much farther from manifesting any Gun Batman thoughts. Well–his version of “Gun Batman” thoughts, anyway. 

Technically, as far as Tim is aware, his home reality is possibly the literal only one without a potential “and then I became fascist Batman” timeline that was at least at some point lying in wait for its version of Tim Drake–including several where he was never even a Bat, go figure–but that doesn’t actually preclude annoying visits from alternate reality versions of himself. Which is whatever, since most of them just seem to be just genuinely bewildered that all of Tim’s personal technically-supervillain-oriented plans begin and end with “one sec, lemme just see how open to the question ‘hey can I borrow your lipstick and if so does it come in this one hyper-specific shade of red?’ Dr. Isley is feeling this week”, but still kind of annoying anyway. 

Tim finds the “and then I became fascist Batman” path very narrow-minded and not very resourceful of his alternate selves, honestly; seriously, do none of them know how to deal with their cortisol levels actually productively, as opposed to by just getting unhealthily invested in casework and training and contingency plans to the severe detriment of all their personal and professional relationships and own mental health? 

. . . . . . maybe this is not the only sexually-repressed reality out there, considering. Which, come to think, might help explain why there are such a statistically-improbable amount of potential Gun Batman timelines in Hypertime. 

Hm. 

Tim idly wonders if he could spin “for humanitarian reasons, I am going to be running a long-term background project where I get as many versions of myself interdimensionally laid as possible” to Bruce and/or the Justice League. Probably not, but like, if he tried the Titans . . . 

Alternately, he guesses he could just ask Kon for some backup. There’s definitely some interdimensional whatever or another that Kon would be willing to nick from the Fortress of Solitude to facilitate that definitely just noble goal, and also there’s really not better backup for that particular project anyway. Bernard doesn’t have enough vigilante-grade field experience, he is not gonna take another Bat, and Cassie and Bart are great but like, if Tim was picking who he’d want to drop in on him from another reality and ask to ride his dick for the sake of the timeline . . . 

And given Tim is the one picking, well, that’s just the logical option, then. 

He’ll look into it, he decides, and if it’s feasible he’ll pitch a bimonthly boys’ weekend. Do some preventative work in a few realities/timelines or whatever, just in case. 

Seriously, that Savior dude was a real goddamn trip. 

Tim clearly takes himself way too seriously in way too many timelines. 

Okay, though, all tangents aside, he does have shit to do here, so yeah, time to get back to that. 

“Here, let me actually get your good boy out of these,” he says as he shifts back just enough to help Kon out of his pants and jock. He is not remotely merciful about letting his other self pretend not to notice what a fucking mess Kon made of them both during the process. It’s not like Kon didn’t already come all over his jock, so it’s not particularly subtle exactly how much he comes either way. “Where are your wet wipes? Or . . . maybe that’s optimistic of me, actually, maybe you’re not prepared enough for cleaning up your sexcapades, given I’m not entirely sure you’ve ever had a sexcapade.” 

“I’m not–I’ve had sex before!” his other self sputters, turning red. Tim raises a pitying eyebrow at him. “I have!” 

“I didn’t say you hadn’t,” he points out mildly. His other self turns red. “I consider a sexcapade more of an event, personally, so they’re just . . . hm, messier? Yeah, ‘messier’ works.” 

“Rob,” Kon mumbles against his other self’s neck as he curls a hand against his shoulder, sounding a little drunk about it. Or, well–a little concussed, maybe. Kon gets concussed a lot more often than he gets drunk, for obvious reasons. “Y’wanna . . . ?”

“We want to take care of you, sweetheart,” Tim says, taking a moment to press a kiss against the back of the other’s shoulder before folding up his pants and carefully setting them and his jock aside with his shirt. And, well, sparing a moment to admire the come smeared across his S-shield again, because it really is something to appreciate, when Kon’s willing to give that up. “C’mere.” 

He slips up against Kon’ back again and puts his hands on his hips, and it only takes the slightest little tug or two to guide the other into following him back. Which is actually significantly more effort than it usually takes, but Tim’s going to assume it’s safe to assume Kon’s feeling a little torn between Robins right now. 

He gets Kon to sit down on the edge of the bed and cups his face in his hands, and Kon immediately tilts his face up into them. He looks dreamy and dazed and all flushed and fucked and goddamn adorable. Especially adorable because he hasn’t actually gotten fucked, or really even all that much attention. They haven’t even touched his cock all that deliberately. Or really deliberately at all, in fact. 

Tim feels some kind of a way about the fact that this Kon’s never bottomed before and still let him fingerfuck him without even putting a hand on his dick for it–still let him fingerfuck him without putting a hand on his dick for it, and came for it; came for it easily, even. That super-sensitivity is a goddamn gift. 

Or just Kon is, really. 

And Tim knows how to appreciate a gift. 

“Good boy,” he says the same way he’d say “good work” in the field, and leans down to press a kiss to the other’s forehead. Kon melts into a functional liquid under his mouth and hands and starts purring louder than he’s purred all night. 

Definitely, definitely a good boy.

[spellbound-rosehearts]

THE DEAL : CHAPTER 1

yuu makes an unexpected deal with a certain lion.

pairings: leona kingscholar x yuu

warnings: none

notes: hi hi! this is the beginning of a multi chapter slow burn fic. yuu in my story is 18, leona is 20. i hope you enjoy!

read part 2 here!

the bell over sam’s shop door jingled softly as yuu pushed it open, grim striding in next to her with his tail flicking excitedly.

“alright, let’s make this quick,” she mumbled, scanning her list. “bread, tea, detergent, and—”

“tuna!” grim shouted, already darting toward the shelf and picking up the most expensive can of tuna. “get my tuna this time! you promised!”

“i promised i would buy it if we had enough,” she called after him, already doing the math in her head. she sighed and pulled the cheapest loaf of bread into her basket, grabbed a tin of the weakest tea on the shelf, and started sorting through slightly bruised fruit.

the kitchen back at ramshackle had been dangerously empty since wednesday, and with crowley’s ever-generous (practically nonexistent) allowance, they were already stretching what they had.

“alright,” she said, nudging grim up towards the counter and pulling out her pouch of money. “let’s hope this works out.”

sam greeted them with his usual wide grin. “yuu, grim! back to scavenge my shelves again, i see.”

“scavenge is a generous word, more like beg and bargain,” she muttered, unloading the basket.

sam just chuckled, ringing up her few items and counting the money she laid out on the counter. “mmm… you’re close today. but still a few thaumarks short.”

her stomach sank. of course she was short. she tugged her coin pouch open again, digging around just in case a stray coin had appeared since this morning. nothing.

“okay,” she said tightly, setting the tuna can off to the side first. “take that off. and the tea. and the detergent.”

“not the tuna!” grim cried out, tears in his eyes.

yuu sighed. “we’ll come back for it next week, i promise.”

“just let him ring it up,” a voice said from behind her—deep, disinterested, familiar.

yuu turned, startled, her wide eyes meeting sharp green ones. leona kingscholar stood a few feet away, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. she was so stressed out that she hadn’t even noticed him enter the store.

“pardon?” she asked, blinking.

leona stepped forward lazily, setting a bottled drink on the counter. “i said ring it up. all of it.”

sam raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “well, now, don’t see you around here much, kingscholar.”

leona gave a low grunt in response, displeased by the the sudden attention. “ruggie’s been nagging all day. needed a reason to get out of the dorm.”

sam chuckled, but didn’t push it, just nodded and scanned the bottle. “fair enough. least you’re buying something.”

leona ignored him, gesturing towards the rest of yuu and grim’s groceries. “she’s with me. run it all under my bill.”

yuu was still staring at him in shock. “why-? what are you-?”

“don’t make me say it again,” leona grumbled. “you’re always running around cleaning up other people’s messes. figured it’s about time someone returned the favor.”

he didn’t wait for her to respond. he tossed a few bills and coins on the counter, grabbed his bottle, and strolled out of the shop.

yuu stood there, stunned, groceries bagged and paid for, grim gaping beside her.

“…did he just—?”

“sure did,” sam said cheerfully. “looks like you caught a lion’s favor. it’s your lucky day little imps.”

⸻

yuu rushed out of the shop, bags in hand and grim following her close behind, excitedly talking about his tuna. she half listened to him, trying to find leona so she could at least say thank you.

they found him walking on the trail back to campus. the sky was glowing orange and gold, outlining his silhouette. he stopped, sipped his drink slowly and then continued walking, like he had all the time in the world.

“leona!” she called, jogging to him. “wait up!”

he didn’t respond, but he slowed his pace a little.

she came to a stop beside him, breath a little short. “you didn’t have to do that. i was gonna figure it out. i was fine.”

“didn’t look fine to me,” he muttered, not looking at her still.

“i could’ve come back later to get the rest-“

he gave her a look.

“…okay, probably not,” she admitted. “but still. thank you.”

he started walking again.

“i-i’ll pay you back,” she said, falling into step next to him. “eventually. i don’t know when, but i will.”

“i don’t care about money,” he replied casually.

she frowned at him. “then how can i repay you? i mean it. i’ll do anything.”

that made him stop. he turned to look at her fully this time, one brow raised.

“anything?”

she flushed a little under his targeted gaze. “within reason, of course.”

“within reason, of course,” he repeated her, smirking. “then there is something i want.”

she waited, heart ticking a few paces faster.

“that haunted dump of yours, ramshackle. it’s quiet. no one bugs you there. no nagging, just peace.” he slid his hands into his pockets. “you let me crash there when i want to. that’s the deal.”

“…you want to…squat in ramshackle?”

“call it what you want. i call it a damn good trade. and convenient for me.” his smirk deepened. “don’t act like you haven’t had worse roommates.”

“hey! take that back!” grim shouted up at him.

yuu paused her steps, hesitating. it was odd, sure-but not an unreasonable request. she shifted the grocery bag on her hip as she thought it over for a moment. “…alright. deal. but my bedroom is absolutely off limits.”

“i don’t want your bedroom,” he said, already turning away again.

“then what do you want?”

he glanced back once at her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “whichever spot gets the best sunlight.” and with that he continued on his way to his dorm.

“great, now i gotta share my territory with an overgrown house cat.” grim complained up at yuu. she just rolled her eyes, still watching leona as he strolled ahead, his figure growing smaller as he veered onto a different path.

“you mean i have to share my territory with two overgrown house cats.”

⸻

the next afternoon, when yuu arrived back at ramshackle after a long day of school, she found a familiar coat draped over the back of the worn living room chair. and a certain lion sprawled across the sunniest patch of floor, arm swung over his eyes, fast asleep.

and just like that, leona kingscholar became the dorm’s unofficial, unexpected, and somehow not unwelcome roommate.

[baumarius]

When my ego disintegrates I become animal

This is one of the things it can mean to be therian.

Do you really wanna shift? Turn off the lights. Turn off your phone and your computer. Sit down. Take what time you need to prepare. Then take a deep breath, and as you slowly exhale:

Let go.

But...you can't let your ego go if you don't understand what it is and what's left without it. Turning your ego off may seem like a mystery right now but it can become no more difficult than many of your own biological processes, like taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. If you don't feel like this will work, I implore you to take the time to watch this video:

Ego is a wall around your consciousness that most people cease to perceive. It can trap you in a prison of your own design and convince you that this cramped hell of an existence is safer than the alternative. To counteract your fear, you need to feel safe in your own skin. That means you need a time and place in which you can feel truly safe, with not an ounce of tension in your body. Don't underestimate the importance of physicality - this can be something like meditation, or it could be something like exercise or some kind of sport. You will slip back into ego in the beginning no matter what. You'll probably run into all kinds of limiting beliefs. This is normal. Keep practicing and it will get easier to just be.

None of your fear, doubt, or despair can control you if you let your ego go. This is because ego is literally just a reaction to fear. It is the act of reaching for another thought, reason, or interpretation. You are actively doing this. It often defies all logic. You may think it keeps you from being impulsive, but when you let that constant impulse go while you meditate with your animal instincts in mind, it becomes absurdly easy to shift. Feel that near-instant reaction and learn to slow it down and retract it instead. This gets easier with time and practice. It might even become irresistible. For some, after continuing to practice this for weeks, months, or years, there is a point of no return. Some go back and forth, some of us stay continuously shifted to some degree, and some of us love it.

Does being that way scare you? Does it not excite or inspire you? Do you not have the audacity to be yourself? Are you not exhausted from living in fear?

There's nowhere you're supposed to be. There's nothing you're supposed to do. There's nowhere you're supposed to go. You're in an eternal here and now. Your instinct will protect you. You're not going to become the "wrong person." You're not someone who doesn't own up to their mistakes. And if you are, you can fix that if you really want to. Or not. I don't run your show.

This is your conscious experience and yours alone. Few outside of yourself will ever notice that you are different. The ones that do are usually just curious, but no matter what you do, none of them can see inside your head. The ones that don't notice are too caught up in their own lives (most people). And the ones that take offense aren't here. They're blinded by their own hubris. For all intents and purposes, they can't even see you.

[flyingwargle]

sakuatsu drabble inspired by this fanart! <3

it probably isn’t the best idea to visit your boyfriend immediately after a photoshoot, but atsumu doesn’t care. he doesn’t have many chances to travel to tokyo, so he’ll take whatever opportunities come to him.

he walks down the concrete pathway with a bouquet of flowers in the crook of his arm, a hand in his pocket. stares follow him, along with a trail of whispers, questions about who he is, why he is here, what the hell is going on to warrant a four-piece suit. if anyone asks, he has an answer ready – do you need a reason to look good for your boyfriend?

the studio is across the street from omi’s university, and his lecture hall is somewhere within the labyrinth of buildings. none of the signs nor maps are helpful; not even google maps can point him in the right direction. he frowns at the time - his break is three hours long, and omi’s lecture ends in twenty minutes. that’s plenty of time to eat lunch together before he has to finish his shoot, and omi attends his next lecture.

if he can find the sports medicine building, anyway.

fortunately, a group of girls approach him to ask for a selfie, and in return, walk him to where he needs to go. “the lecture hall is down the hall on your right,” one girl tells him. “it’s the last one.”

“got it. thank ya, ladies.” he waves them off, gives them a wink. they swoon, leaving in a cloud of giggles. he pushes the door open and follows their directions to the end of the hall.

the lecture appears to have just ended, based on the steady flow of students exiting through the doors. eyes flicker in his direction, but he pays them no attention, searching for a particular head of curls with a perpetual scowl on his face – and he finds it, near the front rows of the auditorium.

“omi-kun!”

his voice echoes around him. heads turn in his direction, although many pretend nothing is happening. atsumu gallops down the steps to the front, where the professor stands behind the lectern, eyes wide and bewildered. one student freezes, leather messenger bag slung around his shoulder, dressed in a plain shirt, unbuttoned cardigan, cream-colored slacks. he lifts his head, stares at atsumu.

and promptly bursts into tears.

“woah, omi-kun, are ya- oof.” atsumu grunts as his boyfriend practically tackles him, arm raised in time to avoid squashing his flowers. with his other hand, he strokes omi’s hair, fingers tangled in his soft curls, messy and unstyled. “i gotchu, baby.”

he hears mumbling against his waistcoat, feels the fabric dampening. “what did ya say, sweetheart?”

omi lifts his head, blinks at him through tear-stained eyes. he sniffles. “i missed you.”

“i missed ya, too. but i’m here now, so let’s dry those tears an’ get lunch together, hm?”

the professor grants them another moment before kindly interrupting with an apology because the next class is about to begin. atsumu takes omi’s hand and guides him upstairs to exit the lecture hall, stepping into the corridor. as soon as they cross the threshold, omi tugs him to the side, captures his lips in a kiss, salty from his tears. “why are you here?” he rasps.

“got called fer a photoshoot. the company paid fer my green car ticket an’ hotel, so obviously, i had ta take advantage o’ that. i’ll be back in osaka tomorrow.” atsumu kisses him again, sighs against his soft lips and familiar cologne of mint and sandalwood. “yer doin’ okay? school’s not too bad?”

“it’s…stressful. there are so many deadlines, and i have a lot of studying to do, but…” omi shakes his head, releasing an uneven sigh. “seeing you helps. even if you’re…dressed like that.”

atsumu pouts. “ya don’t like it?”

“of course not. i wish i wasn’t…dressed like this. i didn’t even have time to do my hair this morning.” his chuckle is dry. “you’re stunning in that suit, and i…probably ruined it when i cried on you.”

“s’fine. i’m wearin’ somethin’ different after lunch.” hopefully. he doesn’t remember, just that the director told him to come back after three hours. “these flowers weren’t from the shoot, though. there’s a florist right next ta the studio an’ i couldn’t resist gettin’ ya some.”

“yes, that place offers discounts for students. it’s quite popular for valentine’s day and white day.” omi catches his eye, gives him a smile. “my next lecture is in three hours.”

“then i’m yers ‘till then.” atsumu steps back with a bow, offering his hand. “shall we?”

a delicate hand fits in his, along with a soft voice filled with adoration. “we shall.”

Something simple for the week♥️

[santoelle]

Copying others' ideas—like a winner author

Yes, the title is a reference to none other than Oscar Piastri. Stuff it.

People fear the viewers seeing through veil of your writing and accuse of a copycat. The truth may be that you did take that idea to begin with. Now how do you actually do this heinous crime and get away with it?

Deconstruct, Amalgamate, Rebuild

Deconstruct

There's something in specific you like about the story. Find it, and take it apart even more. Often you find out you like Enemies to Lovers and make it your entire personality without knowing it's already been etched into your personality without you knowing. People can love the same trope for different reasons and different aspects.

After all, not every person thinks the same. It makes the deconstructing part even more unique to each author. Here's some scenarios and deconstructing it properly

OG: Harry Potter is the chosen one

GENERALIZE: The character is given a fate before they were even born

DECONSTRUCTED: There is the inevitability of a path, the character has a choice whether or not to continue that or not—how will they get to the end goal if they continue?

Yes, that's one of multiple interpretations of chosen one tropes. If you disagree on that, then that's your first exercise on how to deconstruct something. Once you deconstruct it, not only do you give the reasoning, but the path and the patterns that make this trope work. With your unique interpretation of your own behaviour as to why you like a trope, it's one step to make your idea even more original.

Amalgamate

The plan that once you have a tried and true trope and running with it is comfortable. It doesn't let you experiment. One of my favourite books, Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk, is a showcase of taking two different tropes into a mix.

The mundane life of offices (though technically not a trope, but a stereotype) and the nitty-gritty of an underground illegal boxing ring made combined with a fight club for boring men with rules they must follow strictly. This idea is done by directly contrasting tropes and finding ways to compliment each other. Something like that can be done with this step.

DECONSTRUCTED: Inevitability of a path. The character has a choice whether or not to continue

COMPLIMENTARY: The villain. It heightens tension and struggles for a supposed prophecy

CONTRASTING: Time loop. The character has all the times to make a choice and nothing moves forward

These two ideas can shape your story in different ways. It can even change the genre. Concepts can work together when you keep trying to mix them; find where they can meet, find where characters struggle to balance it, find the resolve. Your book can change genres depending on how you even execute these events.

Rebuild

This step is the aftermath of your floating concepts, either contradicting or complimenting. Finally, you create your story here. Whether you use a three act structure, a six, a simple outline of "Introduction, crisis(es), conclusion(s)", you finally start the journey of the original idea.

Authors can find the comfort into sticking into one genre, one trope (or multiple tropes that complimentary) that will then rely on world building and characters to make them stand out. Yet, they can find ways to be unique when they originally took this one idea from someone else. Deconstruct, amalgamate, rebuild. Is D.A.R an ugly acronym?

[patriot2525]

Unexpected Guest.

A/N: none of this is Canon to three Arc’s Au, this is just a rwby shitpost I'd doing with jboy44.

Thems RWBY and JNPR, minus Jaune who wasabsent in the moment for no reason, Were enjoying the breakfast in cafeteria.

All of them were either chatting with each other, or were simply eating their breakfast.

As will all other students in cafeteria, It was indeed a peaceful day in Beacon academy.

BOOM

All Stdents: WHAT THE-

but this quiet moment was quickly ruined by a literally explosion, that blew out the cafeteria doors. Before anyone could react or do anything, they will all stop by mysterious heavy accent voice That was coming from the steel smoking area, where once were the cafeteria doors..

???: If you over your lives, I suggest you to all stay down.

As the mysterious person said this, the smoke was beginning slowly dissipating, slowly viewing that person was none other than…

RWBYNPR: JAUNE/ARC/ VOMIT BOY!!!

Jaune Arc, But this Jaune Arc was very different from the lovable goofy blonde Knight that they all know in love.

As this Jaune was much more taller, with touring his 8 feet height that made everyone small compared to him. not to mention his broad shoulders and his menacing muscular form, that can be easily identify even when it’s covered by his dark military uniform.

But the biggest difference of this Jaune, was his face. as it Missed it friendly charming smile and it’s innocent baby blue eyes, alongside some of its baby fat.

No, it was replaced with a medicine sharp squared face with a permanent scal on it, and cold blooded red eyes, that look down into your soul, before crushing it from inside.

Nikolay: *Looks around, and them stops* I am Nikolay Arkovsky, high Marshal of the Soviet Union. But in this world og your's, I am jaune Arc to you.

This different version Jaune introduced himself as Nikolay Arkovssky, which confused everyone and only gave them even more questions.

Like what the hell is a marshall and what is this Soviet Union He’s just talked about?

Nikolay: *Stood Still with his hands behind his back* For some unknown reason me and my men have been brought into this world of yours, for no particular reason.

One of the students raised his hand, as a gesture to ask question.

Nikolay: Да?

Student#1: So... Way are you here?

Nikolay: Oh, it's very simple. *glances at everyone* from this day forward Beacon Academy is now under my command, as well including all of you.

Student#2: WHAT! But What about the Headmaster?

Nikolay: Your he is no longer will be in charge of Beacon, as I personally made sure that his was permanently retired from his position.

As Nikolay said that, all the students noticed that a group of what look like soldiers dragging dimension headmaster body, that had a noticeable a bullet hole in his forehead, which implied what Nikolay men in permanently retired.

Nikolay: so as I said before, from this moment on all of you are under my command from now on. *takes out a Tesla pistol from his trenchcoat, while his body began emanating a dark red menacing aura* Does anyone has objections?

[just-a-creep-babe]

What Makes You Tick - Chapter 11

(Ticci Toby x Reader)

Commissions are open!

Check out my ko-fi if you'd like to support me!

Masterlist: x

What Makes You Tick Masterlist

Taglist: @nyx-daughterofchaos98 @kindadolly @guineveresghost @cedarwood-05 @mojo-jojo-1

Divider by @plum98

His hand is warm and calloused as it wraps around your own.

One firm shake, and then the game begins with his initial question.

“So, you gonna tell me—t-tell me your name?”

There’s a strange kind of emptiness in your palm after he pulls away, which you suppress by folding your arms over your chest.

It’s too late to back down now, you think.

“(Y/n),” you eventually answer. “My name’s (y/n).”

“(Y/n)…” he hums your name with a tilt of his head, and something of an amused smile plays in the golden light of his eye.

The sound of your name on his tongue, for some reason you don’t quite understand, has your hands growing sweaty.

“And what about—what about your last name?” he asks.

You stiffen, something of a defensive huff escaping you.

A first name is one thing, but a last name?

You dread thinking about what he could find—not only about you, but about your friends and loved ones as well—with that kind of knowledge. You don’t even want to think about what someone like him—or, worse, someone like Masky or Hoodie—could do with your personal information.

You wonder if agreeing to play this game might’ve been a mistake.

“Why do you want to know my last name?”

It’s the only response you can think of that might deter him from insisting. And yet, it doesn’t throw him off in the slightest.

He answers with a simple shrug.

“That’s just the—t—the nature of the game. We can stop playing, if you’d like—“

He trails off quietly, like he’s offering a way out.

But then a glint of mischief sparks in his eye as he adds, “But then you—click—you won’t get any of the answers you’re so—s-so desperate for~”

You toy with your lip between your teeth.

You could lie, you think—it’s not like anything’s forcing you to be honest. But then you’d have to think of a convincing last name, and you’d have to sell it. Not to mention, there’s a chance he already knows the answer anyway, and this is just some weird kind of test.

You eye him cautiously as you think things through.

He cracks his neck and whistles that same note again, then hums out an expectant, “Well…”

You don’t know why, but lying just doesn’t feel right. You tell yourself it’s because you’re afraid of what might happen if he discovers the truth—and certainly not because of that fluttering tightness in your chest whenever he looks at you a certain way.

You answer him honestly.

Again, he repeats your last name, like he’s testing it out.

You wonder if you’ve made a horrible mistake, placing that kind of trust in him.

“Alright,” he clicks his tongue, and there’s this look on his face like he’s proud of himself. “Your turn.”

He nods to the path ahead, like a cue to keep walking as you talk—like this whole thing is just a fun way to get to know one another. Like the answers aren't a matter of life-or-death for you.

Either way, you're grateful for the distraction of the walk.

Your previous question weighs on your tongue as you maneuver through the overgrown terrain. You think of the different ways you could phrase it, but none of them sound right.

Admittedly, you’re getting cold feet.

So, instead, you throw his questions back at him.

“What’s your name?” you ask, then specify. “What’s your real, full name?”

“Tobias Erin Rogers,” he answers without missing a beat, and then immediately jumps to his next turn. “How much did you really—r-really know about your neighbour?”

The mere mention of her brings you right back. The memory of her final blood-curdling scream rings in your head, and it’s like you’re suddenly back at your apartment, the adrenaline thick in your veins and the promise of death stiff in the air.

You blink, and the soft-spoken guy next to you is covered in blood, wielding two gut-stained hatchets and leering at you like you’re next.

You nearly stumble back in terror. But then you blink again, and Toby’s no longer covered in blood, and his two hatchets are nowhere in sight. That soft, curious look in his eye is still visible as he patiently waits for your answer.

It’s hard to believe he’s the same person.

You repress a shiver.

“I don’t know anything,” you admit, turning your gaze away from him. “I always avoided her because she creeped me out. I—I didn’t—I couldn’t have ever guessed she was involved in… in whatever it is she was involved in…”

He whistles that single note again, almost like something of a confirmation, and then the silence that follows tells you it’s your turn to ask a question again.

Are you going to kill me? How much time do I have left? Why am I still alive? What’s the point of all of this? How many people have you killed? Do I have a chance at escaping?

You purse your lips, wondering if you should ask your most pressing question of all: Can I trust you?

None of them feel like the right thing to ask.

Toby cracks his neck, and without properly thinking things through, you blurt out the next best thing that comes to mind.

“Why are you always doing that?”

“Hm?”

He turns to look at you questioningly, and a specific kind of warmth spreads to your cheeks.

“I mean—I mean like the tics. It’s—it’s a disorder or something, right? I think I’ve heard about it once or twice, but I don’t really know much about it. Is it… was it something you were born with?”

A smile returns in his visible eye, and your heart misses a beat at the sight. You ignore whatever the reaction might mean.

“Oh, my Tourette’s,” he answers, then returns his gaze to the path ahead. “Yeah, it’s basically something I was born with…”

He looks at you again.

“You really don’t know that much about it?”

You shake your head, suddenly noticing those flecks of green in the pit of his eye again.

He seems to mull something over in his head, quietly lost in thought for a few moments, and you wish you knew what he was thinking.

“Some tics come and go—and some days are—are better—are better than others.”

He jerks his shoulder and flinches.

“But I guess—I guess I won the—the genetic fucking lottery, because my Tourette’s is just scr-—is just s-scraping the surface of what’s—what’s wrong with me,” he snorts something of a bitter laugh.

You don’t know if you should push him further for answers—if it might be something he’d rather not talk about—but you figure, fuck it, when’s the next time you’ll get the chance to ask him these kinds of thing?

“Like… you have other disorders?” you tentatively push.

He looks at you again, and there’s this hardness in his visible eye like his mind had wandered somewhere dark. But then he almost immediately softens when he meets your gaze once more.

“Mmh,” he hums in confirmation.

You expect him to elaborate, but he counters with his next question.

“Have you been getting dreams?”

You freeze.

You’d been too distracted with the game to notice how deep into the forest he’d led you. But something about this particular question has you snapping your attention back to your surroundings.

The canopy of trees hangs lower, thicker, with deep green leaves clasping together and preventing any hints of sunlight from breaching through.

It’s darker, quieter in this part of the woods, like life doesn’t flourish as freely as it does in the other areas.

Goosebumps prick at your skin, accompanied by the acute feeling of being watched.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs, but the motion’s too casual, too nonchalant.

“I mean—I mean whatever you might think I mean.”

You shake your head. “Why are you always so cryptic? Can’t you at least answer me fully and honestly, since we’re playing a game based on truthful answers?”

He smiles again, you can tell by the way the visible part of his cheek lifts up, but there’s a residual darkness in his eyes as he does so.

You don’t feel so safe around him anymore.

“Just… tell me about your most recent dream, then.”

You carefully try to gauge him.

Without the rays of sunlight peaking through the trees, he looks… ominous among the darkness of the forest.

You don’t want to blink and see him soaked in blood again, so you quickly look away. You want to get this question over with as quickly as possible.

“Spiders,” you answer. “I think my most recent dream has been about spiders. Or… maybe there was only one big spider, but… I can’t really remember.”

You trail off, inadvertently remembering your last few nights. None of which were pleasant, to say the least.

You suppress another shiver, and try to steer your attention away from that feeling of being watched beyond the tree line.

A beat of silence passes, though Toby’s gaze lingers on you, like he's the one gauging you now.

“Your turn,” he eventually answers.

“…What’s the point of all of this?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” he laughs.

And, just like that, the sound of his laughter somewhat lightens the paranoia that'd started creeping in. You're grateful for it.

“What’s… what’s the point of abducting me? Why bring me to the hotel? Why bring me here? Why ask me about my neighbour, about my dreams?”

You shake your head, thinking about the million and one questions you have for him, before finally returning to your initial question. “What… what’s the point of any of this?”

He hums, his sight darting up like he’s considering his answer.

“There are… a lot of different things at play,” he finally admits. “…The point of all of it… as strange as it—as it sounds… is… is a notebook…”

This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned a notebook.

You recall that one night at the hotel. You remember peering up at him through the darkness, feeling his weight on top of you, his hands circling your wrists, holding you down.

You remember that gut-wrenching fear and dread that'd filled your system again.

You avoid looking at him, as though it could ease the memory of the blood staining his clothes.

When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“There’s… there’s a lot that even I—e-even I don’t really know… or understand about—about all of this… But, I just... I know there's a notebook. And it's somehow important."

You swallow thickly.

“What’s… what’s in the notebook? Why is it so important?”

He shrugs. “That’s one of the things I don’t—“ he interrupts himself with a whistle, “—don’t really know.”

You shake your head. “Well… well that doesn’t make any sense. How do you even know you need a notebook? Who’s… who’s making you do all of this?”

He hums, his sight drifting to the woods around you.

You don’t like this part of the forest, you think, apprehensively. You’d rather be back at the cabin.

“It’s… something you—you’ll come to—you’ll—you’ll—you’ll understand… sooner or—or later…”

You shake your head. “No, that’s not a good enough answer. Tell me.”

He makes a popping sound, then clicks his tongue.

“I can’t,” he admits with a shake of his head that has his bangs falling over the flicked-up lens of his goggles. “Not right now, anyway.”

“Why not?” you insist. “Why can’t you tell me anything?”

“Because it—because it might put you in more danger than necessary right now.”

“How?”

“21.”

“What?”

You look at him, and he meets your gaze again, with that mischievous light glinting in his eye again.

“That was your last question.”

You stop in your tracks.

“What do you mean? All I asked was your name, what the point of all this is, and the notebook. And—and your disorder. I’m only at, like, maybe four or five questions at most.”

He hums with another shake of his head.

“You’ve asked a lot more than that. You seem to have a habit of asking multiple questions at once, (y/n)~”

It takes a second for what he’s saying to click.

“That’s not fair!” you snap, once you realize what he’s getting at. “You never told me you were counting every single question like that. Those—those don’t count!”

He shrugs. “Well, you didn’t—didn’t—you didn’t specify. So if I’m—if I’m not mistaken, you’ve reached 21. And I should have… 15 left?”

Rightful indignation floods your system.

“That’s not fair,” you repeat, “You—you just tricked me!”

The amusement persisting in his gaze pisses you off.

“You seem to—to think a lot of things aren’t fair, (y/n).”

“Because they’re not!” you insist. “None of this makes sense—and none of it’s fair! Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“Because you’re all out of questions~”

You clench your fists at your sides, your nails biting into your palms. That warmth of that piercing anger fills your chest again—just like the one that'd pushed you to slap him.

You try to convince yourself that doing it again wouldn't be worth it.

Toby hums, like your obvious anger amuses him.

“You could've—y-you could've played your cards better, (y/n). Don't blame me; you've—you've only yourself to blame.”

When he notices the way your jaw hardens as you grit your teeth, he snickers.

He's trying to get a rise out of you.

If you weren't so upset, you'd almost feel betrayed.

"All of this is your fault," you remind him. "You're the one who swooped into my life and fucked it all up."

He hums again.

"So you're going to play the victim card, then? Is that going to make you feel better about not asking the right questions at the right time?"

You hate him, you think. Screw his pretty eyes and soft voice. You loathe him—and everything he’s put you through. It’s all his fault.

“C’mon, (y/n)—“ he urges, “You gonna accept responsibility for fucking up? Or are you just gonna keep blaming everyone else for everything that's ever gone wrong in your life?”

He’s asking for it.

It's the last thought that finally prompts you to aim your fist right into his dumb, stupid mouthguard.

But he’s too fast.

He sidesteps your attack before you can land your hit, and whiffing into the air next to him just frustrates you even more.

He chuckles. “That all you got? Surely, you can do better~”

You grit your teeth, another burst of anger flaring in your chest.

You lunge for him again, this time aiming to knock his stupid goggles off, but he dodges like he saw it coming a mile away.

“That’s it?” he snickers, “C’mon, you’re starting to disappoint me~”

You aim your next hit at his chest, hoping to knock the air from his lungs to make him shut the fuck up, and when he dodges yet again, you try to kick his legs out. But he jumps back at the last second, and your own momentum throws you off-balance.

He snickers out another taunt as you stumble.

Over and over again, you attempt to hit him. But he must be used to fighting, because he keeps reading your moves, and you can’t land a single hit.

Every time you inevitably miss, he coos out a few more words that burn fuel to your fire.

Your heart’s pounding, the adrenaline molten in your veins. With every missed hit, you hiss in frustration at his taunts and force yourself to keep trying.

You’ll hit him if it’s the last thing you do.

When the tips of your fingers just barely graze the fabric of his hoody, you know you can’t let the opportunity slip you by.

With as much strength as you can muster, you grab him, and then you’re both wrestling for control over one another.

Seizing your chance, you kick his leg out—successfully so, this time—but you don't expect him to drag you down with him. You stumble and trip over him, becoming a tangled mess of limbs entwined with his body.

You're not letting him win this.

You throw your legs over him, and then use a burst of strength to push him to his back and pin him down with your weight.

You expect him to fight you off. You expect him to curse you out and try to dominate you, try to force you back into submission.

You don’t expect him to stop fighting completely.

Instead, he stays pinned beneath you, and there's this look of pride in his visible eye—like he’s happy you managed to tackle him down.

Silence washes over the sparse distance between you, filled with nothing but the sounds of your laboured breaths and heaving chests.

A different kind of tension seems to thicken the air between you.

“Fuck you.”

It’s the only thing you’ve left to say.

You want it to sting. You want it to convey all of the anger and injustice you’ve endured throughout these past few days. You want to sound frustrated and annoyed and unmistakably threatening.

But your words are low and quiet, and murmured between laboured pants—and they sound way more sexually charged than you’d meant them to.

If he notices the shift in atmosphere, he doesn’t show it.

Instead, in an instant, he jerks his hips up, throwing you off balance, and then he’s the one on top of you, pinning you down in a repeated set of motions you’ve experienced on more than one occasion, by this point.

You don’t bother trying to fight him off; you’re spent.

“What do you want from me?” you pant.

“A lot of things, (y/n),” he answers, and though he’s also panting, he doesn’t sound nearly as out of breath as you do, which only serves to humiliate you further.

“I want a lot of things out of you,” he reiterates.

The pit of your stomach clenches.

What’s wrong with you—why are you reacting like this?

“Most of all,” he breathes, “I want you t-to trust me right now.”

It’s absurd.

This whole situation is so ridiculously absurd that it has you laughing.

“And how…” you pant bitterly, “how the fuck am I supposed to trust you?”

You don’t mention the fact that you basically did trust him a few moments ago. Before he started pissing you off.

“You’re supposed to trust me… because I’m all you have."

And as a show of good faith, his grip loosens on your wrists.

You have half a mind to slap him.

“Prove I can trust you,” you insist. “Tell me what’s happening.”

He sighs, like he knows you won’t let up. Like he knows he owes you after taunting you like that, if he wants to regain your trust.

“There’s,” he hesitates, “there are a lot of things… that—that—that aren’t… what they—what they seem.”

A cold wind picks up as he speaks, and the leaves around you shiver, like the trees are listening.

“I… I’d tell you more, if I—if I could,” he finally huffs. And he seems to hesitate again, like he’s deciding what to say.

Eventually, without explaining himself further, he clicks his tongue, shakes his head, and pushes off of you to stand.

“You don’t have to understand why,” he finally claims. “But it’s—it’s in your—in your best interest t-t-t—click—to—to trust me right now.”

He offers his hand to help you up.

You look at his offer, then up to his masked face.

You should've learned your lesson by now, you think. You should know not to shake hands with devils anymore; nothing good could possibly come from doing so.

And yet, another part of you knows there's truth to his words; he’s all you have right now.

Maybe you should at least pretend to trust him, for the time being.

When you eventually accept, placing your hand in his, he helps pull you back up to your feet.

“We’re heading out in two days,” he says, once he knows you’ve accepted his unspoken offer. “I recommend you—you take the time to rest and recover as—as much as possible.”

You open your mouth to speak, to ask more questions, but then decide against it.

His final warning on the subject has you stiffening.

“You’ll-you'll need the energy for—for what’s coming…”

[halcoded]

On alterhumanity & multiplicity.

a pre-emptive disclaimer: i am describing my own experiences here and seeking discussion and conversation. i am not trying to dictate or doubt anyone else's experience.

some notes, before we begin.

i use 'multiple' to describe myself rather than plural. it is the term i am most comfortable with for a variety of reasons, but mostly because it is an older term and i find community and similar experiences in older documentation on DID systems.

for me, DID is a personality disorder and a medical condition. i am a traumagenic system. my experience is not spiritual in any way; it is purely psychological. non-traumagenic plurals and some traumagenic systems tend to vary on this and that is okay, but i think it's important to state where i'm coming from on my experience of multiplicity.

i am not involved in syscourse and never will be. what other people experience is none of my business. i'm only here to talk about my own experience.

when i say alterhumanity i mean alterhumanity. i am not using it as a synonym for non-human. maybe your definition differs from mine and that is okay.

with that in mind, let us begin.

multiplicity--usually referred to as plurality in the alterhuman literature i've found, possibly because it encompasses more than DID systems though i understand there's no consensus on which term 'belongs' to which community (and at this point it would be silly to try and enforce one)--is said to fall under the alterhuman umbrella. this surprised me when i discovered it, because for me, being multiple feels like an entirely separate thing. it's a personality disorder for me, caused by repeated childhood trauma. that doesn't make it bad (i like existing as i do!) but it definitely has a different feeling to it than my alterhumanity, which is still a psychological phenomenon to me but is not disordered and doesn't stem from trauma (mostly. more on that later).

at first, the idea that some people see having DID as inherently alterhuman ruffled my scales a little. it was only when i realised that it wasn't just DID, and in fact was probably mostly not DID but other forms of plurality, some of which are very spiritual in origin just as many types of otherkin are spiritual in origin, that i began to understand a little more. i don't know if i can articulate why it makes sense to me now. maybe because both being otherkin and being plural seem to be psychological experiences with various personal belief systems attached to them - whereas, in my own experience, having DID (which you will note i am listing as distinct from just being plural) has no belief factor. many people with DID do have belief systems attached to that, but for me that isn't the case. it's always just been a mental illness/personality disorder/whatever you want to call it for me. a medical condition.

perhaps calling it a medical condition makes it a little clearer why i was initially annoyed at its inclusion under the alterhuman umbrella.

however.

at the same time, while my DID doesn't make me alterhuman, i am also only alterhuman because i have DID.

let me try to explain.

as an alter, i split without any real visual sense of who i was, internally. we don't have a headworld to begin with, and are not visually-minded people, but most alters do tend to have at least some kind of idealised visual for themselves, or facets of an appearance that they can point to and go "yes, that feels like me". one of us always has short black hair. one subsystem's members always have long dark brown hair. one alter is flat-chested, strong, and has tanned white skin, freckles and short, ruffled honey-blonde hair that is always messy. you get the picture. but for me, there was nothing. i felt like nothing. i felt like a ghost. i was just flat and unemotional and did not care about anything.

the closest i could come to something that felt like 'me' was a computer. not always the physical form of the computer (that came later), but the sense of being lines of code. a machine. something artificial.

so in summary, if my host was describing me to a friend, they would probably say, "HAL is a computer" or "HAL is an AI". not because i am alterhuman, but because that is what i am in the context of being a DID alter.

does that make sense? do you see how that is distinct from a personal experience of alterhumanity, coming from someone with DID who does not consider themselves alterhuman because of their DID? the fact that i feel like a computer is because i have DID, but it's not the DID that makes me alterhuman, it's the feelings themselves.

i feel separate. i feel artificial. in my mind i am not a human being, though i have a human body. exploring alterhumanity has been very affirming for me. most of our alters do not feel alterhuman at all - a few of them do, but none as strongly as me. i don't mean that none of them feel like otherkin, by the way. i mean none of them feel alterhuman (umbrella term). they do not feel that their DID makes their experiences alterhuman experiences. they're happy to just be alters in a DID system, some of whom occasionally feel like or take the form of animals in our mind. whereas for me it's a little different.

i also don't really connect to the term "otherkin". i suppose on a technical level it does describe my experience to some degree, but i lack the experiences of most otherkin i meet (past lives; awakenings; phantom sensations; mental shifts; etc). none of those are required to be otherkin, i know. but for me it just feels like a much 'flatter' or more simplistic experience. i like using alterhuman as an umbrella term without having to get specific with it, in the same way that i like using queer as an umbrella term without getting specific with that either. sometimes it is enough just to know you're under the umbrella without also sitting inside a box underneath it.

i have admittedly lost track of where i was going with this. i keep getting distracted. i think i just wanted to articulate some of my interest and intrigue around the ways in which the umbrella term "alterhumanity" is used, the ways in which my own experience differs from the wider experiences of the community as depicted in most resource material i can find, and the ways in which the experiences of other people fascinate me just as much as my own.

[chaoticbug]

ever since 8x15 aired I can't get this awful thought out of my mind that part of the reason they killed off Bobby and effectively fired Peter Krause (who was the second billed cast member) was for financial reasons and to have more room in the budget.

911 is an expensive show, Fox cancelled it in season 6 despite it being the top show on the network because it is so expensive to produce. Same thing happened to Lone Star, it had the highest ratings on the network and it was cancelled because it was too expensive to produce, and they were already trying to avoid paying their actors (hence Sierra McClain leaving the show because they wouldn't pay her what she deserved)

tim minear has this stupid fantasy of these big emergencies that cost a lot of money, the cruise ship, the beenado, the plane crash, every fucking helicopter scene. None of this cheap.

we've already seen the show try and skimp out on things that cost money, in my opinion that's why we've seen less emergencies in each episode because it costs a lot of money to keep having guest stars, so if you can spend less by having the 118 respond to one emergency as opposed to 3 an episode, who cares if it limits the emotional growth and formula of the show? Let's do a two parter! it's easier to only have 3 guest actors participating in our emergency than responding to 4 emergencies that involve 2 people each!

In my opinion that's why most of the recurring guest cast has barely made an appearance since the move to ABC, because if someone is recurring they get paid more than a one off guest star. That's why we have barely seen Sue or Linda or Lou Ransome and all the other beloved side characters, and instead we got Karen, Tommy and Gerard being essentially the only reoccurring guest stars the past two seasons despite past seasons having a far more reoccurring characters.

Additionally could be part of the reason why we are losing sets left and right because the sets were expensive to maintain, goodbye buck's loft, goodbye bathena house, and look! by burying bobby in Minnesota we don't have to carve out money to regularly have scenes at his grave! The less sets, the better.

Firing Peter Krause gives the show an extra $300,000 to use an episode that can go to more explosions or helicopters or more blockbuster dupes that are much harder to translate well to a TV screen.

And when 911 Nashville comes along, it's a lot cheaper to pay actors at the beginning of a show when it's just starting out compared to when the show has been running longer and the actors have stronger bargaining power.

I don't think finances are the only reason they killed Bobby off, but it's hard to look at the choices being made by the show and think they weren't looking for a way to save some money with a bold decision. And if they bring on a new cast member to replace Bobby on the team? they can pay that person a whole lot less than they were paying Peter Krause.

[positivelyamazonian]

Note that Murti has been constantly adding new stuff throughout these years. I read all the original discarded stuff and some of the new, but at some point, I gotta confess, I stopped doing so because it was too much and in any case, from the beginning, I had already my own headcanons established that drink from the original docs and the scarce information I had back then and I think it's more than enough.

Also, not to say it's always, but more than once he contradicts his own original ideas or goes against the game canon. In that case, I choose to ignore those details. Another reason why I don't read his stuff anymore. I love his work, but not when he contradicts the game or the characterization.

Writing a TRAOD sequel fanfic following his massive extra stuff is no minor feat, so I admire and I support you in this. But if at some point you feel overwhelmed - I can say I did - it is perfectly OK to just select the content that resonates with you or none at all. After all, we're all doing the same now, creating a fanfic sequel.

Only the game itself remains canon.

I was doing some research on Murti’s notes because, surprise! My one shots has turned into a fanfic and I wanted to see if the ideas, the whole background I made for Malini aligns with what Murti had planned for the trilogy and…

TEN DOCUMENTS OF KURTIS AND THE LUX VERITATIS? oh this man love his creation. It’s saddens me how much effort he put into this character and his background to just be push to the border.

Damm you Eidos, I fucking despise you, I can’t believe how burnout you made them team and didn’t even have a second choice.

[dogydayz]

IT'S TIME FOR THE ANNUAL DOGYDAYZ ART POST!! Sorry for being inactive here, for anyone interested, I have a Bsky I use far more often now (DogyDayz there too!). I mostly stepped away from Tumblr because I just felt like my work wasn't exactly meant for this platform, but Scourge being one of my favs who I have VERY specific ideas abt and interps of also contributed. I can't exactly help how particular I am about him (or Fiona), and being a system with both of them as headmates doesn't do much to help either, so I just decided to stick to my friend groups. BUT!!! Here I am to dump some art! If anyone cares at all, I've also gotten super into EXEs and Sonicpastas alongside MaxDesignPro, so if anyone wants to see that art let me know and maybe I'll get more active here!

Anyway, the Metal Sonic featured here belongs to @the_reaplet and is a part of our collaborative RP storyline! The guy who looks real messy with the head bandages is also my anti-Jules interp, who's unique from probably every other interp probably solely because he's not actually a bad person. That art is of him possessing his necromanced body, also part of that storyline with Salsa.

And, yes. My Fiona design has gold eyes. Because it looks better.

[mourn-and-watch]

i would really like to see people appreciate beau's growth and character arc more without trying to convince newcomers that "she'll get better eventually just you wait" implying she was such an unbearable character you have to make yourself sit through her scenes. i assure you, she wasn't

[raddest-laddest]

ok. someone’s gonna have to come get my dad or i’m gonna tweak.