#the best parts the worst parts the funny parts

[vandme12]

hear me out

ronin walking in on his darling listening to recordings of his voice. how would he react?

Devil on Repeat

The apartment is too quiet without him. It always is.

You try to fill the silence—music, TV, podcasts—but nothing sticks. Nothing hums in your bones the way he does. So, really, it’s not creepy. It’s just… coping.

Your finger hovers over the folder labeled ‘goreboy.wavs’, half-embarrassed even though you’re alone. A little treasure trove, collected piece by piece—snippets of his voice from late-night calls, glitched-out recordings he’s dropped in the chat, and that one unhinged rant about moral relativism he left on your voicemail at 3 AM.

And maybe you play them more often than you should. Maybe his voice has become something like nicotine, curling around your lungs in a way that’s addictive, dangerous, and a little too good. But hey—you miss him. And he is a comfort. Even if the comfort in question would happily dissect a man just to watch his heart stutter out.

The recording crackles to life.

"Aww, did I make you blush? Don’t worry, darlin’—I’d blush too if I were thinking about me."

You bury your face in your hands. God, he’s unbearable.

And yet… you press play on the next one.

"Y’know, for someone so sweet, you’ve got the most deliciously wicked little thoughts. I should be concerned. I’m not. I’m proud."

A breath shudders out of you, tension bleeding from your shoulders as his voice thrums warm and low in your ears. You could close your eyes and almost pretend he’s here—stretching out on your couch like he owns the place, knife twirling between clever fingers. But he’s not, and the ghost of him isn’t enough, so you play another.

"Miss me?"

The recording is barely a whisper, rough-edged and intimate. It’s unfair, really, the way he sounds like sin spun into sound. And, okay, maybe you replay that one a little more often. Just to hear it. Just because—

"Y’know," a familiar voice drawls behind you, smooth and wicked, "If you wanted to hear my voice that bad, darlin’, all you had to do was ask."

Oh, fuck.

Your heart slams against your ribs as you whirl around, and there he is—leaning in the doorway like a devil straight out of your dreams, all sharp teeth and sharper eyes. His horns catch the light as he tilts his head, and that smile—that smile—could peel the skin from your bones.

You scramble to pause the recording, too late, and the sound of his own voice still hangs thick in the air. His grin stretches wider. "Really? That one?"

"I—" Your throat is dry. "It’s not—"

"It’s not creepy," he finishes for you, voice dripping mock-sweet. "Nah, sweetheart. Just adorable. You missed me that much, huh?"

The worst part is, he’s not even mad. If anything, he looks delighted—like you’ve gifted him some precious little secret to tuck under his tongue and savor.

You try—try—to salvage your dignity. "I was just—"

"Just missin’ me," he purrs, pushing off the doorframe. His boots are soundless against the floor as he crosses the room, lazy and predatory, until he’s crowding into your space. "Aw, darlin’… if I knew you were gettin’ this lonely, I’d’ve come home sooner."

His hand slides under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. Too close. Too warm. You can feel the heat of him bleeding through your skin, burning you from the inside out.

"You’re enjoying this way too much," you mutter, but it comes out breathless.

He chuckles, dark and indulgent. "Of course I am. My sweet little thing, sittin’ here all alone, playin’ my voice on repeat? That’s the best ego boost I’ve had all week." His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, deceptively gentle. "Gonna confess how many times you’ve listened, or should I guess?"

You refuse to dignify that with a response.

He laughs—bright and reckless, like you’ve said something funny—and you hate how much you love the sound of it. How much you missed it.

"You’re lucky I think it’s cute," he says, and then—because he’s a menace—he reaches past you to press play.

"Miss me?" his voice whispers again, syrup-sweet.

"Y’know," he murmurs, real and right here, "It’s better live."

Your face is burning. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," he croons, eyes glinting. "You’re obsessed with me."

You should push him away. You should deny it. But your resolve crumbles when he tips your chin higher and leans in close enough for his breath to ghost across your lips.

"So," he murmurs, wicked and warm, "How bad did you miss me, darlin’?"

"Not that bad," you lie, and the smile that breaks across his face is devastating.

"Liar."

The next kiss isn’t soft. It’s a claim—teeth and heat and all the time you’ve been apart poured into the press of his mouth against yours. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back, and you let him take—steal—whatever he wants. Because this is the truth between you, raw and undeniable: you missed him. And he missed you too.

He pulls back just enough to breathe you in, thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip. "Keepin’ my voice like that," he muses, half-laughing. "God, you’re precious. ‘M gonna start leavin’ you messages on purpose—hell, maybe a whole bedtime story. Would you like that, sweetheart?"

Your stomach flips. "You wouldn’t."

"Oh, I would," he promises, delighted at the thought. "Every night. Just for you. Somethin’ to keep you warm while I’m gone."

He’s still teasing, still playing—but there’s an edge of something real beneath it, something raw and hungry and yours.

And maybe it’s stupid, but you want to keep it. Want to press your fingers to the pulse of him and feel it beat against your skin.

"You’re ridiculous," you say softly.

His smile gentles—just a fraction. "Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous. Don’t forget it."

He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. And when he finally pulls back, you’re left dizzy, breathless, and aching in a way that no recording could ever match.

"So," he drawls, like he hasn’t just wrecked you, "Gonna play me another one?"

"Get out."

He laughs, bright and reckless, and doesn’t move an inch.

[echstacy00]

ruin me: obsession taste like blood

dance major ! niki x dance major ! reader

getting accepted into Seoul Elite Arts Academy was the dream—your dream. the kind of dream that people sacrificed everything for, the kind that set fire to anyone who wasn’t strong enough to hold it in their hands.

and you? you had sure as hell earned your place here.

for years, you’d trained, pushed your body past its limits, given up sleep, social life, and anything remotely resembling a normal teenage experience—all for this. and when you finally stepped into the grand auditorium for the opening ceremony, a rush of pride filled your chest.

this was it.

this was where legends were made.

but then you saw him.

Nishimura Riki.

as much as you’d love to pretend you didn’t know of him you couldn’t. you’d seen his name everywhere. social media, dance competitions, whispered conversations in studios across the world. he was the one everyone talked about—the prodigy, the boy who was practically untouchable on the dance floor.

he was exactly what you expected.

cocky. arrogant.

and maybe at his status he had the right.

he was the kind of person who knew he was good so good that he made damn sure everyone else knew it too.

he thinks he owns this place.

and maybe he did. maybe everyone else would bow at his feet, would whisper about his untouchable talent and those criminally perfect looks.

but you?

you knew you were better.

and nothing was going to stop you from proving it.

from the very first class, ni-ki knew you were going to be a problem.

not just because you were good—he’d dealt with good before. he could crush good.

but you were something else.

yor movements were too sharp, too fluid, too fucking precise. You had this way of making every routine look effortless, like your body was built for this. and the worst part? you knew it.

that first day, you had taken center stage in the studio without hesitation, moving like you belonged there. like you were already the best.

and it made his blood fucking boil.

because that was supposed to be him—it always had been up until now.

people whispered about you. talked about how you might be the only one in the entire school who could match him.

at first, he told himself it was bullshit.

then he watched you dance.

and for the first time in years, something twisted inside of him.

because he couldn’t look away.

and he hated that.

now a week deep into the new semester. you had been in the studio for hours. long past when everyone else had left, long past when your body screamed at you to stop. but you weren’t done. not until every single movement was perfect—not until your routine for tomorrow was refined to a T.

and you were close. so damn close.

but close wasn’t enough. it never was.

you pushed through another run, the music pounding in your ears, your body a blur of sharp precision and controlled grace. every turn, every extension—it all had to be seamless. flawless. and if it wasn’t? you’d go again. and again.

you finally came to a stop, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. for a second, you allowed yourself to take in the silence—the kind of silence that only came when you had worked yourself to the edge.

then, from behind you—

“again.”

your entire body buzzed with irritation before you even turned around.

of fucking course.

ni-ki.

how long had he been there ?

you should’ve known. of course he was still here. of course he was watching.

you turned, eyes narrowed, only to find him leaning against the doorway with that same smug, unreadable expression—like he had been standing there for who knows how long, just waiting for the right moment to piss you off.

your jaw clenched. “why the hell are you still here?”

“funny,” ni-ki sneered, stepping closer. “i was about to ask you the same thing.”

you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “i don’t have time for your bullshit today, riki.”

something in him twitched. he hated when you called him that. hated that you said his name like you knew him, like you understood him. you didn’t.

he moved closer, his presence towering over you, suffocating. “you think you’re better than me?” his voice was low, but there was something dark underneath it, something dangerous.

you held his gaze, unflinching. “i think i work harder than you.” you shrugged your nonchalant demeanour pissing me off even more.

his jaw clenched. liar.

“you don’t fucking get it, do you?” he took another step. you didn’t move. “i don’t lose. and i sure as hell don’t lose to you.”

your lips curled into a smirk, something sharp, something lethal. “then beat me.”

his breath hitched.

oh, you had no idea what you were playing with.

it didn’t take long for the tension between you two to snap.

it was in partner drills, the second week of classes. the instructor had paired you and ni-ki together for an advanced technique exercise, and from the second you stepped onto the floor, you could feel the weight of his glare.

he didn’t want to dance with you. he wanted to beat you.

that’s fine. you wanted the same thing.

the music started, and it was war.

every step was a battle. every movement was sharper, every turn a silent dare. the air crackled between you two, neither of you willing to submit, neither of you willing to be the one who couldn’t keep up.

the other students watched in stunned silence.

by the time the routine ended, you were both breathless, faces inches apart, bodies still charged with adrenaline.

and then—ni-ki smirked.

“not bad,” he muttered, voice low.

something in your chest tightened.

because you knew what he really meant.

you impressed him.

but before you could say anything, before you could wipe that cocky look off his face, he was already turning away, his jaw clenched like he regretted acknowledging you at all.

like he hated himself for it.

and from that moment on, it was war.

it became a pattern.

every time you danced, ni-ki was watching. even when you weren’t facing him, you could feel his eyes on you, could hear the way his breathing hitched when you executed something flawlessly.

and he hated it.

he hated that he was starting to memorize the way your body moved.

hated that sometimes, in the middle of a routine, he caught himself admiring you.

so he did what he did best.

he made sure you knew that no matter how good you were, he was better.

snide remarks. smug glances. unnecessary corrections. if you so much as hesitated on a move, he was there with some offhand comment—some little dig to remind you that he wasn’t impressed.

even if he fucking was.

even if, late at night, when he was alone in the studio, he replayed the way you danced in his mind and hated himself for it. he felt like he was loosing it at this point

and so, when he found you alone in the studio that night, still dancing, still perfecting, still refusing to break—

it made something inside him snap.

ni-ki didn’t know when it started. when the hatred turned into something else. when his need to destroy you bled into a need to own you.

he found himself watching you too closely. studying you outside of the studio. noticing the way your hands flexed when you stretched, the way your lips parted when you were exhausted. it wasn’t just about beating you anymore.

it was about breaking you.

making you see him the way he saw you—consuming, inescapable, his.

it was fucking terrifying.

and yet, when he finally had you against the wall, his fingers pressing into your wrist, his breath mixing with yours—he realized something.

you weren’t running.

you were staring right back at him, daring him to do something.

and fuck—he might just do it.

please do not motify my works.

© echstacy 2025 - all rights reserved.

[arietem]

who is shoupe's daughter?

she is not a girly-girl, but she is soft. she loves dogs, especially big, goofy-looking ones. her favorite hobbies are cruising on her longboard, skinny dipping at sunrise, and riding her dirt bike. she is always filming something on her phone, making short movies. she is lonely but not desperate.

As Shoupe's daughter, you are caught between wanting to blend in with the pogues and making your dad safe by mingling with the kooks. You never really felt like you belonged anywhere. You're not really a pogue, but you are not really a kook either. Sure, you go to Kildare High School, and your house is on the Cut, but being the sheriff's daughter isn't really helping with where you stand with the pogues. On the other side are the kooks, who tolerate you at best and think of you as nothing more than a dirty pogue at worst. It's too bad that none of them took the time of day to get to know you and find out what you are actually about.

You love your dad, you do, but you can't stand for what the kooks are doing. The funny thing is, you can tell your dad doesn't either. He is keeping up appearances for both of your well-being and trying to change the system from the inside (his words). Unfortunately, the senior kooks are not happy with that, and neither are the other cops.

All of that to say, you are on your own most of the time. Sure, there are some friends you hang out with at school, but you can't say any of those relationships are particularly meaningful. Well, being on your own does have some plus sides to it. Everything you know, you taught yourself. You stand your ground, not one to back down or surrender.

masterlist

part 1 (coming soon)

[buckynats]

I asked @greseadraws to draw Harding ranting about the bookclub pick while Fel listens affectionately. Why go to bookclub when you can just have your girlfriend summarize the story in angry bursts of emotion instead?

Less chance of catching a stray arrow to the heart that way too

[millenianthemums]

i think Mabel sometimes just gets the giggles and her friends like to egg her on. i also think she’d find Bill’s weird stories funny in general

also using this to announce that the next fic chapter is basically ready, i’m just trying to decide if it’s too long or not. nobody’s bugged me about it or anything, i just wanna make sure people know the fic’s not dead.

[chessb0r3d]

i cracked the code.

[he1chouarts]

he was 100% about to say “nothing compared to you,” I cannot be convinced otherwise. this man is slippin

[mystilotls]

The escalation from "I'm going to graffiti motivational quotes" to "I'm going to play obnoxious sirens of my voice everytime you get close" to "I'm going to unite with the server to bury you alive with your home, and I'm going to plant trees so it looks like you were never there" is certainly something.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Wolverine from X-Men: Evolution was a gay man, or at the very least queer. My evidence is as follows:

No defining/memorable romantic relationships with women AT ALL during the show's run. Jean was a teenager, he was an adult, and - unlike the Ultimate X-Men comics which served as inspiration for this series - these two did not have a romantic relationship nor did they have any romantic tension, the relationship between them instead mirroring a brother/sister one. The same can be said about Logan's other high-profile comics romantic interest, Storm, where their relationship was more like siblings as well rather than anything with romantic undertones.

This scene with Captain America -

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

His reaction sent me to another dimension

[hanzajesthanza]

on the scale of yennefer and nenneke to emhyr and calanthe, what is your relationship with your mother in-law like

[suhnandmoon]

making profiles for new sns aus is the one thing i dread. what am i gonna make their usernames… what fandom am i gonna put them in…. im truing to think of stuff for them to say knowing that no one really reads the profiles so non of this matters in the first place

[widevibratobitch]

do i really want this relationship to continue tho if i genuinely feel worse after every interaction with her and she is in 89% responsible for my already precarious self esteem crashing and plummeting most severely in the span of just three years?

[minody]

while I was thinking about charli xcx and pop culture impacts, I'm ranking my most important charli xcx interviews from the brat era

1. Zane Lowe

2. GQ

3. honestly I haven't watched it in full but the comment "this is like watching a theatre kid talk to one of the coked out party gays in school on a crisp thursday morning at 7 am" really nails it.

Brittany Broski

negligible are the really corporate magazine ones like WSJ and Vogue Australia

[astranauticus]

compilation of my limbus company canto 6 + 6.5 livetweeting (because i forgot to livetweet the others) (except canto 4 but im not posting those.)

(attached image)

[lem-argentum]

it took me until dt to change rudy's hairstyle, but i ACTUALLY think he would've cut it back in post-stb when he became a reaper. the trope of "character cuts hair to feel more in control of their life" is cliché but REAL. and also the visual of him cutting it with his scythe is fun