#they’re not content creators either

[tariah23]

His videos are always so…

[grunge-mermaid]

If you genuinely think that an unofficial fan page should be treated the same as official social media accounts and legitimate customer service feedback, that’s a you problem, not the brand’s.

If you’re given multiple channels for feedback and you choose not to use any of them but instead only complain on an unofficial fan page, why would you expect polling data to reflect your opinion? It’s like not voting and then being outraged that your opinion holds less weight than a cast ballot

[letteredlettered]

feedback and fic in fandom (3 f's of our own)

This conversation about feedback on fic says everything I’ve been wanting to say better than I could say it. But I’ll go ahead and try anyway.

Over the last five years or so there have been some great discussions around the rise of commodification of fanworks and decline of fandom community. This commodification looks a bit like enshittification of the internet: a cool site exists; its popularity makes someone realize they can get money from it; it has more and more ads; the site adds features to drive engagement, including The Algorithm; the things that made the site cool start to fall away. The site exists now as a vehicle purely to get clicks, and the people on it are on it solely to get clicks—to make money, to be successful, for some kind of social cachet.

AO3 doesn’t have advertisements. It’s not making money. But what is happening to fandom is proof of concept that enshittification changes the way we as humans engage. A cool website in 2004 was often a community space where you could meet people, have conversations, find cool things, and make cool things. A cool website in 2024 is either a content farm that will continually feed you enough content to hold your attention, or a social media site where your participation will come with stats to show you whether you are holding the attention of others.

AO3 wasn’t built to be a community space. It doesn’t have great functions for meeting people and having conversations. The idea was that, because fandom community spaces already existed, AO3 would serve the part of that community where you can find the cool things and store the cool things you made. It was meant to be a library in a city, not the whole city itself.

But it was also never meant to be a website in 2024, a content farm constantly generating content solely for your clicks and eyeballs and ad revenue, or a social media site where the content creators themselves vie for your clicks and eyeballs.

The most common talking point when people discuss the enshittification of fandom is the folks out there who are treating AO3 as that first kind of enshittified website: the content farm. This discussion is about how people treat fanfic as a product for consumption.

The post that kicked off the discussion on @sitp-recs’s blog was about someone who wasn’t getting very many kudos or comments on their fic, and was feeling pretty demoralized about it, then joined a discord server and found an entire channel dedicated to people loving their fic. But those on that server had never come to share that love with the author, which the author found really discouraging.

There are more and more stories like this. Someone on tiktok pulls a quote from a fic on AO3 and makes a 10-second video with them staring at a wall, the quote pasted at the bottom, music playing over it. It has 100,000 hearts, and 100 comments with people gushing over the fic, which has 80 kudos on AO3. Overall, people notice more and more hits on their fics, but fewer and fewer comments or even kudos. Fewer and fewer people seem to feel the need to interact with the author, instead treating the fic like a product to be used and discarded—which the enshittified internet (a stunning feature of late-stage capitalism!) encourages. The fandom community is dying, these stories conclude.

I agree. 100%. Both of the stories above have happened to me—viral tiktoks about my fic, secret discord channels to follow and discuss my fic—and let me tell you, it fucking sucks.

But from these observations about fandom enshittification, the discussion continues in a very odd direction. The solution to the death of fandom community is our favorite enshittification buzzword: engagement. We should engage the authors. They’re producing these products for free. We consume them at no cost. We must demonstrate our gratitude by paying them back.

It’s as though the capitalist consumption that the enshittified web encourages is so ingrained within us that we must think in terms of payment, in terms of exchange, transaction. Or as though, by forgoing payment, authors are some kind of martyrs defying capitalism, and the only way to honor their great sacrifice is comments and kudos.

Indeed, the discourse around this sometimes does veer away from capitalist rhetoric into something that smells almost religious in desperation. Authors are gods who bestow us mere mortals with the fruits of their labor benevolently, through love; the least we can do is worship them. Meanwhile the authors adopt the groveling sentiment of starving artists: I produce great art; I only humbly ask that you feed me in return.

These kinds of entreaties make my skin crawl for a number of reasons. I’m not a god. I’m not writing because I love you. I don’t expect your worship or even your praise.

I think the thing that disturbs me the most about it is that it suggests that authors (or, if the OP is feeling generous fan work creators) are the most important people in fandom. I’ve even seen posts stating that without creators, fandom wouldn’t exist—as though readers aren’t just as important. As though conversations where people discuss characterizations and plot points and randomly spin out interpretations and ideas and thoughts related to canon are meaningless. I’ve even seen people scramble to include folks having these discussions as “creators,” as though realizing that these people are necessary and integral to fandom communities but unable to drop the idea that the producers are the ones who are important. As though that person who just lurks can never count.

Is this what community is? When you join the queer community, are you expected to produce a product of your queerness? If not, must you actively participate and give back to the queer community in order to be considered a part of it? Or is it enough that you are queer, that you exist as a queer person and want to be around others who are queer, you want to be a part of something? What is community, anyway?

The problem with people raising the authors above everyone else in the community and demanding that tribute be paid is that they are decrying the “content farm” style of 2024 website out of one side of their mouth, but out of the other side are instead demanding that AO3 become a 2024-style social media website. Authors are influencers. “Engagement” and clicks are the things that really matter. They are in fact suggesting that the way to solve the commodification of fanfic is by “paying authors back” with stats.

Before anyone comes at me with the idea that comments aren’t just “stats,” I will clarify what I mean. There are literally hundreds of posts on tumblr alone claiming that any comment “helps” the author. Someone replies that they are shy to comment. Someone else replies that incoherent keyboard smashes, a single emoji, or the comment “kudos” are all that is required to satisfy the author, all that is required as tribute—all that is required as payment to keep this economy healthy.

I’m not condemning the comments that are keyboard smashes or emojis or a single kind word. I receive them. They make me happy. If anyone wants to leave such a comment on my fics, I’m really grateful for it. But this is not community-building. This is a transaction. In @yiiiiiiiikes25’s excellent response in the post linked at the beginning, they point out that “you have a cool hat” is something that is “perfectly nice” to hear from someone—and it is! We all want to be told we have a cool hat! But as they go on to say, what builds community is interactions that are deep and specific, interactions that are rich in quality, not in quantity. A kudos or a comment that says only ❤️are lovely things to receive, but they don’t build community.

My reaction, when I see people begging for kudos and comments as the only means by which to keep fandom community alive, is very close to @eleadore's. I want to say, “No. Readers do not need to comment or kudos. Believe not these hucksters who claim to know the appropriate method of fandom participation. Participate as you feel able, or not at all; nothing is required of you.”

I’ve been told before (several times) that I’m not qualified to participate in such discussions because I am an established author who has some fics with very high stats. It doesn’t matter that I have also been a new writer with almost no one reading my fics. It doesn’t matter that I still write in new fandoms where no one in that fandom knows me. It doesn’t matter that I, like any human being, still care about receiving recognition and attention and praise.

And maybe that’s correct. I personally don’t think that billionaires have a place in deciding the direction of the economy, and--if we're really going to consider fandom an economy--in fandom terms, if I’m not a billionaire, or even a millionaire, I’m definitely in the infamous “one percent.” So, just as no one wants to hear Elon Musk say “money isn’t everything,” maybe it’s not my place to say “kudos isn’t required, actually.”

That said, I’m not the only one who has a problem with the stats-based discourse around fandom community. However, the main counter-response to this discussion I see goes something like this: you shouldn’t be writing fic for validation. If you’re writing for attention, you’re doing it for the wrong reason. Authors should write fic because they love it without any expectation of return.

This is, in my opinion, missing the point of what is meant by fandom community.

I wrote fanfic before I knew that fanfic, as a concept, existed. I read books; I wanted them to be different; I wrote little stories for myself with new endings, with self-inserts, with cross-overs, with alternate universes. I did it for myself in the 90s. It never occurred to me that anyone else would do this, much less that people would share.

As @faiell points out—creating and sharing are two different things. I created fics for myself, but I decided to share them in the early 2000s because other people might like them, too. And of course, I wanted to hear whether other people liked them. How could I not? I might decorate my home just for me and not for anyone else’s preferences, but when people come over and say my house is nice, how can I not enjoy that? And if a lot of people think my house is nice, which encourages me to post pictures of it online, isn’t it understandable I might do so with the hope that more people will say my house is nice? And, honestly, if no one is appreciating my pictures, I probably won’t continue to go through the trouble of taking them and posting them. I’ll just enjoy my house that I decorated without sharing, the end.

When I found out there were whole fannish communities where people discussed canon and tossed ideas around about it, made theories and prompts and insights into the characters, fics they had written and recs for other fics and analyses of fics and art based on fics and fics based on art—I wanted to be a part of that, too. Now, sometimes, I write fic not out of an internal need to do so but out of a desire to participate in that community.

The idea that we write fic only for the love of it, then post it only because we possess it, is a process entirely centered on the self. It’s fandom in a vacuum. The idea that we share this thing, that we feel pleasure if someone likes it but feel nothing at all if no one says anything about it, that it’s completely okay to be ignored and unseen—that’s not what a community is either. That’s some weird sort of self-aggrandizement through self-effacement—because yes, there is often a weird kind of virtue-signaling in this kind of discourse.

I say this as someone who has virtue-signaled in that way: “some people write for stats, but I write for myself.” It’s bullshit. Sure, I write for myself, but why post it on the internet? Honestly, said virtue has a whiff of the capitalist machine, which would like you to produce for the sake of production, work for the sake of work. The noblest among us expect no recompense for that which they give!

The reason that I’m bringing this back around to capitalism is that capitalism actively works to dismantle community. The reason that folks are out here pleading for “engagement” in order to “pay back” authors for the products they give us “for free” is because people no longer even have the language to discuss how to participate in meaningful community. And frankly, how to build back fandom community, in the face of enshittification, is getting harder and harder to see.

But I do think that if we value fanfic and the fanfic community, it’s really, really not constructive to judge whether someone’s reasons for writing fanfic are valid. It’s also weird to me that it would be considered wrong that someone’s reason for sharing fanfic is because they would like to receive some recognition for it, when in fact that seems to be the most natural reason in the world for sharing something so private and vulnerable with the world.

Let’s go back to that idea of how hurtful it is to find out your fanfic is trending on tiktok without anyone from tiktok saying anything to you about your fic, or how it can be painful to find out there’s a secret discord channel dedicated to your fic. The people who respond to that with, “Ah, but you shouldn’t be writing to get attention!” are missing the point. The fic did get attention. It got lots. Attention obviously wasn't why the writer was writing--they were writing to participate, and they didn't get to. At all.

However, if your conclusion is that the author was upset because these particular stats were not accruing under this author’s profile, thereby preventing them from achieving the vaunted status of BNF and influencer—I don’t know, maybe you’re right. But I don’t think that’s why I, personally, have been hurt by these things, and I doubt it’s what hurt the people in these posts either. They’re hurt because they want to participate, and they have been systematically excluded by the very people they thought were part of the community they thought they could participate in.

Sure, if those folks from tiktok and the discord server all came and showered the author with kudos and comments that said “kudos,” the author might have felt satisfied enough with the quantity of this recognition that they would continue writing. But in the end, this still does nothing to address the problem of fandom community, in which the deep, meaningful recognition, interactions, and relationships in fandom are getting harder and harder to have and to build, as a result of how people now expect to engage in online spaces.

So, how to address the problem of fandom community? You probably read this long, long post hoping that I had an answer, and for that I must apologize. I don’t have solutions. My intent was to be descriptive, rather than prescriptive. I wished to outline the problems that I’m seeing in what was hopefully a slightly new or at least thought-provoking way, rather than offer solutions.

But, now that I’m talking about being prescriptive, maybe I can offer one suggestion, which is—maybe the solution to this isn’t about prescribing behavior. I do understand the irony in writing a prescription saying we shouldn’t prescribe people, but I’m going to write it anyway:

Maybe we shouldn’t be telling anyone the appropriate reasons for writing fanfic or for sharing it. Maybe we shouldn’t be telling readers they need to kudos or need to comment. If we’re going to go pointing fingers, we should be pointing at the institutions of capitalism that have made the internet what it is today—but I don’t think that’s going to solve the problem either.

But I do think that describing this problem, understanding what it actually is, not blaming readers for it and not blaming authors for it—I do think that helps. The discussion I linked at the beginning of this post is what I think of as the fandom I miss, the fandom that's now harder and harder to access, the fandom that is dying. That fandom was a social space where people had opinions and disagreed and went back and forth and gazed at their navels and then talked about Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

In the words of @yiiiiiiiikes25, it was a fuckin’ discussion about hats. And we’re hungry for it.

[swordsandholly]

Comfort Creator

Ghost who downloads tiktok only because Soap and Gaz made him so they could send him memes. He hates the app. Thinks everyone on it is just talking way too much about nothing. Finds the consumerism and attention seeking to be beyond annoying.

Ghost who still finds himself scrolling when he needs a mental break from paperwork.

Eventually, he realizes he keeps getting fed this one creator’s videos. It’s the tea reviews that reel him in. They’re nothing special, just them sitting in front of the camera sipping on some artesian tea while chatting about their day and the flavors.

Before long, though, he’s watching all their content. From random rambles to outfit videos to movie talks. They just have a very soothing voice is all. Nothing to do with their pretty face or obviously too-kind disposition. A sweet little thing; so unlike him.

He officially follows three people now.

The thing about Ghost is, he doesn’t sleep. Well, he does, but it’s either like the dead when he’s exhausted himself beyond what his body can handle or fraught with nightmares. He isn’t sure what compels him to do it the first time, but Ghost puts on his their tea review playlist; just lets it play through while he lays in bed. He’s never slept so well. Somehow their voice just makes everything else quiet - like it flips a switch in some primal part of his brain.

At some point he comes across the term “comfort creator” and realizes that’s exactly what he’s got.

A few months pass and Ghost finds himself on medical leave with absolutely nothing to do and all the time in the world. He decides to try some of tea his favorite little creator has reviewed - even some of the bad ones, just to see if he agrees. Maybe he’ll find a new favorite to keep on base.

He makes his way to a local high-end tea shop. All loose leaf and custom blends from various brands and places around the world. He’s far too aware of how out of place he looks - a hulking man in all black and an arm cast in this frilly little shop. A real bull in a china shop.

Ghost’s back goes ram rod straight when an all too familiar voice tries to get his attention. He turns comically slowly, heart pounding in his ears. There they are, tapping his arm and asking if he’ll be so kind as to get that strawberry rose blend down from the top shelf that’s just out of reach. He does, of course, spluttering through an awkward “you’re welcome” and kicking himself when they scamper away to the register before he can introduce himself.

But now he knows they’re close, a shop they must frequent, and has plenty of time on leave. All he has to do is find the right opportunity to make proper conversation. How hard could that be?

[phoenix-creates]

Genshin Impact, Both the Game and the Community, Cannot Hide Their Colorism or Racism Anymore

This is going to be a long read. I refuse to stay silent.

I've played Genshin Impact on and off since 2021 when I was first introduced to it. I drew fanart but rarely participated in the fandom, as Genshin has one of the most toxic and racist fandoms that takes pleasure in driving off content creators of color, perpetuating racism within the communities, as well as harassing and threatening people who dare try to speak out about it. But, for as racist as the fandom is, what can I expect from them considering Hoyoverse as a whole has it's own set of racial problems.

It is clear from the release of Sumeru to the recent teasers of Natlan. Hoyoverse has colorism problems and racism problems and we're going to take a look at them here.

Before we begin, I want to take a moment to say that there will be a lot of information presented in this post. I ask that you read carefully and be considerate of every talking point presented.

Now, let's talk about Sumeru.

Sumeru, the fourth region released in Genshin Impact, draws a lot of real world inspiration from Middle Eastern culture, with even the geography mimicking the real world geography of China and India. The characters, music, food, and geography all draw inspiration from various different real world cultures, and just from a few glances, it is easy to see exactly where and what cultures they’re taking from.

Candace for instance, from name to appearance, draws inspiration from kandakes, which was the title of a queen mother in Nubian kingdoms. Even her accessories, her talents, and her weapon take pieces from other aspects of Egyptian culture.

Cyno, another character from Sumeru, is dressed in garb that mimics depictions of Anubis, the ancient Egyptian God of funerary rites and protector of graves. As with Candace, his talents and abilities reference Egypt.

Even Sethos, a newcomer to the game and also a Sumeru character, has clothes, skills, and a name that alludes to either the Egyptian God Set, the god of the desert and storms, the Egyptian pantheon in general, or the Ancient Egyptian King Seti/Sethos.

These three characters are tanned, anyone can see that, but if you take a closer look you'll notice that they're all around the same shade. Considering all three of them take inspiration from real world Egyptian culture, it is insane to me that they're all a similar shade of the same slightly tanned tone. It is unacceptable that they're all a shade or two away from white when all of them has some aspect of Egyptian culture in their character.

To further shed light on Sumeru's racist sins, there exists a long standing conflict in Sumeru regarding The Eremites, a race of people descended from the ancient, now-collapsed civilization who primarily live in the desert. These people are the enemies in the game. You read that right. The desert dwellers are the enemies and not only that, but unlike the treasure hoarders who disappear into smoke when defeated, the Eremites collapse to the ground like the Fatui.

Why do the Treasure Hoarders, a band of pale skinned thieves, get away but the Eremites, treated as if their culture is lesser, presumably die?

Worse than that, there is a long quest in Sumeru where a white academic from Sumeru spends nearly the entire length of the quest insulting an Eremite. The quest I'm referring to, Golden Slumber, is a multi part quest that has the Traveler accompanying a researcher named Tirzad who is exploring the ruins in the deserts of Sumeru. Throughout the quest, Tirzad spends most of his time complaining and insulting Jeht and Jebrael, calling the latter an uneducated brute whenever Jebrael tries to do anything. And the Traveler is no help, with dialogue options remaining neutral instead of rightfully telling Tirzad to stop.

What we have here is a white man stereotyping a man of color and assuming things about himself and his race due to his own racist biases.

Many players have called out the racism in Tirzad’s actions and this quest overall, but Tirzad at multiple times fails to see the error of his ways and leads the group into life threatening situations simply because he can’t believe an “uneducated desert brute” could possibly know more than him.

I could sit here and pick apart more aspects of Sumeru and it's failures to properly represent the culture it's using, but I want to get into the inciting incident of this entire post, which is Natlan.

When the teaser for Natlan was released, it was just another failure on Hoyoverse's part. To understand why, we can break it down into parts, starting with the character leaks:

Mavuika, presumably the pyro archon, with a name inspired by Māori fire deity Mahuika.

Ororon, a mispelling of the Yoruba god Ọlọrun, the creator deity in the Yoruban pantheon.

Kinich, named after the Mayan god of the sun.

Iansan, another character whose name comes from the Yoruba pantheon.

Xilonen, this name coming from one of the aspects of the Aztec goddess of maize and the goddess of sustenance.

Kachina, name inspiration directly lifted from the religious beliefs of the indigenous Pueblos people.

Chasca, name coming from the Incan goddess of dawn and twilight.

Citlali, a name derived from Nahuatl, which is a language from ancient Mexico.

Are you seeing something interesting with these characters?

Hoyoverse has shoved multiple different cultures under one region and whitewashed every character. They did the bare bones work of lifting names and small design inspirations from so many different cultures and using them in the laziest way possible. If not pale white, the few characters who are tanned are a mere shade darker than Cyno and almost the same shade as Kaeya. There is nothing darker in sight with any of these characters.

Cultural representation matters. If Hoyoverse can explore the cultures of Germany (Mondstadt), China (Liyue), Japan (Inazuma), and France (Fontaine), it is insane that the same sort of love couldn't be given to both Sumeru and Natlan, both nations where we should rightfully be seeing more people of color.

(Side note, we should be seeing more people of color in the previous regions as well, even as NPCs. Bi-racial people exist all over the world, not just in America. Quick google searches will show what I mean.)

I can already hear the arguments against me.

"But Hoyoverse is an East Asian company! They don't need to/don't care about representation!"

Oh really? Because Lilithgames, the company behind Dislyte, is a company based in Shanghai, China. And when you compare the variety of skin tones of Dislyte to Genshin, you cannot make the argument that a company based in Asia doesn't care about diversity. Hoyoverse does not seem to care, but don't make it a blanket statement for all companies.

Still not convinced? Bluepoch, a small Chinese company behind Reverse:1999, is responsible for this character:

Smite, a game published by Hi-Rez Studios and Tencent Games (A Chinese publisher), has a character based on Olorun. And they did just fine in their depiction of him:

And the director behind Tekken 7, Katsuhiro Harad, shared concept art of an Arab fighter they want to add to the game. Why? Because he wanted to make sure he was respecting Middle Eastern culture and asked for feedback to see what can be improved. He posted this concept art and asked the community for input to make Shaheen as accurate as possible:

But sure. Asian companies don't care.

"It's a fantasy world! It doesn't have to 1-to-1 mimic the real world!"

Oh really? So why are characters named after real world cultural figures, why is the food based around real world food, why are outfits somewhat inspired by real world garbs then? If you're gonna draw inspiration from something and use the real world in your game, the world is a diverse place. It is not all white nor all slightly tanned.

"You can always stop playing the game."

I could, but that would mean letting them win and get away with their racism. It would mean letting Hoyoverse think this is the norm instead of the outlier. It would mean staying silent during injustice. I can do a lot of things, and exposing their issues is one of them.

"It could be difficult for them to implement dark-skinned characters."

It actually is not. Look at all the examples from other games and companies discussed previously. It's not hard. Plus, take a look at Wriothesley's concept art:

Originally, he had a different skin tone. So characters with different tones existed but got lightened and changed over time.

"I don't want [insert race here] in my fantasy game/it doesn't matter!"

Honey, you're just racist.

"Wow, I get it now. This is bad. What can I do to help?"

There are several ways:

Use Surveys and Feedback when you log into Hoyoverse games. This problem extends past Genshin, into HSR and ZZZ (a game whose ads promote itself with rap music and yet noticeably lack playable dark skinned characters so far). Use the platforms that they gave us in order to spread the word. Tell them that you're dissatisfied with the cultural appropriation and disappointed in Hoyoverse for taking certain cultures and whitewashing them. Email genshin_cs@hoyoverse.com if the feedback buttons aren't working for some reason.

Stop putting money into the game. A lot of companies listen when there's monetary loss involved. Show them that you mean business and stop supporting their business. You can also leave a one star and a review with your thoughts on their cultural appropriation.

Amplify the voices of those speaking out. There are plenty of posts out there better worded than mine that go in depth into a lot of these problems. Multiple voice actors of all ethnicities and backgrounds have spoken up about Hoyoverse’s injustices as well (many of the VAs from the game, including the voices of Albedo, Sucrose, Layla, Beidou, and even VAs for smaller NPCs have spoken out). When you see those posts, share them. Spread the word. Get those voices out there.

Shut down those silencing others. For as many posts out there trying to bring more light to this issue, there are others who try to shut us down. They continue to be racist and double down that nothing is wrong with Natlan. Do not let them get away with this. Show them this post or the myriad of other posts that exist. Tell them to shut the fuck up. Call them out. But don't let them silence anyone else.

If you've made it to the end and learned something, I'm glad. If you've made it to the end and want to further support me or anyone else in this fight, share this post and others like it.

Thank you for reading.

EDIT: As noted in this ask, the naming conventions of characters from other regions as opposed to Sumeru and Natlan. I’ll be adding a separate reblog to this post with a full list of naming conventions from each region.

[fangdokja]

This Valentine’s, your heart might be the last thing you give away.

❤︎ Synopsis. This Valentine’s, four enemies are about to learn that love isn’t sweet—it’s twisted, obsessive, and definitely not the happily-ever-after they were hoping for. Between roses, revenge, and unexpected affection, survival may just be the most romantic thing you’ll experience.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Various x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella: Valentine's Special. Red Roses, Black Hearts - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 10,318

Valentine’s Day.

The dreaded season of saccharine, mass-produced romance, where the air reeks of cheap perfume and artificial chocolate, where every single person you know—whether it be classmates, coworkers, or that one annoying neighbor who plays obnoxious love songs at full volume—suddenly acts like they’ve ascended to a higher plane of existence because they have the privilege of holding clammy hands with another human being.

It is disgusting.

And you, well, you would rather gargle bleach than partake in this glorified corporate scam of a holiday.

It’s not like you’re bitter about being single—no, that would imply you even wanted to date in the first place. Your aversion to real-life romance isn’t a quirky personality trait or some cute little eccentricity. It is a deeply ingrained, visceral disgust, an allergic reaction that sends metaphorical hives across your soul whenever someone suggests that you, you, might want to experience “love.”

No. You don’t want it. You don’t need it. And you sure as hell don’t need a day dedicated to parading around in pink and red like some kind of overgrown toddler hopped up on love hormones and mass-market capitalism.

Of course, none of this means you aren’t completely obsessed with romance in fiction. But not just any romance. No, your tastes are far more refined—sophisticated, even.

You don’t waste your time with vanilla, run-of-the-mill love stories about two people meeting in a coffee shop and awkwardly flirting over lattes. No, you prefer your romance with a side of psychological horror, a dash of violent obsession, and an unhealthy dose of possessiveness.

That’s right. You read—and write—male yandere content.

Fictional love? Amazing. Real-life love? Revolting.

There is a fine line between passion and psychopathy, and you would rather be dragged to the depths of hell by an obsessive, controlling, morally bankrupt fictional man than even consider the prospect of holding hands with a real person.

You’ve built an empire of anonymity, a carefully curated online persona where you unleash your deepest, darkest, most unhinged thoughts onto unsuspecting readers. Nobody knows your secret, and nobody ever will. By day, you are the quiet, aloof, slightly unsettling individual that people cautiously respect but never truly understand. By night, you are a prolific creator of stories so deranged that even the most experienced horror fans would hesitate before clicking on your masterlist.

It is a beautiful life. A perfect life.

Except for the fact that, no matter how hard you try, you cannot escape the insufferable assault of Valentine’s Day.

The pink. The flowers. The terrible, terrible poetry plastered across every store window. The couples who think they’re being subtle with their PDA but are actually one step away from engaging in unspeakable acts right in the middle of the sidewalk.

It makes you want to die. Or kill. Either works.

Even your professors, the very people who should be upholding the sanctity of academia, have succumbed to the plague. There is an entire essay prompt dedicated to writing about the meaning of love, and you can already feel the bile rising in your throat at the thought of having to regurgitate some sappy nonsense about “soulmates” and “eternal devotion.”

You stare at the prompt. The prompt stares back at you. A staring contest between two soulless voids.

You could write about how love is a chemical reaction, nothing more than a biological impulse designed to ensure the continuation of the species.

You could write about how love is an illusion, a social construct perpetuated by media to manipulate lonely people into believing they need another person to feel whole.

Or… you could write about him.

The perfect man. The kind of man who would rip out his own heart and place it at your feet as an offering. The kind of man who would kill for you. Die for you. Stalk you from the shadows, leaving behind cryptic, bloodstained notes that would send shivers down the spine of anyone who wasn’t completely deranged (which, unfortunately for your mental stability, you absolutely are).

The kind of man who only exists in the realms of fiction, where love is not soft, nor gentle, nor kind, but something dark, twisted, and entirely consuming.

You smile.

Your professor is going to need therapy after reading your paper.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, you have a yandere fic to update.

────────────

You live in the comfort of your room, tucked away from the world, basking in the glow of your screen. The outside is a horror show, a grotesque landscape of expectations and human interaction that you’d rather not partake in. You could stay locked up forever, hunched over your laptop, writing the most depraved, spine-chilling, erotically twisted stories known to mankind—and you would—if not for her.

Her.

The bane of your existence. The one force of nature capable of tearing you away from your self-imposed isolation.

Your best friend.

You’re not entirely sure how it happened. You’re certain she just decided one day that you were her responsibility, like a stray kitten she picked up off the street and forced into domestication. You didn’t agree to this. You didn’t want this. And yet, here she is, constantly invading your space, forcing you to experience social interaction against your will.

And the worst part? She’s a pervert.

Not just any pervert. An extreme pervert. A monstrous, unholy abomination of a pervert.

You, despite writing the most detailed, graphic, heart-stoppingly intense smut known to man, feel absolutely nothing. Your readers foam at the mouth over your work, leaving you comments that range from awe to pure degeneracy. Meanwhile, you sit there, dead inside, typing out the filthiest, most depraved acts with the same level of emotion one might have while compiling tax documents.

But her? Oh, she eats it up. Devours it. Worships it.

She texts you at ungodly hours with things like:

“BRO. BRO. THIS SCENE?? THIS SCENE??? I’M GOING TO PASS OUT.”

Or

“You’re lying to me. There is NO WAY you’re a virgin. NO WAY. YOU HAVE TO HAVE DONE THIS BEFORE.”

And your personal favorite:

“HOW ARE YOU NOT HORNY RIGHT NOW. EXPLAIN.”

It’s exhausting.

She has no shame. She’ll read your work aloud while you’re trapped in a car with her, watching your soul leave your body as she dramatizes every sinful act with the enthusiasm of a Broadway actor. She’ll corner you and demand explanations for why a character moaned a certain way, as if you have an answer other than, “I don’t know, it just sounded right.”

Your dignity is in shambles.

And what’s worse? She can make anything sound perverted. Anything.

You could be eating a slice of pizza, minding your own business, and she’ll somehow turn it into an innuendo. You could be talking about the weather, and she’ll find a way to make it sexual. The sky is looking a little gray today? “Yeah, just like the color of my soul after that last chapter you wrote. That ruined me. That made me feral. I’m in shambles. You’re a monster.”

You sigh deeply. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve sighed today.

You’re sitting at your desk, typing away, trying to ignore the looming presence behind you. She’s reading over your shoulder again, eyes scanning the screen at an inhuman speed. You can feel her judgment. It’s suffocating.

Then she lets out a dramatic gasp.

“Oh. My. Damn.”

“No,” you say, preemptively shutting her down.

“You did not just write that.”

“I did.”

“That’s illegal.”

“It is not.”

“That should be illegal.”

“You’re overreacting.”

She grabs your shoulders and shakes you. “HOW ARE YOU NOT SCREAMING WHILE WRITING THIS???”

You blink at her, unamused. “Why would I scream?”

“Because this is HOT. I’m sweating. I’m disoriented. I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

She grips your arm. “You’re a menace to society.”

You turn back to your screen, continuing to type as if she isn’t having a crisis right next to you. You’re used to this. It happens every time. You don’t know why she keeps acting like this is new information.

She groans, falling back onto your bed dramatically, arm draped over her forehead. “I don’t understand you. You have the power of God and degeneracy in your hands, and yet you feel NOTHING.”

“I’m here for the horror,” you remind her, voice monotone. “The thrill. The psychological torment.”

She sits up. “And the sex.”

You scowl. “I don’t care about the sex.”

“You write it really well for someone who doesn’t care.”

You shrug. It’s true. You do write it well. It’s not your fault that you have a gift. If anything, it’s a burden.

She narrows her eyes at you. “So you’ve never felt even a little bit—?”

“No.”

“Not once?”

“No.”

She exhales, long and suffering. “You’re broken.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“I have to be. You need a keeper.”

You roll your eyes. “I need to be left alone.”

“NEVER.”

She launches at you, wrapping her arms around you in a suffocating bear hug. You try to pry her off, but she’s strong—unreasonably strong. She’s always been like this. The kind of woman who could probably snap a grown man in half but still giggles at cute animals. The type to offer sage, older-sister advice to people in need, only to turn around and read the most degenerate smut imaginable.

You give up, slumping in her grasp. You’re used to this, too.

She rests her chin on your head. “So, when’s the next chapter coming out?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble into her arm. “Whenever.”

She gasps. “That’s not good enough.”

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You pause. Your eye twitches. “You say that, but it feels more like you’re holding me hostage.”

“Same thing.”

You sigh again. The longest, most suffering sigh known to mankind.

There is no escape.

────────────

The moment you agreed, she clasped her hands together like a demon about to perform a blood ritual.

"I knew you’d come around, my little goblin," she cooed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on steroids.

You stared at her, deadpan. "I want you to know that I have never hated myself more than in this moment."

She ruffled your hair like you were a golden retriever puppy who just learned how to sit. "And yet, you agreed. Love that for you. Love that for me. Love that for us."

You wanted to die. She could probably arrange that, but she was having too much fun watching you suffer.

———

This all started three days ago, when you were sick at home, curled up in bed with a fever, blissfully unaware that your best friend was about to declare war on your social ineptitude.

Somehow, against all logic and reason, you had a friend group. Well, they were more like her friends, and by extension, you were just there. If they were a pack of wolves, you were the black cat perched in the distance, watching, unblinking, knowing full well you were above the food chain nonsense.

That was until some idiot decided to open his mouth.

"Dude, why does she never go out? What, is she scared of people? I bet she’s never even been on a date."

Your best friend paused mid-drink, setting her bottle down with a slow, deliberate motion that sent warning signals to every single person at the table.

"The fuck did you just say?"

The guy shrugged, completely oblivious to the incoming hurricane. "I mean, no offense, but she just gives that, y’know, scary, reclusive serial killer vibe."

Silence.

Then, your best friend let out a laugh, one of those fake, manic laughs that made her seem like she was about to flip the entire table over. She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something deeply, deeply unholy.

"Oh, bet? You think my best friend—my personal goblin—is just some socially inept cryptid? You think she can’t get a date?"

The guy snorted. "I mean—"

"No, no, no, shut up. Shut the fuck up. You just declared war, asshole." She slammed her fist onto the table. "I will have her slaying at prom, and when she does, you’re gonna take your L like a little bitch."

"Dude, chill—"

"No, no, no, fuck you. I’m gonna make her so hot that when she walks into prom, everyone’s gonna be like ‘who’s that mysterious goddess’ and you’re gonna sit there in your crusty ass suit looking like an extra in a high school romcom."

The whole table was silent. She downed the rest of her drink like a shot, wiped her mouth, and pointed directly at the poor bastard.

"Watch me."

———

"No."

"Oh, come on, it won’t be that bad."

"No."

"Just a little blind date."

"No."

"Okay, what if it’s not a date? Just an interaction. A social experiment. Like putting a chimp in front of a mirror to see if it recognizes itself."

You stared at her, unimpressed. She beamed.

"No."

"You wound me," she sighed dramatically, flopping onto your bed as if her soul had been shattered by your sheer refusal to entertain her bullshit. "Do you not want to broaden your horizons? Experience life? Have someone fall madly in love with you and offer you their fortune?"

You turned your head ever so slightly to glare at her. She grinned.

"No."

"Babe. Babe." She sat up, crisscross applesauce. "I need you to at least leave your house before I have to start smuggling you vitamin D supplements like a shady drug dealer."

"I get vitamin D from my phone."

She looked personally insulted. "That is the saddest shit I’ve ever heard."

"Then leave me alone."

She gasped, clutching her chest. "Betrayal. Backstabbed. Left for dead. I hope you know this is going to be war."

———

And war it was.

The next day, she was outside your house. 7 AM. Dressed like a fucking FBI agent. Sunglasses. Black suit. Earpiece.

"Ma’am, step outside the vehicle."

You shut the window.

The next day, she showed up at your job. (You didn’t even tell her where you worked. She just knew.)

"Hey, babe," she greeted, all smiles and sunshine. "What time do you get off? There’s someone I want you to meet."

You turned and walked the other way.

The next day, you were grocery shopping. She cornered you in the cereal aisle.

"Surprise bitch, bet you thought you’d seen the last of me."

You gripped your basket tighter.

"You will go on this date."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "What if they’re rich?"

You hesitated.

Her grin turned victorious. "I knew it, you little capitalist gremlin."

"I will set this entire aisle on fire."

"And that’s why I love you, babe. Now, let’s talk outfits."

────────────

You stare at the massive stack of papers in front of you like it's a corpse that just plopped onto the dinner table. A thick pile of documents, neatly arranged (a feat you did not think possible for her), bound together with an actual fucking paperclip.

"Alright, bitch," your best friend announces, slamming her hands down on the table with enough force to rattle your soul, "we're finding you a man."

You want to die.

"I really don't think—"

"Shut up."

"But—"

"Shut. Up." She slides the first page in front of you with the precision of an executioner. "Now, look at these premium selections. Hand-picked by yours truly."

You glance at the first paper. It lists a name, age, occupation, social status, and what appears to be a 'Yandere Rating' out of ten. Your soul attempts to astral project.

"Why does this have a yandere rating."

"Because you love that toxic, possessive, I-would-murder-for-you shit, don't act like you don't. I read your stories, bitch."

You close your eyes. "I never should've told you about that."

"You didn’t. I found out."

"Even worse."

She ignores you, shuffling the papers with the excitement of a game show host. "Okay, let’s see. This one—absolute beast. Ultra-rich, emotionally stunted, crazy in the head but hot. Probably gonna pin you against a wall and tell you he can't live without you within the first three dates. Very murder-y. A solid 9.5/10 yandere rating. Thoughts?"

You blink. "That sounds terrible."

She cackles. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Bitch, I will expose your AO3."

Your face remains neutral, but internally, you’re already calculating how quickly you can erase your existence from the internet.

She slaps another paper onto the table. "Okay, next up—he's got a crime record."

"Absolutely not."

"Listen, listen, it's not murder, okay? It’s just minor felonies. Some fraud, a little blackmail, typical rich people crime—he’s clean otherwise."

"I literally don't even want to date."

"Yes, and yet here we are." She flips through the stack before pausing, then, without hesitation, crumples an entire sheet of paper and tosses it into the trash. "Nope. This one's ugly."

You exhale slowly. "You’re judging a criminal less harshly than an ugly man."

"Priorities." She shrugs, as if this is the most obvious fact in the world. "If they're gonna be toxic, they have to be fine as hell. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

"I don’t think that’s how—"

"Ohhh, this one!" She practically vibrates as she holds up another paper. "Listen. He’s possessive, dominant, completely depraved, but he’s got the money to spoil you rotten, and he’s super hot. A high-quality psycho."

You press your fingers to your temple. "This is literally a human trafficking scenario."

"But he’s rich."

"So is Jeff Bezos."

"Exactly."

You stare at her. "Do you even hear yourself."

She leans forward, her grin sharp. "Yes. And I stand by it."

You take a slow, deep breath, contemplating your life choices, then glance at the remaining stack. "Are all of these just different variations of ‘hot psychopath’?"

"No. Some are just regular psychopaths."

You stare at her. "...How did you even get these?"

"Connections."

"What connections?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No."

"Good. Now, next on the list—" She pauses, frowns, and immediately chucks another paper into the trash. "Nope, too soft. You’d step on him, and he’d say ‘thank you.’"

"Just kill me."

"We need balance!" she insists, gesturing wildly. "You’re emotionally dead inside, so we need someone who can handle that without crumbling into dust. If we throw in another doormat, it’s gonna be pathetic. What you need is someone who can keep up with your depressing ass and also fuck you stupid."

You violently choke on air.

"You’re deranged," you rasp out.

She merely grins. "And yet, you’re still here listening to me."

"Because I literally have no choice."

She slaps a new document in front of you. "Alright, final one for now. Listen to this. Business empire, genius, emotionally bankrupt but functional, probably into some nasty shit but looks good in a suit."

You eye the paper. "This sounds like a corporate mafia drama waiting to happen."

"Exactly. And we both know you’d eat that shit up."

You don’t answer. She doesn’t need you to. The smirk on her face tells you she already knows she’s won.

She leans back in her chair, utterly self-satisfied. "So. Who’s it gonna be?"

You stare at the remaining stack, then at your best friend, then at the way your soul is currently floating ten feet above your body.

"You know what," you mutter, defeated. "Just pick for me."

Her grin is positively diabolical. "Oh, bitch, you’re gonna regret that."

You already do.

────────────

You sit slumped over in your chair, staring blankly at the absurdly thick stack of documents your best friend just dumped on the table like she was presenting the results of a scientific breakthrough. You have suffered long and hard for this moment. And by suffered, you mean you had to endure watching her go through an entire lineup of would-be suitors like some kind of overenthusiastic auctioneer while you stared into the abyss, hoping it would finally stare back and drag you into eternal peace.

But here you are, still breathing, against your will.

“Alright, after an excruciatingly thorough vetting process, four candidates have survived. I know, tragic.” Your best friend sighs dramatically, as if the whole ordeal was emotionally devastating for her. It wasn’t. She’s enjoying this. You know she is.

She pushes the first file toward you, tapping it twice. “Now, before you say anything, I already know what’s on your mind—‘But aren’t they all just cliche tropes ripped straight out of a questionable romance novel?’”

“That is not what I was going to say,” you respond, monotone.

“You were thinking it,” she accuses. “And okay, fine, I admit it—yes, they’re cliché as hell, but trust me, darling, these are the closest to your… preferences. Or at least the closest you’ll get.” She leans forward, a glint in her eyes that spells danger. “Trust me. I can tell.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I don’t have preferences.” She ignores your comment.

"Alright, bitch. Four finalists. Four potential future providers of dick and distress." She claps her hands together with a grin so smug it should be illegal. "I know you don't give a single fuck, but I need you to understand that these are the best options available to your pathetic, unromantic ass."

You stare at her. "I hate you."

"Love you too, dumbass. Anyway." She dramatically flips a folder open. "Before you start bitching, let me clarify something. These guys? Technically, not yanderes."

You blink. "Then why am I here."

"Because they're the closest match to your degenerate tastes. Trust me, I can tell."

You press a hand to your forehead, contemplating if slamming your skull into the table would grant you the sweet release of unconsciousness.

Then you let out a long, slow sigh, resigning yourself to the inevitable. "Just do it."

She smirked. "You always make it sound like I'm about to execute you. But fine. Let’s start with the first one."

———

She yanked the first folder open and dramatically shoved the profile in front of your face. The rich prince, the untouchable student council president, the golden boy.

You glance at the file. His extracurriculars are a cursed list of everything you despise: fencing, business management, charity events, and what you dread most, hosting school galas.

“This motherfucker. Top of the hierarchy, heir to a ridiculous empire, and so disgustingly charming he could probably get away with tax fraud in broad daylight. He’s a genius, annoyingly good-looking, and has an ego the size of the national debt. Basically, a walking privilege check.”

You just stared at her. “I hate him already.”

“I know, right? That’s why you’ll get along so well. He’s the type to flirt with you just to piss you off. Loves playing the fool, but make no mistake—he’s got a god complex that even Jesus would side-eye. He’s also obscenely rich, so if nothing else, you can mooch off him. Plus, imagine the sex."

You immediately regretted breathing. “I don’t want to imagine that.”

She gave you a pitying look. "It’s okay, I’ll imagine it for you. I’d say he’d be the type to pin you down with a cocky little smirk and make you beg just because he can. The kind of guy who teases you for hours just to see how long you last before you break." She tilted her head in deep thought. "Yeah, he’d be insufferable about it. But you like a challenge, so it works."

You were considering launching yourself out the window. “Next.”

“Fine, fine. Now, this one’s fun.” She slapped open the second folder.

———

"The delinquent. Your classic bad boy. Most famous troublemaker in school. Absolute bastard. Arguably a feral animal with human rights."

You glance over the profile. Multiple suspensions, record-breaking number of detentions, rumors of gang affiliations. The worst part? Top physical scores, zero effort in academics, still passing with minimal attendance.

You stared at the profile. “Why does it say ‘once bit a teacher’ under notable achievements?”

“Because he did.” She snickered. “This guy’s a walking crime waiting to happen. Fights just for the hell of it. If a fire breaks out at school, he was probably involved. I don’t think he even knows what rules are. But the man is sharp. He’s the kind of guy who will break someone’s nose and walk off whistling. Imagine the sheer lawlessness of your dynamic.”

"Why."

"Because he's a menace. A hot one. And if you're going to be dead inside, at least let someone else do the thrill-seeking for you. Plus, look at these notes on his dating history—nonexistent. He's a territorial little shit who probably wouldn't even let you look at other men without giving you a possessive death glare. He'd fight a guy for breathing the same air as you."

You rub your temples. "Isn’t that just primal jealousy?"

"Yes. And it’s hot. And just imagine the sex,” she cooed.

“No.”

“Listen, this is important. He’d be rough, no doubt. Fast, reckless, all adrenaline. Probably the type to take you in places that are very much not legal or appropriate. And he’d absolutely mock you about everything. If you blush, he’s got ammo for years. You’d hate him, but in a fun way."

You wanted to detach your soul from your body. “Moving on.”

———

She snorted and opened the third folder. “Alright, this one’s different. The intelligent doctor and artist. A rare combination of someone who can both kill and heal you.”

You stare at the profile. High-level intellect. Medical prodigy. Specializes in surrealist paintings. No known scandals. Speaks in a way that makes people question their mortality.

You peered at the profile. “He seems... disturbingly normal compared to the others.”

“Oh, no, he’s not,” she assured you. "He’s just the quiet kind of unsettling. Genius intellect, ridiculously composed, and there’s something really fucking off about how serene he is. The kind of guy who watches people like they’re puzzles he already solved. He’s patient, calculated, and definitely has secrets you do not want to find out.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you muttered.

She grinned. “But wouldn’t he be hot about it? You’d think you were safe, and then bam—suddenly you’re alone with him, and he’s looking at you like you’re a rare artifact. He’s the type to say the most poetic, devastating shit in bed. Imagine him whispering some existential nonsense in your ear while ruining you. Tell me that wouldn’t be the most intense experience of your life."

“I refuse to answer that.”

“Anyway, he’s refined, patient, and he has the aura of someone who would casually sketch you while you’re sleeping.” She sighs dreamily. “Also, I have a strong suspicion he has some absolutely filthy thoughts beneath all that cold intelligence. You know the type. The ones who look all deep and poetic but actually have the most deranged kinks.”

Your soul leaves your body. “I don’t need to know this.”

She pats your shoulder. “You do.”

“I really don’t.”

———

“Boring ass,” she muttered, flipping open the last folder. “And finally, the academic. Your intellectual equal. Top scholar, scientist in the making, will probably end up running some research institute and using it for shady experiments."

You glance at the file. He’s at the top of every academic competition. Scores are beyond perfect. Cold, logical, reclusive.

“He’s the most similar to you,” she says. “Which is either really good or really bad.”

“Bad.”

“Good.” She smirks. “Because that means you two could theoretically hold an entire conversation just arguing over who’s smarter.”

“A fellow miserable overachiever. Fantastic,” you deadpanned.

“See? That’s why you’d get along. He’s practical, logical, and absolutely ruthless when it comes to proving a point. He’d challenge you constantly, and you’d hate how much you respect it. I guarantee your conversations would either be deep philosophical debates or petty arguments over who’s right about something stupid. And the sex—oh, the sex.”

You dropped your face into your hands. "Please stop."

She ignored you. "With him, it would be clinical, controlled, and ridiculously efficient. He’d make sure every move is perfectly calculated. You’d think he’s cold, but it’s just because he’s too fucking logical. He’d be treating it like an experiment on your responses, and you’d be left questioning if he actually cared or was just collecting data. Kinda hot."

You slowly exhaled, staring into the abyss. “Why are you like this.”

She shrugs. "Because I care about your sex life. You’re welcome."

She then grinned, patting your shoulder. “Now, who’s your pick?"

“I’m picking death.”

“Death isn’t an option.”

“Neither is any of this.”

She gives you a sickeningly sweet smile. “Oh, bitch. You underestimate me.”

────────────

It starts with a sigh. It always does. A deep, long-suffering exhale that feels like it drains a year off your lifespan as you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Your best friend? She’s laughing her ass off.

“Let me get this straight,” she wheezes between snorts, nearly doubling over from how hard she’s laughing. “All four of them—every single one—you managed to piss off all of them?”

“Yes,” you say flatly.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

She gasps, clutching her chest like you’ve personally stabbed her. “Not important?! The four most powerful, well-known, and untouchable guys in the entire school—wait, let me correct myself—the four most untouchable guys in the entire damn city hate your guts, and you didn’t think that was important?”

You blink. “Not really.”

She howls. Actually, physically howls. She slaps the table, wheezing between fits of laughter, practically sliding off her chair from how much she’s losing it. You just watch, unimpressed.

“Holy shit,” she finally gets out, wiping a tear from her eye. “Dude. You’re the worst.”

“I’m really not.”

“No, you are.” She takes a deep breath. “Alright, hold up. I need to hear this one by one. From the beginning. How the hell did you manage to make enemies with all of them?”

You roll your eyes. “I wouldn’t call them enemies.”

“You wouldn’t call them enemies,” she parrots. “Because you don’t have any social skills. Everyone else would.”

“I think they’re just being dramatic,” you deadpan.

“Uh-huh.” She leans forward, grinning like a wolf about to hear some premium entertainment. “Alright, out with it. How’d you piss off the prince first?”

You sigh. Again. You should start charging for this.

────────────

You weren’t one to talk to people. It wasn’t a matter of shyness, or even preference. You just didn’t see the point.

Words were tools, necessary for survival, but beyond that? Completely overrated. People wanted to chat, to laugh, to bond. They wanted connection. You wanted quiet. You wanted them to stop existing in your general vicinity. So you did what you did best: you stayed out of their way.

It worked.

Until it didn’t.

────────────

The day you made an enemy of the most powerful student in school, you were just trying to turn in a form.

It was a simple task. A direct, no-nonsense mission. Enter the student council office, dump the document on the desk, and leave. No engagement necessary. No unnecessary eye contact. You even timed it perfectly—right when the council president was known to be out, probably hosting another insufferable pep rally for an event nobody cared about.

Except he was there.

And he was lounging like a self-satisfied deity, feet kicked up on the desk, twirling a pen in one hand while flipping through paperwork with the other. The sight alone was annoying. The sheer audacity of a person to be so… obnoxiously present. Fluffy neat hair, bright eyes, a grin that looked like it had never known a moment of humility. He radiated untouchable, almost divine levels of confidence.

He looked up. And in that moment, you knew.

He recognized you.

“Ohhh,” he mused, dragging out the sound. “If it isn’t the human black hole.”

You paused. Blinked. “What.”

“You know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely, “you just kinda suck all the joy out of a room. Like a void. A really cold, dead void.”

You tilted your head. “...Are you trying to flirt with me?”

His grin widened. “Are you into that?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

You stared. He smirked. The paper in your hands crinkled slightly as your grip tightened.

“I need to submit this,” you said, monotone, lifting the form like an offering to some insufferable god.

“I’m not taking that.”

You blinked again. “You’re the student council president.”

“Exactly! I delegate. That’s the secret to success, y’know?”

Your eye twitched. “Your name is literally on the submission instructions.”

“Well, yeah, because I like the attention.”

You inhaled slowly. Deeply. Somewhere in your head, you heard your best friend’s voice narrating your own life: And this was the moment she seriously considered homicide.

“Fine,” you said, dropping the paper onto his desk, “then I’ll just leave it here.”

He reached out lazily, grabbed it, and without breaking eye contact, slowly—painstakingly—shoved it off the desk.

The silence that followed was almost religious.

You stared at the fallen paper.

He stared at you.

“I’m not picking that up,” you said.

“Neither am I.”

Your fingers twitched. He smirked. The room temperature dropped several degrees. For a long, long moment, neither of you moved. It was a battle of sheer, unbreakable will.

“...You’re so mad right now,” he said, delight dripping from every word.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

You did. You really did.

The silence stretched. A battle of wills.

You were still standing there, staring at the paper on the floor, while he sat back with the self-satisfaction of a man who had never known loss.

“C’mon,” he drawled, chin propped on his palm. “I know you wanna pick it up.”

You said nothing. You just stared at him with the deadest, most soulless gaze known to mankind. He looked back, and you could see the amusement glowing behind his bright, insufferable eyes.

You exhaled through your nose.

Then, without hesitation—without a single wasted movement—you picked up his cup of hot chocolate and, with the precision of a surgeon, dumped it directly on his head.

A rich, dark cascade poured over his fluffy, previously immaculate hair, dripping down his forehead, staining his pristine uniform. It was perfect. It was artistic. It was poetic justice, crafted in under three seconds.

He froze.

The room went completely, utterly silent.

You, however, weren’t done.

Swiftly, efficiently, you pulled out your phone and snapped a photo. The flash illuminated the scene in sharp, unforgiving clarity.

Dripping hair. A stunned, slack-jawed expression. Hot chocolate soaking through the fabric of his blazer like a crime scene.

You took a second, longer look at the picture. Then, with an air of complete disinterest, you saved it directly into your drive backup.

His shock hadn’t even caught up to him yet. His brain was still buffering.

You calmly turned the screen toward him, showing him his own humiliation.

“If you mess with me again,” you said flatly, “this is going on the school forum.”

He blinked once. Twice. His expression twitched. And for the first time, you saw it—an actual, genuine crack in that unshakable confidence.

It lasted a fraction of a second.

Then, slowly—so, so slowly—his mouth curved into something new. Not the usual cocky grin. Not the smirk of someone who thought he had the entire world wrapped around his little finger.

No.

This was something else.

A slow, wicked, positively unholy grin.

Like a beast just realizing it found prey worth hunting.

“Ohhh,” he breathed, eyes gleaming with something both predatory and exhilarated. “You are so much fun.”

You tucked your phone away. “Glad you think so. I hate you.”

“Liar.”

You turned and went to leave, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

But, just as you reached the door—

“You’re gonna regret this,” he called, voice deceptively light. “I’m a very petty person.”

You paused. Glanced back.

Then, in the most monotone, unimpressed voice you could muster—

“So am I.”

As you exited the student council room, you heard the faintest sound behind you—low, breathless laughter.

Like someone who had just discovered their new favorite game.

────────────

The second one, you met him in detention. Because of course you did.

Technically, you weren’t even there for anything interesting. Not for fighting. Not for vandalism. Not for anything remotely impressive. No, you were here because a teacher had asked for your opinion, and you—being a natural-born social disaster—had given it.

“‘An archaic relic of bureaucracy that produces nothing but misery and debt’ is not an appropriate way to describe the school’s education system,” your teacher had snapped.

“Would you rather I say it’s good?” you had asked, genuinely confused.

Apparently, that had been the wrong answer.

So here you were. Sitting in the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes blank, waiting for time to pass like a medieval peasant awaiting the guillotine.

And then he walked in.

You immediately clocked what kind of person he was. He carried himself with the casual arrogance of someone who had never followed a rule in his life. Tattoos peeked out from under his uniform sleeves, his tie was nowhere to be seen, and his uniform was barely recognizable as one. He had the lazy stance of a guy who made teachers question their career choices and a presence that made people instinctively shrink back.

Unfortunately, you weren’t people.

His gaze landed on you like a predator spotting an unsuspecting rabbit.

Except you weren’t a rabbit. You were just... unfortunately here.

He strolled over, dropping into the seat beside you, his body language loose, confident, exuding the kind of energy that made authority figures reach for blood pressure medication.

“New?” he asked, his voice a slow drawl, eyes flicking over you with open curiosity.

“No.”

His smirk widened, sharp and lazy. “You talk like a corpse.”

“And you talk too much.”

That made him pause. Just for a second. Like he was recalibrating. Then he grinned, the expression laced with something both amused and dangerous. “Not many people have the guts to talk back to me.”

You blinked. “I don’t have guts. I just don’t care.”

He let out a short laugh, a low, considering sound. “Huh.”

You returned your stare to the front of the room, hoping that was the end of the interaction.

It wasn’t.

“So, what’d you do to get stuck in here?” he asked, propping his chin on his hand like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“Answered a question.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

You nodded.

His frown deepened. “You mean you ran your mouth.”

“I answered honestly.”

“Yeah, ran your mouth.”

You sighed. “Are you always this insufferable?”

His smirk stretched, sharp with amusement. “Only when I’m interested.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Wow. I’m honored.”

“You should be,” he shot back, grinning.

You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the front of the room. Not that there was anything interesting up there—just a barely functional projector and a wall clock that seemed to have stopped in 1973.

Silence. For a glorious ten seconds.

Then:

“So, what’s your deal?”

You inhaled slowly through your nose. “I don’t have a deal.”

“Everyone has a deal.”

“Well, mine is not talking to annoying people.”

“Guess you’re breaking your own rule then.”

You turned your head, making a show of staring at him with dead, soulless eyes. “Lucky me.”

His smirk widened. His chair creaked as he leaned back, stretching like a particularly smug cat. “You know, I don’t usually take an interest in people like you.”

“People like me?”

“Yeah. Tiny. Mouthy. Clearly incapable of winning a physical fight.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t just poison you instead.”

His laughter was sudden, sharp-edged. “You’re funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he said, still grinning. “That’s what makes it funny.”

You sighed, returning to your previous strategy of ignoring his existence.

It didn’t work.

“So, do you just piss people off for fun, or is that an accidental talent?”

You didn’t look at him. “Why? You feeling pissed off?”

“Nah.” A slow pause. “Not yet.”

Something about the way he said that made you glance at him again. His smirk had cooled into something else—something harder, more assessing. You’d known from the second he walked in that he was bad news, but now you could feel it, thick and tangible, like a storm about to break.

Still, you weren’t one to back down.

“I could try harder,” you offered.

His eyes darkened, something flickering behind them—something you probably should have taken as a warning.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured, tone deceptively light. “Go ahead.”

You tilted your head, considering. Then, you shrugged. “You’re a walking cliché.”

That got a reaction. His smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp-edged stare.

“Excuse me?”

You gestured vaguely at him. “The whole ‘too cool for rules, bad boy with authority issues’ thing. It’s exhausting. You should at least try to have a personality.”

He stared at you, expression unreadable. Then, in a disturbingly calm voice, he asked, “You ever been hit before?”

You blinked. “Not recently.”

He exhaled, tilting his head back. “God. You’re fucking annoying.”

“You started this conversation.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, “biggest mistake of my life.”

“Wow. Must be nice if this is the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”

His jaw twitched. For the first time, he actually looked pissed.

Good.

Unfortunately, that also meant he was now visibly debating whether or not to knock your teeth in.

Your eyes flicked to his hands—bigger than yours, calloused, flexing slightly, like he was restraining himself. He was taller, broader, a lot stronger than you. You weren’t stupid. If he actually decided to swing, you were probably going to die.

But hey. What’s life without a little risk?

You met his glare head-on. “Are you about to hit someone half your size?”

He tilted his head, exhaling slowly. “Thinking about it.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He actually growled, low and irritated, and you barely had time to register the movement before he was shifting forward, one hand reaching out like he was about to grab you—

And then the door creaked open.

“Alright, detention gremlins,” the teacher’s voice drawled from the front of the room, “keep your murder attempts to a minimum.”

You didn’t even blink, just turned lazily in your seat as if you hadn’t nearly gotten your face rearranged.

He, on the other hand, pulled back immediately, exhaling sharply, clearly forcing himself to relax.

The teacher shot him a look. “Sit still, delinquent.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t say anything. He just slumped back into his chair, arms crossed, eyes flicking briefly to you.

You met his stare.

Slowly, you smiled.

His fingers twitched.

This was going to be fun.

────────────

For the third man, the first time you met him, you were sitting in a hospital bed, staring at the white ceiling, contemplating your existence and whether or not you could convince the nurses to let you leave early. The fluorescent lights hummed a dull tune, matching the flatlined rhythm of your enthusiasm for life. You didn’t even want to be here. The injury wasn’t even that bad. But the moment you’d said, “It’s fine, I can still walk,” and then promptly collapsed, the people around you decided that maybe you weren’t the best judge of what counted as ‘fine.’

And that’s when he walked in, the doctor assigned to your case.

Tall. Elegant. His every movement controlled with the same level of care you’d expect from someone painting the Sistine Chapel, even though all he was doing was picking up your chart. His black-gloved fingers trailed over the paperwork before he flipped it open, eyes skimming your medical history like he was reading a novel he had already figured out the ending to. Cold, calculating, and frankly, a little theatrical.

You stared. He looked like the kind of person who’d be the main villain in a psychological thriller.

“You have a concussion,” he said, his voice measured, precise.

You blinked. “Oh.”

There was a pause. The kind that stretched a little too long, like a piece of gum being pulled between fingers. He looked at you. You looked at him. Then, with the kind of energy that could only be described as ‘well, I guess I have nothing better to do,’ you muttered, “Neat.”

He blinked, once. A slow, unreadable gesture. “I wouldn’t describe a traumatic brain injury as ‘neat.’”

“Well,” you deadpanned, “I would.”

Silence. He adjusted his gloves, movements smooth, unhurried. You were pretty sure this man had never rushed anything in his life. The air of quiet, detached arrogance practically radiated off of him in waves.

“You seem disinterested in your own well-being,” he observed, as if he were commenting on the weather.

You tilted your head, expression blank. “And?”

His brows barely twitched, but you swore you saw a flicker of something behind those eerily calm eyes. Like a candle in a dark room. Something minute, almost imperceptible. A single frame of a horror movie before the jump scare.

Then, without a word, he set your chart back down and began his examination, his touch careful, professional. You sat there, letting him check for signs of worsening symptoms, feeling absolutely no inclination to make this easier for him. He had the air of someone who rarely got rattled, and for some reason, that made you want to rattle him.

So when he was checking your pupils with a penlight, you stared unblinkingly into his eyes and said, “You look like the kind of guy who has a hidden art studio where you paint unsettlingly lifelike portraits of people you find interesting.”

He paused.

The light flickered over your eyes as he considered you. Then, calmly, as if answering a normal, everyday question, he replied, “And if I did?”

You shrugged. “I’d say you’re pretty bad at hiding it.”

Another pause. Then—so brief it could have been a trick of the light—the corner of his lips twitched upward. Amusement, buried beneath layers of restraint.

He pulled back, setting the penlight aside. “I don’t have a hidden art studio.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s exactly what someone with a hidden art studio would say.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

His gaze flickered over you, assessing, weighing. “Difficult.”

You smirked, feeling a spark of something sharp and insubordinate curl in your chest. “Only with people who think they have me figured out.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you with an unreadable expression, as if deciding whether to be irritated or intrigued. You had a feeling he wasn’t used to being challenged. People probably either feared or revered him, treating his words like gospel. You, on the other hand, had the distinct urge to annoy him purely because you could.

The tension stretched between you, coiling like a taut wire. Then, with an air of finality, he turned away, retrieving a prescription pad and beginning to write. “I’ll be keeping you for observation.”

Your eye twitched. “Why?”

He didn’t look up. “Because I suspect if I let you leave, you’d immediately do something to worsen your condition.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then promptly closed it when you realized he was absolutely right. Damn it.

“You can’t just hold me hostage in a hospital,” you grumbled.

He tore the prescription from the pad, setting it aside. “I’m your doctor. I can.”

You glared at him, but he remained entirely unbothered, like a marble statue in a white coat.

For the first time in a long time, you had the distinct feeling that you’d just met someone who was actually going to be a problem.

And judging by the glint in his eyes when he finally met your gaze again, you had a sneaking suspicion he felt the same way about you.

────────────

The fourth guy?

It started with a test. Not just any test. A national-level competition meant to determine the brightest academic minds of the generation.

You sat at your desk, filling in the answers with mechanical efficiency, while the only other student in the room doing the same was him. The top scholar. The prodigy. The golden boy of academia. He who must not be named because if you ever say his name out loud, you might actually vomit.

The two of you had been at this for years. Competing. Spiting. Resenting.

The rivalry was so intense that your parents had to be physically separated at parent-teacher meetings, lest they start arguing over whose kid deserved to be hailed as the superior intellectual. The problem was that neither of you ever pulled ahead definitively. Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. Sometimes it was a tie, which was the absolute worst because it meant the war had to continue.

The one thing you both silently agreed on? No one else needed to know.

So in public, you two were strangers. A nod at most, a passing glance, like two ships in the night. But the moment you were alone? The gloves came off.

And today, the moment came in the form of a single test result.

You finished your exam a fraction of a second before him, slamming your pen down triumphantly. He, sitting at the desk beside you, slowly turned his head to look at you, expression unreadable.

You smirked. He narrowed his eyes.

Neither of you spoke.

You both already knew what this meant.

It had always been like this. Subtle gestures. Microexpressions. Entire conversations conveyed through a single glance. And this time, your glance said:

That’s right. I beat you by 0.2 seconds. Cry about it.

His glance, in return, said:

You think this means anything? You’re delusional. Enjoy your fleeting moment of victory while it lasts.

You both turned in your papers and walked out without a word, maintaining the illusion that you had no connection to each other. That was, until you reached the hallway.

“You look extra dead inside today,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Yeah, because I had to sit next to you.”

He scoffed. “I make you look alive by comparison.”

“You make me wish I was actually dead.”

“Touché.”

And that was it. That was your normal conversation. Because no one else knew, it was always like this—just pure, undiluted antagonism with an undertone of reluctant respect.

But the moment you stepped outside where other students could see, you both went back to pretending the other didn’t exist.

———

The problem with childhood rivals is that you know too much about each other. He knew about the time you threw up in second grade because you drank three chocolate milks in one sitting. You knew about the time he cried in fourth grade because he lost a chess match to a five-year-old. These were secrets that, if revealed, would destroy either of you instantly. And so, an unspoken truce existed: Mutual Assured Destruction. If one of you fell, the other would go down as well.

But that didn’t mean you had to be nice to each other.

The school’s annual debate competition was proof of that.

You weren’t even supposed to be on stage today. The original competitor from your class had gotten sick at the last moment, so your teacher shoved you in as a replacement. And, of course, standing across from you at the podium was none other than him.

“I see fate continues to curse me,” you muttered, gripping the microphone.

“Likewise,” he replied, adjusting his tie.

The topic? “Should academic rivalries be encouraged?”

He was on the pro side. You were on the con side.

The sheer irony nearly made you laugh. But the moment the debate started, it was war.

He argued that competition drove people to improve, citing numerous studies. You argued that it created unnecessary stress, pointing out various psychological reports. He said rivalry forged discipline. You countered that it led to burnout. Back and forth, your arguments clashed like swords, neither side yielding. The audience watched, captivated, unaware that this was nothing new to either of you.

It wasn’t until the Q&A round that things got personal.

One of the judges asked, “Do either of you have experience with an academic rival?”

You and him made brief eye contact. A single second of hesitation.

Then he, ever the smug bastard, smirked and said, “No, I don’t have a rival. No one has ever truly been on my level.”

Your eye twitched. Oh. Oh, he wanted to play it that way? Fine.

You smiled, saccharine sweet. “Oh, same here. I’ve never met anyone who could actually challenge me.”

The audience laughed, completely oblivious to the nuclear warfare happening in your minds.

You won the debate by a narrow margin. He took it in stride, shaking your hand like a good sport, but you both knew this wasn’t over.

It was never over.

———

Years of this. Years of pretending. Years of knowing that he was the only person who could truly get under your skin, and vice versa.

And yet, despite everything, despite the constant battle for dominance, there was a grudging acknowledgment: neither of you would have been as good without the other.

But you’d never say that out loud.

Not unless you wanted to lose the war.

────────────

Back in the present, your best friend is still wiping away tears of laughter. “I swear, you’re cursed. Only you could turn four of the most powerful guys in this school into your sworn enemies without even trying.”

You sigh. “It’s not my fault they’re all easily irritated.”

She grins. “Enemies-to-lovers speedrun?”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

But she just smirks.

Because honestly? The way things are going, it’s inevitable.

———

You take a deep breath, leaning back in your seat as you finish recounting the absolute disaster that was your past. "So, yeah. That’s how I managed to piss off the entire unofficial ruling class of this school without even trying. It’s not my fault they’re all allergic to basic human interaction."

Your best friend? Oh, she’s wheezing. Bent over. Completely losing it.

You just stare, dead inside.

"I cannot believe you," she chokes out, clutching her stomach. "Four. Not one, not two—four of the most powerful guys in this school are now your sworn enemies. I swear, you’re a walking curse. A divine anomaly."

You sigh, propping your chin on your hand. "See, this is exactly why they can’t be the choices."

That only makes her laugh harder.

"No, no, no, you don’t get it," she wheezes, slamming a hand on the table. "This is why they have to be the choices. Like, this is fate. This is math. The sheer statistical improbability of you randomly antagonizing the four most dangerous guys in school without even trying—"

"—Means they’re going to murder me in my sleep, not fall in love with me," you interrupt flatly.

She shakes her head, eyes gleaming. "No, no, no. This is the setup for the best enemies-to-lovers arc I’ve ever seen. This is gold. This is poetry. This is—"

"A death sentence."

"—A story unfolding before my very eyes!" She gestures wildly. "Four. If it was just one, okay, sure, maybe it’s just bad luck. Two? Fine, you have a talent for pissing people off. But four?" She leans in, deadly serious now. "That’s fate."

You stare at her, unimpressed. "You’re literally using the fact that I’m universally despised as an argument for romance."

"And I’m right."

"Objectively false. I can present multiple counterarguments—"

"Oh, I bet you can," she interrupts, grinning. "And you know what? They’d all be wrong."

You cross your arms. "Fine. Let’s debate this logically."

She cracks her knuckles. "Bring it."

"One: They hate me. Like, actively hate me."

"Great foundation for romantic tension."

You scowl. "Two: I have no romantic interest in any of them."

"You say that now."

"Three: They have power, money, and influence, and could absolutely ruin my life at any moment."

She smirks. "Oh, so they could ruin your life. But haven’t."

You narrow your eyes. "Yet."

She shrugs. "Or maybe, deep down, they’re already obsessed with you."

You groan. "That’s not how real life works."

She leans in, voice smug. "Then explain why none of them have done anything too serious to you yet. With the power they have, you should’ve been completely crushed by now. But instead? They’re keeping you around. Engaging with you. They want your reactions."

You hesitate for a fraction of a second.

She grins, sensing her victory.

"Don’t even start," you mutter.

She tilts her head. "Too late. You are the main character in an enemies-to-lovers story, and I will see this through."

"Over my dead body."

"Listen, if it happens, it happens. I’ll be there at your wedding, sipping my champagne, telling everyone, ‘I told her so.’"

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I am never telling you anything ever again."

But she just laughs. Because she knows.

And that’s what terrifies you the most.

———

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. "This is bullshit."

She grins, clearly enjoying your suffering.

Your eyes drift to the side, landing on a thick stack of papers—her so-called research. A Frankenstein’s monster of printed profiles, handwritten notes, and stapled-together disasters. This is what she’s been using to "help" you find a so-called suitable match before she apparently decided to scrap the entire thing and make your life a living hell instead.

You reach over and pull a few sheets from the pile, scanning them briefly. Your eyes land on someone near the bottom of the stack. Someone you haven’t met. No noted incidents. No mortal enemies. Just a generic, normal guy with no apparent psychotic tendencies.

"Alright," you say, holding up the page. "This guy."

Your best friend leans forward, glancing at the name, then immediately scoffs. "Him?"

You nod. "Yeah. He looks the most normal, statistically conquerable, and unlikely to plot my untimely demise."

She groans, tilting her head back like you’ve personally offended her. "Are you serious? This is the blandest option in the entire lineup. This is, like, choosing plain toast at an all-you-can-eat buffet."

"Exactly," you say, unfazed. "I don’t want a disaster. I want stability. Normalcy. Someone who doesn’t have the power to ruin my life."

She gestures dramatically. "And this is what you land on? A literal NPC?"

"He has a face. He has a name. That’s already enough for me."

She smacks the table. "That’s bare minimum! You’re literally picking a filler character when you have the Final Four right in front of you!"

"And I’m perfectly fine with that," you say, deadpan.

"No, no, no. You don’t get it." She leans forward, voice firm. "You cannot settle for Generic Background Character #12. Look at the narrative potential! The power struggle! The development!"

You sigh. "I am not a character in a novel."

She smirks. "You keep saying that, and yet, the evidence continues to pile up against you."

You roll your eyes. "Look, just because I have bad luck doesn’t mean I have to indulge it." You tap the paper. "This guy is a logical, safe choice."

"Safe choices don’t make history."

"They also don’t make headlines for scandals, criminal activity, or blood feuds."

She groans again, slumping in her chair. "You are so frustrating. You have four absolute powerhouses lined up, each with the potential to make your life an experience, and you want—what? A guy whose biggest personality trait is that he’s 'nice'?"

"Yes."

"Disgusting."

"Predictable."

"Boring."

"Stable."

She narrows her eyes at you. "You are dodging fate so hard right now, it’s embarrassing."

"I am making logical decisions so hard right now, and you refuse to acknowledge it."

She smacks the table again, exasperated. "I’m not saying you have to date them! I’m just saying you should at least consider them before you throw yourself into the void of mediocrity!"

You cross your arms, staring her down. "And I’m saying you are severely overestimating my ability to survive a romantic entanglement with any of them."

She grins, tilting her head. "Or underestimating their desire to keep you alive and entertained."

You pause.

She smirks.

You scowl. "No."

She leans back, victorious. "Just saying. It’s gonna happen."

"It is not."

She winks. "We’ll see."

────────────

The next day starts off normal. Or at least, as normal as it can be when you’re still recovering from the previous night’s argument with your best friend. You’re just trying to make it through the school day without incident—low profile, no chaos, just peace.

And then your phone buzzes.

You glance down, expecting something trivial. Instead, you see a message from an unknown number.

Unknown: You owe me for last time. Meet me after school. Don’t make me come find you.

You blink. Stare. Read it again.

There’s only one person you "owe" anything to in the eyes of certain individuals.

You: No.

No response.

Your phone buzzes again. Another unknown number.

Unknown: Be at the café near campus at 4. I already told them you’d be coming. Don’t embarrass me.

Your eye twitches. What.

Buzz.

Unknown: I assume you have no plans. I’m picking you up at 6. Don’t make me wait.

Your stomach sinks. There is no way. There is no way.

Buzz.

Unknown: I’ll be outside your place at 7. Don’t even try to run.

You slowly, slowly lower your phone.

You already know who's responsible.

Your best friend. Your traitorous best friend.

You whip your head around the classroom, eyes locking onto her immediately. She’s sitting at her desk, chin propped up in her hand, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t just orchestrate your demise.

She knows.

She feels your glare.

And she grins.

You stand up so fast your chair nearly topples over. You’re going to kill her.

♡ A/N. I don't really like celebrating Valentines Day. Not really my thing nor do I care, but it's alright. It's not like I hate it. I'm more of… it's just there. That's it. wdym it's too early. Well it ended up becoming a series, so… shiz. Still debating whether I should go unrestrained horror or dark humor psychological style... who knows. Also, since my friend doesn't like Caleb, I can officially create LaDs Caleb content.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay , @yandreams-storageblog

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[tamarahtalkstv]

Can You Imagine Thinking Of, Making, And Posting A Video Like This And Believing That Other People Need Help And Not You?

If you dislike certain fictional content, characters, or ships, then you don’t have to, but don’t make a video essentially telling people who like fiction and are AntiHarassment to get help.

There’s nothing to get help for unless someone can’t differentiate fiction from reality and condones it in real life.

As much as I want to make fun of this video, I also don’t because I actually feel really bad for the person behind it.

I don’t want to make massive assumptions, and I don’t think others should either, but I’m actually a bit concerned about them because no one makes a video with a fucking title or thumbnail like that if they’re okay.

Either something is wrong, they wanted to trend hop and clout chase on a popular topic right now, or both.

Fandoms and shipping going mainstream on YouTube was a terrible, terrible mistake.

2025 Edit:

I was going to address this in a much larger post and I still plan to, but since this post is getting traction again I should really say something before this gets more out of hand and scary.

I can’t go into too much since I’m saving some of it for the larger post, but to put it simply I’m not upset at them leaving the ProShip community.

I actually don’t think it’s that much different from an AntiShipper becoming a ProShipper.

I’m upset at the wording used in the title and thumbnail. I just don’t like how they framed it.

The thumbnail made it sound like they’re talking about a disease or an addiction.

This goes without saying from me, but don’t harass the YouTuber behind this.

Not only is that against what ProShipping is about, It’s wrong and it’s gonna be bad for everyone involved.

The YouTuber behind it commented on my video and they seem really nice.

I didn’t like their video and their comment scared me, but they were kind so please don’t go after them.

TL;DR:

I made a mistake and I’m sorry.

Please don’t harass the original creator of the video or me.

I plan to go more in depth about this post and others like in the future, but for now I’ll have to give you all this.

I’m sorry.

[aishabellasbigblogofeverything]

I’m begging Black girls and especially younger Black girls to please stop going on the Internet and complaining about being the least attractive/feminine/desirable and how guys don’t want you and how much you hate being a Black girl and wish you were another race(usually white/East Asian is what I see) so that you could be seen as beautiful/get the guy you want/not hate yourself every time you look into a mirror. Please. Stop doing that shit. I understand the soul-crushing way that Black girls are treated in society, and how insistent the world and people in general are in stripping us of our femininity and beauty and trying to gaslight us into believing that we’re ugly, and because of that it is so so easy to fall prey to the “we’re the ugliest of women and no one will ever love us” mentality. But when you make posts like these, talking down on yourself for being Black and expressing envy towards non-Black women, you are not only shitting on every Black woman out there who looks like you, you’re also giving non-Black girls an ego boost and letting them believe that they really are more attractive and valuable than us and that we’re “the ugly ones” because Black girls themselves are saying it and self-deprecating themselves.

I’m begging you to please stop going on these intensely anti-Black and misogynistic hate sites dedicated to hating on/tearing down women and venting about how being a Black girl is such a curse and a terrible burden and how you’ll never be as beautiful as a white/Asian woman because you have dark skin and coily hair. All you’re doing is putting yourself in harm’s way and validating the way people already think about us while shitting on your fellow Black sisters by painting us all with the “undesirable/ugly” brush. I understand that the rest of the world constantly tells us that we’re ugly/unlovable and less womanly than the rest of the groups. I understand feeling anger, confusion, and frustration at how were treated by people who are supposed to care about us and protect us. I understand feeding into it. But please don’t. Especially not on sites that prey on women’s insecurities and are filled to the brim with people who hate Black women with a seething passion. They’re only going to tell you that you’re right, not comfort you and make you feel better, you can’t rely on these sites for validation. Please talk to your friends and family or a therapist if you feel insecure about your race, and either follow Black female content creators who uplift Black women/girls or get off of social media for the betterment of your own mental health. Please. I’m begging you. 🙏🏿

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 6!

and what a week it's been... idk about you all, but i'm very much looking forward to all the 8b spec fic after seeing That One Leak...

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might also contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

a graveyard in blue | moonlightmornings/@moonlight-mornings | 12.9k | GA

After a call goes south because of limited resources and an equipment malfunction, Eddie's brave move to rescue a young girl takes a nasty turn. i love how this captures the energy and vibe of a rescue!! genuinely feels straight out of an episode <3

and i'd do it over and over again | playinginthunderstorms/@playinginthunderstorms | 4.4k | E

Buck and Eddie hook up at the end of "Confessions". oh when i tell you i savoured this one... such a wonderful fic that captures buddie's first time so so perfectly!! i love how their dynamic is written here <3

everything in between | simplyylupin | 2.1k | T

They’re quiet for a moment, mulling over the unsaid, and then Buck’s bringing his phone closer to his face, eyes squinting. “Are you naked?” the absolute codependency of these two <3 so good!!

hot ghost problems | ebjameston/@ebjameston | 40.9k | T

The ghost would prefer to go by Buck, if Eddie wouldn’t mind. this was a reread! i was reminded of the magic system here and revisited it - can confirm that magic and ghosts and all that are so very good here, and i love the diaz siblings!!

i'll tell them put me back in it (and i would do it again) | paleredheadinascifi | 4.8k| T

Eddie doesn't know how to make his listening history private. Buck doesn't know what to do with the words in front of his eyes. Chris cannot believe he has to deal with either of them. the sheer brilliance of this concept... such a lovely look at the buckley-diaz dynamics! i was smiling the whole way through <3

it's golden, like daylight | rarakiplin/@hoediaz | 8.7k | T

“Shut up,” fingers dig into his ribs, “I mean, would you want to? Be married again?” such wonderful firefam dynamics!! i read this last week, i think, and already reread it this past week as well. a new favourite for sure <3

lonely little love dog | littleghost/@ghostlandtoo | 24k | M

When the 118 is closed for reconstruction after an earthquake, Buck is a floater for different stations around the city. He tries not to let it get to him. Much. this is such a fascinating look at buck's character!! and i LOVED the mara scene <3

parabola | semperama/@semperama | 4.6k | T

“Hey, uh. By the way.” Buck’s been thinking about this, and he has to say it now, or it’ll explode out of him at a much worse time, in a much worse way. “Make sure you don’t forget to change your will again.” truly no fic captures the angst with a happy ending tag like this. also this fic is how i learned that there's a special ao3 tag for eddie's will, which sounds about right. anyway, point is, this is wonderful!!

the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love | lemonzestywrites/@lemonzestywrites | 25.7k | E

After the events of 6x13, Buck is worried he's lost his charm in bed. Eddie eagerly offers his services to prove otherwise. a reread of one of my favourite fics <3 there's something about the intersection of smut and feelings realisation and introspection in this fic that just hits so very hard, it's lovely <3

the whale fall principle | fastcardotmp3/@fastcardotmp3 | 95.5k | M

Daniel Buckley lives, but he’s still deciding what that means. Maddie is having a baby, but it isn’t her husband’s. And Evan knows his purpose. Until he doesn’t anymore. okay so definitely heed the creator chose not to use archive warnings tag here (there are specific warnings in the chapter notes) but holy shit, this fic. genuinely the best buckley sibling dynamics i have read, like, maybe ever. such a wonderful eddie and chimney and everyone, and such gorgeous writing!! if this one sounds up your alley, you're in for a treat <3

to ebb and flow | akapeterman/@akapeterman | 5.1k | GA

buck is sick, eddie is worried, and christopher is an angel. they'll be okay. i've really been vibing with sickfics lately, can you tell? this is another lovely lovely fic, such great hurt/comfort/domestic fluff!!

wait for me to come home | written_promises | 1.9k | GA

Eddie comes back home to LA from Texas to find Buck waiting for him… in his bed. Because he’s been living in Eddie’s home. and eddie's bed is exactly where buck should be<3 so soft and sweet and beautiful!!

we return to each other in waves | cozycatwriter/@leon-trans-kennedy | 3.1k | GA

“Yes I do. Of course I do. You saved Chris and looked after him the best you could during a tsunami-and you’re still recovering from an embolism from having your leg crushed on the job. The least I could do is look after you and let you stay the night. Besides, Chris would want you to stay.” post-tsunami fics my beloveds <3 it genuinely makes me so happy to see new ones pop up, and this is truly an excellent one!! i love the bed-sharing especially!

you need a friendly hand (and i need action) | AmZamReads | 13.1k | E

Eddie picks up pottery as a hobby and accidentally blows up on Instagram for "accidentally" posting thirst traps of him throwing on the wheel. Buck stumbles across the account and immediately becomes obsessed with Eddie's hands, and horny shenanigans ensues. this fic makes me wish i could make pottery. i love eddie's pottery friends!! and a lovely buddie dynamic too <3

[aclockworkreader]

i would love to hear your opinion on the “kallmekris” booktok discourse that’s going on rn (if you’ve seen it). i feel like there needs to be a conversation about how a lot of the books that are recommended on tiktok in the “spicy” book genre simply just romanticize abuse (a point brought up in the kallmekris YouTube video). it’s driving me crazy how many takes i’ve seen along the lines of “just let women enjoy things” or “they’re just books, it’s fiction”. which just feels lazy. i think people are refusing to think critically about this topic because they enjoy the books. but you can enjoy something while also acknowledging that it can be harmful. idk i would love to hear your thoughts!

i’ve mostly seen the discourse about the discourse loll. i think i’m a bit removed from most of booktok on my fyp. and i haven’t watched the original video, so i can’t speak on the contents of it or say whether i agree or disagree with her.

but this is a topic i’ve thought about a lot and i’ve even considered making a video on it, so i will say this:

i think we’ve seen, in the last few years especially, a significant rise in people refusing think critically about any content they consume. they always use the “it’s not that deep” or “let people enjoy things” excuse whenever someone has a valid criticism, or even just points out something factual about the content they enjoy. i’ve said this before and i’ll repeat it ad infinitum, but that’s anti intellectualism at work and it’s deeply dangerous. as you said, you can and should be able to enjoy something while understanding that it can also have problems. and i invite the people who really believe that it’s “not that deep” to stay and for a few minutes consider that maybe it is that deep.

i’m not sure if the original creator was talking about all “spicy” books or a particular genre of spicy books (like dark romance, sports romance, erotica in general, etc). but i definitely do think that some of the most popular booktok books do romanticize abuse. i’ve read enough colleen hoover to know that that’s true, and i’m sure her books are tame compared to some of the dark romance novels.

my controversial take (that i honestly don’t think is that controversial, i just don’t hear many people say it out loud) is that most of the people who are deeply obsessed with those booktok books have a ton of internalized misogyny to unpack—which is why they either can’t see or refuse to see the problematic elements within that content, because then they’d have to examine it within themselves. those books uphold and perpetuate deeply hegemonic ideas about gender and sexuality (particularly in cis, straight relationships) and many of their readers hold those same beliefs.

the way i feel about this is similar to how i feel about women and our relationship to wearing make up/removing body hair/etc. we’ve been fed this lie that we wear make up for ourselves and shave because it makes us “feel good” (i blame terfs and choice feminism), but with few exceptions, that’s not true. we do it because we’re trying to fit a social norm that was created to uphold heteropatriarchy. we do it as gender performance. i still wear makeup! i still shave! but i know that’s why i do it and i’m honest with myself about it. and the same goes for these types of books. you don’t like stalker romances simply because you think they’re dark and sexy. you think they’re dark and sexy because patriarchy has ingrained in you that men disregarding consent and overstepping your boundaries again and again should be acceptable if he’s attractive enough. you can still read them, you can still enjoy them, just think critically.

there are obviously nuances and exceptions to all of this, and there are stories that explore themes of abuse without trivializing or romanticizing them (ie. a lot of horror and gothic romance), but that’s a whole other conversation.

honestly, i could talk about this for hours and i have so much more to say so this is a really condensed (lol i know) version of my thoughts, but i hope it gives you a good sense of how i feel.

[memryse]

if mcyt isn’t fiction then

people who create dnd characters that are similar to them in personality are just playing themselves and should not be treated as having made a character

people who make any other dnd character should also be treated as just playing themselves since people refuse to even consider roleplay smps as fiction

any ocs someone puts a bit of themselves into? nope not fiction!

actors who play a character with the same first name as them aren’t really acting

and so on

maybe YOU can’t separate characters and real people and think that everything you see from a youtuber even when they’re explicitly acting is how they are in real life but we as a fandom just don’t have that issue lol. we’ve had disclaimers and indicators for when we’re talking about characters and not content creators for years because a certain smp contained a character having suicidal thoughts as a result of abuse at the hands of another character and we needed to make it absolutely crystal clear that we were referring to a fictional storyline and not real guy #1 being an abuser and real guy #2 being suicidal. these customs have either extended into other corners of mcyt fandom, or some developed their own independently like hispanic mcyt fans have used the word cubito to distinguish mc guy from real life guy from years, a term that other language speakers liked so much we’ve also started picking it up lol

we know exactly what we’re doing. i get that the line maybe does seem more blurred to an outsider looking in (i wouldn’t know given that both my first fandom at age 12 and current fandom at age 20 were mcrp lol) but it’s universally understood amongst us. i don’t have a problem separating hermitcraft!gem and empires s1!gem the wizard with a twin brother and empires s2!gem the princess and cc!gem the real life canadian woman.

idk it rubs me the wrong way that after years of trying to explain this we’re either met with people calling us racists because of three guys that the rest of us (all of us, really, because dream team fans do not claim to be minecraft fans. those are the type to actually write rpf and ship the real life racist guys) hate probably a lot more than any of you do, or they watch a few minutes of a less roleplay-heavy series/part and decide that the entire medium is invalid as a form of storytelling

it’s so annoying. i don’t think we need to be understood to have validity as a fandom we’ve been doing this for years already without that but it is so infuriating and sad how whenever there’s some kind of fandom poll thing one of three things happens

mcyt fans are banned outright and placed on the same level as something like hp

an mcyt fan runs their own and gets harassed for it

a non-mcyt fan allows us in until they get harassed so badly by whatever fandoms we go up against that they end up deleting our bracket

in what world is that normal behaviour. and that harassment always involves calling them all racist cishet white men such as misgendering both eret (real life bisexual genderqueer person) and their character (also queer), attempting to harass jimmy solidarity fans because jimmy makes mc videos so he must be a dream associate (the only time they interacted was in a tournament during which dream and georgenotfound shittalked jimmy’s best friends to his face), all the shit quackity has gotten for being a former friend of the dream team as if he wasn’t the #1 victim of their racism and xenophobia, the fact that any time c!technoblade is involved in a poll we have to beg other fandoms not to talk shit about him because the real life man died of cancer before dream’s grooming allegations came out, similarly when tfc was in one. and so on and so forth. all because people can’t separate roleplay and real life and think that the entire minecraft sphere revolves around dream just because their idea of mcyt does (not even his own smp named after him did that).

[transmascpalamedessextus]

gideon the ninth characters and their 2025 jobs

harrow: the hardest one on this list tbh. nun’s too simple, religious studies scholar isn’t insane enough. chef is too funny, as is orthopedic surgeon. we’ll go with historic preservationist, specializing in religious architecture and artifacts.

gideon: barista employee of the month, every month, at an inclusive crossfit gym. moonlights at a bar down the street some nights and is known for making sure everyone gets home safe, no matter how many asses she has to kick to the curb (literally)

palamedes: PhD and research consultant with multiple published works (research under his real name, fiction under a pseudonym). what’s the phd in? yes.

camilla: that one friend who can do anything and has done everything. certified meditation instructor? check. semi-professional martial artist? check. volunteer park ranger? check. often credited in palamedes’ works, but you didn’t even know she had a degree. throws mugs and vases in her spare time but vows to never open an etsy store

ianthe: evil woman in STEM (you pick her crime) or chain-smoking actress with a scandalous reputation and horrible interviewing manner but unmistakable talent

naberius: instagram model who is literally always filming sponsored content for a new boutique european hotel or “experience”

corona: so torn on this. either a fellow instagram model that 50% of her audience thinks is fake and 50% thinks is “actually really sweet!” or like a famous marine biologist working to save the turtles or something

jeannemary: young record-breaking olympian/pro athlete. it’s not fencing or martial arts — it’s skateboarding

isaac: internet star with a rising pop punk music career, a la noahfinnce. jeannemary did a viral drop-in to one of his songs

abigail: every gay student’s favorite history (or maybe archaeology?) professor at a world-renowned college

magnus: owner and operator of a charming pub in the quaint town where said world-renowned college is. it’s overpriced but the atmosphere and food are genuinely great

“dulcinea”: chronic illness content creator (later revealed to be grifter)

dulcinea: content creator, artist (painter), and sometimes streamer. candid and humorous about her illness, but refuses to be inspiration porn

“protesilaus”: male podcaster, incel edition

protesilaus: beloved personal trainer who privately trains for american ninja warrior on the side

silas: idk, the cuntiest bitch at the monastery? do we still have monks? can someone be a combo of trust fund baby and monk?

colum: successful practitioner of an age-old craft like blacksmithing. always taking commissions but prefers to help at historic reenactments or even ren faires. exclusively makes historically accurate pieces

judith: cop

marta: cop wait she helped harrow in the bubble so i have to be nice hard-but-fair-and-well-respected fencing instructor at a private school. she might as well be a monk for how little everyone knows about her personal life, but suspicion is rife and all the baby lesbians hope she’s got a wife (bars)

bonus: teacher: cult leader is too easy so we’ll go with “local guy who runs a shop selling crystals he bought from china at a 500% markup. he pretends they’re sustainably/ethically/lovingly sourced and guaranteed to cure your depression/anxiety/adhd but you both know he’s full of it”

[witchygirlaud21]

Strawhats if they had TikTok

Luffy: one of those randoms you see on your FYP and it’s of people doing stupid shit but like fun stupid shit. The Flash is carrying the video and it’s night time.

Zoro: He wouldn’t have TikTok at first but would get bullied into it by Nami or Chopper would have him get one so they could follow each other and he could like Chopper’s vids. On the gym rat side of TikTok. Doesn’t post anything.

Nami: Semi-popular posts GRWMs (get ready with me), but they’re the kind like “ get ready with me while talking shit.”

Usopp: art content creator whose only thing that got attention was either very stupid or like one of those “ my art never gets any attention” videos. Tries to stay out of the drama, though. Most of his followers come from Luffy or Nami bc he’ll do stupid shit with Luffy and make GRWM appearances on Nami’s account.

Sanji: Not popular but tries to be. He’s lowkey that one guy making shirtless POVs or thirst traps. Like those cooking thirst traps that men do. Only one or two of his videos have gotten popular and in an ironic way. He starts random fights with those cooks who make all that food in a giant tin bowl and don’t cook it properly.

PART TWO SOON

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Hellooo! Can you tell more about Color Sans? I always see stuff about him, but I know nothing??? Like, I know that he has some connection to Killer, but I never undertand it :(

Gladly! I am actually working on a Google Doc for Color and his AU, Othertale, at the moment. It is not complete, but here is a link to the Doc if you’d like to give it a look. Not everything is on there yet and it’s not very organized I don’t think, but there’s some links, pictures, and the creator’s socials.

If you’d like to look up the creator, you can give superyoumna and othertale-blog here on Tumblr a look, or superyoumna over on YouTube.

Now Color’s connection to Killer is that they’re friends, and Color is trying to help Killer leave Nightmare and potentially fix his soul—as Killer has asked him to.

The exact nature of their meeting is left up to interpretation according to Killer’s creator, rahafwabas, and the exact nature of their relationship—platonic, romantic, queer platonic, etc—is also left to interpretation, although Killer’s creator has stated they see it more like bromantic than romantic.

Both Killer and Color’s creators, who were and still seem to be good friends (killer’s creator even helped design backgrounds for Othertale), also were very supportive of shipping them.

Color, according to Killer, is someone who gives him hope. He brings light to Killer’s grey, lifeless world; and Killer feels safe with him. Color makes him feel seen, heard, respected. And Color just really wants to do right by Killer, and help him to the best of his abilities.

Now, on to Color’s AU—Othertale. It’s probably more accurate to say that Othertale was an alternate timeline that, due to a choice, became an AU.

After going through his own sets of Genocides and Resets, Sans made a hasty choice in a moment of desperation—absorb the six human souls. This gave him new, very strong abilities—as you can see in the links in the Google Doc—yet his body is very fragile. Overusing his abilities can and will kill him.

So Sans manages to finally permanently kill the human, but this causes a Reset. Sans is sent to the Void with Gaster where he is forgotten by everyone, Frisk and Chara are erased and forgotten as well. So the world attempts to adapt to the absence of the six human souls and its major players.

This results in Othertale, in which Undyne is actually the main character. In this AU, Undyne encounters a young Papyrus in the garbage dump—dealing with bullying, appearing to be alone and homeless without anyone to take care of him, and only coming to Undyne for help from bullies since they met after “the explosion”—and proceeds to take him under her wings as her baby brother. She finds a passion for playing the piano, and often uses her abilities to entertain the Underground.

Because she was too concerned with raising Papyrus, she never attempts to join the Royal Guard; and so Gerson remains its Captain. As a further result, Papyrus has no interest in fighting or joining the Royal Guard either; instead becoming a math teacher.

The promise to Toriel never happens because Sans was not there to give it, although Color remembers it.

The amalgamates do not exist in Othertale, and so Alphys is a lot more sure of herself and confident. There is no way to break the barrier, although admittedly monsters in Othertale seem a lot more content in the Underground, although they still maintain hope. Mettaton was given his body a lot earlier, and seems more like a weapon than an Underground star.

However, trouble arises when an error suddenly reveals itself—going by the name of corrupted chara, although it seems pretty obvious that it is the Player, here to keep playing by taking other vessels now that Frisk is gone. In an attempt to stop this, Color and Gaster elect Undyne’s help—despite how she has no idea what’s happening.

And that’s the general premise of the AU. I am unsure if it is discontinued or if there’s still plans to continue, but it’s just delayed.

As for Color’s character on its own, we unfortunately don’t get much on him canonically due to him not being the main character and the AU not being finished.

He still has a lot of characteristics that Classic Sans does, however the traits and influence/compulsions of the six human souls he absorbed—kindness, patience, perseverance, justice, bravery, integrity—have an immense effect on him and his life, even to the point potentially being dangerous for him.

He is said to not make jokes as much as anymore, although he still does, and he often is quicker to emotional outbursts or anger. He has an intense fear of being alone or forgotten again, to the point he’d get involved in things that are harmful for himself or stick around groups to avoid being lonely—although his creator said he’s often likely to take on a “voice of reason” role in any group he’s in.

If you look of the effects of prolonged solitary confinement and isolation, it is understandable why he has a harder time controlling his emotions and doesn’t wish to feel that sense of being alone again.

A common interpretation in parts of the fandom is that, not only due to his isolation, but due to a hc that he is Autistic, he is often prone to overwhelm and overstimulation—often needing his alone time anyway, even if he’s likely to deny himself what he needs.

A common HC is that he is a nomad, full of wanderlust, not wanting to feel trapped or stuck in the same place again—having developed perhaps some special interests in traveling and keeping track of the lores of AUs he encounters.

It is due to his nature and being Autistic, but also the fact of wanting to stay near Killer wherever he happens to currently be, that it’s headcanoned that Color takes seasonal or part time jobs.

Enough to stay afloat without having to be tied down to one spot or burn himself out trying to keep up with 9 to 5 jobs.

It is also headcanoned that, due to his fear of being forgotten, that Color develops a special interest in photography. Keeping a camera with him, filling up scrapbooks and walls, and journaling.

Maybe he even takes up baking and gardening sometimes. Color’s creator is also Egyptian I believe, so both he and Killer could likely speak Arabic, and it’s possible to implement parts of the culture and beliefs into his character. And also elements of his physical disability, given one of his eyes are gone and his skull is busted open.

Color is also said to be friends with Delta!Sans and Epic!Sans, forming a group known as the Epic Sanses, and I HC’d that when Color first accepted Core!Frisk’s offer to live in the Omega Timeline, that he and Delta were roommates.

Color also hates Nightmare. For how he treats AUs, innocent people, Color’s friends, and especially how he hurts Killer “the most.” Due to the fact that Nightmare canonically replaces Killer with other versions of himself, it is often accepted by Color!Sans lovers that Color’s PTSD worsens, he develops separation anxiety, survivor’s guilt, and compassion fatigue due to the many times he has tried and failed to save and protect all the Killers that Nightmare replaces.

Color struggles to give up on Killer, he can’t do it, and it very likely comes close to killing him more and more every time. Leaving Color to have to rely on the support of his friends Epic and Delta. Color’s opinion of Nightmare is formed by the absolute cruelty Color has consistently witnessed first hand from him, but also the cruelty he’s been on the receiving end of.

Color is often seen as that burnt out therapist friend, the one who everyone wants to go to in order to talk about their problems and ask for advice, and Color struggles to set boundaries in these areas—not only because he doesn’t want to run the risk of pushing people away and being alone again, but because kindness and justice often struggle to let him to.

Essentially, Color has been completely forgotten by the world he only ever tried to protect. For his attempts to save and protect the people he cares about more than anything, the world seems to just consistently punish him for even trying.

He’s forgotten, he’s alone, he’s pushed aside, he fails. He’s forced to watch everyone go on without him, and when Killer becomes his world, he’s forced to watch as he’s constantly destroyed over and over and despite everything Color somehow still survives.

Yet he refuses to give up. Doing so would go against everything he believes in, everything he is.

(. @qin-qin16 ).

[lovesickonmybed]

crazy fuckin' phenomenon | 18+

masterlist | info about palestine | donate to gaza

pairing | dbf!joel miller x reader

synopsis | after your dad abandons joel to watch instagram reels in the bathroom, an argument over the remote ends in a new discovery

warnings | excessive use of bigfoot as a plot device, dbf!joel, explicit sexual content, smut, age gap (20s/late 30s), play fighting with sexual tension, wedgies, humiliation, degradation, kink discovery, semi brat tamer!joel, almost getting caught, blue balls

word count | 2030

a/n | this was co-written with one of my favorite people ever but they wish to remain anonymous! this was so so so fun to work on and i think it really shows. i urge you to not buy any of the last of us games, including the remaster as the creator, neil druckmann is a zionist. the second game is based off of the israeli occupation in palestine and you can learn more about that here.

“Joel I swear to fucking god if I have to watch one more episode of Finding Bigfoot, I’m clawing my eyes out.”

There’s only so much bickering between Matt Moneymaker and Ranae Holland that you can take, and apparently, you’ve found your limit. Approximately five minutes. Joel had come over to hang out with your father, they had planned to watch some war movie because they’re fucking old, but, in typical dad fashion, your father had gotten up halfway through to use the bathroom. After 30 minutes, Joel couldn’t wait anymore and switched the TV to Animal Planet so he could watch Finding Bigfoot reruns. That was two hours ago, and you’ve now spent an hour on the couch with Joel, pleading for him to change it. Of course, your TV decides to stop working the one time your dad actually wants to use the living room TV. So, yeah, you can be a little bit of a drama queen.

“If you can drag your old man off ‘a the shitter, we can go back to watchin’ Come and See. Three fuckin’ hours, startin’ to think he pulled an Elvis.”

“Seriously, Joel,” you bellyache, slumping back into the couch. “Dunno why they’re looking for Bigfoot when he’s clearly right fucking here.” You shoot him a glare from across the couch.

“Uh huh,” Joel drones, either not listening or either not giving a fuck while he watches one of the camouflaged hosts do a shitty imitation of a sasquatch mating call.

Well, since he’s distracted…

With the stealth of a super spy, you lunge over Joel’s lap towards the side table, reaching past discarded beer bottles and hunting magazines for the hijacked remote. You snatch it right up, victorious for a few seconds at most.

“Now what in the hell do you think you’re doin’? Gonna put on fuckin’ Euphoria or something?” You don’t have time to come up with a witty response before you’re pinned down to the couch cushions. Joel’s hulking form hangs over you, shoulders broad and his hair messy as he gives you a smug look. Cursing the cavewoman part of you that gets butterflies in your stomach from how easily he overpowers you, you writhe underneath him.

“Joel what the fuck? Get off me you old fuck!” You groan, grunting in frustration as you try to maneuver Joel off of you. You’re weak as shit but you remember something from the self defense class you took in high school. You knee Joel in the chest, causing him to fall back, giving you a chance to roll off the couch and onto your knees. You look back as he coughs and gasps, trying to catch his breath. 

“Oh you little shit!” Joel groans, getting off the couch and looming over you like a killer in a slasher fic. He smirks down at you, tilting his head to the side like Micheal Myers.

You feel your heart start to race and your cunt start to pulse. You turn back and start to crawl away but Joel leans down and grabs your ankle, pulling you back to him. You definitely feel like you’re in a slasher film now. 

“Oh sweetheart, you’re not gettin’ away that easily…needa stop acting like such a little brat. Your daddy was never that good at discipline.”

You don’t know what you’re expecting. But Joel’s warm hands sneaking down the waistband of your denim cutoffs is not it. You cry out as his fingers loop around your purple thong, drawing it midway up your back. Pain sears up your ass, and much more dangerous, pleasure tingles in your cunt when the front of your thong slips between your folds. Kicking your legs, you smack your palm into the carpet underneath you. “Joel!” you gasp out in surprise.

Maddeningly, Joel chuckles at your struggle underneath him. He shifts to straddle your upper thighs, weighing you down even more. “What, ain’t ever had a wedgie before?” Another sharp tug makes your head drop to the floor. You fight not to give into your body’s base desire to arch your back. “With how often you run your mouth, I’m surprised your friends never ran you up the flagpole in the schoolyard.”

You scrunch your fingers in the fiber of the carpet, trying to anchor yourself to anything other than the searing pain in your ass and cunt. It doesn’t work. You can’t focus on anything but this cruel and unusual punishment. Your dad’s best friend, wedgieing you into obedience.

Somehow, he pulls even harder. All of that contracting work isn’t for nothing. You’re silently moaning now, mouth open and your forehead dipped to the floor, desperate pants flying in and out of your mouth. “Hmmm,” he hums. “Wonder if I could get these over your head. Bet you’d have an easier time watchin’ my show with that.”

“Please,” you rasp. Your brain wants you to beg for him to let you go. Your cunt wants you to beg for him to be meaner. To go all the way and snap them over your head, leaving you ass up and face down, split in half for his enjoyment. You short circuit before you can get any further into the plea, because he’s pulling your panties even higher in brutal bursts.

“Begging ain’t gonna help, honey. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.”

The waistband gets halfway up your neck before Joel gives up. The tension in your body lessons as you melt into the floor. “You ain’t off the hook yet, missy,” Joel says, smirk evident in his voice.

He guides your arms through the leg holes of your panties, and you moan helplessly as he snaps them over your shoulders, leaving you in the equivalent of a wedgie bodysuit. You feel like you’re being split in half.

You can’t help it. You roll your hips, grinding into your panties and the floor. The pressure is everywhere and it’s perfect. Perfect against your burning asshole, your leaking cunt, and your throbbing clit. Every movement also propels you up against Joel, something you can’t even bring yourself to remember right now. You’re wet – unbelievably fucking wet. “What the hell are you doing to me?” you whine, still humping the floor as heat blossoms in your core.

Joel stiffens above you. “Are you…” He clears his throat, a rough noise. “Are you fuckin’ into this?”

The question alone makes you whimper.

Every rock of your hips has the wedgie slicing deeper, pulling you apart piece by piece from your most sensitive place. You arch your back properly, that way every time you go up, you can feel Joel’s bulge against your rear. Joel’s quickly hardening bulge as he watches you lose all of your dignity while humping the floor with your panties rammed up your ass.

“Shut the fuck up, Joel! I’m not into this…I just-” He cuts you off by flicking the string of your thong. Tellingly, you moan out.

“Just what? Just get off on getting split in half by your fuckin’ panties?”

You try to speak but he shoves you forward, pressing your face against the carpet and pinning you down, “Just shut your mouth, don’t want your daddy findin’ ya like this do ya? God, just imagine what he’d say…. Seein’ his precious ‘lil girl gettin’ all wet from a well-deserved wedgie up these plump fuckin’ cheeks.” His hand glides down between your ass cheeks and slaps against your denim-covered bottom. You jolt, moaning where he’s pressing your face into the carpet. You’ll be surprised if your drool isn’t soaking it.

“Joooooel,” you pout, still fighting underneath him. You kick your feet, and they barely graze the small of Joel’s back, a sort of flexibility you can’t afford very much of right now. “Can’t… can’t take much more. Hurts.”

“I’ll tell you what you can take, you little brat. You’re lucky you’re not hangin’ up by these,” Joel grabs the waistband of your light wash denim shorts, using it to lift you up off the floor while you grasp at the carpet in a poor attempt to stay on the ground. 

It doesn’t work. Joel hauls you up, grabbing the front and back of your wedgie. You can’t stop yourself from moaning again, dimly away that your dad is still in the bathroom and still could walk out at any given time. You hope Joel’s good ear can hear if the toilet flushes, because you can’t hear a damn thing over your own pulse rocketing in your ears.

He yanks the back of your thong, and then the front, effectively flossing your ass crack and cunt. Your hands fly down to your thighs, but it’s not like you can do anything, because the next thing Joel does is lift you fully off the ground. You cry out, hastily clamping a hand over your mouth, and decide three things back to back to back.

One – fuck Joel Miller.

Two – fuck Joel Miller.

Three – you might actually really like this.

The third one you realize when you look down to see your arousal seeping through the denim. The humiliation stings on your cheeks with a sort of heat you’ve never felt in your life. He bounces you in the damn thing, pulling you up and down with a strength you’d never fathomed he could have.

You can’t stop yourself from grinding down when he brings you up, pulling your panties even deeper into your ass and cunt. You whine and grab at Joel’s forearm for purchase, nearly fucking yourself against the thin fabric that’s cutting you in half. Joel’s satisfaction at it all, the way you can feel him getting sadistically hard behind you from your cocktail of pain and pleasure, is what truly makes it for you. You buck against your panties even harder, letting out a truly ragged moan when it brushes your clit just right.

“You’re taking this so good, ain’t even cryin’ or nothin’. Should I hang you up? Get your eyes just as wet as your cunt? Could you even take it, or are you gonna cream your pretty little panties before I even get you on a hook?”

The answer is yes – you are going to cream your panties before he gets you on a hook.

Your orgasm rips through you violently, lighting you on fire as you hang in suspension and just take it. Ass burning and your cunt dripping like Niagara Falls, you clench and grind on your panties as desperately as you can to prolong your orgasm. Your eyes water, heart beating out of control. Joel’s hand cups your mound, heel rubbing against where your clit pulses. You’re still tremoring by the time you come down. Everything feels like it’s in technicolor, easily marking the most powerful orgasm of your life.

You realize Joel has deposited you back on the ground. It’s a miracle you’re even standing at all with how limp-boned you are. Chest rising and falling, you stumble back around to face Joel, whose cock is straining against his jeans. You’re about to put him out of his misery, not even taking the time to pick your wedgie as your hand flies towards his belt when you hear it –

Wooooooooshgluglgulglug.

You take your wedgie out like you’re racing to get rid of a ticking time bomb, frantically yanking it down your shoulders and tucking the strings into your waistband. Still burning up from your orgasm, blatantly freshly fucked, you give Joel a half-apologetic look (he had given you a hellish wedgie, after all) and scamper upstairs.

You barely acknowledge your dad as you brush past him. “Hey sweetie, goin’ back up?”

“Mhm,” you get out, almost tripping up the stairs.

“Hm, wonder what’s wrong with her,” you hear your dad reflect to Joel.

“No idea,” Joel says.

You’re about to close your door when you hear more commentary from downstairs. Your dad’s voice. “Woah there, man. Got a thing for bigfoot?”

Your eyebrows shoot to your goddamn hairline as your heartbeat spikes and your brain fills in the gaps.

“Fear boners, crazy fuckin’ phenomenon,” Joel says, just as casual as ever. Yeah. Crazy fucking phenomenon is right.

[grimst4rs]

marauders era unpopular opinions, once more

i really don’t like fanon regulus. i don’t like him being helpless and kind and a sirius variant. he’s morally grey, leaning towards morally dark, he’s selfish, he agreed to his parents’ and voldemort’s ideologies, having joined the death eaters most likely by his own will (unlike draco malfoy). but obviously, everyone is allowed to characterise characters the very way they want to

and while we’re on it, i don’t like evan and barty either, for the same reason. maybe i would, if they were realistically characterised (i LOVE reading morally grey or morally dark(er) characters), and once again, i believe that just because one likes a character, that doesn’t always mean that the character is a good person

and continuing on the same topic, the sunshine james potter, although being a topic that i like and delved deeper into myself, is nice, but i would also love to see more of arrogant, spoiled james potter, too

not liking severus snape and peter pettigrew but liking evan, barty and regulus is kind of hypocritical

i don’t like jegulus

i also don’t like the casanova, bad boy characterisation of remus, and the helpless, needy characterisation of sirius either. to me, they’re out of character, overly done and absolutely not enjoyable

and because i earlier mentioned severus snape, i think he’s an interesting character, actually. that doesn’t make him a good person (once again, i believe him to be morally grey, too) and i can’t call myself a lover of his, however i find his story and character very interesting and compelling

i don’t like a lot of the wolfstar dynamics in current fandom

“we need more content about the girls!” literally do it yourself. please. whenever i write content about the men, i get a wave of new followers, and whenever i post about the non-men, suddenly i have tebs of people unfollowing me. oh, and my posts about the men have twice or thrice the notes of the other ones

sirius > regulus

and speaking of which, sirius is such an interesting character, and he was reduced by many people to nothing, or whatever is relevant to the plot

james would pick sirius over regulus any time, with literally no hesitation

i don’t care about popular fics (read or don’t read, i generally don’t read popular fics to be honest), however i do care about the way creators, especially writers, are treated in this fandom. i made a few posts about this topic, feel free to ask me to link them to you, but the way some people feel entitled to fic and fandom content is horrible

“x is the female version of— !” please stop. i’m going to stop you right here.

stop tagging jegulus and wolfstar and other mlm ships with wlw and nmlnm tags, for god’s sake. you’re just clogging the tag, and if i came looking for a certain ship, that’s what i’m going to expect to find. besides, why would you tag jegulus with, say, pandalily, when jegulus is by far more popular?

jegulus < jily