#this is like the first time I like a design I made

[blackcandlesinwinter]

Also, as a professor, so many students are asking Gen AI do the hard work that I've already done for them, or that they've already done for themselves. Folks will be preparing for the exam and they'll be like "I can ask chatGPT to make practice problems for me" or "I can ask chatGPT to quiz me on the physics concepts" or "I can ask chatGPT to show me how to solve this problem" and I'm like...

I've already created a bunch of problems and questions for you! You have access to them in my slides, in the homework, in the conceptual quizzes, in the practice exams, and in the problem packets we did together in class. AND I've also already provided detailed solutions for ALL of these things! AND you've also made your own solutions to most of them during the course of the class. You don't need AI to make practice material and solutions for you!

The problem is not necessarily that chatGPT will give you false answers; for basic first-year Physics content, it seems pretty stable from what I can see (though I still wouldn't fully trust it). But chatGPT does NOT know:

What notation and symbols and equations I use,

What specific concepts and problem-types I focus on,

What my style of word-problem tends to be like,

What areas I give the most emphasis to and what areas I gloss over or ignore

What depth of thinking and analysis I am expecting my students to demonstrate on exams, etc.

Like, yeah chatGPT can give you questions and answers. But if you want questions and answers relevant to what I actually taught you and what I'm expecting you to demonstrate on my exams, you should just... fuckin'... use all of the resources that I MADE FOR YOU! I WORKED HARD TO MAKE THOSE! THEY ARE FOR YOU! THAT'S WHAT THEY ARE THERE FOR!!! PLEASE USE THEM!

As an example, I asked chatGPT to give me 3 problems on simple harmonic oscillator with solutions. The first question was fine. It asks for quantities that my students should know and the solution uses equations and terms that would be familiar to them. However, the second problem uses symbols that would not be familiar to my algebra-based students (chatGPT writes its equations in terms of angular frequency as opposed to period). The third question asked for a quantity that a student would be expected to know, but referred to it with different terminology than we use in class, calculated it using a totally unfamiliar equation, and also used the aforementioned angular frequency notation. Meanwhile, chatGPT did NOT include any questions asking for time-dependent position or speed, which is probably the most assured type of Simple Harmonic Oscillator problem that a student in my class should expect to see on their exam.

So rather than helping the student practice and review their previously-learned skills, the AI is giving them NEW information and equations, without providing any context to help them connect this to what they've already learned. This both confuses their prior knowledge from class, plus it increases their mental load with a bunch of new, unnecessary information that they will never be asked to demonstrate in my class. And the AI of course does not know that I put a lot of emphasis on the time-dependent equations of motion, so it doesn't bother to offer a practice problem on this topic. So now the student is confused about half of the content and unprepared for the other half!

In comparison, my course materials are written and designed by me. They use consistent terminology, equations, and symbols because I wrote them. They emphasize the skills and knowledge that I think is important and that I expect my students to be able to demonstrate on my exams. When a question pushes the boundary of the students' prior knowledge, I KNOW and INTEND for it to do so, and thus I can provide additional explanations and context to help the student understand how the new information fits with the old.

I'm not going to pretend my stuff is perfect or anything. But it is made FOR THE CLASS THAT YOU ARE TAKING in a way that Gen AI just isn't and can't be. Please stop asking the computer to (badly) do work that I've already done for you! Please! Don't make your physics professor sad!

generative AI literally makes me feel like a boomer. people start talking about how it can be good to help you brainstorm ideas and i’m like oh you’re letting a computer do the hard work and thinking for you???

[monicfever]

ben poindexter as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, i mean he’s a murderer so

BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the “likes your selfies” kind — more like memorized your schedule, cataloged your facial expressions, and would absolutely kill for you without a blink. no hesitation. no regret.

he has a tracker on your phone. not because he doesn’t trust you — he just doesn’t trust anyone else. he tells you it’s for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. “i’d rather know where you are than bury you, baby.”

he gets jealous. so easily. and he hates it. hates how tight his jaw gets when you laugh at someone else's joke. how his fists curl when someone makes you smile. but he’s so good at holding it together — until you’re alone. then he’s pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. “you’re mine, right?” he’ll ask, low and tight.

ben does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesn’t matter if he’s had the worst day imaginable — he’ll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if you’ve eaten.

he gets scary when he thinks you’re pulling away. it’s subtle at first — quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second he’s sure something’s wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like it’s betrayal. like it’s death.

he’s weirdly soft in private. you’re the only person who gets to see the version of him that’s quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like you’ll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like he’s memorizing you in case you disappear.

always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry — no, ben’s gifts are weirder. more him. a vintage matchbook he liked the design of. a cool rock he found on the sidewalk. a bullet casing from his last mission. “made me think of you,” he says, dead serious.

his love language is acts of service — intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice it’s broken. goes grocery shopping and memorizes your favorite brand of literally everything. remembers how you like your tea down to the exact amount of honey.

can’t sleep unless he’s touching you. even just a pinky finger brushing yours. if you roll away in the night, he subconsciously follows, pulling you back like a heat-seeking missile. “where you goin’, sweetheart?” he mumbles, half-asleep.

keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner — but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. “keeps me sane.”

loves forehead kisses. won’t ask for them. won’t say a word. just leans down a little and looks at you with that tilted-head stare until you get it. and when you comply? his whole face goes soft like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. you’ll say “i’m cold” and he’s like, “want me to burn the world down for you?” you laugh. he doesn’t.

likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching — so still it’s unnerving. to him it’s peace. it’s you alive.

plays with your fingers absentmindedly. twists your rings around. traces the veins in your wrist. holds your hand even when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing. asks what every little scar is from. “this one?” he’d question. “fell off my bike.” a pause. “want me to go back in time and kill the pavement?”

notices everything. you don’t even realize how closely he’s watching until he casually mentions things like, “you switched shampoo, didn’t you?” or “you tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually it’s four.” and it’s not judgment — he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if something’s wrong, he really knows.

he’s extremely routine-oriented — and he builds you into his structure. once you’re part of his life, you’re in it.

your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = something’s off, red = drop everything).

he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if you’re the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. you’re the only thing that doesn’t throw him off.

he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, it’s intense. there’s no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from “i think i like them” to “i will absolutely die if they leave” in under a week. he’s so good at hiding just how deep it runs.

he replicates your habits without meaning to. if you fidget with your sleeves, he starts doing it. if you use a certain word a lot, it shows up in his vocabulary. he mirrors you because it comforts him.

he hyper-fixates on your favourites. if you say you like a snack once, he’ll buy ten. you compliment a song? it’s on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? he’ll go out of his way to buy backups. he wants to memorize what makes you happy so he can recreate it. perfectly. every time.

he spirals when he thinks he upset you. even slightly. a weird tone in your voice? a shorter text reply than usual? his brain jumps to you hate me. you’re going to leave. i ruined it. he’ll pace. his routine will fall apart. instead of lashing out on you he gets quiet. self-destructive. unless you pull him back in with something soft — a touch. a word. a look. then he clings like a shadow.

he makes you things with his hands. little wood carvings, origami, folded napkin animals — he fidgets constantly, and you’re the outlet.

his hands don’t stop moving, so they move for you. you’ll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he won’t mention it, but he’ll watch to see if you notice.

he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. he’ll say things like, “you still like having me around, right?” or “you’d tell me if i was being too much?” and it breaks your heart a little, because he’s so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: “you’re my favourite person.”

can’t fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesn’t matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was — he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesn’t it eats at him. he’ll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terrible’s going to happen because he broke the pattern.

refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesn’t care if it’s your friend, your boss, your own damn parent — if he can’t be the one driving, he’s deeply uncomfortable. he’ll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.

has ‘rules’ for loving you. like brushing your hair off your face with his left hand only. or always kissing you three times before you leave. he doesn't need to do it — he has to. if he breaks the pattern, his brain tells him something bad will happen to you.

saves every single voicemail and text you send. even the dumb ones. especially the dumb ones. he replays your old voicemails when he’s spiraling.

he screenshotted the first time you said “i miss you” and keeps it in a locked photo album. you’re proof that something good happened to him once.

gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the room’s too loud, someone’s tapping a pen too much — he’s unraveling inside.

but if you’re talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? he’ll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.

has a favorite version of you, but it’s not what you’d think. it’s not when you’re dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. it’s when you’re sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.

“you’re not real,” you mumbled once. “i made you up.” he still thinks about that. hopes it’s not true. but if it is? he’s glad you dreamed him.

collects your words like scripture. if you ever say something sweet to him, he will not forget. he repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra.“you’re safe with me.” ,, “you’re not too much.” ,, “i like you exactly the way you are.” he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.

panics if he forgets anything about you. can’t remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesn’t know if you take your coffee with sugar that day? hands start shaking.

his whole sense of safety is tied to knowing you. so if anything slips, it feels like the whole foundation is cracking.

he loves you in patterns. in rituals. in coffee orders and folded blankets and kisses placed in the exact same spot on your shoulder every night.

gets annoyed when you shower without him. he doesn’t even want to do anything — he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while you’re in there like, “you left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.” you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.

gets weirdly quiet when you’re on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and he’s just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping you’ll notice. you say “benny, you okay?” and he melts like, “...m’here. just waitin’.”

clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesn’t matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, he’s already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “not mad anymore.” he murmurs. translation: don’t leave me.

keeps weapons stashed in every room ‘just in case.’ under the bed. behind the fridge. in your car’s glove box.

memorized your ex’s face and car within the first week. he won’t say what he did with that information. but he didn’t like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.

he hates parties.not because he’s antisocial, because he can’t relax when you’re in a room full of strangers.

he’s watching everyone — every glance, every shift, every hand that moves too close. he stands behind you the whole time, hand at your lower back, barely talking to anyone.

texts you “where are you?” even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows you’re at work or running errands or at the gym. but he still needs to hear you say it. needs the proof. the reassurance. you say “i’m fine, benny,” and he responds with “miss you.” (you’ve been gone 20 minutes.)

calls you his “person.” not partner. not babe. just “my person.” says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.

won’t let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. you’ve tried switching sides — he’ll switch with you immediately. doesn’t matter where you’re going. doesn’t matter if the road is empty. “nope,” he’ll mutter, hand on your hip. “you don’t get hit. not on my watch.”

he has a folder on his computer labeled “them.” inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people who’ve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you don’t know it exists.

takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? he’s already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say “i don’t feel safe,” and he’s already reaching for his coat.

he doesn’t yell unless someone talks down to you. he’ll take endless shit from people when it’s about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch — “you wanna repeat that to me?” and suddenly the room’s ice cold.

he’ll sit in complete silence beside you while planning murder in his head. someone made you cry? he holds your hand gently, rubs circles into your palm, kisses your wrist — and behind his eyes, he’s already figured out the five best ways to ruin their life.

he keeps track of your patterns better than you do. you get headaches before rain? he brings you meds before you mention it. your trauma responses show in tiny shifts? he spots them immediately and gets you out of the room.

he might be unstable, but when it comes to protecting you — he’s the most focused man alive.

stares at your contact name before calling you, like he’s bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesn’t even call. just stares. like maybe that’s enough to survive another hour.

doesn’t know how to be casual. you say “i like your shirt” and he’ll buy five more. you compliment his cologne once? he never uses another one again. every word you say means something to him.

loves when you wear his clothes a little too much. he acts all chill but inside he’s screaming. watching you walk around in his hoodie with the sleeves over your hands? ruined. he has to sit down.

he has no idea what a normal reaction is. you get a weird DM? he’s already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? he’s acting like you got shot. “you’re bleeding.” he mutters, completely still. “baby, it’s a scratch—”

gets scary quiet when you’re in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. “stay down. don’t move. don’t look.” and you listen — because in that moment, he’s not your sweet clingy ben. he’s the weapon the government built.

has trauma responses built around you. you’re late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesn’t just worry— he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything he’s lost before.

so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. “don’t do that to me again,” he whispers. “please.”

doesn’t forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he won’t. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? he’ll do it without blinking.

knows all your “tired” cues. you yawn a certain way when you’re really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brain’s overwhelmed. so he’ll quietly turn the lights down, warm up your hoodie, and run a bath without you even asking.

obsessively keeps the place safe. deadbolts, alarms, cameras, backup flashlights, reinforced doors. not because he’s paranoid. because you live there. and nothing — nothing — is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.

he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? he’s quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someone’s joke? he stares them down until they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

he gets clingy after. full body contact. face buried in your shoulder. won’t let go. “you like me better, right?” you tease him and say “maybe…” his whole face drops. “dont.”

and if he sees them in public, he’s pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.

he repeats the same three phrases every time you’re hurt. like it’s a spell: “you’re safe.” “you didn’t do anything wrong.” “i love you so much it hurts.”

he checks in constantly. not just “are you okay?”but “did you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?”

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[ghostedgwen]

don't blame me | j.potter [part three]

note : having the worst week of my life but at least I can write ficitonal scenarios about dead gay wizards from the 70s, sigh

warnings :more james potter annoying you, like the usual , holidays with the Potters - yay? , a short moment of angst, jealousy jealousy

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 3.6k

Patrols with James Potter had been . . . exhausting.

Weeks of late-night rounds patrolling empty corridors, always with him trailing two steps behind or two inches too close. Always with his voice slinking into the silence like it belonged there, like you were supposed to be comfortable with him. And somehow, he made it his mission to use every moment to chip away at your patience with all the grace of a blunt axe.

Lovely.

He was determined, though. You had to give him that. Determined to get under your skin, to make you smile, to tease you until your eye twitched. His favourite hobby lately was whispering “Wife” every time you reached for your wand. You hadn’t hexed him yet - but not for lack of desire.

Still, despite his relentless antics, there had been moments - rare, fleeting ones - where you forgot to hate him. Where he’d say something unexpectedly kind, or remember something about you he had no business remembering, and it felt like you might be on the edge of. . . something.

You always walked away before you could fall.

And then, mercifully, the holidays arrived. Which meant no more late-night patrols, no more being cornered by James Potter in dimly-lit corridors, and no more having to pretend you weren’t flustered when he said something that made your chest ache.

You’d barely shared any classes with the Gryffindors this term anyway, and now, with the castle slowly emptying for the break, it was easier than ever to avoid him. You packed with care, meticulously folding your robes, grateful for the distance the train ride would provide.

Until, of course, it didn’t.

You’d just spotted your roommates and were about to slip into their compartment when a hand grabbed your wrist.

You barely had time to yelp before James bloody Potter was dragging you away, all boyish charm and zero respect for personal space. Right through the train halls.

“Come along, darling,” he said with a smirk, ignoring how you perked at the designated nickname. “Reserved you a seat in the madhouse.”

“I’m reporting you to the authorities,” you hissed, wriggling uselessly as he tugged you toward the Marauders’ carriage. “Kidnapping is a crime.”

“Betrothed privilege,” he said smugly, as if that were an actual law.

The carriage door slid open, and Sirius Black greeted you with a roguish grin and a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Our lady of misfortune has arrived.”

You gave him a look which he was unfazed by, charming as always. “Get a haircut, Black.”

Remus smiled warmly and offered a casual nod. “Good to see you, ____.”

“Hi, Remus,” you said, already angling toward the empty seat beside him. Safe. Calm. Not James Potter.

If the boys noticed how you called him by first name, they failed to comment.

Peter gave a little wave. “Hey.”

You slid in next to Remus with a grateful sigh, already launching into a discussion about Ancient Runes - anything to keep your thoughts occupied, anything to avoid looking across at James.

Remus was, as ever, a good conversationalist - sharp, observant, gentle. He asked questions about your last essay and even jotted down a mental note when you mentioned a reference book he hadn’t read yet.

And James . . . frowned.

Sirius leaned in close to him, voice low. “You’re glaring, mate.”

“I am not.”

“You are. That’s the face you made when Evans talked to that Ravenclaw bloke - Klove, was it?”

James swatted him. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous it’s making me jealous,” Sirius muttered, biting back a laugh as to not let you in on their whispered exchange.

James only responded when you glanced up, mid-sentence with Remus, and he spoke over you without remorse. “So. About the engagement dinner.”

You stiffened at the sudden mention, all words about Ancient Runes falling off your tongue. “What about it?”

“The others’ll be there,” he said casually, gesturing at the boys, Sirius nodding at you. “Whole family’s been invited.”

You groaned, already picturing the social chaos that would ensue and just how you'd be front page on the Daily Prophet.

“My mum doesn’t want to go,” Sirius said cheerfully. “She hates the Potters, obviously. Calls them blood-traitor filth. But it’s two pureblood houses uniting, so she’ll show up to save face. Probably poison the wine, but she’ll be there - the rest of the noble house of Black too.”

You groaned louder, face in your hands. “There really isn’t a way to get out of this?”

Sirius tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You could marry me instead.”

You snorted at his suggestion, like hell you'd marry into his crazy purist family. “If I had to choose between the four of you, I’d pick Remus.”

That earned a low whistle from Sirius and a quiet, pleased hum from Remus. He knew your words held no ground, so he neglected reacting much.

James didn’t say anything. But his jaw clenched, and he looked out the window like it had personally offended him.

The silence lingered until a loud bang shook the carriage.

“Was that . . .?” you asked.

“Dung bombs,” Peter said, grinning - you drank in the boy's mischievous glint that the four of them seemed to have. “Slytherin carriage.”

You stared. “Seriously? You couldn't have let it rest, spirit of Christmas and all that?”

“I told him to set a delay timer,” Remus said with a sigh, there it is. He really isn't the squeaky clean Gryffindor Prefect everyone thought he was, questioning his validity as a Marauder. “Did you?”

“Ten minutes,” Sirius said proudly. “Perfect.”

The door burst open with an angry thunk. Evans.

Her angry green eyes swept the room, nostrils flaring. “Who’s responsible?”

No one spoke. It was a beautifully choreographed silence.

Then her eyes locked on you. He had expected the boys, the moment she caught sight of James through the compartment door - but you were an odd addition.

She briefly remembered the offer James made her over the summer, which she agreed to.

“What’re you doing here?”

You blinked, deciding not to answer that. “We’ve been mostly well-behaved. While I’ve been here.”

You left out the bit where you hadn’t been in the carriage for the first few minutes of the journey, giving them enough window to set up their prank.

Evans narrowed her eyes, but sighed. “I’ll let it slide. Because it’s you. And I don’t think you’d lie to me, ____.”

She turned on her heel and left, hair swinging like a blade behind her. Those gorgeous red locks that one would recognize from a mile away.

Peter leaned in, eyebrows raised. “Think she’s jealous?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Not of me.”

James didn’t laugh. He was staring out the window again, entirely unreadable.

At the station, the boys peeled off one by one.

Sirius gave you a wink and a mock bow before strolling toward his reluctant mother.

Peter mumbled something about his mum hating delays and hurried off. Remus gave you a small, reassuring smile, bidding you a polite goodbye before walking off.

James stayed.

You spotted your parents before they saw you - dressed in their best travel robes, standing beside the Potters as if this were already a done deal. Mrs. Potter was beaming, saying something animated to your mother, who looked politely engaged.

Your father was shaking hands with Mr. Potter like they were discussing ministry business instead of their children’s future.

You gulped.

James came to stand beside you. “Ready?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for this.”

“Too bad. Train’s already stopped,” he said with a grin.

Then, just loud enough to reach only your ears: “Did I mention we’re staying at my place for the whole break?”

You whipped your head around. “What?”

He beamed. “Didn’t you hear? My mum’s idea. Think she wants us to bond.”

Your expression must have betrayed every drop of horror in your soul, because James just kept smiling. You couldn't muster a reply, not even to retort at the shock.

“I’ll save you the room next to mine.”

You groaned.

He offered his arm with mock chivalry, you knew your parents were watching but decided against playing along. “Shall we?”

You didn’t take it, but you didn’t run either. You were already walking toward the wolves. What was one more step?

Next up: The Potters’ home. Preparations. Chaos. And an engagement party you weren’t sure you’d survive without throttling your fiancé.

But for now, you squared your shoulders and forced a smile.

Let the holiday nightmare begin.

Potter Manor was exactly as you remembered it, nevermind it hasn't been long since your last visit. That was the worst part.

The same winding staircase you used to race James up two steps at a time. The same enchanted portraits that used to cheer you on. The oak banister still bore the scratch marks from when you and James attempted to slide down it on a tea tray - and spectacularly failed. And the smell - cinnamon, broom polish, and whatever potion Euphemia Potter always had brewing - hit you like a ghost to the ribs.

It wasn’t unfamiliar. It was haunting.

Because you used to belong here. Before Hogwarts, before the forgetting, before everything fell apart. You used to run barefoot through these halls, laughing with the boy who now called you wife just to see you flinch.

And now you were back.

Not as a friend. Not even as a guest. But as the future daughter-in-law.

Euphemia Potter regarded you with a warm smile the moment you step through the threshold of Potter Manor, as though it’s been years instead of just four months since the last time you were here.

Her arms wrap around you in a motherly hug, and she smells of ginger tea and old parchment, just like always. She beams at you like nothing has changed, like you’re still ten and sleeping over in James Potter’s room with a blanket fort between the beds so you wouldn’t accidentally kick each other in the night.

But everything has changed. More like, nothing has remained the same - not even you did, you grew out of your dirty robes thanks to playing in the mud with James and he's outgrown the little boy that clung to you.

Because now you’re here not as James’s childhood friend, but as his betrothed, and every memory you once thought was yours alone is being dragged out into the light and repackaged for an entirely different future.

The Manor hasn’t changed much - same grand portraits, same ticking grandfather clock in the hall, same scent of cedar and magic in the air. But it feels like something inside you curdled on the walk up the gravel path. Maybe it’s because only you, and your parents, and the Potters remember what this place meant to you once.

James certainly doesn’t. Not in the way you do. Not in the way that matters.

“James, sweetheart, would you be a dear and show her to her room? It’s the same one from the summer,” Euphemia says with an airy smile as she leads your parents and her husband into the drawing room, already slipping into talk of tea and travel and wedding colors.

“Gladly,” James says, far too quickly, turning toward you with that irritating sparkle in his eye. You curse your rotten luck.

You groan under your breath as he falls into step beside you. “Don’t start.”

“What? I haven’t said anything yet,” he replies innocently. “But since you’re clearly in such a cheery mood, I’ll just skip straight to the part where I invite you to sneak into my room later if you get too lonely.”

You don’t even flinch as you mutter, “Try it and I’ll kick you so hard your grandkids will feel it.”

James clutches his heart in mock pain. “Merlin, and here I thought you would be caring to our grandkids!”

You roll your eyes as he pushes open the door to your room - same as last time, same rich emerald curtains and vintage vanity, same bed that used to feel like a dream when you were younger, when this place was magic instead of a distant memory.

“Feel at home, darling,” James sing-songs as he retreats, and you don’t bother with a retort. You’re already shutting the door on him, not minding if it slammed right on his face.

Dinner is practically déjà vu.

The Potters and your family sit at the long mahogany table, wine glasses glinting in the candlelight, laughter echoing too easily around you. Euphemia compliments your dress. Your mother beams with pride every time James says something even mildly charming.

Fleamont asks your father about business, and all of it feels like a play you’re being forced to star in, only you didn't rehearse your lines just yet.

What makes it worse is James, who can’t seem to sit still. Halfway through dinner, you feel it - the subtle nudge of his foot under the table. You glare at him. He grins and taps your ankle again, continuing to dine like he wasn't bothering you through mouthfuls of steak.

You dig your heel into the top of his shoe, he stiffled the groan that threatened to escape him.

“Darling,” your mother says suddenly, drawing your attention -Merlin, that nickname is ruined for you thanks to James. “We were thinking, maybe as part of the engagement party, the two of you could do a little performance. A dance!”

You nearly choke on your pumpkin soup, a fucking dance with James Potter? you'd rather not, he'll surely pull some shit to make you trip.

“It’s not a coming-of-age ceremony,” you blurt, denying the suggestion before it could blossom.

They laugh it off, but James’s brow furrows. “Wait a second - when is your birthday?”

“In two weeks,” you mutter pretending how it didn't sting that he doesn't remember.

Back when you were kids, he'd owl you non-stop the full week leading up to it as he also begged your parents to let you celebrate at the manor.

Euphemia claps her hands, your Mother already caught the idea and was nodding enthusiastically. “Perfect timing, then! The engagement party will be both a celebration of your union and your birthday.”

You smile tightly, your thoughts bitter. Great. Now no one will actually celebrate your birthday. They’ll be too busy celebrating the inevitable.

James goes oddly quiet after that. Which should have been a relief. But instead, it unsettles you. Because if James Potter wasn’t talking, then he was definitely thinking.

And James Potter thinking is a very dangerous thing.

Sleep is an elusive thing that night. You toss and turn, too warm under the thick blankets, your mind racing with everything unsaid. You finally shove off the covers and open your door, planning to sneak into the library or just pace the halls until your thoughts tire out.

Except as soon as you step out, you nearly crash into someone in the dark halls of the Potter Manor.

James.

He blinks at you, hair even messier than usual, shirt wrinkled and collar loose. “You too?”

You consider turning around and shutting yourself back in your room, as if seeing the gears turn in your head - he grabbed your arm.

“Nope. You’re coming with me,” he says before you can escape, already tugging your arm with a firm, familiar grip - man, those Quidditch practices really sculpted him well.

“I was planning to walk alone, thanks,” you say dryly, pulling your arm from him but to no avail as he wouldn't budge.

“Too bad. I’m feeling generous.”

He drags you down the hall, past darkened paintings and sleeping portraits, all the way to the kitchens, where a single house elf pops in to greet him.

“Young master, James - sir - may I - ”

“It’s alright, Winky, I’ve got this one,” James says, waving her off. “Go on, enjoy your break, it's late.”

The elf vanishes with a pop. You bid the familiar elf goodbye which she smiled at.

“Please tell me you’re not about to burn the Manor down trying to make toast,” you mutter, remembering how he'd almost done just that.

“Have a little faith,” he says, already pulling out ingredients and fiddling with the stove. To your surprise, he’s. . . not terrible. He makes sandwiches. Cuts up fruit. Even remembers you like your tea a little sweet - though you doubt he'd actually remembered, it was probably just muscle memory.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.

“We used to do this,” you say quietly, breaking the silence.

He glances at you. “What?”

“Sneak around. Late nights. Kitchens. You always got crumbs in your hair.”

James chuckles, then falters. “Yeah. . . I think I remember that. Vaguely.”

You look away, heart twisting. “Doesn’t matter, it's been years.”

“Hey.”

You don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “I’m sorry.”

You swallow thickly, still turned toward the wall - scared to show him the expression on your face. You could only guess you looked pathetic.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, despite yourself. You hoped the shake in your resolve did now show in your voice. “We were kids. I guess it just mattered more to me.”

There’s a pause. Then he says, “If we do end up shackled to each other - ”

“Romantic,” you deadpan and he pointedly ignored that.

“ - I’d treat you well,” he finishes. “You’d be the happiest wife in all of Britain. Or at least the most well-fed, I am very rich, you see.”

You turn just in time to see his stupid wink, your tears blinked away and they failed to cascade down much to your delight.

“You’re such an arse.” you tell him but this time, there was no bite to it, a smile even tugging at your lips.

“And yet, here you are, sharing a midnight snack with me. So what does that say about you?”

You snatch a slice of apple from his plate and lob it at his head. He catches it in his mouth with infuriating ease, bloody Quidditch.

You don’t even give him the satisfaction of a goodbye. You slip away before he can see the flush rising up your neck, before he can notice how your heart is pounding in a way it hasn’t since you were ten years old and thought that maybe - just maybe - he’d always remember you.

Maybe not in his head, but his heart.

You were somehow comforted by the talk tonight, he’s starting to try.

Preparations for the engagement party take over the manor in the days that follow. The adults are swept up in an endless flurry of guest lists and menus and floral arrangements, and you and James are pulled apart before you can even properly register it.

You're ushered off to endless dress fittings and hair trials while James is fitted for his formal robes in another wing of the house. It’s necessary, of course. With the wedding scheduled shortly after graduation, this is the only time left to get things sorted.

They were making the best out of your holiday break.

You’re glad for the space. The distance gives your heart time to settle, to remember that this engagement isn’t real - not in the way you once hoped. Meanwhile, James seems disappointed by the lack of time together. He even pouts when he thinks you’re not looking.

You ignore it.

On the day before the engagement party, you spend most of it in rehearsals. A stern but kind dance instructor leads you through the steps again and again, correcting posture, instructing turns.

Your mother watches proudly from the corner, beaming at how lovely you’ll look twirling across the reception floor.

Except you’re not dancing with James. The parents insisted it would be more romantic if you waited until the wedding day to share your first proper dance together.

So instead, you dance with the instructor while your mind drifts to the boy you’ll be expected to smile at all night. The boy whose name you'll take.

Midnight is close by the time you finally collapse into bed, limbs sore and eyelids heavy. You drift off after practise, only to be jolted awake by an abrupt knock on the door.

You stumble up and open it - and there he is.

James stands in the hallway, grinning like a child with a secret. He’s holding a small cake, clumsily decorated but clearly well-meant. The icing is in your favorite colors - ____, and your heart trips at the sloppily-written greeting.

“What - ?”

“I baked it with the elves,” James says proudly. “They were very excited to help, they like you a lot.”

He steps inside without waiting for permission and places the cake on your desk. Then he lights a single candle in the center, making your heart do cartwheels.

Before you can say anything, he begins to sing.

His version of happy birthday is terrible - off-key, full of dramatic vibrato, and entirely too cheeky - but you laugh anyway, despite yourself.

“Happy birthday, ____,” he says softly when he finishes, voice warm and real in a way that makes your chest ache.

You stare at the candle for a moment, you're now of-age. An adult in the eyes of the law.

“Well?” James nudges you. “Make a wish.”

You shake your head but close your eyes anyway, blowing out the flame. When you open them, he’s looking at you in that way again - quiet, unguarded.

“What’d you wish for?” he asks.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

He grins. “It better be something dramatic. Like me getting hexed in the Great Hall.”

You smile, soft and fleeting. For a moment, it feels like you’ve got him back. The boy who used to race you down the hallways of this manor. The one who knew every secret passageway. The one who always remembered your birthday.

And then he leans in.

He’s so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes. His breath ghosts across your cheek. You almost lean forward -

Almost.

But then you remember. Lily.

You pull away sharply, eyes fixed on the cake.

James blinks, hurt flashing briefly across his face before he masks it with a lopsided grin. “Well. Better try this or the elves might get offended.”

You force a laugh. “The cake better be edible. I’m only trying it because I’m starving.”

“Please. It’s only edible because the elves did ninety percent of the work,” he admits.

You chuckle at that and take a bite. “Sixty percent.”

“Forty,” he argues, taking a bite himself

“Ten.”

You both laugh.

But your heart still aches.

to be continued. . .

part four | masterlist

[writingbluerose]

TWST DRABBLE #18

The distant jazz music could be heard from all around while you and the others walked on the pale-yellow cobbled streets. Admiring the traditional houses and gentle music, you were most grateful that Jade had invited you and Grim to this event ;

When he came personally to Ramshackle to invite you, you found it hard to say no, double hard since he was your boyfriend and all that. What you didn't expect was that he'd invited Rook, Riddle and even Malleus to come assist him. Didn't he say he only needed to fill Floyd's spot...? Well, you'd rather not ask him...

And that's how you ended up here. Jade was in the front, guiding you to the main spot of the wedding with the others behind him, you watching Grim and Malleus happily chatting “Ohh, a fish!” “Grim be careful...” But the cat did not hear you, he happily skipped after the fish not noticing the barrel that he soon ran into, “Ah look at that he went right into that barrel” Malleus' gentle voice had an amused tint to it, you sighed, “His fault for being a glutton all the time” “You should pay more attention to your surroundings Grim” Riddle's stern voice scolded him while he watched the cat sniff from the pain before taking a spot on your shoulders ; “I'm truly mesmerized by this place Jade, so did you truly grow up here?” The merman chucked “Here yes, but not on the surface, as you know I was born an eel so of course I had spent my childhood in the waters. But of course, me, Floyd and Azul were given a lot of training and lessons about how to live on land before we got our first transformation potion” “Is that so? — Malleus put a hand on his chin in wonder — to think you'd need to learn so much just for a potion...” Jade chuckled again before continuing his walk

After a while of walking, you finally arrived at the place. A beautifully decorated harbor with a wooden path heading to a boat decorated with a dozen of different white flower bouquets. At the beginning of the wooden path, a gate of the same material could be seen, decorated with beautiful pink roses accompanied by a white cloth that was slowly shifting in the wind. And of course, the main decoration couldn't be missed, a beautiful silk path with beautiful designs fit for the theme of the city you were now in “Jade this is amazing! I don't feel like I'm enough to go to this wedding, it's beautiful” Jade laughed and put his hand around your waist “Now don't be so modest my dear, I chose you to come with me for a reason after all” Jade gave you one of his soft smiles “Oh how nice, you're all here! I hope you didn't wait too long”

Suddenly, a smooth yet soft voice made its way to your ears, and turning around, you found standing behind you an amazing tall lady, dressed in a black dress with a hat that blocked the sun out of her face, a face that..., it looked oddly the same with Jade's... could it be—? “Ah yes, everyone, this is my mother” Of course! The resemblance is uncanny... “And who is this nice company Jade?” “These are my best friends from Night Raven Collage” Everyone's expressions quickly turned to surprised ones, since to be called a best friend by the Jade Leech? That was something else ( Malleus seemed quite happy at the title, his smile was quite giddy )

You laughed at his expression, not noticing Jade making his way to you. He gently took your hand and guided you to his mother : “And this, mother — he gestured to you with a smile — is my girlfriend” You blushed, embarrassed, before giving the woman a little wave, at which Jade chuckled once again “My, my, is this the little Shrimpy I've heard about from Floyd? He could never stop talking about how you have my son Jade over here wrapped around your fingers” Jade's eye twitched at hearing whatever his twin said to his mother, but kept his smile on anyway, “My name is Georgina Leech, it's wonderful to meet you dear” You gave her a small smile in return to hers “The pleasure is mine miss” The woman took your hands in hers and shaked them, making you laugh

This might be the best event you've been to yet

© writingbluerose 2025

[xerserise]

I used to supervise the graphics department of a small publishing company, making coffee table travel books. I was their highest paid non-management employee. (I didn't have authority over employees, I had authority over the design made by the employees. And a lot of organizational and technical responsibility, in addition to the design work that I did for the books and for the company.) It was one of my last jobs, and I've had a lot.

I've also had thousands of dollars of dental work, because I couldn't get myself to brush my teeth regularly.

I don't work for a living anymore, because trying to survive as a worker under capitalism gave me autistic burnout and an adult-onset tic disorder. Thankfully, with the help of friends, family, social workers, and a lot of trauma that I could have done without, I survived and won my Disability claim.

Now I pay someone to call me multiple times a week, on a schedule, so that I can make plans for the upcoming week (and the rest of the day), be reminded of things that Past Me thought were important, and go down my list of basic things that I need to make sure I do (brush teeth, take meds, clean and refill my humidifier, look at and reply to my messages and mail and such, etc.). It's been a huge benefit to my life, over these past years.

If I were working, I wouldn't have the energy, focus, or capacity to work on my own life and goals the way I do now. I know this, because when I was working, all I could manage was work and escapism and sleep.

My autism and ADHD diagnoses came after the breakdown and the onset of the tic disorder, after I had become completely unable to work, was struggling to eat enough (for stress reasons), and was losing an unhealthy amount of weight (which messes with brain chemistry), at a time when I was very traumatized and unable to mask.

But I was unable to handle it all, long before then. I used to drink and smoke all evening, pass out, wake up, go to work, and do it again. I had dirty dishes that stayed in the sink for over a year. And I would go to work every day. I would manage to do my laundry before everything was dirty, and shower before work, and do the things that were required to appear normal once I walked out my door. But that was it. I had cavities that I could see and feel, and I did nothing about them until my canine tooth broke. I moved my futon into the living room, because my bedroom was filled with boxes of stuff that I didn't want to deal with. The bedroom became a place to shove stuff out of the way. I almost never opened the door.

I was able to have a job. But I wasn't able to also have a life worth living. Now? Now that I have a meager income from SSDI? I'm living a simple life, focused on myself and my needs, with support. And I'm giving support to others. And I'm finally connecting with a few people, and making real friends for the first time in my life, as I near 50 years of age. I'm using my knowledge and experience to build a local queer Discord, to help others find connection.

I can't work (anymore). But that doesn't mean I can't contribute to society. I can contribute far more as a happier person who is connected to community and free to follow their interests than I could as a lonely and depressed replaceable staff member who disassociates all the time.

And even if I couldn't contribute, I would deserve food and shelter and medical care and the like. Because everyone deserves it.

Instead, the requirements of life, of community, of basic human interactions, are used as ways to extract as much money as possibly from the workers who create everything. Are denied us, kept behind barbed wire, with fees to access anything.

And pointing the finger at groups of people, saying 'they are useless, they are taking your resources, they are destroying your family, you deserve more', is a good way to get folks to ignore the systems that paywall life itself and instead blame the people who such a system already marginalizes and oppresses.

People can contribute to society in many ways, while also requiring support from society.

Our value as a human beings exist whether or not we can contribute to society.

And many jobs exist that don't contribute to a happier, healthier, more welcoming world. Only to a dystopian hellscape. Sure, you're contributing. But why?

Many, many things are being implied when disabled and neurodivergent people are called burdens on society.

Society, as it is, is a burden on us.

Fuck the system.

“Of course autistic people can go to the bathroom by themselves and have jobs!!” Some can’t. They’re not burdens or an “epidemic” either. Please don’t get pulled into an argument about usefulness, because that feeds into their baseline eugenic idea that you have to “contribute to society” to justify your existence. Nobody’s worth is tied to what they can do for the state.

[cbeargyu]

WISHES COME TRUE

SUMMARY: you’ve always been the quiet, bookish type — hidden behind oversized sweaters and your secret smut blog. yeonjun, the golden boy of the dance department, was supposed to be just a harmless crush... until a steamy story accidentally lands in his hands. now, your fantasies are no longer just fiction.

PAIRING: soft dom!yeonjun x fem!reader

GENRE: slow burn, smutty tension, university!au, angst, fluff, eventual nsfw (suggestive)

WARNINGS: suggestive themes, language, emotional tension, power dynamics, accidental exposure of private writing, crying, emotional vulnerability, soft dominance, yeonjun being too hot to handle, loss of virginity, unprotected sex.

WC: 4,8k

NOTES: i wish yeonjun would make my fantasies come true too...😞

you were a literature major at university—one of those girls who always seemed quiet, thoughtful, always with a book tucked under her arm or a notebook filled with scribbled ideas. you had chosen literature because, for as long as you could remember, stories had been your whole world. fairy tales, classic novels, poetry, fanfiction—especially fanfiction.

it had started innocently enough in your early teens: writing about your favorite movie characters falling in love. but as you got older, so did your stories. they evolved—bolder, darker, more explicit. the kind of scenes that made your cheeks flush even though you were the one writing them. you never said it out loud, of course. no one would ever imagine it of you.

you were the quiet girl in class, after all. the one with oversized sweaters, round glasses slipping down your nose, a soft voice, and a shy smile that made people underestimate you. but at night, in the glow of your laptop screen, you were someone else. your blog had grown into something much bigger than you'd anticipated. a loyal following of readers eagerly awaited your weekly updates, devouring every steamy, forbidden chapter you posted—always right on schedule, even with your hectic academic life.

and then there was choi yeonjun.

he was in the contemporary dance program—effortlessly popular, magnetic in every sense. tall, with dark hair that curled slightly when he sweat after practice, his ears lined with silver piercings, his eyes sharp but kind. he had a way of walking into a room and drawing attention without even trying.

you’d met him in a way that was both perfectly ordinary and somehow surreal. he’d started showing up at your department’s literature fairs. it surprised you the first time—someone like him, flipping through romance novels with genuine interest, not just killing time. but there he was, every time, stopping by the table you were in charge of, smiling that easy, sunlit smile that made your stomach twist in quiet panic.

“any recommendations today?” he’d ask casually, leaning over the table just close enough to make you forget how to breathe.

you tried to keep your voice steady. “uh—if you like slow burn… this one’s pretty good.”

he grinned. “you always know the good ones. you read a lot, huh?”

you’d just nod, cheeks warm, heart sprinting. he didn’t know. god, he couldn’t know.

your conversations never lasted long, but they left you dizzy every time. he’d wave at you in the halls with that same bright energy, calling your name like you were already friends. you weren’t, not really. but you liked pretending.

and when you were alone, writing late into the night, your mind would wander. you’d think about him—his hands, his voice, that little smirk when he caught you staring too long.

you knew exactly what kind of character he’d be in one of your stories. and you had plenty of ideas.

it all started when yeonjun announced that he was planning a showcase for the contemporary dance department—an open performance where students could display their personal choreographies. he needed help designing the pamphlets that would be handed out to the audience, and for some reason, you were the first person he thought of.

“you made those posters for the lit fair, right?” he asked one afternoon, catching you off guard in the hallway. his voice was casual, but his smile was bright, genuine. “i really liked the way you put them together. they had this… soft, poetic vibe. it matched the theme perfectly.”

you blinked up at him, heart stuttering. he remembered that? “i– yeah! i did,” you mumbled, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. “i’d love to help.”

he grinned, like it was no big deal. “awesome. can i get your number? i’ll text you the details.”

you handed him your phone before you could overthink it. and when he tapped in his contact info, you felt a strange flutter in your chest. he told you he’d need it by next wednesday. today was friday—plenty of time.

saturday came, and as usual, it was supposed to be your sacred writing day. the day you sat down with your laptop and your coffee and let your imagination spill into a new chapter for your loyal readers. but today... you couldn’t focus. yeonjun’s face kept flashing behind your eyes. his voice, the way he smiled, the soft dip of his collarbone when he leaned in closer than he needed to.

so, instead of working on your usual story, you opened a new document. just a little spin-off, you told yourself. a character named yejun, inspired by him, paired with your unnamed female lead. it didn’t mean anything. it was just for fun.

your fingers moved quickly over the keys, each word making your face burn a little hotter. you described him in detail—his body, his voice, the way he would whisper dirty things between soft kisses. it escalated fast. soon, the bed sheets were tangled, the clothes gone, and “yejun” was doing things to the protagonist that made your thighs clench under the desk.

you bit your lip, trying to suppress the heat pooling low in your stomach. your skin was flushed, breath a little too fast. god, it was just a story. just fiction.

but every line felt real.

too real.

when you finally finished, you closed the file with shaky fingers and stared at the screen, guilt washing over you like cold water. you’d just written a full-blown smut piece about your classmate. someone you knew. someone who’d smiled at you in the hallway just days ago.

he’s never going to know, you told yourself, shutting the thought down. your blog was anonymous. your secret was safe.

you shifted gears, finally starting your actual chapter for the week. when it was done and posted, the familiar flood of comments poured in. the joy from your readers was like a warm blanket, grounding you again. they loved it, as always. you loved them. they were the reason you kept writing.

by the time sunday night rolled around, the guilt had faded into the background, replaced by the sudden panic of realization—you still hadn’t started yeonjun’s pamphlet. you checked your phone. a new story on his profile. something about drinks with friends. he was still out, probably.

you rushed to open your design program, pulling up the notes you’d made. soft color palettes, modern typography, minimalistic but expressive—something that reflected the rhythm and movement of contemporary dance. you made one version. then another. kept tweaking the alignment, changing fonts, shifting images.

finally, at 2:34 a.m., you saved both files. sleepy, but satisfied. you dragged the two pdfs into your chat with him, barely thinking. you typed out the message:

“hi yeonjun! i made two versions, choose whichever you like best :)”

and hit send.

except… you hadn’t just selected the two designs.

your stomach dropped as you saw the third file still hanging in the message bubble. the one labeled: “yejun_x_fmc_draft01.docx”

it sent.

you stared at the message for a second, read it over just to make sure it sounded polite enough, and then closed the chat. satisfied, you shut your laptop, stretched your sore arms above your head, and let out a sleepy sigh. it was late. too late. your body ached from sitting in one spot too long, your eyes heavy. slipping under your blanket, you let your head hit the pillow, completely unaware of the very wrong file you’d just sent to yeonjun.

you fell asleep thinking about fonts and color palettes—clueless to the chaos waiting in your inbox.

yeonjun had been scrolling through his phone lazily that night, the apartment quiet except for the occasional hum of cars outside. it was past two in the morning, and most of his friends were either out partying or already passed out drunk. he, on the other hand, was comfortably sprawled out on his bed, hoodie thrown somewhere on the floor, phone in hand and thumbs working through unread messages. when your name popped up with a new chat, he blinked sleepily, expecting a simple "here are the flyers" type of thing.

maybe a couple of PDFs, a casual "let me know which one you like better." he smiled a little to himself. you were cute, in that quiet, bookish way. sweet. unassuming. kind of awkward, but endearing.

he tapped on the files without thinking.

the first opened fine—bright colors, clean design, silhouettes of dancers mid-pose, your signature soft aesthetic all over it. he liked it. clean, expressive. you were talented.

he clicked the second, expecting more of the same.

but then he saw… text. not a flyer. a story. his brow furrowed as he scrolled further. the format was familiar. narrative, dialogue. descriptive paragraphs. curiosity sparked, and his eyes began to scan the words.

“yejun’s fingers traced slow, burning lines down the curve of her waist, his voice low and thick in her ear. ‘you’re so quiet during the day,’ he murmured. ‘but in my bed? you’re a fucking mess.’”

his heart stopped.

his mouth went dry.

at first, he thought it was just a coincidence. a character named "yejun"—close, but not quite. but as he kept reading, the illusion crumbled. the description was too specific. too detailed. tall, black hair, piercings decorating both ears, cocky smile, flirty attitude, reads romance novels like a secret guilty pleasure—fuck, it was him. it was him on those pages. and you? the girl in the story? that was clearly you. no question.

his stomach twisted into knots.

his brain screamed that this was wrong, that he should stop reading, that this was invasive and inappropriate and god, disgusting. this was a violation of boundaries, wasn’t it? some kind of parasocial delusion—was this how you saw him?

but his eyes wouldn’t stop.

line after line, paragraph after paragraph, you painted a vivid, searing image of the two of you tangled in sheets, dripping with heat and tension. “yejun” had you beneath him, fingers curled into your thighs, lips murmuring filth against your throat while you begged for more. he could hear your voice in the words—he could see the way you might look, squirming beneath him, wide eyes glassy and pleading.

his hand gripped the phone tighter. he didn’t notice how his breath had gotten shallow. he didn’t notice how hard he’d gotten, straining against the loose fabric of his pants.

“she moaned when he spread her open, kissed the inside of her thighs like she was something sacred. ‘i wanna ruin you,’ he growled. ‘wanna fuck you so deep you forget your own damn name.’”

he hissed through his teeth, biting down on the inside of his cheek. fuck. fuck. fuck.

he shouldn’t be aroused by this. this was someone else’s fantasy. someone he barely knew. someone who wore glasses too big for her face and oversized cardigans and always tucked her hair behind her ears when she got nervous. someone shy and innocent and sweet.

except—no. apparently not. not so innocent.

his cock throbbed against the inside of his waistband. his face was flushed deep red, part shock, part guilt, part something far more primal. and still, he couldn’t look away.

you thought about him like that.

you imagined him taking you apart, fucking you senseless, making you cry with pleasure.

and now… he couldn’t stop picturing it either.

you didn’t realize a thing.

monday came and went, and you went about your routine like always—classes, notes, reading during lunch, replying to your blog comments in quiet corners of the library. the only thing different was that yeonjun hadn’t replied to your message. not even a “thanks.” he’d left you on read. that was unusual for him.

you saw him in the cafeteria once—just once. he was walking with some friends, laughing at something, tray in hand. you smiled instinctively, raising your hand in a little wave like you always did.

but he didn’t wave back.

he didn’t even look at you.

he walked right past, as if you weren’t even there.

you froze, hand mid-air, cheeks heating up with embarrassment. something was wrong. you could feel it in your gut.

and yet… you said nothing. you told yourself maybe he was just busy. maybe you were reading too much into it. but your heart ached anyway.

by wednesday, you couldn’t take it anymore.

you saw him sitting alone inside the dance studio, stretching, sweat-dampened hair clinging to his forehead. the doors were unlocked. you hesitated only a moment before stepping inside, chest tight, hands balled into anxious fists.

"yeonjun," you called softly, walking toward him.

he looked up, his face unreadable.

your heart dropped.

no warmth. no smile. no teasing glint in his eyes.

"why have you been ignoring me?" your voice cracked, but you kept going. "if you only needed the pamphlet, you could’ve just said so. you didn’t have to pretend like you liked talking to me."

he didn’t answer at first.

he stood up slowly, towering over you, and for the first time you felt… small.

not just in height. in everything.

he pulled his phone from his pocket.

"what's wrong with me?" he echoed, voice low. "shouldn’t i be asking you that?"

you blinked in confusion, taking a step back. “w-what are you talking about?”

he held the phone up to you.

and there it was.

your story.

the wrong file.

your face went completely cold.

your mouth opened, but no words came out. panic flooded you, head spinning, knees weak.

"this character,” he said calmly, almost cruelly. “it's me, isn’t it? same build. same personality. even the name.”

his voice wasn't angry—no, it was too calm. too quiet. too dangerous. your eyes flicked to the screen he held in his hand, your own words staring back at you with damning clarity. you couldn’t lie, couldn’t explain this away as coincidence. it was him. everything from the raven hair to the pierced ears, to the soft but commanding energy—the character had always been him.

"i... i can explain," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, raw from emotion. "i didn’t mean for you to read it. it was a mistake, i—"

"it was meant to be private?" he cut in, taking another step toward you. "so private that you decided to send it directly to me?"

you flinched, your body screaming for you to run but your legs rooted to the floor. tears prickled your eyes, shame wrapping around your throat like a chokehold. your fingers curled into fists at your sides, not in anger, but in a desperate attempt to hold yourself together.

"i didn’t know i sent it. please, yeonjun, i didn’t want you to see that. i never would've wanted you to think—"

he stared down at you, his gaze dark. dangerous.

“you pretend to be so sweet. so quiet. like some shy little bookworm,” he murmured. “but you write about me like i’m your personal sex toy. like you wanna use me. ride me. make me beg.”

you whimpered, barely able to breathe, your eyes wide with horror.

you wanted to die.

you wanted to disappear.

his fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. his thumb grazed your bottom lip.

but then his eyes darkened, jaw tightening, and he leaned in slightly. "the problem is," he said, voice low, "i can’t stop thinking about what you wrote. how detailed it was. how vividly you described it—me."

your breath caught. "yeonjun..."

"you wrote that you wanted me to hold you down," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips. "that you wanted to ride me until you couldn’t walk straight. that you dreamed of me moaning your name while you begged for more. and all that... from the quiet girl who blushes when someone says 'kiss' in class?"

your knees nearly gave out. your skin burned with humiliation and something else—something terrifyingly warm spreading low in your belly. you shook your head again, but there were no words left to give him. no excuses. you were caught. exposed. and he was standing there, looking at you like he was reading every single fantasy straight from your soul.

“you’re disgusting,” he said, voice low and rough.

your eyes welled with tears.

but then he leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your cheek. his voice dropped even lower, thick with something dangerous.

“but the worst part?” he smirked. “the more i think about it, the more i want to make it real." he murmured. 

you gasped, a whimper escaping your lips before you could stop it. it was wrong. it was insane. and yet... the tension between you crackled like a live wire.

"yeonjun, i..." your voice trembled.

"you don’t have to say anything," he said quietly, his thumb brushing away a tear on your cheek. "but if you really meant what you wrote... i will make your first time unforgettable, better than your story, better than many stories, i will fuck you as hard as you ask."

your heartbeat stuttered. your mind screamed for you to step away—but your body leaned into him, trembling from something far deeper than fear.

“so this is what you think about when you see me?” his voice is low, controlled, almost amused. but there’s something dark swimming beneath it. something hungry.

you’re frozen in front of him, face hot and eyes watery with humiliation. your vision blurs as the tears start spilling over your cheeks.

“fuck,” he mutters, stepping closer, eyes flicking over your trembling frame. “you’re crying.”

you nod, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

“you’re embarrassed?”

another nod.

and then he laughs. it’s not cruel—no, it’s worse. it’s knowing. it's the sound of someone who's seen through every layer you tried to hide.

you whimper, thighs squeezing together at his words. that ache between your legs intensifies, shame curling up with desire in your belly like a knot pulling tighter and tighter.

he’s in front of you now, towering over you, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek—thumb brushing away a tear, so gently it makes your breath catch.

“and this part—” he whispers, pulling his phone from his pocket. “this part right here... where you wrote that he ‘pinned her against the mirror and kissed her until she forgot her own name, one hand gripping her thigh, the other buried in her hair, making her moan before he even touched her pussy.’”

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it all out.

“open your eyes.”

you do.

he leans in, lips ghosting over your ear.

“do you want me to do that to you?”

you pause. swallow hard. your silence is answer enough.

he chuckles again. “fuck, you’re cute when you pretend to be innocent. but now i know what’s under that little act. now i know what kind of slut you really are.”

your knees weaken. your panties are soaked.

“take it off,” he murmured.

your throat went dry. “w-what?”

he stepped closer, towering over you. the scent of his cologne and sweat from practice clung to him, heavy and dizzying.

“don’t make me repeat myself.” his voice dropped, gravelly. “hoodie. now.”

you hesitated, fingers curling at the hem.

your body moved before your brain could catch up. trembling fingers pulled your hoodie over your head, revealing your bare chest underneath—no bra, just skin, soft and warm and exposed to him.

“fuck, no bra? you were walking around like this, waiting for me to notice?”

he growled. actually growled.

“you walked in here looking like this…” his eyes roamed again, hungry. “thinking i wouldn’t notice the way your nipples get hard through your hoodie?

your stomach twisted, heat rushing between your legs.

“you act so innocent, baby, but that little mind of yours?” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “filthy.”

your cheeks burned. your thighs squeezed together.

“take off the pants too, those fucking pants hiding the slut you really are” he added, voice darker now.

you obeyed slowly, pushing down the waistband of your sweatpants, revealing your thin white panties already soaked through. the air hit your thighs and you shivered—whether from the cold or the anticipation, you weren’t sure.

yeonjun sat down on the bench behind him, legs spread wide, cock hard and pressing visibly against his sweats.

“come here.”

you stepped between his legs, every nerve in your body lit on fire.

his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer until your soaked panties brushed against the bulge in his pants. he hissed at the contact.

“you’re wet already?” he whispered, almost mocking. “just from me talking to you like this?”

you nodded, lips parted in a silent gasp as he rubbed his nose along the curve of your breast, not kissing—just inhaling you. savoring.

“you know what’s crazy?” he murmured. “i remember every single thing you wrote. every moan, every word you gave that version of me… and now i wanna hear them come out of your mouth.”

his hand slid under the band of your panties, fingers slipping between your folds.

“fuck—so wet for me. untouched, huh? this little cunt’s never been filled?”

you whimpered, nodding, nails digging into his shoulders.

“good,” he groaned, pulling your panties down your legs. “i wanna be the only one who gets to ruin this pussy.”

he hooked your thighs over his, adjusting your body until you were hovering over his clothed cock, dripping against the fabric.

“say it,” he ordered.

“say what?”

his eyes locked with yours, deadly calm.

“tell me you want to sit on it.”

your chest rose and fell fast, lips trembling. “i… i want to ride you.”

“that’s not what i said, baby.”

you swallowed. heat flooded your cheeks, but your hips instinctively rolled against him.

“i want to sit on your cock,” you breathed, voice shaky. “please, let me ride you”

his head tilted slightly, lips curling into a smirk as he pulled his sweats down, cock springing free. thick. veined. already leaking.

“then prove it,” he rasped.

you didn’t even hesitate. you gripped his shoulders and lined yourself up, your slick dripping down the tip. his hands gripped your hips, steadying you.

“this might hurt, baby,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours, “but i’ll be gentle. i’ll make it feel so fucking good you’ll beg me never to stop.”

he pushes in slowly, his cock splitting you open inch by inch. you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. he’s big—so much bigger than you imagined—and your body clenches tight around him.

“that’s it, princess. take it. let me feel that pretty little virgin pussy.”

you whimper, burying your face in his neck as he bottoms out, letting you adjust. he doesn’t move right away—just holds you, one hand cradling your back, the other gripping your thigh.

“you’re doing so good for me. so fucking tight.”

he let you sink down inch by inch, until you were fully seated on him, legs shaking. your head fell onto his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

he starts to move, slow at first, dragging you up and down on his cock with gentle rolls of his hips. you gasp again, tears springing to your eyes from the overwhelming stretch and pleasure.

“slow, baby,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer—but his eyes still burned with control. “i’ll go slow. i’ll stretch you out nice and easy, okay?”

you nodded, barely breathing.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “so fucking perfect. this little pussy was made for me.”

you moaned totally lost in desire, little by little the pain disappeared and turned into pleasure.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he whispered against your neck, kissing you there. “being such a good girl while i ruin your first time.”

you whimpered, rocking your hips slowly, gasping at the overwhelming fullness. he filled every part of you—stretching, claiming, owning.

“don’t stop,” you breathed. “please, don’t stop.”

“fuck, you’re even better than i imagined. so warm. so wet. so fucking mine.”

his hands slid up your back, gripping your hair, pulling your head back just enough for your eyes to meet.

“then ride me, baby. ride me like you fucking mean it.”

his grip on your hips tightens as you start to move—slow, uncertain rolls of your body at first, each one drawing a sharp inhale from you and a low, rumbling groan from him.

his cock feels impossibly thick inside you, the stretch dragging along every nerve ending. your thighs shake from the pressure, the burn, the pleasure that's building fast and overwhelming.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, eyes locked on your face as you try to ride him, “you’re doing so fucking good. taking me so well… fuck, this tight little pussy was starving for cock, huh?”

you cry out when he shifts his hips up, thrusting deeper. your walls clench around him, and the reaction makes his head fall back against the mirror, a hiss leaving his lips.

“fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna make me cum already.”

his hands slide from your waist to your ass, grabbing handfuls of soft skin as he starts to guide you himself—lifting you, lowering you, bouncing you gently on his cock. your hands fly to his shoulders for balance, mouth open in a silent moan as he hits a new spot inside you.

“right there, huh?” he growls, pulling your hips down harder. “you like that, baby? you like being stuffed full of your senior’s cock in the fucking practice room?”

you nod frantically, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, not from pain anymore—but from the pressure building deep in your core, the knot tightening fast.

“say it.”

“i love it,” you gasp, rolling your hips now with purpose. “i love your cock—fuck—it’s so deep, i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he grunts, meeting your movements with rougher thrusts now, fucking up into you while holding you down. “you will. be a good girl and take it.”

you sob, pleasure tearing through you, sharp and desperate. your nipples brush his chest, slick skin against skin, sweat dripping down your spine.

“you’re such a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he pants, dragging his tongue along your collarbone, biting down just enough to leave a mark. ���acting shy in front of the others, but here you are—riding me like a fucking whore.”

you moan loudly, the sound echoing in the studio, your voice bouncing off the mirrors, filling the space. his hand slips between your bodies, thumb pressing hard against your clit.

“don’t hold back, baby. cum on my cock. i wanna feel this pussy squeeze me while you fall apart.”

your eyes flutter shut, and your whole body tenses as his thumb moves in tight circles, the thick drag of his cock hitting all the right places.

then everything snaps.

your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs. your moan breaks into a cry as your walls pulse around him, milking his cock, your thighs trembling uncontrollably.

“that’s it, baby—fuck, that’s it, just like that,” he growls, holding you tight as your cunt grips him, hot and wet and spasming. “so fucking good for me.”

his rhythm falters, his breaths sharp.

“you’re gonna make me cum—fuck—where do you want it?”

you barely manage to speak, drunk on the high.

“inside,” you whisper. “please, fill me up.”

his hips snap up one last time, deep and hard. he buries himself to the hilt, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless.

you both go still—bodies pressed together, hearts racing. his arms wrap around your waist, holding you to him like he never wants to let go. your walls flutter around his softening cock, the mix of your release leaking down your thighs.

he kisses your shoulder, slow and soft now, grounding you.

“you okay, baby?” he murmurs against your skin.

you nod, voice weak. “yeah… i’ve never felt anything like that.”

he chuckles gently, kissing your jaw.

“can i—can i ride you at your place next time?” you pant, nails raking down his arms.

he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“you wanna sit on daddy’s cock at home, baby? ride me like a good little slut while i fuck your brains out?”

you nod frantically, eyes hazy with lust.

“please… dominate me. make me yours.”

his grin is wicked. his thrusts grow rougher. deeper. the sound of skin slapping fills the mirrored room.

“you are mine, baby. every fucking inch of you.”

you sat there, still straddling him, your thighs shaking against his hips, skin flushed and slick with sweat. your fingers dug into his chest, trying to steady your breath, but the heat between your legs pulsed with every heartbeat — a reminder of what had just happened. he looked up at you with that same wicked smile, the one you once only imagined while typing your dirtiest fantasies late at night. except now, it wasn’t fiction. it was real. your filthy little story had come to life, every word, every whimper, every shameless desire — all of it played out on the floor of the dance studio, with yeonjun underneath you, hard and breathless. he had read your mind… and fucked it into reality.

[rillils]

Don't forget that Steve and Bucky also match in Infinity War, something that HAD to have been done on purpose, because there's absolutely NO WAY they didn't see each other at all in between Steve's missions as Nomad. Meaning Bucky intentionally wore an outfit that not only matched Steve's in color (the dark, dirty blue) and ALSO called back to his Howling Commando jacket via the design of it (which Steve must've been head over heels for bc Bucky looked STUNNING in that jacket)

These two are married, your honor!!

MELES MY LOVE, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BRINGING THIS UP BC IT'S MY FAVOURITE THING ASGHDAGSH 💖💕💖💕💖💕

Like THERE 👏 IS 👏 NO 👏 WAY 👏 that this wasn't a conscious decision on Bucky’s part. He absolutely did it on purpose and canon practically provides us with proof of that!

I mean, let's take a step back here.

I think it's not only safe but also pretty legit to assume that Bucky didn't participate in any of the missions Steve and the team went on, considering that:

1) he didn't trust himself to stay out of cryo (much less out of Wakanda) for too long until he was finally free from the trigger words;

2) once that happened, he was only focused on recovering, resting (in T'challa's words) and finding some calm (in Bucky's own words);

3) he didn't even get the new vibranium arm until earlier that day, and fighting without it would have put him at a disadvantage.

Now, while he was healing and enjoying his skype sessions and conjugal visits with Steve, he wouldn't have needed a suit like this, or any tac gear; nothing beyond the comfy work clothes we see him wearing earlier in the movie. So where does this suit come from? He definitely didn't have it on him when he and Steve first made it to Wakanda.

there's absolutely NO WAY they didn't see each other at all in between Steve's missions as Nomad. Meaning Bucky intentionally wore an outfit that not only matched Steve's in color (the dark, dirty blue)

I LOVE YOU because fuck yes they MUST have met during that time, and fuck yes he absolutely saw the state Steve's suit was in.

He probably watched it happen, month after month, visit after visit, noticing how Steve had ripped the star off his chest. How the red of the stripes had faded into a muddy brown, how the white was now a dirty grey.

How Steve still kept his shield harness, even when the shield itself was long gone - maybe out of habit, maybe to seek that sense of security it gave him after so long wearing it like a second skin. Maybe feeling the ache of this phantom limb, carrying the ghost of its weight on his shoulders still, but never regretting leaving it behind for Bucky - just like Bucky could never bring himself to regret staying by Steve's side throughout the war, and losing all he lost afterwards.

And I may be reading too much into this (hell, I'm willing to read a whole fucking essay into this), but can you really tell me that THESE

don't remind you, even in the subtlest way, of THESE??????

Which is why, I insist: IT WAS DELIBERATE on Bucky's part. It was so fucking deliberate I'm going to cry, honey.

Because at some point, either on the same day this battle happened or sometime before that, probably sensing that something bad was coming, Bucky acquired this suit. Maybe he borrowed it, maybe he bought it off someone. He could have gotten a brand new one, right? Instead, out of all the things he could have worn, he picked this: the blue jacket, the brown pants, all of it well-worn and stained, just like Steve's.

Perfectly matching Steve's suit.

Perfectly matching the suit Bucky used to wear way back in the day.

And it makes me wanna sob, because this is Bucky after the trigger words. This is a Bucky who has been living among people who know perfectly well who he is, but they don't treat him like a danger, like a weapon, or hell, like a name from a black-and-white past.

This is a Bucky who has been reclaiming his own identity, who has been struggling to find himself again, to discover who he is now, in the new century, after everything he's lost.

And I believe Bucky's telling us who he is, right here. No matter what year it is, he is Steve's man. He wears Steve's colours. He fights with Steve, for Steve, always. This is where his loyalties lie, and he's proud to show it off, to anyone willing to look.

I think in that sense, it is also very much a declaration of love. And it's so fucking romantic, okay, because!! Here, at the end of the world?

He's paying homage to their past, while reaffirming in the present that today, and for every day ahead of them, until the end of the line, until that future they were always walking towards hand in hand, he belongs with Steve. Come what may.

Also don't even get me started on how they're growing out their beards and hair TOGETHER 'cause I'll never stop fgdjgsjshdk

In conclusion: THESE BITCHES ARE SO MARRIED THAT THEY GOTTA MATCH EVEN WHILE MARCHING INTO BATTLE, THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK *drops mic*

[heraxic]

sketch redesigns of LI’s from fictif: last legacy (individuals and notes below)

ANISA

I never really liked that Anisa looks more like a magical girl than the strict but kindhearted soldier she’s written to be. It seems more like her to be practical in her choice of style to allow more movement when fighting (the sheer cloth on the arms looks like it’d get in the way).

For a clearer sense of the ambition and authority she carries the outfit is less casual and more proper/officious —vaguely resembling equestrian uniforms— plus the extra shoulder frills exaggerate her shoulders, pronouncing her strength and leadership.

One of the first things said about her is that she’s the secret love child of a tabaxi(?) woman ie Ayanna Anka and the Lord of Shadows; I think they should’ve made her stand out more appearance-wise with that kind of heritage. I had a more intense design in mind when coming up with ideas but I didn’t want to break the believability of her as a tightlaced soldier. I opted to darken the highlights in her hair; make her ears and facial features more cat-like and bestial; make the eyes purple to match her father’s color scheme; and make her tabby stripes more occult looking.

FELIX

I think they really missed the chance to make their spellcaster (a necromancer even)—who has canonically died before multiple times and can see spirits— more interesting.

I wanted to make him look more gaunt and wraithlike, slimming his face and draping him in a ragged dark cloak. I also wanted a higher visual contrast between his upper class background and his living situation (grief/melancholy/too focused on his work to take care of himself): the bottom layers of his outfit are very fine and clean with velvet red and gilded edges, while the top is weather beaten and hangs over him like a shadow.

Lastly, his facial markings are in the shape of a skull and he has a blaze of ghostly white in his hair.

SAGE

It might just be my love of monsters but I’m disappointed that Sage doesn’t look more like a wolf/beast man. As much as I thought to give him a snout along with the fur and digitigrade legs, I didn’t want to break the mold too much and I haven’t drawn enough furries to make it look natural.

One of the main things that bother me with his design is the jacket; it’s too simple and doesn’t exactly scream ‘sexy dangerous’ as his bio says. I added triangles to give him more shape and make him more broad and intimidating.

Also, his midsection with the belts and the random handkerchief confuses me, so I added plate armor to make him look more like a fighter.

More on armor, I removed the ones on his left arm to emphasise the width of his shoulders and made the armor/gauntlet on his right arm more realistic (it also fits his character that he only protects his fighting arm and not the rest of his body).

[centrally-unplanned]

Wasn't quite in the headspace today to be postin', but the New York Times had to drag me to my keyboard by publishing an article about "The rise of otaku". An article on otaku! In the Year of Our Lord 2025!!

It isn't that you can't do that, of course - the thesis about how Japan's otaku approaches to fandom grew to dominate the wider world is a perfectly valid one to discuss. But if you do, you need to grapple with the cultural detritus the West has accumulated about "otaku culture" over the years, and it does not reach that bar. It isn't "cringe", it isn't obviously wrong, but it is stuck in the past. Take the headshot you can see above of a 単眼面/Tanganmen, or "one-eyed mask". The author is using it to showcase the ~crazy things~ people in Japan who are into anime-adjacent stuff do. In other words, the Weird Japan trope, where for complex reasons niche one-off things done by influencer-types or media companies in Japan get transported to the West to be used as symbols of Japan's "alt" culture. So while in English searching "tanganmen" throws up Vice articles, in Japan the creator of these masks Ozawa Dango has 6000 followers on Twitter:

She first made them in 2012, and while like props to her for keeping an art project alive, the source the NYT uses is an article from 2019, 7 years later - which is itself from 6 years ago! This isn't a "thing" in Japan, it is not a relevant part of otaku culture, and I think having it be front billing here is deceptive. I have a similar-if-less-intense reaction to the usages of the classic "otaku room photos" in the article:

This does reflect a real phenomenon, for sure, but for one the first photo is from 2014, and the second from 2019. In fact, none of the photos in the article are from the 2020's at all - a serious problem for a discussion of a youth pop-culture-focused movement. But let's take that first photo - it is from Shiori Kawamoto's 2014 “Daraku Room” book. Did you notice, like I did, that our girl is, well, really hot? Like way too hot to be that devoted to moe yuri series YuruYuri? For context, let's look at some other photos from that book!

Thanks, JapanTease.net! I can't tell you where this book ranks on the gravure-scale, I don't own it, but I can promise you is not zero. That girl might actually be a massive yuri manga fan, I won't judge, but the point is that pulling photos from a softcore porn glam book to stand-in for otaku is not what we in the statistics business call a representative sample. Like the one-eyed mask, this isn't real otaku at all.

Okay, enough photo dunks, let's get into the text. Those dunks are relevant, of course; they play on older tropes about Japan, "Weird Japan" and the "Otaku Room", and that problem continues throughout the article. First up, we have foundational quotes from Susan Napier, who is something of a trope herself as the first American academic to publish serious-yet-accessible works about anime starting in the 1990's. I am not a fan of her work, as she constantly tries to draw overly ambitions and serious social and historical connections between anime and the world, and we see that on display here:

[She] traces the origins of the otaku to the Edo period. Beginning in the early 17th century, sanctioned red-light districts known as pleasure centers were built in Tokyo, Kyoto and Osaka as sites for courtesans to entertain men; other areas were designated for enjoying Kabuki theater. “You had the development of a fan culture with people who loved a particular courtesan or actor.”

Strictly wrong? No - but Edo's red-light districts did not invent the idea of a celebrity, let's be real. That is a socially-universal concept that existed for centuries before then across the globe, and it didn't really lead to otaku (a very modern phenomenon) in any causal way. But it makes it sound more distinguished, more artistic, the way 2000's fans of anime in the west wanted their hobby to look.

That temptation to universalize cuts a different way too - lumping too much under the "otaku" umbrella. Since it has that "otaku led the future of fandom" thesis, it wants to label everything from themed Shinjuku bars to Lolita as "obsessive otaku fandom" to sell you on that idea. However, while those concepts are linked, sure, are they the same phenomenon? When, as the article quotes, Marie Kondo calls herself an "organizing otaku", is she actually saying anything about creative fandom? Or is she making a joke, and she is just an interior designer/lifestyle guru like every country everywhere has had for decades? These comparisons obscure more than elucidate, because "otaku" culture was historically, by a large majority, composed of media otaku. Japan did not invent or export a model of people being devoted craftsmen or opening themed restaurants. What it did "export" was the idea of fandom-as-identity and fandom-as-creativity, which media fans in the relevant eras dominated.

A topic around which, admittedly, the article has a bit of a knot it can't untie; because it is an article about otaku that doesn't want to mention sex. Beyond Edo-era red-light districts, the only mention is from a gender lens:

Wong and others make a point to address what he calls “the elephant in the room”: an undercurrent of female sexualization that began with manga and which, in what’s still a rather male-dominated society, extends to the broader world of otaku

"Elephant in the room" guys it is the whole room. It is a whole city block! You mention Comiket - oh sorry, "Comic Market" - but delicately dance around how those "750,000 attendees" bought at least as many porn doujins. And unlike Marie Kondo this is foundational to how otaku cultural dynamics were formed, and how they spread - the erotic content was a core part of why everyone "showed up" in the early days. And it is how the media mix and fandom-creator model spread to other countries, building on extant communities writing fanfiction and making fanart zines. You could not mention this topic at all if you didn't want to, but if you are going to touch on "sexualization" you need to own its importance. I almost see this as a sort of memetic response; in the anime early days everyone bashed otaku as perverts. In the new, tolerant era of today the author doesn't want to engage with that, but they overcorrect by essentially ignoring it. You have to find the middle here if you want to understand the history.

Okay, okay, that is enough - I know this is a very "death of a thousand cuts" essay, there isn't like a core failed thesis. As the New York Times, articles like these both set the standard for narratives around a topic and reflect the standard ideas already out there, so it is frustrating for it to be so... ungainly, and I wanted to note that. Set the record straight, as it were. But I will admit it is better than it probably would have been a decade ago, it does reflect growth in the discourse. And it isn't like it has some straight up nonsen—

After the original series [Neon Genesis Evangelion] aired, his most passionate followers, disappointed with the final two episodes, pressured Anno to redo the ending in a subsequent film trilogy.

Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME there are practically storyboards for End of Evangelion in the show broadcast next episode previews oh sure fans had to pressure Anno to fulfill the dream of every anime creative to get a big movie budget and make millions of dollars doing what he wanted to do for the TV show anyway before they collectively shot the production schedule in the head what kind of ADV Films 90's mistranslated rag interview garbled by a 2000's Reddit post bullshit is this the NEW YORK TIMES is LYING ABOUT THE PRODUCTION HISTORY OF EVANGELION I will BREAK INTO YOUR GOD DAMN HOUS—

[iidilio]

Day 23: Another CEO

— AU! Ceo Sylus x employee reader headcanons.

[ 🌸 ] something cute before the smuttie

characters: Sylus

warnings: none

More? Here

…

..

.

—You had just started at the company, just another assistant among dozens.

—Sylus, CEO of the imposing OnyxCorp, rarely speaks directly to lower-ranking employees. But from the first day he sees you walking down the hallway with poorly stacked papers and a determined expression, something makes him pause for a second.

—He says nothing, of course. Just walks past you.

—But that very night, in his glass-walled office bathed in golden shadows, he looks up your name in the files with your personal information.

—The next day, mysteriously, you’re assigned to the executive team. No one knows how or why.

—You, on the other hand, don’t complain—but you swear that CEO paused just half a second when your fingers brushed his while handing over a report. A blink. A soft murmur, but clearly audible:

“Thank you.”

—He speaks to all his employees with a firm voice, leaving no room for objections.

—He’s direct, impatient, and his presence alone is enough to silence an entire room.

—Oh! But with you…

“Are you busy?”

“Mm, not much. Do you need something, sir?”

“Need, no. But I want you to come.”

—He always lets you choose. Always. And he says it quietly, just for you.

—There’s a sweetness no one else sees. A softer gaze. A slight way he leans in, as if his world starts to revolve around you.

—But of course, he always gives you space to walk away if you’re uncomfortable.

—You always bring him his double espresso—no sugar, no milk. He looks into your eyes when he takes it, and thanks you with that soft, slightly husky voice that, oddly enough, makes your knees tremble in the best way.

—One day, you bring one for yourself too.

“I suppose it’s sweet?” he asks, noticing your cup.

“Yeah, with caramel. I like it better that way,” you say casually, thinking he won’t care. That he’ll forget.

He says nothing, but that slight smirk and subtle nod is enough to show you he was listening.

The next day, when you go to his office to drop off some papers, there’s a second cup on his desk. A caramel coffee.

“I accidentally bought two,” he says without looking at you. “But you can take one if you want.”

(What a liar, omggg)

—When another executive tries to flirt with you? Sylus doesn’t react. At least, not in the way you’d expect.

—The next day, that man is transferred. To another branch. In another country.

“Was it your idea?”

“Who knows? The business world is unpredictable.”

(Sy—you’re so jealous…)

—Sometimes, in the afternoon after a long day, your phone rings.

—A call.

“I saw you today. You looked tired.”

“It was a long day, sir.”

“Then rest more, you’re doing an excellent job.”

Silence. Your heart beats faster. He says no more, but you know—getting compliments from him is rare.

And you can only smile at how deeply his words affected you:

“Thank you… boss.”

“…Call me Sylus, when we’re alone.”

—One day, you leave the office late, no umbrella, and the sky is pouring.

—You’re about to run toward the station when a tall shadow stops beside you.

“So determined to get sick?”

He’s there. Umbrella in hand. In his black designer suit, as if the rain doesn’t matter to him in the slightest.

“I only have one. You’ll have to stay close.”

You walk beside him, so close you can hear his breathing. He doesn’t say a word, but he shields you more than himself without you even noticing.

Later, you both get in his car.

And for the first time, you understand what it means to be cared for other person expecting nothing in return.

—As the days passed, your relationship intensified.

—Maybe it was the way his fingers lingered a little longer during those ‘accidental’ touches when you handed him something.

—Maybe it was the way your heart pounded when your eyes met.

—Maybe it was how his voice sounded like a siren’s song in your ears, full of respect and clear affection.

—Whatever it was, it made you start to feel something for your boss.

—He didn’t stay behind.

—It was inevitable, no matter how many times you tried to keep things professional.

—You failed again and again.

—You stopped trying the day he finally kissed you.

—That same day, he called you kitten for the first time.

—Let me tell you: no one enters his office unannounced. No one sits on his chairs, which probably cost a fortune, without permission.

—No one contradicts him.

—Until you came along.

“Kitten, I didn’t say you could sit.” The nickname became exclusive to your private moments.

You looked at him with a playful smile and eyes glowing with affection that belonged only to him. “You didn’t say I couldn’t either,” you fired back.

He smiled.

“You’re right. Do whatever you want.” He simply let himself be defeated. You always got the win—he made sure of that.

And when you close your eyes for a moment on his absurdly expensive couch, exhausted from the day…

He rises from his leather chair, takes off his jacket to cover you, and sits back down in silence to work again.

In the end, to him, nothing is more important than letting you rest peacefully.

[dross-the-fish]

This isn't a hate question, just curious about a design choice!

Is there a reason why Jekyll is a bit... Chonky?

I felt like it made sense for him given his age. In the book he's described as a large man and I thought it suited him to give him a fat layer. For my version I think of him as someone who played sports in his youth and retains some of the musculature he built up but now at the age of 50 and after decades of indulgent living it's buried under a layer of fat. This doesn't take away from his attractiveness but it does make him look deceptively soft. He's got kind of a long frame and a long face but the fat rounds out any harsh angles, especially around his jowls with the subtle double chin. Henry is self conscious about his weight and his fading looks. He does struggle a little with body image and that's part of why he's not repulsed the first time he sees himself as Edward. My goal was to draw Jekyll in a way that both resembled and was a in contrast to Hyde. Hyde is small and lean but still has bulky sinew and a similar bone structure. They also carry themselves differently as Jekyll is more confident when he's Hyde.

I find both body types fun to draw, I also really wanted to avoid making either Henry or Edward a twink so I gave them both a muscular base and then either added or subtracted hair and body fat.

[theshadowriter]

No Strings, Just Fire

One emotionally unavailable football queen

One dangerously flirtatious heartbreaker

One mischievous lesbian mastermind with a matchmaking agenda

Smut*, Romance, Slow Burn

----------

Chapter One: Sparks on the Rooftop

The Barcelona skyline glittered like a smirking secret, the hum of music floating above the city from Mapi León’s infamous rooftop parties. It wasn’t just a party—it was the party. If you didn’t get an invite, you either weren’t cool enough or you pissed Mapi off. Sometimes both.

Tonight, Y/N was neither. They showed up fashionably late—designer jacket draped carelessly over one shoulder, sunglasses still perched on their head like they’d forgotten the sun had set hours ago. Rich, flirtatious, and charismatic in a way that made people do things they swore they’d never do. Twice.

Alexia Putellas didn’t do parties. She did control. Strategy. Clean exits.

But from the moment Y/N walked in, that control unraveled like a slow, luxurious ribbon tugged free.

“Who’s that?” she asked, her voice low as she watched Y/N laugh at something the bartender said.

“That,” Mapi grinned, appearing at her side like a matchmaking gremlin, “is Y/N. And if I were you, I’d stretch first. You’re gonna need flexibility.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “I’m not interested.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Mapi smirked, sipping her drink. “But your pulse did.”

Across the rooftop, Y/N locked eyes with Alexia. A smirk curled at the edge of their mouth like they’d just caught the scent of something they wanted to chase. They made their way over slowly, like they were savoring the moment.

“Didn’t know angels came in football kits,” Y/N said, stopping in front of her. “Or are you just here to make mortals nervous?”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “That’s a strong opener.”

Y/N’s grin sharpened. “Want stronger? Give me ten minutes and a dance floor.”

“Oh?” Alexia tilted her head. “You promise not to fall in love?”

“I don’t make promises I plan to keep.”

Alexia laughed—an actual laugh, caught off guard. “Careful. You keep talking like that, and I might let you buy me a drink.”

Y/N leaned closer. “Who said I needed permission?”

Two cava flutes were ordered. One accidental brush of hands. One very intentional one that lingered longer than it needed to.

“You have a tell,” Alexia said, sipping her drink, eyes locked on them.

“I have a lot of things,” Y/N replied. “A tell’s just the one I’ll admit to.”

“Cocky.”

“Confident.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I know you’re going home thinking about me.”

Alexia’s smile faltered for half a second—just enough to confirm the truth of it. “You think you’re a challenge?”

“I know I’m your favorite mistake waiting to happen.”

Another laugh, this one low and almost reluctant. Alexia looked away for half a breath, regrouping, before turning back with a look that could disarm armies.

“Come on,” she said, nodding to the small area where a few couples danced under fairy lights. “Let’s see if you dance as well as you flirt.”

Y/N offered a hand, cocky and graceful. “I do everything better than I flirt.”

The slow burn began in the sway of their bodies, in the way Y/N’s hand settled at Alexia’s waist like it belonged there, fingers lightly tapping to the beat. Alexia’s hand found Y/N’s shoulder. Close. Closer. Foreheads nearly brushing.

“So,” Y/N whispered near her ear, “do you always dance with strangers or am I special?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

They didn’t kiss—not yet. But every glance, every breath shared under those rooftop lights said it was only a matter of time. The fire was already lit. They just hadn’t decided who would strike first.

The beat pulsed softly around them, like the city itself was holding its breath.

Y/N’s hand was warm at Alexia’s waist, fingers resting lightly, as if they weren’t sure if they were allowed to be there or if they simply belonged. Alexia’s own hand trailed lazily from Y/N’s shoulder down their arm, deliberate and slow—like she was pretending it was casual, but her touch lingered just a second too long to be innocent.

They moved in rhythm, not quite pressed together, but close enough that every sway of their hips brought them into brief contact. A thigh grazing. A shoulder brushing. A shared smirk between steps.

“You’re good at this,” Alexia murmured, her eyes dipping to Y/N’s lips and back up again.

Y/N leaned in, their lips brushing the shell of her ear—not quite touching, but sending a shiver anyway. “You should see me when I’m trying.”

Alexia’s smile was slow and wicked. “So you’re not trying now?”

“Darling,” Y/N said, voice low and flirt-slick, “if I tried, we’d be back at mine already.”

Alexia’s breath caught—just slightly. She pulled back enough to look at them, head tilted in amusement. “Confident.”

“I told you.”

They kept dancing, slower now. The music faded into something sultry, a bassline that throbbed like a heartbeat. Y/N’s thumb traced a soft circle at Alexia’s waist. Alexia’s fingers slipped to the back of Y/N’s neck, featherlight, barely there—just enough to draw goosebumps.

“So what’s your deal?” Alexia asked, her voice curious but guarded. “You flirt like it’s your second language.”

“It’s not,” Y/N said. “It’s my first. But I speak fluent heartbreak too, if you’re interested.”

Alexia laughed again—quiet, genuine, the kind that slipped past her defenses when she wasn’t looking. “And here I thought I was the emotionally complicated one.”

“Oh, you are,” Y/N teased, twirling her lightly before pulling her close again. “But you hide it behind killer footwork and that whole ‘I don’t do feelings’ act. Very convincing. Almost.”

Alexia didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Because her fingers were now toying with the collar of Y/N’s shirt, absent-minded. And Y/N’s hand had drifted from her waist to the small of her back, holding her just a little tighter.

Their foreheads brushed. Just barely. Like a secret exchanged between two people who didn’t yet know how much they wanted to tell each other.

“You’re trouble,” Alexia whispered.

Y/N smiled. “Only if you want me to be.”

There was a pause.

Not tension.

Anticipation.

Then—

Alexia pulled away.

Not far. Just a step.

But it was enough.

“Buy me another drink,” she said with a smirk that gave nothing away.

Y/N raised a brow. “Is that a yes to coming home with me?”

Alexia’s smile was slow, sly, devastating.

“It’s a maybe.”

Alexia slid back onto the barstool with practiced ease, legs crossed, arms resting lightly on the counter like she hadn’t just left a dancefloor where she’d nearly melted into a stranger’s touch.

Y/N signaled to the bartender with two fingers and a smirk. “Another cava for the lady who thinks she’s in control.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “And for you?”

Y/N winked. “Whatever gets me your number.”

She huffed a laugh—trying to hide how charming she found that. Spoiler alert: she failed.

“Persistent,” she murmured, accepting the glass with a clink.

“You like it.”

“Do I?”

Y/N leaned in, not touching, but close enough to tempt gravity. “You haven’t walked away yet.”

Alexia met their gaze, and for a second—just a second—her guard slipped. She looked at Y/N like they were trouble, like they were temptation, like she wanted so badly to pretend this was still just a game.

Then she drank, slow and smooth. “You’re lucky I’m in the mood to make mistakes tonight.”

Y/N tilted their head, playful but entirely focused. “Who said this is a mistake?”

Alexia stared at them for a heartbeat. Then:

“Let’s get out of here.”

No drawn-out goodbyes. No waiting for the party to end. No permission slips from Mapi—who saw them leave from across the rooftop and immediately grinned like a villain in a rom-com.

Downstairs, the black Range Rover gleamed under the streetlights, sleek and menacing. Y/N opened the passenger door like a gentleman and a troublemaker rolled into one.

Alexia climbed in without a word, crossed her legs, and only looked at Y/N once the door shut.

“Nice ride,” she said casually, fingers brushing the leather.

Y/N slid into the driver’s seat, glanced over, and gave her a crooked smile. “If you think this is nice, wait till you see the view from my living room.”

Alexia bit her lip. “Is that what you tell all the girls?”

Y/N pulled out of the lot and onto the main road, the city slipping past in streaks of gold and crimson. “Only the ones I want to kiss before we even make it up the elevator.”

Alexia turned to the window, hiding the amused twitch of her lips. “Bold.”

Y/N’s hand casually draped over the gearshift, their pinky grazing her thigh. Definitely not an accident. Alexia didn’t move away.

In fact, she shifted just slightly closer.

“So,” she said, voice like velvet laced with mischief, “are you always like this? Charming. Flirty. A little bit dangerous?”

Y/N glanced at her, their voice low. “No. You bring out the dangerous part.”

“Oh?” she mused, her tone dipped in curiosity. “And what are you planning to do with that energy?”

Y/N smiled, eyes still on the road. “Depends. How fast do you want me to drive?”

Alexia’s laugh filled the car, rich and real. Then she leaned over, resting her hand lightly on Y/N’s arm. “I don’t need fast.”

Their eyes met at a red light.

“I want intense.”

The elevator ride up was silent—but not quiet.

It was the kind of silence filled with looks. With glances that lingered a beat too long. With the soft sound of Alexia crossing one leg over the other, of Y/N’s knuckles tapping once, twice against their thigh as they tried to keep their hands to themselves.

Alexia watched the glowing numbers tick up, but her eyes flicked sideways every few seconds, catching Y/N watching her first.

“Nice building,” she murmured.

Y/N turned to her, smiling like they had a secret. “Wait till you see the inside.”

The doors opened with a soft ding. Y/N led the way, holding the door open like a tease in human form. “After you. So I can check out the view.”

Alexia walked past, her perfume trailing behind—subtle, warm, expensive. “Smooth.”

“I haven’t even started.”

The apartment was… exactly what you’d expect from someone like Y/N.

Minimalist. Expensive. Clean lines, dark wood, dim lighting. And windows—floor-to-ceiling—showing off the Barcelona skyline like a painting come to life. Soft jazz was already playing, because of course it was. A touch of class. A layer of mood.

Alexia stepped inside slowly, surveying everything. “You live like someone who never has to ask twice.”

Y/N’s voice came from behind her, lower now. “I rarely do.”

Alexia turned around—only to find them closer than before.

Not touching. Not yet. Just standing there, like gravity was a negotiation and both were considering surrender.

“Want a drink?” Y/N offered, nodding toward the sleek kitchen.

Alexia didn’t move. “You’re trying very hard to impress me.”

Y/N smirked. “You think this is effort?”

That earned a soft, genuine laugh. “Okay, I walked into that one.”

Y/N stepped around her, brushing past—accidentally-on-purpose. Their hand grazed her back, low and featherlight, like a promise. “Make yourself at home. Unless you prefer mischief over comfort.”

Alexia’s voice followed them. “Mischief is comfort.”

Y/N poured two glasses—whisky for them, red wine for her. They handed it to her with a little bow. “For the woman who walked off the dancefloor like a cliffhanger.”

Alexia took the glass, letting her fingers graze Y/N’s on purpose this time. “You like cliffhangers?”

“I prefer slow burns.”

They moved to the living room, sitting close on the velvet sofa that curved just enough to make “accidental touching” a design feature. They talked. Joked. Flirted. The kind that didn’t shout—it whispered. It leaned in. It let a hand rest on a thigh just a second longer than necessary.

Alexia’s wine glass dangled from her fingertips. Her knee touched Y/N’s.

“You know,” she said, her voice soft now, “I don’t usually do this.”

“Come home with strangers?”

She gave a small nod.

Y/N reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not asking you to.”

Alexia’s breath hitched.

Then—then—she smiled.

“But I’m not leaving, either.”

[thatbitchery]

You can tell how much a lady will not level up by how much she doesn’t love herself—and you can tell how much someone doesn’t love themselves by how much they don’t understand themselves. I’ve been telling you ladies since the dawn of this blog: a level-up is personal. Custom-made. Made for you and only you. You cannot achieve another person’s goal.

Listen, the highest form of love is knowledge. To be loved is to be known. To love is to look—with the purpose of seeing—and then understanding what you see. To love yourself, you have to know yourself. And that takes nothing but self-observation. No judgment. Open acceptance.

What prompted this? I was talking to one of my girls in my personal coaching program yesterday. We started this month, so we’re still learning each other. My first topic is always fashion, because the outside world is a mirror of the inner—and you can easily understand someone from their presentation.

So this girl and I go through her closet, and I’m honestly both impressed and jealous. We are talking runway-worthy gowns. Designer bags. Louboutin heels. The kind of closet you get in your starter-pack Kardashian era. She looks at me like, “What do we think?” And apart from being impressed by the sheer amount that closet adds to her net worth… I am also deeply disappointed.

Why?

Because she is a textbook introvert. An AO3 nerd who spends all day in pajamas and works online (if you can even call it that) and is introverted even outside—i.e. would rather do indoor activities than outdoor. She’s also hyperactive and sporty. That is not the closet of an 18-year-old valedictorian homebody chess-playing video game addict online business owner. That is a Paris Hilton closet. You will NOT be wearing that micro skirt, ever. Let’s not lie to ourselves.

So she poured all that money (yes, she’s wealthy, but that’s not the point??) into another person’s closet—but inside her own house. What she does actually wear is three sets of loungewear that have seen the washing machine so many times they are fighting for their lives to hold on to color. And she won’t buy a new set because it’s “not elegant.”

So I know I will need Jesus and all of heaven when we get to the “self-love” section. Pray for me, people.

It is very important that you stop looking for trends and God knows what, and start observing yourself. Set your goals according to that, so you don’t waste time and money and actually—for once—achieve your yearly goals. Because they belong to who you are, not who you wish you were.

One of the goals I see a lot is “lose weight.” And you know what? Hell yeah. There’s no empowerment in obesity, let’s get healthy. I get it—I want to be a healthy BMI so I can clear brain fog, look better, feel better, function better, yes. But as a person who spends most of their day indoors, is barely attracted to men, and works in corporate… why are you killing yourself trying for a Bella Hadid body when you’ve got Salma Hayek genetics and you don’t need it? I get starvation if you’re a K-pop idol or a model. I get it. But you’re a regular civilian—just stop at “healthy BMI.” Because not only is it not fun, it’s also extremely unhealthy to have zero body fat. What are you even doing this for? It’s torture. If you don’t need to… what’s the point?

Or the classic “wake up at 5 a.m.”—makes sense, I see it. But if you’re a night owl, what are you doing? Your productive hours are 10 p.m. to 3 a.m.—why would you be awake at 5? That’s when you’re supposed to be going to bed after wrapping up your work.

Or “gym 3 days a week.” I love it, I do. But look at yourself in the mirror and say that again. Be honest—is it going to happen? Have you considered that maybe you’re not a gym person? That there are other ways to move your body that don’t require you to battle depression and poor time management in spandex?

You can easily tell who will not be achieving their yearly goals by comparing the goals to the person. No—those are not your goals. They are someone else’s. So another year goes by, and you achieve nothing. Again.

And if you just—if you just—observed your behavior, with no judgment, without slapping on classifications like “lazy” or “wrong” or whatever else… if you just said, “Okay, how do I make me work, in a way that works for me?” You wouldn’t need affirmations to tell you you’re good enough.

You’d just be.

BMAC

[wcters]

NIGHT OUT

pairing: arthurtv x fem!reader

word count: 1.4K

summary: you come home from a night out and get caught by arthur’s stream

request: heya i was wondering could you do something with arthur tv where y/n comes back from a night out drunk and arthur is live streaming 💕

warnings/contents: mentions of alcohol, intoxication, swearing, sexual jokes and innuendos, nudity

author’s note: i had fun with this one !!!! hope you enjoy it and that it is what you had in mind 😚

The front door of the apartment opened and closed, the sound echoing through the apartment. You could barely hear Arthur talking due to the amount of alcohol you could drink and your muttering as you tried to take off your shoes. “Bugger, come on. Get off you shit.” You mumbled as you tore the first heel off, tearing the second one off in record time as you just wanted to head to bed. In that moment, you hated yourself for wearing heeled boots even if went perfectly with the outfit.

The first thing you did was throw your purse somewhere on the floor of your living room and falling face first onto the couch. Your dress had started to ride up but your in The privacy of your own home so you truly didn’t care. You wanted to stay there, and you probably could’ve fallen asleep in that position but you then got the feeling that you were about to piss your pants. You kept your eyes closed as you made your way to the closest bathroom, leaving the door open.

Unbeknownst to you, your boyfriend was streaming in the other room. His door was closed thankfully, though the bathroom was down the hall so they couldn’t see anyway.

“Alright guys, I should probably go take care of her and before Y/n kills me for letting you guys see her like this. I had a fun time, always nice streaming, and you the next time.” Right when he turned off his PC and got out of the chair, he heard a thump and the sound of you swearing loudly. “Y/n?” No answer. Now it was Arthur’s turn to swear as he made his way to where he heard your voice. He called out again, but as he turned to look into the bathroom, there you were, passed out on the toilet. Not one of your finer moments. At that point you were too drunk to care, and your relationship was to the point where this was normal. He chuckled to himself before leaning down to your height. He placed a hand on your chin, “Y/n?” You woke up, shaking your head. “You fell asleep, baby.”

“Mm.”

“Let’s get you up and ready for bed. I know you don’t feel like it right now, but you’ll brutally kill me the next morning if I didn’t do it for you.”

Luckily for him, it wasn’t too hard to get you up and off the toilet, save for some grumbling. It was easier due to the fact that you were wearing a dress. If you were wearing pants that would be a completely different story. After you washed your hands, he got you up on the counter with him standing between your legs. “Where do we start,” he mumbled to himself as he opened your designated drawer. He had watched you enough times to recognize what bottles go first and the motions you had to do. Would it be perfect? No. But you wouldn’t know that, you’d only know that it was done.

He grabbed your makeup wipes first, taking one out and starting to wipe your face. Usually you used (and preferred) Micellar Water, but Arthur couldn’t be bothered and he didn’t think you’d stay still enough for him to get everything off. “How much makeup do you wear . . .” he mumbled as he grabbed a second wipe, makeup still coming off. When he was satisfied with the amount that had came off and how clean your face looked, he then moved to cleanser.

Arthur felt overwhelmed just looking at the amount of bottles, let alone cleansers, but he just grabbed the one he saw you use this morning and worked it into his hands. He massaged your face as he rubbed it on, reminding (telling) you to not touch your face. He couldn’t help but laugh as he saw the bubbles on your cheeks, giving you a kiss before wetting his hands and wiping his own.

He wet a little wash cloth before wiping your face down, taking extra care around your eyes and mouth. “You alright?” He asked as you slowly stared to lean against the wall to your left. “Mhm, just . . . tired.” He laughed, “I know, but I’m almost done. Then you can get all cuddled into bed, sound good?” You made a noise of agreement, a smile forming on your face.

He grabbed the next bottle labeled toner and grabbed a cotton pad like he saw you do, putting it on the pad and applying it to your face, wiping in circular motions. Good thing he watched you do your routine a lot, and that he grew up with sisters, or else he’d be lost. The more and more you stayed up and the more Arthur massaged your face, the more you fell asleep. You tried to stay up (you really did) but it had been a long night full of dancing and shots . . . Too many shots.

After that it was your serums and creams, making sure to get all of your face and hairline, even getting behind your ears too. After all the skincare and such you had was done, he grabbed your hairbrush and softly moved it through your hair, carefully getting all the knots and making sure not to pull too hard. You smiled when it first touched your scalp, happy with the feeling it brung. “You’re going to make me fall asleep,” you mumbled sleepily. “I think you already are, my love.” He joked, stroking your cheek. “There, all done. Now you just have to brush your teeth and then we can head to the bedroom and get you all comfortable.”

You nodded in response, moving to move off the counter as he signalled you to. He kissed your head when you got down, then wet your toothbrush and put the toothpaste on it before handing it to you. You took it, slowly putting it in your mouth and brushing. It took awhile and you probably didn’t get all teeth, but it was better than not to.

After you were done, he helped guide you to your bedroom, making sure you wouldn’t trip and fall on your face. Once in the bedroom, he tried to let you undress and dress yourself, but when you couldn’t even figure out how the straps worked, he stepped in. “Alright, let me help you.” He undid the straps of your dress to make it easier to take off before guiding up and over your head, managing to not get it stuck. He was pretty pleased with himself.

He helped undo your bra and take your underwear off before finding one of his T-shirt’s and a pair of boxers you got from Asda for cheap. Arthur thought you were cute, the pair he grabbed for you having wee little cats on them. He attempted to get the shirt on, but you originally put your head through the wrong hole and he had to guide you to where everything properly went. The boxers were much easier, Arthur grabbing your legs and guiding them in, pulling them up and slapping your bum to which you squealed in response and gave him a look of really? He only laughed and guided you again to the bed.

He grabbed the covers and pulled them away in order for you to lie down, putting them over you and tucking you in. You mumbled a small thank you, not noticing as he made his way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. When he came back in, he went over to your side and leaned down. “Here baby, drink this.” You grabbed the glass, missing it a couple times before bringing it up to your mouth and chugging the thing, wiping your mouth and handing it back to him. He put it on your bedside table before he got up and turned off the bedroom light. He undressed down to his boxers and moved into the bed, scooting closer to you.

He wrapped his arm around you, fighting the with the duvet you had wrapped around you like if it loved you were going to freeze to death. You sighed when you felt him behind you, snuggling into his chest.

“You good?”

“Mhm.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need to pee again?”

“. . . Yeah.”

[gojoidyll]

artificial love part 3

android ! mark grayson x fem ! reader

cw ; none

taglist

@i-love-frensh-fries

The world moved slow, and so did your workdays as you would keep glancing at your calendar and count the hours until you see THE Mark Grayson again. You don’t know why but he made you incredibly nervous, and, of course, there was always the chance that he could cancel on you and find someone else to be his specialist. Truth be told, however, even though you had your worries at the beginning, after you had a good night’s rest, you found that it honestly wasn’t so bad.

And finally, finally when Mark’s appointment arrived, you found yourself nervous all over again. Your nervousness was quick to catch Alex's attention.

“Stop squirming.”

“I can’t help it, I-“

You zipped your lips shut when the front door’s bell rang and in walked Mark. His eyes scanning the place for a brief moment before his eyes landed on you. A smile immediately gracing his lips.

“Y/n.”

“Good morning, Mr. Grayson,” you glanced at the digital clock that appeared on your wrist when you looked down at it. 10:30 am on the dot, “you’re right on time.”

Mark didn’t miss a beat, “I like to be on time for things, well, unless it’s a boring meeting that is, and please, call me Mark.”

You wondered what his processing speed was at. Even with high tech ai, it takes them a moment to fully process what another says and takes even a tad bit longer to reply. And yet Mark’s response time is as fast as a human’s. Truthfully, you noticed this before but didn’t comment on it. Maybe you could ask later?

“Of course, Mark,” you couldn’t deny that you liked saying his first name. It just had a nice ring to it, “though, I hope you don’t plan on making me wait in the near future?”

“Me making you wait? Never.”

You couldn’t hide your laugh as you gestured down the hall, “I’ll believe it when I see it. Now, please. This way, Mr-, Mark," you corrected yourself just in time.

Following your lead, you lead him to the room he was in before. Recognizing the familiar walls, he went straight for the exam table (the exam bed with the weird plastic wrap resting on top of it) and plopped right down onto it, and you took your seat in your chair after closing the door behind you.

“Alright, Mark, before we begin do you have any questions for me?”

He seemed to ponder on that for a moment, his eyes closing in response. And you couldn’t help but admire him. He just looked so human. The way his eyelashes fluttered close, how his skin glistened, his lips were pink and looked soft to the touch too. It was truly unfair.

“I do have one question…”

“What is it?”

“Are you still single?”

You giggled at that, your laugh bubbling up uncontrollably as you grinned at him before rolling your eyes at him, “yes, I’m still single, Mark.”

“Glad to hear it, then I’m all set.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Alright then,” you said as you stood up and went over to where your drawers were. Opening up the top drawer, you first pulled up your sleeves before putting some gloves on. Once you were ready you then went to the other side where all your tools were stored in your cabinet, “would you please take your shirt off and show me your back?”

You asked this as you set your needed tools up on a rolling cart and pulled it next to the exam bed.

“What? No dinner? No date?”

You rolled your eyes, “our first appointment was the date.”

“Of course, of course,” Mark said with a laugh as he pulled his shirt off. And you couldn’t help but to purse your lips together. He was literally sculpted by the God of design because what the actual hell? His chest was chiselled and perfect. You know that he was an ai, but there was not a single spec of fat. Even with high end ai models, there is still supposed to be loose skin and small areas with fat due to the design and fabrication of synthesized flesh and tissue and lubricant that pushes through their “bloodstream.” Keep in mind that ai don’t have actual blood, it’s a sort of synthetic concoction used to help their moving parts. How and why Mark doesn’t have any sort of deformities, fat, loose skin or anything else related to that.

“Don’t ogle for too long, little y/n,” he said with a snicker when he turned around. And you rolled your eyes again, “oh, shut it you.”

Looking at his back, you noticed how it was in the same condition as his chest. Perfectly sculpted, no loose skin or deformities. He didn’t even have love handles.

Calming yourself, you stepped forward and gently placed a hand onto the middle of his back and immediately a string of light blue with traces of sparkng yellow erupted along your fingertips and traced along the spine of his back, “I’ll first do an ordinary checkup and work my way from there.”

“Do what you need to.”

Taking his sign of approval as a go ahead, you pressed down a bit harder and immediately felt a metal plate shift. The blue light flickered for a moment before the panel along his spine opened up. Pressing a few buttons on the panel, you also turned on your digital tablet. The screen gently hovered over your left forearm as you worked.

“I’ll be connecting your database to my hard drive.”

Mark nodded silently.

Usually during operations such as this, ai tend to shut down some of their other functions to preserve energy in case of emergencies. One of these functions is speech. Though, some ai disable other functions first.

Looking to your digital tablet screen, both your device and Mark were finally connected and you began sifting through his health and well-being files instantly. Sifting through the data would usually take days for an amateur but luckily you were one of the best. Top of your class even. So it only took you a few moments.

“That’s odd…, I don’t see anything wrong…”

You turned your attention back to his spinal panel. Your fingers gently prodding at the different buttons and wires as you tried to find any problem that would surface, but nothing showed up.

I’m missing something here. Mark Grayson wouldn’t come here for nothing. I’m sure of it. Which means… the problem isn’t in these files. They’re elsewhere.

You refocused on your holographic screen, your fingers maneuvering to a different file path.

Main interface files.

Pressing down on the options button, it opened up immediately and you saw something wrong the moment your eyes scanned the documents that festered there.

“Mark, will you please look at this?”

His attention was caught the moment you spoke up. His body already turning to you as you showed him your screen.

“This file doesn’t match with the rest of your software. Are you aware that GDA tech is currently in your database?”

His eyes were quick to darken, “damn Cecil, I knew he was up to no good.”

“Pardon?”

His eyes gradually softened when he looked to you, “sorry about that little y/n. Recently I had gotten a new specialist back at my workplace. However, due to some…unforeseen problems a background check wasn’t done. So when the specialist worked on me they must have put that GDA file there.”

“I can get rid of it for you, and I can also set up a protection program that will erase any and all data that they stole from you.”

His whole body perked up at that, “you can do that?”

“Of course. Though, just to warn you that erasing the file can be done now, but writing the code that erases the data they stole from you will probably take me a week- woah!”

You didn’t expect him to reach for you, his hands clasping onto your own, “I don’t care how long I have to wait. It will mean a great deal to me if you can do that. Also, I don’t think I know anyone who can do what you just said, and it would be amazing if Cecil didn’t get his hands on my info.”

You patted his hands, “trust me, making the code will be hard, but I…I worked hard to get where I’m at today,” you glanced at your screen and temporarily saved the GDA file to your own hard drive before erasing it completely off of Mark’s once he let go of your hands.

“Alrighty, I erased the file off of you, so you should be fine until I create the code that will erase what this... Cecil person took from you.”

You could practically see Mark's shoulders relax as he turned back around so you could close his spinal panel.

“Thank you, also, why did you save it to your hard drive?”

“It’s for a reference,” you answered, “it’s so I can trace the erasure back to them.”

“That makes sense,” he said as he grabbed his shirt to put it back on, “also…”

“Hmm?”

“I noticed that you don’t take notes.”

You smiled, “I have good memory.”

“What do you know? So do I,” he said as he scanned you briefly. His receptors memorizing your clothes and figure, “so little y/n how much for my visit today?”

[gojoawayhoe]

What even is JJK?

Hello JJK community!! I am an avid fanfic reader who was going through a crisis, accidentally stumbled across a JJK SMAU post, and triggered a hyperfixation (yayy)

I thought it might be fun to stumble my way through figuring out what is going on here with as little official information as possible. This post is my attempt to understand JJK from SMAU and fanfic alone! To be clear, I have NOT read or watched the anime/manga - this is just my interpretation for wtf is going on here.

A few things before we get into this -

Spoiler Warnings! This should be obvious, but since I've never watched/read the show I don't actually know what is considered a spoiler or not. Please read on with caution~

Newbie Warning! I am so new into this fandom, and it is a lot bigger than the ones I've been in before. This post is supposed to be fun, and I am coming from a place of good faith. If I accidentally commit a faux pas, please be kind!

Foul Language Warning! Most of this was written stream of conscious style over two weeks as I was struggling through some tough stuff IRL. My tone is tongue in cheek, and I did not pay much attention to grammar or minding my language. I don't say anything too crazy, but I am perhaps too liberal with certain four letter words.

With that said! Please enjoy my delirious ramblings as I make sense of this batshit crazy world. I had so much fun with this, and I hope you like it?

OKKKK SO (who is who, pt 1/?; i got some questions):

Did Shoko really cheat her way through medical school?

Toji is ?? An assassin with one?? two?? Dead wives?? Are we suspicious or nah

Also like, Toji? Sometimes he's written like an ass, sometimes like a strung out single dad?

yuuji is ..... chosos brother... somehow...?

Megumi is……. Tojis son? But also sometimes gojos adopted son?? Or at least mentee??

Speaking of Megs, here are some thoughts I had while figuring this effer out:

-Man, Megumi really likes dogs i guess, thats cool

-Oh huh, whats a shikigami?

-oh, that sounds pretty cool

*sees dogs mentioned again*

-cue: holy shit moment

-i straight up thought he was overly obsessed with dogs. Like as a character trait because its mentioned so much. 

-ykw ig he still is

-can you pet them?

Shibuya:

At first, mentions of Shibuya went over my head. Then, three or four days in, I read an smau where nanami made plans with the reader to do something as soon as he returned from Shibuya. It was really so sweet! But… umm…. The comments did not agree?

So this is the first time i googled anything, and found myself on the wiki. And uh, yeah, fuck you guys /s

And i was like, I wonder who else has died then?? And guys, i gotta be honest, I did NOT like it !! ����

alright, I got distracted.

Trying to figure out who is affiliated with who from smau/fanfic alone is nearly impossible (who is who pt 2/?). 

Eventually, you get here:

Most people - jj sorcerers/tokyo high

Toji + shiu - assassins

Kenjaku + mahito (mojito)? = freaky bitches (also is it just me or is mahitos design kinda.... 😏 no? just me?)

Choso - ???????? I genuinely cant tell?????? Sometimes yuuji is his brother and sometimes hes with the freaky bitches ??????? Is he a good girl gone bad ?? A bad girl gone good ?? Is he meaning yuuji like as a vessel of sakuna and sakuna is his half brother???? because apparently the whole main point of the goddamn show is that yuuji ate one of sakunas fingers and is his vessel or whatever??

And speaking of that, how did i not know yuuji and megumi (and… nobara…?) are the protagonists?? I went days without googling the premise of the show (yup.) and i was floored, lemme tell you! I really had no idea what was going on, yall 😌

So back to who is who again (pt 3/?, Geto edition) -

Ok. So..... OK. Geto, right? WTF is up here? here's what I've got

Geto + gojo (and Shoko!) = #besties

Geto has a crisis

Now hes racist

Aaaaaand slaughters a village (and his family??? is that right??)

Geto + gojo = #breakup

Gojo is real sad about it

10 years later geto comes back and gojo kills him

Geto is reanimated by the freakiest looking yeerk ive ever seen (does anyone even know animorphs anymore or is that series a fever dream I made up?)

#sadboi vibes only plz #trapped in the prison realm #justGojothings #honestly fuck the Shibuya arc

okay ANDDDD -

Gojo + Geto + KFC = ???!

y'all i see them referenced with KFC all the time. this is definitely a private joke that I am not in on lmao

moving on!

Sakuna v Gojo.

Yeah, fuck this arc too honestly. Gojo's my favorite. Sue me! I'm basic! I never said I wasn't!

back to CHOSO again (my beloathed <3) (who is who pt 4/?):

I have figured it out!! Choso was with the freaky bitches to avenge his brothers, then somehow figured out that Yuuji is his half brother and badda bing, bad girl turns good. love to see it.

But, is it cannon??

Some of these are characters are written so baby girl-ified that i think id be upset reading the source material. Like… is choso really that sweet and innocent? He is written as the sweetiest of baby gorls. But like isnt he an antagonist? I suspect he probably has one or two scenes in canon that are naïve and endearing, and the fanfic girlies ran with it. As they absolutely should. But im attached this version now and I dont want that ruined 😌 I've seen yall bitch about the white dog thing in SMAU, but you know what? I love it here in delulu land and im sticking with it.

Also, I have a feeling that Nanami is just a serious guy with a stick up his ass. Do I love how he is written? yes. Do I stan a romantic family man? idk, ask my husband (yes, I do). Do I think he is TOTALLY different in cannon? Absolutely

Do I think Geto is this tragic, heartbreaking villian in cannon? Yeah, I think that's probably right. but i mean, genocidal maniac is kindve hard to reconcile with how he is portrayed in the ficdom universe. Also, I love how many people just choose to simply ignore his betrayal arc and pretend it simply ✨didnt happen✨. i love it and im living for it.

There are about 10,000 different portrayals of Gojo in fic. Some common themes are:

fuckboy gojo

sadboy gojo

lovesick gojo

emotionally unavailable gojo

I think most right is probably #4? idk man, if my life was in danger all the time and I was viewed as (at best) nothing more than a weapon by society AND my best friend betrayed me like this? I probably would also float through life with minimal attachments and a laissez faire attitude. but then this is also challenged by his clear attachment to the protagonists (who are, apparently, the students and not the teachers)

Will I watch/read this anime/manga?

Honestly?? Idk yall. I kinda mentioned this earlier, but I have now gotten attached to these characters as they are in my head. in delulu land. Also, my real life still kinda sucks rn, and idk if I am currently built for the death and betrayal and ANGST in my fantasy world too, thank you very much.

That said, my brother in law is begging me to watch it since he heard im doing this. This world is genuinely so complex and interesting, and the magic system is fascinating. AND it would be interesting to go through it and see what ive actually gotten right and what ive gotten just so, so wrong.

Maybe if anyone actually reads this and it picks up traction ill consider it, and do a follow up post with the right and the wrong

N E Ways! I think that's about all the word vomit I am capable of right now. if anyone actually read all this, I hope you enjoyed my nonsensical ramblings! feel free to tell me what I got right, what I got wrong, or how good/bad my takes are.