juno w :)

now, instead of maintaining a comprehensive, nuanced, and human-maintained encyclopedia by which to check your document, they have switched to an AI that just compares what you’ve written to what other people write in, say, Google Docs, and use the most commonly used iteration.

ever have it change something like “all intents and purposes” to “all intensive purposes” or “should’ve” to “should of”? that’s why!

⊹ standing too close. like just barely not touching. why are their shoulders breathing on each other??

⊹ conversations that sound normal but feel like foreplay. “pass the salt” has never been so loaded.

⊹ one of them says something flirty and the other freezes for 0.2 seconds like “oh.”

⊹ eyes dropping to lips and then—back up. with effort.

⊹ holding eye contact just a little too long. like... are they gonna kiss or duel??

⊹ unintentional physical contact that lasts one second too long and now they’re both broken

⊹ a hand on the small of the back. that’s it. that’s the tweet.

⊹ tension so thick that other characters start noticing like “hey are you two okay?” (they are not)

⊹ “accidental” sleepovers. “oh no there’s only one bed.” yeah. suuuure.

⊹ biting back a smile. biting back a moan. biting anything really.

⊹ one of them walks away and the other has to physically restrain themselves from watching the hips

Updated 9th September 2024 More writing tips, review tips & writing description notes

Facial Expressions

Masking Emotions

Smiles/Smirks/Grins

Eye Contact/Eye Movements

Blushing

Voice/Tone

Body Language/Idle Movement

Thoughts/Thinking/Focusing/Distracted

Silence

Memories

Happy/Content/Comforted

Love/Romance

Sadness/Crying/Hurt

Confidence/Determination/Hopeful

Surprised/Shocked

Guilt/Regret

Disgusted/Jealous

Uncertain/Doubtful/Worried

Anger/Rage

Laughter

Confused

Speechless/Tongue Tied

Fear/Terrified

Mental Pain

Physical Pain

Tired/Drowsy/Exhausted

Eating

Drinking

I never misgender myself, Unless I’m standing in the kitchen with my mom,  Cooking popcorn a bit too long So it sits on my tongue with that bitter-salt-char Only the two of us can stand. 

When I was growing up,  The kitchen was small enough to call it A confessional booth, small enough,  To keep fathers and devils out of it,  Small enough, That male intrusion felt like sacrilege. 

One of these afternoons, I just know- I’ll come home to it expanded,  Rugs pushing neatly into the living room, Cupboards organized by ingredients  Instead of color. 

I’m not a woman, but part of me Will always be a little girl twisted  Up on the floor of the kitchen chewing Mango pits and getting caught underfoot.

Sometimes I see her in the reflection of clean pots and pans,  When I’m seasoning cast iron. I make tea and the loose lemongrass in Mom’s cup Forms her daughter’s face.

Did you have prophecies too, Mama? Or  Is that something you shed like a Second skin when you started going to that Fundie church for a boy with blue-grey eyes and A haunting grin? I want to know

If the ashes from his cigarette falling Onto your pregnant belly revealed the Spiteful bitch I’d become.

I used to identify as a girl, now,  I  identify as a witch and a bastard. I call myself things You’re too disgusted to utter out loud. 

But sometimes, I miss using your wooden spoons to burn popcorn The way we both like. I’d let you kick me off your counters  A thousand times if you’d just call me your son.

A few of us, sitting around a cheap card table in my crumbling apartment, brainstorming ways to pay rent without actually working. The scam was simple: create a fake religion, prey on the gullible, and rake in some easy cash.

We called it The Order of Cythra, a name pulled out of thin air by my roommate, Toby, who thought it sounded “cryptic and legit.” We scribbled down some nonsense about Cythra being the god of renewal and hidden wisdom, created a website, and bought some dollar-store candles for the “rituals.”

At first, it was harmless fun. A few Reddit posts here, some vague TikToks there, and suddenly we had people donating. Not much—just twenty bucks here and there—but enough to cover bills and groceries.

Then things got... strange.

It started with the emails. Testimonials flooded our inbox from people claiming Cythra had spoken to them in dreams. A woman wrote about how her chronic migraines disappeared after chanting one of our made-up prayers. Another claimed their barren garden had suddenly burst into bloom.

We laughed it off at first. Toby even joked that we should hire a PR agent.

But then the dreams started.

It was always the same. I stood in a vast, desolate wasteland beneath a broiling, blood-red sky. A towering figure loomed in the distance, its body shifting between forms—human, deer, shadow. Its voice echoed in my head, not in words, but in feelings: hunger, anger, and something worse.

One night, I woke up to find the word Cythra carved into my arm, not by my own hand but by something else. I confronted Toby and the others, but their faces were pale. They were worried, like I had done something to them.

We tried to shut it down. Deleted the website, pulled down the TikToks, and stopped all donations. But the followers didn’t go away. If anything, they grew more fervent. They showed up at my apartment, chanting in unison, their eyes glassy and strange. They called me High Priest.

Then the first miracle happened.

One of the followers, a man in his sixties, collapsed on my doorstep during one of their late-night vigils. His heart had stopped. I panicked and reached out to him instinctively, yelling for someone to call 911. The moment my hand touched his chest, I felt a searing heat shoot through my arm. His body jolted, and his eyes snapped open.

The followers fell to their knees.

I slammed the door, trembling, my palm still burning. When I looked, there was a black symbol etched into my skin—a sigil I’d never seen before but somehow understood.

Cythra was real.

The days that followed were a blur. The followers proclaimed me as their leader, and no matter how much I tried to resist, they wouldn’t leave me alone. More people came to me for healing, and each time, the sigil on my palm burned brighter. I didn’t know what I was doing, but it always worked. Broken bones knit together. Tumors withered away. One woman even claimed her blind son could see again.

But with every miracle, I felt a piece of myself slipping away.

The dreams became more vivid. Cythra spoke now, its voice a low rumble that made my teeth ache. It demanded more worshippers, more faith, more sacrifices.

One night, I woke to find Toby standing over my bed, a knife in his hand and a vacant look in his eyes. He muttered something about “offering blood to Cythra.” I fought him off, but he slit his own throat before I could stop him. The followers found his body the next morning and cheered.

They said his death would “bring Cythra fully into our world.”

I tried to run. Packed a bag and fled to the nearest bus station. But as soon as I stepped outside, I saw them— hundreds of followers, all chanting in unison, their faces lit by the flickering of candles. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur.

The ground beneath their feet began to crack.

The last thing I remember before everything went black was the sky splitting open, and a monstrous, shifting form descending from the heavens.

Now I sit on a blackened throne in a temple I never built, my body barely my own. The sigil on my palm has spread, covering my arms, chest, and face. I can no longer close my eyes without seeing its form, nor speak without its words spilling from my mouth like black, molded bile.

I am the High Priest of Cythra, a forgotten god reborn through my foolishness.

At first, things seem normal. Sure, some profiles have quirky descriptions ("must enjoy full moons" or "not looking for blood ties"), but everyone's got a weird sense of humor these days. So you start swiping, and soon you’ve got a date lined up. Oddly enough, when you arrive, your date—a very charming individual who seems to be more shadow than person—looks shocked that you're not at all disturbed by their, well, "shadowy presence."

You shrug it off, chalking it up to them being nervous. But the trend continues—every date you go on, from the elegant person with fangs to the mysterious figure who never removes their hood, can't seem to believe you’re not put off by their very obvious non-human features. Instead, you just play along, trying to be polite and maybe even a little charmed by the mystery.

But this time, on your latest date, you’re faced with someone who just won’t believe you’re serious. With piercing eyes and a smile just a bit too wide, they lean in close and ask, “Alright, really. What’s your angle, human? Is this some kind of joke, or are you actually not afraid?”

You feel a chill run down your spine at the way they emphasize human, but you swallow and offer a casual smile.

“No joke. I’m really not afraid.” You shrug, hoping you sound more confident than you feel.

Your date tilts their head, eyes narrowing as they scrutinize you. “So you’re telling me that you don’t find…this...unsettling?” And with that, they let their smile spread wider than seems possible, revealing not two, but rows upon rows of needle-like teeth.

You flinch, but it’s more out of surprise than fear. You’ve learned by now that dates from Hearts & Haunts have a knack for the strange and unusual, and you’re kind of impressed by their dedication to the bit. You lean forward, meeting their gaze head-on, “It’s a…unique look.” You try not to grimace. “You pull it off well.”

For the first time, you see something other than skepticism on their face—a flicker of genuine surprise. Then, a low chuckle rumbles in their chest. “Alright, you’ve got guts,” they say, leaning back in their chair. “Either that, or you’re completely clueless.” Their fingers tap against the table, sharp nails clicking like tiny claws. “So, tell me…why did you sign up for a dating app specifically for non-humans?”

You blink, completely thrown. “Wait—specifically for non-humans?”

They arch an eyebrow, folding their arms across their chest with a smirk. “You didn’t know? You’re the first human on this app. We all thought you were a thrill-seeker or something.”

The realization hits you like a punch. All those peculiar profiles—the “blood ties,” the “shape-shifting preferences,” the insistence on candlelit dinners in old ruins—it all makes sense now. Dumbass.

But strangely, as you sit there under your date’s amused and slightly predatory gaze, you don’t feel the urge to run. Instead, you feel…curious. Maybe a little excited.

“Well,” you say, “if it’s good enough for vampires and werewolves, then I must be in the right place.”

Your date's laughter rings out, low and rich, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. They lean closer, a glint of mischief in their eyes. "Careful what you wish for, human," they purr. "This world of ours has... unspoken rules. And let’s just say not everyone is as, uh, 'human-friendly' as me."

You shrug, still feeling the thrill of the mystery you’ve accidentally stumbled into. "Look, I just wanted something different," you reply. "And so far, you all have certainly delivered."

They shake their head, chuckling. "You’re serious, aren’t you?" A strange gleam lights their gaze, somewhere between fascination and hunger. "Tell me, what do you even know about our kind? Or is this just a dating experiment to you?"

You take a deep breath, holding their gaze. "I know enough. I get that there’s a whole other world here, and I may not understand it all yet, but... maybe I want to." You hesitate, then add with a grin, "Besides, if you're on this app, maybe you're looking for something different, too?"

They consider you in silence for a long moment, like a wolf sizing up its next meal. Then, with a sigh that feels like the start of a story, they lean back, draping one arm along the back of their chair. "Alright, human. Let’s see just how far you’re willing to dive into the unknown."

Your heart pounds, but you nod, feeling the weight of their words settle over you like a pact. You’re about to get exactly what you asked for: a plunge into a world that, only moments ago, you didn’t even know existed.

They give you a look—half amused, half intrigued—as if deciding what exactly to reveal. Finally, they drum their fingers on the table, the pointed nails clicking in a steady rhythm that makes your pulse quicken.

"Alright," they say, voice smooth as silk but with an edge that makes the hairs on your arms rise. "Let's start with a basic question. Do you actually know what I am?"

You hesitate, taking them in—the subtly too-wide smile, the fingers that end in claws, the shadows that seem to cling to them like a second skin. You’ve read about creatures like this, sure, but you can’t shake the feeling that asking them outright might not go well.

"Well," you say slowly, leaning back with a casual smile, "I'm guessing you’re not just someone who enjoys Halloween year-round?"

They laugh, a deep, resonant sound that fills the small, dimly-lit corner of the café. "Good guess, human. But I don’t think you understand what you’re dealing with." Their gaze intensifies, those eerie eyes locking with yours as they lean forward. "I am one of the Old Ones—the beings who roamed this world long before humans had words for fear. I have seen empires fall, mountains crumble, stars die."

The words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time, a chill seeps through your bravado. But you manage to keep your expression calm, leaning in as though they’ve just shared some juicy gossip. "So...you're basically a walking history book, then?" you tease, offering a wry smile.

They narrow their eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement in them. "You're...refreshingly different," they admit, sounding almost reluctant. "Most humans would be halfway out the door by now, but here you are, grinning like this is some kind of… thrill."

You shrug, feigning nonchalance despite the rapid drumming of your heart. "You’ve got to admit, you’re all kind of fascinating. I mean, the stories alone—who wouldn’t be curious?"

The creature’s gaze softens, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of something beyond hunger or amusement—a hint of loneliness, perhaps, or a tiredness that no amount of years can shake.

"Curiosity can be dangerous, you know," they murmur, their voice almost gentle. "We’re not made to be understood. Humans were meant to fear us, to keep their distance. And yet… here you are, sitting across from me, looking like you’d rather keep talking than run."

You glance down, taking in the way their fingers are still tapping against the table, claws leaving tiny scratches on the wood. “Maybe that’s because I don’t see you as some monster,” you say quietly. “Maybe I just see someone who’s… a little different. And maybe a little lonely, too.”

Their gaze sharpens, and for a split second, the mask slips. They look… human. Vulnerable. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that predatory gleam. “You’re playing a dangerous game, human.”

You smile, feeling more daring than you should. “So I’ve been told.”

They shake their head, something between exasperation and respect flickering in their eyes. "Alright," they say, voice soft but laced with challenge. "If you’re really willing to dive into this world, there’s a party tomorrow night. A gathering of sorts."

Your heart skips a beat, but you manage to keep your cool. "A party, huh? Is that your way of saying you’re inviting me as your date?”

They snort, but there’s a glimmer of warmth in their gaze. “Maybe. But be warned, if you come, you might just find yourself face-to-face with creatures far less charmed by you than I am.”

You consider the challenge, your pulse racing with a strange blend of excitement and terror. “So… what do I wear to a gathering of supernatural beings?”

They smile, showing just a hint of those unsettling rows of teeth. “Something dark. And maybe something you don’t mind getting a little... stained.”

“Bloodstains, right?”

“Perhaps,” they say, looking far too pleased. "Do you think you can handle it?"

like, copied the ENTIRE plot and re-written it, just better than I had? The characters were more fleshed-out than mine were, and the POV was more interesting, and the pace made more sense- but it was MY STORY?

So close to the end I was like "holy shit.. do I message them? Ask if my story inspired theirs? Should I be angry? Flattered?" Cause their tags and description didn't mention me AT ALL, which, sure, it's fanfiction to begin with, but if you're using my work than at least credit me as inspo, right? Just to be courteous?

But I get to the end of the final chapter, and it's not finished, and I'm kind of disappointed cause I never finished my story and I was really immersed in their version now and had been looking forwards to seeing how they tied up my loose ends- so I scroll to the bottom to leave a comment, and.

It's MY URL.

IT WAS MY STORY THE WHOLE TIME.

THE ONE *I WROTE*.

In *2013*.

And FORGOT ABOUT

BECAUSE I WAS SO INSECURE ABOUT MY SLOPPY, SHALLOW, AMETEUR WRITING

And I'm just sitting here now staring into space thinking about every shitty story I've ever written now like

IT WAS ALL GOOD?

IT WAS GOOD THIS WHOLE DAMN TIME??