Morning, lieutenant.
Legit this art style is so spectacular it's changing the elliptical orbit of the earth
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Discoholic 🪩
Misplaced Lens Cap

if i look back, i am lost
Keni
noise dept.
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Claire Keane

⁂

★

ellievsbear
One Nice Bug Per Day
YOU ARE THE REASON

titsay

pixel skylines
tumblr dot com

izzy's playlists!
h

blake kathryn

oozey mess

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@sadconstantss
Morning, lieutenant.
Legit this art style is so spectacular it's changing the elliptical orbit of the earth

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I guess you could say he’s ve… he’s a very h…
How are u so creative? Like, be honest, Do you practice witchcraft? Cause there is no other way.
I am being real here, literally EVERY idea of ANY fandom or oc you have is GOOD. Not "Oh, good" level, but "wtf is this masterpiece omg" level.
Every time I read your writing, I obsess over it for MONTHS.
So, yes, sorry- i am not trying to offend you, ofc not, its just that this level of skill is high, and I am literally enamored by your blog and everything you write. So I was wondering how someone can achieve this level.
Firstly, thank you, this means a lot.
Secondly, here are my tips for being more creative:
Consume media that you might not enjoy. I think it's really easy to get into the habit of watching, reading, playing the same things over and over, and while that's fine it prevents you from experiencing stories and media that you might like if you broaden your horizons. There are a lot of TV shows, movies, and books that I don't talk about here but I like having a wide range of things I enjoy, it allows me to have more interesting ideas when it comes to the things I create.
Engage with media critically. You should be able to articulate why you do or don't like something. If I ask you why you don't like something and you're response is "idk I just don't like it" that's technically fine, but I'm going to assume your inability to give at least one reason why comes from a lack of creativity or creative understanding. Forming complex media language and being able to engage with the things you enjoy or don't enjoy on a critical level prevents you from being the person who goes "why can't we just enjoy things" whenever other people are having a thoughtful discussion.
Don't limit yourself. I see a lot of people afraid to do things out of fear that people might make fun of them or that they might be bad and I think that mentality stunts creativity. I wouldn't be active whatsoever if I limited myself to just a few fandoms. I change interests so often and if I didn't write so many different things I wouldn't be on this app anymore.
I'm honesty really flattered by this because I do feel like a lot of my writing is repetitive, so this means a lot. I'm really bad at expressing gratitude so I hope I don't come across as ungrateful.
Other than the Tweels, I think Vil gets mischaracterized the most, with a lot of people believing he'd be needlessly cruel to someone he doesn't deem as "beautiful."
Obviously, I've already talked about how I don't think Twisted Wonderland has the same standards as beauty as our world, but even if we're saying it does, Vil isn't a conventionally attractive man. He is hyper feminine, wears makeup and dresses and heels, he wouldn't be considered traditionally beautiful by male standards. So even then, I don't view Vil as someone who would treat others like garbage because he doesn't find them beautiful.
A lot of people tend to take Vil as a character at face value. They see his Overblot and assume it was because he wasn't deemed the best, when in reality it's much more than that. For his entire life, Vil has been put into a box and compared to others. He was never given the opportunity to be anything but what others deemed for him. Even though he's worked hard to achieve the things he wants, when he looses the VDC, it destroys him because his perception of himself is completely destroyed. He can no longer pretend that he is perfect, because his loss actively works against that. That's why the meaning of Book 5 is about stepping away from the idea of beauty that focuses on others perceptions of you, and instead focusing on achieving a version of yourself that you are proud of.
That's why Vil is so hard on Epel, because he knows that Epel's obsession with being masculine comes from insecurity and caring too much about what others think. That's why he allows Rook to transfer to Pomefiore despite him being kinda a freak. He knows that they are driven and passionate about what they want, and that's what beauty is to him.
That's why I never understand it when people say that Vil wouldn't entertain someone who doesn't fit a specific standard of beauty. If that's the case, why would he entertain Rook? You can say he thought Rook had potential, but Rook was a dirty hunter with sticks in his hair and mud on his skin who was likely slobbering at the chance to even meet Vil. I think being genuine to yourself matters more to Vil. If being genuine means never wearing makeup, then that's what he likes. If being genuine means having a ten step skincare/makeup routine, that thanks what he likes.
TDLR: Vil's idea of beauty focuses more on inward beauty and achieving the version of beauty that is authentic to you, rather than traditional ideals of beauty. If he likes you, and it's clear you're true to who you are, then Vil isn't going to not pursue you.
Hi! This is like, the first time I'm sending in an 'ask' like this but I really wanted to say ur one of my top fav yandere writers. Your style is so fun and expressive (sometimes I act it out lol ur mc's be funny) so I wanted to ask what & how your writing process goes? Cuz to me, it's like you just look at pictures of these random guys and suddenly a whole (magnifique!) story just BURSTSSS forward (picture light yagami lol) and it's so AMAZINGGG I WANT TO BE LIKE UUUUU
Xoxo I hope you've doing well pls take care of yourselfff 😚😚😚
Ngl? Been going through it! BUT! I really loved getting this ask, so I am going to answer! No matter what!
Honestly? First step is checking what "Vibe" feels right today. It'll change, person to person, day to day. Cause it depends on your mood, what shows you last watched, who your current blorbo is, etc. Maaaaybe it's a Sci-fi day. Or a historical setting. Magic, maybe? How we feeling about video-game-y? Etc.
Once you capture the First Vibe™. You consider the next: "What pictures of Possible Yandere™ do I got/can i find(that fit my first Vibe)?"
I collect those pictures as I come across them and like getting sent them, specifically for this purpose! A Possible Yandere™ has to have either: "too innocent/cheerful facade face", blank "dead behind the eyes", crazy eyes, or some combination of "yeah... I could see them mentally cracking under immense emotional pressure like a walnut full of crazy".
Once I find a Potential Yandere (possibly after comparing serveral against each other and narrowing them down, in a sort of "Am i getting hotter or colder, Vibe Check") that matches my First Vibe? I look at it.
This is where we REALLY examine the pic.
We treat it like a snapshot.
It's a movie still. A captured moment, an illustration, from a story you haven't read yet. What's happening? Is this Pre-reveal? Masks off and everyone's screaming? Yandere Aura Farming™? What's happening?
Then, if you can, try to match a Yandere One Liner to it. If the failes, a Reader Line that could be responded too. How would this sort of Yandere, in this moment, respond?
Sometimes, you capture the Vibe pre-reveal. Which means, you need to ask "what is their end game?" And "do I want the Reader to find out before it's too late?" -> "will it matter?" How strong are we talking, this Yandere? Call the cops or "....oh honey, God left the room a long time ago..."
Once we got set and Yandere? Reader!
Readers shouldn't actually be perfectly blank slates. That makes them passive. Without agency. Why would a Yandere latch on to someone like that? Readers need to be both You and Someone. A character. Just... non-specific.
What's their skin color? Hair color? Eyes, nose, mouth? Probably have them! But irrelevant! Here's how they feel about their boss! Man this coffee sucks. Hey, why is that guy staring so mu-?
The Reader is our Only Sane Man in this romantic horror movie. They have found themselves in a fucked up situation, beyond there control, and are trying really REALLY hard not to lose their shit about it. They ARE in fact, being hunted for sport. 0 out of 10, no stars.
Readers have a non-specific backstory, parents with faces probably, there may or may not have been a pet at one point. They are people. Which means they have friends, dreams, and fear. Regrets. They have positive qualities that the Yandere latched onto.
What was it?
Did the Reader smile politely at them on their walk to work? Were they co-workers? A chance encounter? See them going about their life and spot, in them, the Yandere's Fixation?
Because each Yandere has one. And to drive a story, to make a Reader, to define their "Voice" as a character? We need to know what it IS.
Yandere WANT something. Inhumanly, unnaturally, "burn the world with me and you in it" NEED Something. It is their greatest Love. Their ABSOLUTE Love. And the Reader? The poor, poor Reader has had that obsession transfer, or begin to bleed over, to them.
Maybe our Yandere doesn't want to be alone. Perhaps, they want to be a GOD; Serve at the foot of one. Wants to own and be owned. Maybe, just maybe, they want to be The Best. Want to be SEEN. A monster beheld, in all of it's terrible glory. There need to be KNOWN, to be NOT ALONE, driving them slowly insane.
Or perhaps...?
The Reader is merely... interesting.
A spark of color. The FIRST spark. In a very, very long time. In a sea of grey and sameness. Monotony and predictable behaviors. Filth and failures. Perhaps our Yandere is merely latching onto the first "interesting" thing that they can find and it is our poor Readers struggles, that drive them to Love and Madness.
What sort of Madness is this? For indeed, all Yandere are very, VERY insane.
Do they hide it well? Can others thell? Do they unnerve?
They are hunters. The Nightmare of this romantic horror movie. There should be dread. Because they are here to ruin lives. Their love story is everyone else's traumatic event. What are LAWS to them? Boundaries and social moors? This is their origin story.
Or worse, this is their trade, and they've been doing this for a very long time indeed.
Now...
It is a normal day. Or perhaps it is the End and we must then move backwards. What is happening? Is the Reader safe? What are they doing? Sprinkle details about the world. Little bits of set dressing: breakfast? Good or bad? Pass any neighbors? We got a uniform? Where are we going and how's the weather? We got any friends(even if they never come into play)?
Add a hint somethings not right. Hide it amongst the other details.
Does the Reader notice it? And if so... do they choose to act or not? Take it seriously or dismiss what their instincts are telling them. More day to day details. Another warning, perhaps bigger. Uh oh, not good. Do we notice? Are we alarmed now? Or do we dismiss again?
More blatant hints that something is amiss.
Undeniable fact, that something is amiss.
What instinct does your Reader have? Fight, Fight, Freeze, or Fawn? Is their plan going to be to bide their time, hoping to escape? Or "fuck secondary locations. We die here."? Do they try and run?
Now? This is a Fight. Your Reader wants to Escape. That is their Goal. Your YANDERE wants the Reader. The story is their battle, their dialog, the build up and confrontation. Who wins? Don't give in. Make the Yandere fuckin EARN that victory. Make them dangerous and clever. Insane and in love. Your Reader is no meek little hothouse flower. They WILL survive. They WILL run if given half a chance.
Your Reader is a Horror Movie Protagonist. The Monster is simply in love with them.
I was legit cheesifn when I saw u replied omfgsfs TEHEHDG
I really hope things turn out right for u, thank u for replying to my silly little ask despite that :’] I love u :’]]] even your explanation is actually so fire and carries that narrative direction I love so much. I'll hang this up on my wall to force myself to remember ur godly advice.
PPS: I especially love the way your MC’s are cuz I can genuinely picture myself in their place. Normally I feel like I can avoid a situation like that easy peasy, but the moment I find out I'm in one of YOUR stories? I'm so dead. Can't trust NOBODY, whether they were part of the “main cast in the game we played” or not. One example I can think of can be seen in Bad End: Kept Safe. Like who even is this guy to the main character 😭 nobody 😭😭 he was our respite in that godsforsaken world, but he's crazy, and we don't even KNOW it 😭😭
ANYWAY YEA. SORRY FOR RAMBLING.
Have a nice day and may your enemies be destroyed. (morally. Nicely. Tehe ^ 3^ !)

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Proud of this one
TIGHNARI X GN!READER ┊͙ rated sfw ⸝ comfort ⸝ for the days you feel entirely unlovable ( he loves you, always, regardless of it all ) ݂ ໋. cw for mild angst at the start & deep-rooted feelings of insecurity
It’s moments like this when you wish Tighnari wasn’t always so attentive when it came to you.
“Are you thinking that… just because you’ve had a bad week, you should retreat to your room instead of seeking comfort?” Tighnari observes sharply, ears twitching when he notices the nervous wobble of your lip.
You shake your head, instinctively. “I’m just… tired.”
(You tell yourself that you are not sad. You are not sad now, and you cannot ever be sad, because if nothing else, you at least want to be someone capable of making those around you smile.)
He sighs softly. “Don’t lie to me.”
He’s not smiling.
And neither are you, when you avert your gaze from him and down to your hands twisted in your lap, unsure of where to begin formulating a lie that would convince the only one who sees all of you, to believe you’re merely feeling a bit sleepy.
reblog to give your headache to elon musk instead
Don’t join the army to get free college. First two years of community college is free. Peace corps and Americorps have scholarships and student loan forgiveness programs for their volunteers. If you’re not rich you probably qualify for Pell grants. Go to a state college. They teach you the same things they do at fancy colleges. Sometimes there’s scholarships for people of a certain background. Ethnicity. Sexuality. Gender. Religion. Go to a grad school that’ll give you free tuition for working there as a teacher or assistant. Become a stripper or something. Just don’t join the army.
genshin boys overhear you talking to yourself
premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you can’t stop thinking about…until he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, here’s what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories
features. kazuha, diluc, childe, wanderer, alhaitham, xiao, ayato, cyno, itto, kaeya, baizhu, dainsleif, tighnari, thoma, heizou, bennett, kaveh, zhongli
kazuha
You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.
“Of course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planning—”
“You’re being rather harsh on yourself.”
You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.
“You were gone longer than expected,” he explains, seeing your confusion. “Beidou sent me to check if you’d lost your way—or started arguing with local wildlife.”
You flush. “No, I’m just…talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.”
He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. “Hm. The axle’s intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.”
You blink. “Oh. You’re not going to tease me about earlier?”
“I speak to the wind as if it listens,” he says lightly. “Why would I judge you for speaking to yourself?”
You glance at him. “And does the wind ever answer?”
He smiles faintly. “Only when I’m quiet enough to hear it.”
And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadn’t answered, but he had.
diluc
He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: “Okay, you’ve got this. He’s just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome man—Archons above, why am I like this?”
He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.
He blinks once. Slowly.
“…I assume that was about me,” he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.
“I—No—I mean—kind of?” you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.
He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.
“Understood,” he mutters.
For the rest of the day, he’s overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like it’s flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for you—steaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: “You’ve got this.”
childe
He’s passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: “Okay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.”
He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “Wow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure you’re not Fatui?”
You shriek in embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Long enough to know you’ve got potential,” he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.
You groan and hide your face. “I was joking. mostly.”
“Nah, I kinda like it,” he teases. “Plan A’s got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?” his voice softens just a bit. “If you ran, I’d just find you. You know that, right?”
You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. It’s quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.
“But…if you do need tissues, I’ve got plenty.”
Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.
“New plan,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Plan D: stay right here.”
wanderer
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.
“He probably doesn’t even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.”
He replies instantly. “Try it. I’ll throw one back.”
You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. He’s already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.
“I notice,” he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. “More than you think.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.
alhaitham
He’s walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.
“Okay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he won’t know I was here. Unless…he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archons—what if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?”
His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. “For the record, I do catalog them by page wear.”
You jump, dropping the book you’re holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.
“Also, you’ve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. You’re not exactly subtle.”
You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.
“You misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,” he remarks, tone neutral. “But I’ll let it slide.”
You’re still frozen, blinking at him.
Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, “Next time you wish to come by, just ask. I’d rather see you here than not.”
And then he starts reorganizing beside you. He’s silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
xiao
You’re sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. “Why did I say ‘sweet dreams’? Who says that to Xiao? He’s the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks I’m a sentimental weirdo—”
“I don’t.”
You whip around. He’s suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.
“I don’t think you’re weird,” he repeats, voice soft and steady, though there’s the faintest crease in his brow like he’s wondering if he’s said too much.
You scramble to stand, completely flustered. “Wait, how long were you—?”
“I heard my name,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.
The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.
“No one’s said that to me before.”
You blink. “Said what?”
He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams.”
There’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.
“I didn’t think those were something I could have.”
The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.
Then, without looking at you, he adds, “But I liked hearing it. From you.”
Your heart flips once, hard.
And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, “Goodnight. I hope…yours are sweet, too.”
ayato
He’s strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.
“Lord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?”
His brows lift in faint surprise.
“And why did I tell him it was ‘transcendent’? That’s not normal person behavior. That’s the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.”
Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himself—knows it's indecent to linger—but curiosity roots him in place. It’s rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.
You pace a few steps, oblivious. “He probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasn’t. I think. Ugh.”
He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.
“I didn’t realize I’d been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.”
You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.
“I must say, your critique was…vivid,” he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. “And rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.
“Though I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Next time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.”
cyno
He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.
“Okay, okay. Don’t laugh if he tells another joke. But also don’t not laugh, because then he’ll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?”
He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, “What do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.”
You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.
“That was…better than usual,” you admit.
He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. “So. You’ve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?”
You blink, caught. “No. Definitely not.”
He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. “Interesting. That implies you anticipated more. Which means…you’re expecting me.”
“…to keep telling them?”
He nods solemnly. “Correct. And now that I know you’re preparing, I’ll have to escalate.”
You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, he’ll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. You’ll pretend not to swoon. He’ll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.
itto
You’re standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, don’t flirt, just survive eye contact.”
A voice behind you booms, “Well hey, I think you’re already killin’ it!”
You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Itto’s standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.
“Also, flirting’s totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.”
You clutch your chest. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Since the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured I’d stay for the ending.”
You groan. He’s still grinning.
“But hey,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, “you don’t gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, y’know, you could flirt if that’s easier.”
You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing he’d probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, “...I liked your hair today.”
He lights up like the sun. “See? You’re killin’ it!”
Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.
kaeya
You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knights’ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.
“Genius. Absolutely genius. ‘Nice weather, Kaeya.’ That’s what I went with. Might as well have added, ‘Hi, I’ve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?’”
A breath of laughter—not your own—cuts through the silence.
“I’d be open to both,” a familiar voice replies.
You freeze.
He’s there, lounging against the window alcove like he’s been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.
Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. “Next time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until I’ve left the building. Unless,” he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, “you were hoping I’d hear it.”
You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.
“I was just thinking out loud,” you manage.
“So I gathered. And for the record”—he passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeve—“I find it flattering.”
You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.
At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.
“If the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.”
And then he’s gone.
A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. “You, uh…look like you saw a ghost.”
You exhale, voice thin. “Worse.”
baizhu
You’re by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. It’s been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.
“If I faint in front of him again, I’m just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.”
“Hmm. I’ll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?”
You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didn’t just obliterate your self-esteem.
“It’s a surprisingly common condition,” he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Often triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.”
Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. “Lovesick. Very contagious,” she stage-whispers.
You bury your face in your hands.
Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. “I could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutual—and, strangely, quite welcome.”
dainsleif
You think you’re alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: “I bet he doesn’t even remember my name. I’m probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.”
His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. “You are not a footnote.”
You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesn’t speak gently, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.
“Names are more than words,” he says. “They are memory. History. Presence.”
He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.
“I remember your name,” he continues. “Not only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you weren’t sure I’d hear it, or hold it.”
You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.
“Don’t assume I forget the things that matter,” he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heart—louder now, and somehow less alone.
tighnari
You’re elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.
“Okay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, ‘Wow, your ears are so expressive today,’ like some feral maniac.” You groan and press your forehead to your palm. “He probably thinks I’m studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?”
“To be fair,” a dry voice answers behind you, “most people don’t notice ear movement unless they’re watching very closely.”
You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.
“You were there…the whole time,” you croak.
“Roughly since the ‘feral maniac’ part,” he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. “You were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.”
You cover your face. “I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t,” he says gently, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “I didn’t mind the compliment. It was…oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.”
He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.
“Next time,” he adds, not looking up, “less spiraling, more speaking.”
His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.
And then he mutters to himself, “They’re only expressive when you’re around, anyway.”
You pretend not to hear. For now.
thoma
You’re alone in the kitchen—or so you believe—flipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. “Okay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!”
“Crispy like my smile, huh?”
You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.
“I’m flattered,” he says, stepping closer. “But now I’ve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?”
“I—I meant the gyoza, not your— Wait, no, I meant both—I mean—”
The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan can’t take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.
“No, the gyozas!”
Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.
“You know,” he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, “you didn’t have to set them on fire just to impress me.”
“I didn’t—!”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Means I get to help.” He tosses you a wink. “Teamwork, right?”
Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on “optimal gyoza symmetry.”
Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Still not sure what a crispy smile is, but if we’re talking about yours…I think I get it now.”
heizou
You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.
“No, Heizou, I don’t need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very much—”
A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.
“AAHH—” you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.
Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. “Whoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I should’ve brought a warrant first.”
You freeze, mortified. He’s already dusting off his sleeves like it’s just another day at the precinct.
“Really now, that’s the welcome I get?” he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.
“You snuck up on me mid-spiral,” you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. “That’s reckless behavior, even for you.”
He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.”
Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like he’s just cracked another case.
“You know,” he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, “talking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, say…a face and a name?”
You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re insufferable.”
He tilts his head. “And yet, I’m the one you keep muttering about.”
You try to come up with a retort. You fail.
“Don’t worry,” he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, “your secrets are safe with me.”
“You are the secret,” you call after him.
“And still,” he says without looking back, “you can’t seem to stop confessing to it.”
bennett
“Okay, just be normal. If I trip, I’ll just play dead. He won’t even notice. He’s used to disasters,” you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurers’ Guild.
“Wait, was that about me?”
You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.
Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.
“No—I mean—kind of?” you stammer.
He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. “I mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, but…hey, you’re not gonna trip.”
He pauses, then adds quickly, “But if you do, I’ll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, I’ve got decent reflexes! Usually!”
He’s turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.
“Not that you’ll fall, or need catching! It’s just—If you did fall, hypothetically, I’d be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.”
You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.
“So,” you say, grinning, “wanna grab lunch before something does explode?”
“Yes! Wait, are you asking me out?”
You hesitate. “…Would it make you trip if I said yes?”
“Most likely.”
“Then, I’ll give you ‘probably’ as my answer.”
“Perfect.”
kaveh
He hears your muffled voice through the wall.
“If I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, I’m going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.”
A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.
“Well,” he says, in full dramatic cadence, “had I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I would’ve brewed peppermint for the nerves.”
You groan and throw a pillow at him.
“Ah! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So you’ve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.”
You peek between your fingers. “Kaveh, please go.”
He places the tea tray down very deliberately. “I’ll leave,” he says, moving toward the door, “but only after I point out that I’m flattered, deeply and profoundly.”
He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.
“By the way,” he adds, not quite looking at you, “it’s mutual. The whole…emotional-overload-in-each-other’s-presence thing.”
And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.
zhongli
You’re standing outside Wánmín Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.
“You can’t just stare at him every time he talks. He’s not poetry. He’s a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.”
You pause, frowning at the phrase.
“Tea and regret?”
You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.
After a moment’s pause, a faint smile graces his lips. “I believe that’s a new metaphor.”
Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.
“You may continue your soliloquy. I find it…endearing.”
You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.
Sweet! Funny! Endearing! Some of them deserve to have a flying projectile to hit their stupid pretty faces 😆

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Why are you so obsessed with me?!
Reader x Platonic!Yan!Bats
(A/n: Part three! I'm so happy you guys like the first two parts! As always, I live for your feedback. Also, the reader's female in this one, but if you'd prefer for me to keep it gender neutral, let me know, I'll go back and revise.
Let your brainworms feed mine, I beg. )
Why's your family trying to connect so hard with you after so many years of neglect? Well . . . I guess its not all that bad- why are they staring so hard???
(pt.1, pt.2, pt.3)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rest of breakfast was a blessedly silent affair. Probably for the best, since every time either you or Bruce tried say anything your voice would crack, or he'd drop his fork and bonk his head underneath the table trying to grab it, or that blasted broken light would flicker overhead the second someone opened their mouth.
Despite it all, and there really was so much going on at the same time, Bruce's eyes never left your form, tucked away into the shadows of the corner booth at the patisserie he'd taken you to at 7:45 in the morning.
Also: while we’re doing checkpoints, make sure you’re on WiFi and not data
And unclench your jaw
If you need to use the bathroom you have to do that now
Please get that drink of water and remember your meds
If you can’t remember the last time you showered/brushed your teeth here’s your sign to try and do those today
Set an alarm for tomorrow if you need to!
don’t forget the laundry in your drier
This was very helpful, I took my meds and had a shower.
If you haven’t yet slain thine enemies, take a quick break and do that
It turns out that actually standing by "men and women are not inherently very different" is a reliable way to bother absolutely everyone. Left or right, cis or trans, feminist or misogynist, all cling to the binary for dear life.
From the replies on this post:
finally the season. to post this image

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The most terrifying part of having memory issues is when you can feel something from 5 seconds ago be thrown out the window and there's an empty hole where it once was. You remember that you forgot something.
you don't "hate kids," you hate being forced into a caretaking role.
you don't "hate kids," you hate censorship passed off as family values.
you don't "hate kids," you hate the constrictiveness of the nuclear family.
you don't "hate kids," you're just not used to occupying fully age diverse spaces so you're not used to the noise or the many different kinds of needs.
you don't "hate kids," most public spaces just aren't built for kids, and so the few kids you see are always uncomfortable and distressed.
you don't "hate kids," you hate the intense social rules assigned to kids and anyone who interacts with kids.
You don't "hate kids," you hate how society reproduces its most restrictive elements and how kids are powerless to resist it.
fuck all the tar pits in the notes for real 😔 stay miserable you ghouls