#(or maybe even authorship)

[sanguinarysanguinity]

First Lines Game

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most  recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

Thank you for thinking of me, @educatedinyellow!

Skipping the ficlet collections, my last ten works begin:

1. The secret panel was secret only to human eyes; a wolf would sniff it out in a moment. (Brother of Wolves, Come Ye Hither, The Flight of the Heron, Keith/Ewen, psychic wolves.)

2. "What. Is that," Miles flatly asked, coming to a stop just inside the door of Ivan Vorpatril's lavish bachelor apartment. (Report on an Incident Concerning a Botanical Specimen from Eta Ceta IV, Vorkosigan Saga, Miles/Ivan, sex pollen.)

3. Bush returned to Chichester happier than he left, warmed by a memory that not even pelting rain in an open waggon could extinguish. (An Ember Against Winter's Cold, Hornblower novels, Bush/Hornblower, developing relationship.)

4. "No, you just sit right there. I'm cooking tonight.” (If Food be the Food of Love, Leverage: Redemption, Harry/Eliot, drabble.)

5. "You can't hide from Styles forever, you know," Horatio said, and had the pleasure of hearing William, turned out in purser's slops like one of the hands, growl in disapprobation. (Robe of Misrule, Hornblower TV, Bush/Hornblower, crossdressing, pwp.)

6. Laurent would allow no other to claim the honour of bandaging the wounded arm. (Seaweed and Apple Blossoms, The Wounded Name, Laurent/Aymar/Avoye.)

7. The full moon brought not only Brown in his skiff with the month's supplies, but a second man — Hornblower's first visitor since the beginning of his self-imposed exile. (Hornblower’s Lost Honour, Hornblower novels, Bush/Hornblower, West Indies AU.)

8. "By God," Captain Bush exclaimed. "Lord Hornblower marooned himself? On purpose?" (With Friends Possessed, Hornblower novels, Bush & Brown, prequel to Lost Honour.)

9. Major Windham’s grave is well. (A Peaceful and a Beautiful Spot, The Flight of the Heron, Ewen & Francis, post-canon.)

10. "Your landlady is mean with the blankets," William observed. (With Surprising Quickness, Hornblower TV, Bush/Hornblower, only [enough blankets for] one bed, pwp.)

On the whole, I put a strong emphasis on orienting the reader in the first line. If it’s an AU, establishing the branch-point and what will be a significant element of the branching; for non-AUs, establishing an element that’s going to be key in the coming story. A few of these opening lines don’t do that as well as I would like, but in general, I believe in giving my reader a nice strong lead, so even if they’re not dead-sure right away about what I’m doing, we can still get through the opening paragraphs together without too much uncertainty or stumbling.

Tagging: @tgarnsl, @cedarboots, @thehappyreturn, @chiropteracupola, @acrossthewavesoftime, and anyone else who would like to play!

[the-hwaelweg]

Working in publishing, my inbox is basically just:

Article on the Horrors of AI

Article on How AI Can Help Your Business

Article on How AI Has Peaked

Article on How AI Is Here to Stay Forever

Article on How AI Is a Silicon Valley Scam That Doesn't Live Up to the Promise and In Fact Can't Because They've Literally Run Out of Written Words to Train LLMs On

[httpsserene]

𝐬𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭 | 𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐜𝐡. 𝟐 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 '𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

poly! carlando x reader | read chapter one here. | join taglist

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ this is the entire intro to the second chapter. in the outline, it's called "the first strike." any predictions? well, you're in for a ride, let me tell you that. full chapter two coming soon. tysm for being patient and understanding x

On this Monday in May, you’re awake before the sun, watching it rise over Madrid as you drive to Golf La Moraleja. This summer begins the same as those before it, with your coworkers complaining about being required to attend a meeting—filled with the same information you’ve all heard every year since you first started—and, holding it so early in the morning. 

Your eyes ache from lack of sleep but it doesn’t hinder you from complaining all the same; returning employees should be allowed to skip the first meeting of the season as it’s more of an orientation for the new hires. Marco, your boss, disagrees. He says that senior employees need to be present to set a good example of the standards and expectations for the rookies. 

You’re unsure if a group of seven, sleep-deprived, twenty-something-year-old, beverage cart drivers could be described as a “good example.” At least there’s a breakfast spread. The seven of you can be good examples of how to take advantage of a free meal.

As Marco drones on about procedures and policies, your mind drifts to the late-night you had. 

Your eyes burn with exhaustion because you missed out on a few hours of sleep to talk with your boyfriends. You listened as Lando ranted about how disappointing his car performed this weekend and Carlos still seemed surprised that he managed to hold onto fifth place with a time penalty. Neither of the boys wanted to sweat out more of their body weight in water in a packed, humid, Miami club after a particularly demanding race, but you convinced them to at least have a drink or two with Fernando Alonso to celebrate his podium finish.

You may not have the most in-depth Formula One knowledge, but you know that dragging that Aston Martin onto the podium is an astounding feat. Carlos admires the man greatly, even if he pretends to be salty about being the second-favorite Spanish F1 driver. Lando respects Alonso largely as well, he talks kindly about the time he spent shadowing him at McLaren.

You styled their outfits for the night with sleepy eyes. Carlos endlessly showered you with compliments every time he glanced at you through the screen of his laptop. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered at every endearment; you believed in the hermosa’s and linda’s with each repetition, even as your phone mirrored the image of you: makeup-free, bonnet, and pimple patch-riddled.

Lando (after Carlos kicked him out of the bathroom for being unable to control his wandering hands) splayed across the hotel bed on his stomach, the love ? —the longing he has for you is visible through the pixels. His feet kicked back and forth behind him mindlessly as he attentively listened to you ramble about the authorship credit you received in a textbook for research you did last year.

You sighed deeply. If only the world knew how these two men ended the call by blowing kisses through the screen, whining about having to wait another couple of months until they get to see you in person. 

If the world knew, maybe that woman in the club wouldn’t have tried (and failed) to make a move on your boys.

When your alarm sounded for today’s early morning meeting, you awoke to the sight of your phone being spammed with Twitter links and texts with your name in all caps.

The hashtag Carlando is trending on Twitter because of an anonymous submission to a gossip account that details Lando and Carlos “getting cozy” with a woman in a club. Thankfully, the anonymous submission was proven false—with photo evidence, at that. 

The first photo caused a sense of dread to build within you. It shows a blond woman standing next to them at the bar, her beady eyes predatory as she stares up at Carlos with a disgusting smirk and her hand is offensively outstretched, tugging at the collar of his polo. Lando, who’s standing next to the Spaniard, looks at her with an expression of shock and disbelief, while Carlos only offers her his trademarked confused stare.

The second photo transformed that sense of dread into a feeling of relief, pity, amusement, and vicarious embarrassment. 

The image captured the woman dropping her hand away with an annoyed frown and a sharp glare thrown at Lando, whose disposition has switched from surprised to unimpressed, illustrated by his well-known disgruntled nose scrunch. Carlos isn’t looking at the woman anymore, he’s taken a step backward and is staring at Lando. His hand is clasped on the younger man’s shoulder and he’s seemingly trying to pull him away from the woman.

You wish there were more photos. 

The online consensus is that the woman in the photo needs to change her entire identity if she wishes to have another peaceful day on Earth. The F1-adjacent internet is clowning this poor girl about her seduction attempt on Carlos going so terribly that Lando had to put a stop to it. There’s a smaller portion of people saying that Lando couldn’t handle the sight of somebody trying to flirt with Carlos right in front of him—they’re closer to being correct than they know.

Nevertheless, you kind of feel sad for the woman: waking up after a night out with a nasty hangover only to find out you’re being lambasted on social media because there’s photo evidence of you being rejected after a terrible attempt at flirting. You refuse to imagine it; seeing her experience is enough for you. 

While it’s early morning in Spain, it’s midnight in Florida. The two men are asleep and unaware of their current trending status. Hopefully, that will last until you’ve returned home from this staff meeting and taken a long nap. But, damn, you’re dying to know exactly what Lando said that had her looking so insulted. 

You jolt to attention at a tap on your shoulder.

“Muchacha, the meeting is finished,” Isa’s eyes match your exhaustion, “Were you even paying attention?”

“Does it matter if I was?” You ask, heaving yourself out of your seat and waiting for your friend to do the same. “We’ve had the handbook read to us for the last five years. Zoning out during this orientation doesn’t matter to me.”

“¿Perdóname?”

You turn around to see one of the new hires addressing you. The first thing you notice is that he’s tall, like an American basketball player, type of tall. The second thing you notice is that he can’t be any older than twenty; unless he’s lucky enough to be so babyfaced. He’s tall and lanky, sporting sharp cheekbones, a nose that reminds you of Carlos, a pair of eyes similar to Lando’s, and an artfully styled mess of dirty blonde curls atop his head. Objectively speaking, he’d make a hell of a supermodel.

“I’m Alejandro, or Alé. I wanted to introduce myself before I started training with you tomorrow,” he states kindly, with a broad smile.

Zoning out during this orientation suddenly mattered very much. Last summer—sometime in June, before Carlos and Lando reappeared—you offered to train an employee if Marco needed the extra help. You must have missed the part of the meeting when he assigned Alejandro to you.

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” you introduce yourself to the kid kindly, apologizing mindlessly, “I am very tired and I was not paying attention—don’t tell Marco that. I’m supposed to be setting a good example for the new kids.”

He laughs, “I think you are a great example of reminding everyone to sleep for at least eight hours every night.”

“I can’t disagree with that, can I?” You smile politely, “Well, I promise I’ll be a better role model when training officially starts. You’re stuck with me for a month, right?”

“I would not say I am ‘stuck’ with you—that would be mean,” Alejandro snorts lightly, “But, yes. I will be riding along with you for a month. Marco says that I’m lucky to be paired with you.”

“Did he?”

“Sí. He said you’re one of his best cart servers and that you bring in the most tips.”

Isa snorts behind you. Without needing to look, you reach behind to smack her on the back of the head. He doesn’t need to know that your secret relationship with two Formula One drivers is responsible for the extra money you made last year.

“I’m a young woman working on a golf course. Which, is why I make plenty of tips.”

Alejandro hums, raising a brow, “Really?”

“There’s more than a few sleazy men that come out here willing to throw cash at anyone who wears a smile, skirt, and pigtails.”

“Ah, well,” he shrugs jokingly, his picture-perfect smile relaxing into something natural, “I do not have enough hair for pigtails and could not pull off a skirt. I do think I can manage a smile.”

Squinting, you survey his form, “Don’t worry; there are men out there who prefer the sight of boys in tight shirts and short shorts instead of girls in short skirts. Ask Ryan or Rob. They make more money than me some days!”

“Is this your fancy plan to get me into tighter clothes?” Oh. He’s misunderstood you.

“Wow,” you deadpan, “You caught me. No, niño, I’m only ‘training’ you on how to make your wallet very happy. If you are uncomfortable with showing a little thigh, that’s okay.”

“I’m a model,” He scoffs with a smirk (you called it, him being a model), “of course, I do not mind showing more skin; however it looks like you want to see me in less clothing, as well.”

Your mouth drops open at the insinuation. Behind you, Isa full-body laughs herself to tears. The rest of your cart team—Lucas, Rob, Ryan, Sofia, and Steph—turns to look at Isa, wanting to know what she finds so funny. The entire clubhouse will know that the new kid tried to flirt with you by the end of the day. 

You shake your head fervently, “Woah, uh, no. ¡Dios mío! I hope I never see what’s under your clothes, full offense. I’m happily in a relationship! Also, not that it matters to me since I’m not interested in you, but—you are way too young for me, niño. It would be best to respect that and forget this part of the conversation ever happened, or it will be an awkward month of training.”

He immediately loses the smirk, stepping backward and raising his hands placatingly, apologetic, “¡Lo siento! I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I assumed you were—well, it does not matter, I assumed you meant more, and that is my fault. Pero, I am not a kid–I am nineteen.”

You and the rest of the eavesdropping beverage cart crew all gasp, abhorred at just how young he is. Does this mean you are all too old to be riding around serving drinks on a golf course?

“Nineteen?! What year were you born in? Never mind, don’t tell me—it’ll make me depressed. Look, niño, you’re forgiven—I could see how telling someone to show off their…assets, could be seen as flirting. So, I’m sorry, too. This is incredibly awkward, let’s never speak of this again?”

“Yes, I agree,” he nods vigorously, “But—Do you have to call me ‘niño?’”

“It fits, though? You are the youngest cart driver we have. Speaking of cart drivers—what’s your phone number? Lucas has to add you to the work chat.”

Your coworkers introduce themselves to Alejandro without hesitation. Conversation flows seamlessly as you all begin to catch up on what’s occurred in your lives since last summer. Rob’s sister-in-law exposed his older brother’s affair over Christmas Dinner, Sofia’s younger sister is pregnant with twins, and Lucas graduated with a degree in journalism. Midway through Ryan’s explanation of how his car was stolen three times in two months, the last two new hires shyly join your discussion. Laura and Giulia are training with Steph and Ryan, respectively. You and the other senior drivers begin to whine about old age when they reveal that they're nineteen, like Alejandro.

Isa catches a ride home with you and she asks if you're going to tell Carlos and Lando about how your trainee tried to make a move on you. You won’t tell them because there’s no reason to. Alejandro apologized and backed off—that’s all that matters to you. Why tell your boyfriends that the kid you’re going to be training tried to flirt with you? It won’t do anything more than make them jealous, probably, and that’s unnecessary.

general taglist (ask to join):

@saintslewis/@cherry2stems/@lorarri/@mindless-rock/@biancathecool

@barnestatic/@darleneslane/@lovingaphroditesworld/@smoothopz/@vetteltea

@tallrock35/@spideybv28/@loomiscorpse/@hiireadstuff/@namgification

@gg-trini/@multi-fandom-rando/@landoslutmeout/@love-simon/@iloveyou3000morgan/

@rexit-mo/@oscahpastry/@sweatrevenge5436-blog/@bokutos-babyowl/@oliviah-25

@evermoreandroyalblue/@riveristhebest1/@xylinasdiary/@ashiekins/@flowergirl1134

@hearts4robs/@c-losur3/@bloodyymaryyy/@awritingtree/@lammys-thinking

@nikfigueiredo/@bbreezyxoxo/@catreadsthings/@princessminjikwon/@il0vereadingstuff

@nissaimmortal/

current SOS taglist (ask or leave a reply if you would like to be added):

@dhanihamidi/@alilcloudy/@tremendousstarlighttragedy/@justanothersuckerforanime-blog/@shepgurl

@sainzluvrr/@arialikestea/@urfavnoirette/@swechchhaj/@delululeclerc

@formula1-motogpfan/@f1orza/@daniskywalkersolo/@uselessginger0/@mickslover

@isaidlandowecanbeworldchampion/@tremendousstarlighttragedy/@annispamz/@certifiedlesbianbaddie/@sofs16

@tomiwastilinskii/@sakuxxi/@mitruscity/@pal3rmo/@lando-505

@hahahjej/@eugene-emt-roe/@nissaimmortal/@ferrariregina/@meglouise00

@neferaskingdom/@chaoticversion/@minahoeshi/@dreadity

© httpsserene - do not repost.

[no-where-new-hero]

omg I need your thoughts on the terminally o line author culture bc ngl it makes my eye TWITCH, there are authors I deliberately avoid even tho I've heard their stuff is good bc they're like that 🙈

HHHHH oh good lord, okay, from how I see it, there are two angles on this, both aggravating and sad: the official decree one and the spontaneous ecosystem one.

The officious one is that the nature of publishing nowadays demands an author have an online presence. You need Twitter/X. You need to let every potential reader know your book is coming out. You need engagement through reviews and pre-orders incentives (if you buy now you’ll get a special keychain!!) and word of mouth assurances from your peers that yes your book is as cool as you say it is. You need a newsletter with links (more buying! more voting on lists that are simply popularity contests!) and promises you’re still working on the next thing, don’t forget about me in the morass of everyone else doing the same thing. You need an Instagram and TikTok now to post pretty pictures and videos because one or two authors made it big off this kind of promotion and now everyone thinks it’s the ticket to the bestseller list (sadly, it seems to be working). You need an OnlyFans (a joke but I do recall a twt spat that was a joke/not joke about how rupi kaur will always be more beautiful than her critics and people who took issue with the conflation of beauty with talent). At the end of all this, you’re basically an influencer, a content creator creating content for the content you should be focusing on creating, the finished novel. And the novel itself seems to be disappearing behind the masks used to promote it (fanfic-style tropes, moodboards, playlists, memes) until I now no longer trust the book that I’ll pick up to have any resemblance to the enticements that brought me here. I’ve seen an author or two complain about the stress all this self-promotion generates, but it’s become such an entrenched part of the industry, I think people just accept it. And thus spend too much time online hoping that if they tweet just a little more, produce just one more reel, maybe that’ll be the difference between a sale and no sale.

The other side of this, distinct but obviously connected, is the ecosystem created by this panic of being perpetually visible coupled with the fact that so many of the new authors came of age during the rise of internet fandom culture. That opinionated community mindset that blurs the line between anonymity and friendship is the lens they bring to their own work. I mean, it makes sense I suppose—if you love yelling about characters and words, why wouldn’t you do that once you start to produce your own? This really came home to me hearing about that reviewbombgate “scandal” and how people involved were in reylo circles and that was used to provide receipts. You’re interacting with your readers and peers about your intimate work but they are also all strangers. They will not always give you the benefit of the doubt, and now—as opposed to the past when maybe the worst that could happen was a handful of bad reviews in newspapers—you will either be tagged in hate reviews, sub-tweeted, explicitly called out, demanded to atone for your sins. It’s no longer the morality of consumption but the morality of production. Of course, the easy answer is just log-off, touch some grass. But that can work only when you and everyone else are separated by anonymous accounts or when you have no platform to maintain. As an author trying to make your livelihood from this, suddenly it’s do or die. We’re in a strange moment of authorship bringing the Internet’s echo-chamber and claustrophobic into the real world (this is a lie: publishing now is no longer the real world. But it looks like it) and thus you can kind of no longer escape things.

Will the average reader who isn’t aware of all these machinations care about reviewbombgate? Would a reader browsing at Target think about the controversies around Lightlark? Very likely not. But the impression I’m getting more and more is that the average reader isn’t the one buying all the books. Or shall we say—a bestseller’s status relies on bookstore stock. Bookstore stock is only huge when they know a book will be a good investment. They’ll only know a book is a good investment if it and its author has street cred based on booktokkers, bookstagram, bloggers and reviewers (have you noticed how many books out these last maybe 1-3 years have these kinds of accounts thanked in the acknowledgments? Yeah), and THESE are also chronically online people who will Know. And decide the cast of fate.

Honestly, @batrachised, I see why you avoid these kinds of writers, though I wonder how long it’ll be before the disease becomes epidemic.

[mariamariquinha]

I saw a post on Instagram, well before the Superbowl, that involved Beyoncé and Kendrick Lamar's positions in the music industry. Furthermore, it was said that their activism was biased, since they profited a lot from these statements (or manifestos).

I'm a big fan of Beyoncé; even though I'm not 100% into the world of rap, Kendrick is one of my favourites. Maybe what I reflect here comes a little from an opinion built based on my personal taste, but I understand that beyond whether we like their music or not, they have an impact, and that's what I wanted to say.

Two things happened in these two weeks: Beyoncé won the first AOTY of her career with Cowboy Carter and Kendrick Lamar performed at the Superbowl. Let's start with Beyoncé.

Beyoncé has had COUNTLESS valid AOTY albums (ESPECIALLY Lemonade, sorry Adele), and she is the BIGGEST Grammy WINNER IN HISTORY. Like it or hate it, she is THE INDUSTRY. She made it. And she deserves it.

I saw people saying that she didn't deserve it because Billie Eilish deserved more. This always happens, but when people justify this discontent, you hear things like 'lyricism' or 'impact on the charts', which are valid arguments, but when we're talking about Album of the Year, shouldn't we also think about the social impact that this work has? Guys, I loved Billie's album, but it wasn't AOTY material with Cowboy Carter on the way.

CMAs

In 2016, in the midst of promoting Lemonade, she performed with the Dixies at the CMAs. Do you know what happened? In addition to her being boycotted (with her performance excluded from the awards platforms), SEVERAL country artists were visibly uncomfortable with her presence there, singing an AUTHORAL country song, with the, so to speak, 'personas non gratas' of the country industry.

This influenced the acts she is currently doing. Beyoncé, with all the influence she has, could come with the speech of white people who deny the existence of racism or opine on how black people should react to racism with indifference, but she decided to show how people of color have been carrying entertainment and art on their shoulders, and how the boycott at the CMAs only reinforced that 'veiled' r*cist artists were bothered by people of color who claim authorship of their own culture; then, they are a threat.

She made a country album. In references, Linda Martell, Chuck Berry, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Sister Rosetta Tharpe and, among other people, black country artists who are new to the scene. Do you know the social impact of this? Do you understand that, no matter how many years pass, Beyoncé will also be remembered for using her influence to raise an issue that she might otherwise have been indifferent about (because she has money, success and people love her), and winning a Grammy for a mostly white and biased genre?

I think my point is clear. I love Billie and I think she's a great artist, but in the current context, in the middle of 2025, there was someone putting uncomfortable things in the light, and that person was Beyoncé.

Now, let's go over Kendrick.

2024 was a year in which he was on the top, among other things, for his beef with Drake. Look, I'm not even going to get into the merits of the diss, I never liked Drake (Brazilians in particular have some problems with him) and I've always really admired Kendrick as an artist, so I don't especially want to talk about how he just massacred Drake's reputation and career: everyone knows that.

Again, he could focus the entire intention of that Superbowl on the fight, and gain more prominence beyond the Grammys he won in relation to it. He did that too. Heavens, it was divine. But he (and his team) looked at the guest list in the VIP area, and focused on the type of person on one of the teams competing in that championship (I don't know a thing about that sport, but imagine my lack of surprise when I discovered the character of certain… names from that institution), and said "we should address that".

Some of the biggest, most talented and successful black artists in the US was there. With what justification, full of discrimination, can people on the other side turn around and say that Kendrick is irrelevant? Or that Samuel L. Jackson isn't important? Or that, fuck, Serena Williams isn't just badass? Of course her presence at the performance had more to do with Drake, but she was there, and she embraced the message.

Kendrick looked at the face of the country, at the largest audience in America, and said: why don't you all go fuck yourselves while I rub it in your face that we made this happen? I don't use middle ground when it comes to this, and we know that fire is met with fire.

What do I mean by all this?

Distractions from our culture are welcome and help us keep going, but this is a time of revolution, and this time the right people have the right platforms. At a time of uncertainty, explicit discrimination and the rebirth of a very specific movement, having powerful voices that enhance the people's speeches is more than a nod to the struggles of the lower classes, but a poke at the higher classes.

It's about shouting out what's wrong. It's about saying 'you're an idiot who thinks you're going to win'. It's about saying that you don't hit someone thinking that they won't hit you back. It's about reinforcing how dumb, insignificant and politically limited they are, who rely on conspiracy theories versus a community that has facts and history on its side.

But more than that, we are clearly reinforced that, regardless of anything, they cannot win.

And if you still have any doubts:

[larena]

This is maybe a hot take, but I really wish big budget RPGs would stop trying to make detailed sex scenes a thing. Not for any prudish "if I see a penis or vagina I will simply die" but just like... it's a roleplaying game. I want to roleplay.

I'm all for there being some things about a main character that you can't change because they simply have to be true for the plot to function, and y'know, Commander Shepard is always going to be within a particular range of characterization, you can't go *too* off-book. But I feel like how my character has sex, or doesn't, should be up to me if I *do* otherwise have a particular degree of authorship over them. Instead of just having to watch some overly expensive mocap that makes those decisions for me. And I do worry that focusing so much on making these scenes is why we have such a dearth of asexual options in RPG romance as well. We can't let the player say *no*! Don't they want to see our cutscene?? And It's weird because for all of BG3's vaunted dick options, and "spicy" sex scenes and bear fucking, the sex scene in that game that I feel is handled *best* are all the variations on the scene with the drow sex workers in act 3. You have a *lot* of options to choose from for how you want that encounter to go, they give you opportunities to express certain proclivities your character might or might not have, you can even outright make this encounter with a sex worker nonsexual if you really want, because like, yeah that is an option, and it's all under a completely black screen with only voiceover from your partner(s) and dialogue options. And it isn't even one of the game's *actual* romance options. Why can't I have that all the time, why isn't every romance given that level of freedom instead of some overproduced overhyped cutscene?

[callmearcturus]

redoing this ask because fuck that poll lmaoooo i have a persona question, IMO persona's romance system can sometimes fail when its clear the devs wanted one character to be the "canon" love interest for the overall story, but added in side romances to please fans (p2 with [spoiler redacted], p3 with aigis, and p4 with rise based on how much time is focused on their dynamic and bond) but i feel like P5 *intended* for Makoto to be the go-to romance option (especially with how she was handled in the anime) but Royal switched it to Akechi. Do you think that Persona should just stick with one romance option, have a small number of options that they develop, or have it be "every npc is an option" type deal. personally i think it depends on the game? but i feel as if P5 would have benefited from only having 5 romance options (Haru, Makoto, Akechi, Hifumi, and maybe Yusuke?)

Hmmmmm.

It's hard to consider this without also thinking about the other dating sim RPGs, i.e. Bioware. What's interesting there is that some of the romances felt intended (Liara in Mass Effect especially) but there were multiple really good options.

What I find interesting is how Persona and Bioware games handle the shared authorship of the characters. There's an entire Game Maker's Toolkit video about how the narrative designers had to design on a tightrope, keeping the cinematic nature of the story rolling but also making the player feel like they had a handle on the direction (even when the latter was mostly imagined).

Okay, here's two weird thoughts:

The wide array of Persona romances are pretty shallow and would benefit from a shift to much fewer romances that are far more fleshed out.

Akechi is so shocking and compelling because the comparative shallowness of the other romances, because he is a subversion of them.

To me, what makes Akechi the far-and-away best 'romance' of Persona 5 Royal is that he's not a romance 'option.' The player has very little agency over how Joker feels about Akechi. If you hit a couple of flags, then Joker is fucked up and in love with Akechi. That's just it. Maruki gives everyone what they want, and what Joker wants is Akechi.

The fact that Joker is a partially player-directed character that autonomously decides to be in love with Akechi is the secret sauce, imo. Ergo, if you improve the romances overall, you lose some of the specialness inherent in Akechi.

I had a LOT of problems with P5R's writing and especially its structure. I would remove Makoto entirely but for pacing issues, not for the strength of her writing. I'd cut a lot of cruft from the game.

I don't know if I would take away the gutpunch of Akechi though. Not for P5R. For other Persona games, 100% yes, I would. Narrow the scope of romances, maybe even stick just to party members so its easier to build a coherent, meaningful narrative with the love interest.

i hope some of that makes sense, i'm a bit sick and meandering today

[lthienofdorthonion]

The Alchemy Between Us: Draco and Hermione’s Tale

Summary:

Ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger is a shadow of her former self. With Harry gone and her failed relationship with Ron behind her, she throws herself into her work at the Ministry of Magic, avoiding the lingering emptiness that threatens to consume her. One cold winter night, seeking a reprieve from her relentless routine, she stumbles into a quiet pub—and into the unexpected presence of Draco Malfoy. It's been over five years since their paths last crossed, and the man she meets now is nothing like the boy she once knew. As their lives intertwine in ways neither anticipated, old wounds, unspoken truths, and unexpected feelings begin to surface. In the wake of war and loss, can two former enemies find solace—and maybe even love—in each other?

In response to a prompt by iwasbotwp in the SlytherinHouseStories collection. (Archive of Our Own/AO3)

Prompt:

A hug from a tall man who smells good and has tattoos would make me feel better right now.

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Author Notes:

This story is born thanks to the best group of Slytherin housemates I've ever met. We share something in common: the beauty of writing. Everyday, we share about our lives and then encourage each other to write. Having difficulty finding things in my life that make me smile, this is truly a blessing. I feel fortunate. And today 1/10/2025 they encouraged us to write a short story.

The pairing could be random but I knew it had to be Dramione.

Inspired on "Something in the rain (2018)" both soundtrack and TV series, "The Beauty inside (2015)", "Pride and Prejudice (2005)", "The Notebook (2004)", the beautiful music of Carla Bruni and a generous dose of corny love stories—because, well, I’m hopelessly corny.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.

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The Alchemy Between Us: Draco and Hermione’s Tale

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚              I              ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

“Happiness only real when shared.” ― Christopher McCandless

Ten years had passed since the war that shattered and remade the wizarding world. The scars of those turbulent times lingered, etched into both the magical and the mundane. For many, life was measured in "before" and "after" the Battle of Hogwarts. It was a new era, shaped by sacrifice and loss but also by resilience.

Voldemort had fallen, but not without taking Harry Potter with him. Their final duel was as devastating as it was decisive, and Harry’s death had left an unfillable void. The Boy Who Lived became the Man Who Sacrificed Everything, immortalized in statues, stories, and an annual day of remembrance. The world mourned him as a symbol of bravery, peace, and the ultimate cost of freedom.

Hermione Granger, now 27, had rebuilt her life through sheer determination. As the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, she was a force to be reckoned with—brilliant, relentless, and utterly devoted to her work. But behind the polished exterior lay a woman carrying the weight of what she had lost. Her bushy hair, now tamed into long, cascading curls, framed a face that bore the quiet strength of someone who had endured more than most could imagine. Hermione was beautiful in a way that came not from vanity but from the confidence and purpose that defined her. Yet, she was a workaholic, finding solace in diplomacy and treaties instead of in personal connections.

The loss of Harry had carved a deep wound into Hermione’s heart, one that time could not fully mend. He had been her constant—a brother in all but blood. Harry’s bravery and kindness had been the anchor that kept her steady during the darkest days of the war. Without him, the world seemed quieter, emptier. She missed the way he always knew what to say to make her feel understood. His absence lingered in every corner of her life, like a quiet ache she carried like a shadow.

In the immediate aftermath of Harry’s death, the brunette had thrown herself into her work. Grief had a way of making the familiar unbearable, and the places they used to frequent felt haunted by his memory. She rarely allowed herself to cry, fearing that if she started, she might never stop. Instead, she channeled her emotions into action, pouring her energy into rebuilding the wizarding world he had sacrificed everything to save. Harry had always believed in her, and she worked tirelessly to honor that belief, even when it left her drained and isolated.

Her love life was a testament to her struggles. In the aftermath of the war, she had tried to build something with Ron. What began as a refuge of shared grief and familiarity soon turned toxic and possessive on Ron’s end. Their fights were loud and frequent and it just became too much. After almost a year, Hermione made the painful decision to end it. Though they remained on amicable terms, Ron struggled with the shift from lovers to friends. He made genuine efforts to reconnect with Hermione, but his lingering feelings often bled through. He was flirty, occasionally asked her out under the guise of "just catching up," and seemed to hope that time would rekindle something between them. Hermione, however, kept firm boundaries, navigating their friendship with patience and clarity despite his persistence.

Even now, ten years later, Hermione found herself reflecting on Harry’s absence. There were moments—quiet evenings at home or during celebrations of his legacy—when she could almost hear his voice, offering words of encouragement or gently teasing her for overworking. The weight of his loss was a reminder that even peace came with a price, and she carried that burden as she tried to build a future worthy of his sacrifice.

Ginny Weasley’s grief had been a wound she could never ignore. Hermione remembered the days after the war when the redhead had retreated from the world, shrouded in the unbearable pain of losing Harry. Their relationship had been full of love and promise—a rare source of hope in the dark times they all endured. But Harry’s death had shattered that future, leaving her adrift.

Hermione had been there for her friend, though she often felt helpless in the face of Ginny’s sorrow. She knew what it meant to grieve for Harry; she carried her own loss like a quiet ache. But Ginny’s pain was different—sharper, more immediate. Hermione had done her best, providing a steady presence as her friend navigated the impossible path of healing.

When Theodore Nott entered her friend’s life, Hermione had been skeptical. The quiet Slytherin with a murky past seemed an unlikely match for the redhead’s fiery spirit. But over time, Hermione watched the way Theo treated her friend—with patience, understanding, and an unwavering respect that allowed her to find herself again. He didn’t see Ginny as a woman defined by her grief. He saw her, truly and completely, and that made all the difference.

Now, years later, Ginny and Theo’s love was one of the brightest parts of Hermione’s life. The redhead had transformed into someone stronger, freer, and full of life again, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel grateful for Theo’s role in that. Her best friend’s happiness was infectious, and the time they spent together had become a cherished escape from the rigors of her own life.

Hermione and Ginny met at least twice a week, whether for dinner, coffee, or long chats that often stretched late into the night. These moments were Hermione’s lifeline, pulling her out of the constant demands of her job and reminding her of what truly mattered. Ginny’s laughter had a way of filling whatever space they were in, and her mischievous wit could draw even the most reluctant smile from her.

Yet, there was a bittersweet undercurrent to her joy for Ginny and Theo. Watching them together, so at ease in their love, warmed her heart but also stirred something else she couldn’t quite ignore. Don’t get me wrong, Hermione was happy for her friend, truly, but seeing Ginny and Theo’s quiet intimacy, the way they shared glances and small touches, reminded her of what she didn’t have.

She buried herself in work, yes, but there were nights when the loneliness pressed heavily on her. Hermione longed for someone to come home to, someone to share her triumphs and frustrations with, someone whose arms she could fall into when the weight of the world became too much. There were times when she almost caved to Ron’s attempts to get back together. He was persistent, and the familiarity of him was tempting in those moments when the solitude felt overwhelming.

But each time, she stopped herself. Did she really want to go back there? The answer was an immediate no. She had ended things for a reason. She didn’t want to make decisions based on loneliness, to settle for something that wasn’t right simply because it was easier than being alone. Hermione wanted something real, something that moved her, something that made her feel alive.

And so, she waited, telling herself that if such a connection was meant to happen, it would. Until then, she carried on, finding solace in her work, her friendships, and the hope that one day, her own story of love and connection would unfold.

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Winter had arrived with an undeniable presence, casting the magical world in a blanket of pure white. It was December, and snow covered every rooftop, lamppost, and cobblestone street. Hogsmeade was picturesque, its shops adorned with enchanted fairy lights that blinked like stars. Even Diagon Alley was transformed, its bustling lanes dusted with snow that melted only slightly under the warmth of charmed lanterns. The air carried a crisp chill that turned every breath into visible puffs, and the streets hummed with the quiet joy of the season.

At the Ministry of Magic, however, the festive atmosphere did little to alleviate Hermione Granger’s mounting stress. She was in the thick of negotiations with the French Ministry, attempting to finalize an international trade agreement involving enchanted artifacts. The work required precision, diplomacy, and endless patience—all things Hermione typically excelled at. But her boss, Roderick Panswick, was making things unnecessarily difficult.

Panswick was the sort of man who thrived on asserting authority. He had a penchant for micromanaging, swooping into Hermione’s meticulously prepared plans with unnecessary changes and half-formed ideas that left her scrambling to keep the agreement from falling apart. The stress was wearing on her; even her usually pristine desk was cluttered with scrolls and half-empty teacups. By the time she left the office, her shoulders ached, her head throbbed, and she felt like she’d been wrung out like a dishrag.

Ginny had promised they would meet after work for a drink at the pub—a much-needed escape. Hermione had dressed for the occasion, feeling a rare flicker of excitement. The redhead had insisted they make a proper night of it, and together they’d chosen Hermione’s outfit the weekend before: a form-fitting burgundy dress with a modest slit at the side, paired with heeled boots and a stylish wool coat that hugged her figure. The dress was simple but undeniably flattering, a step outside the brunette’s usual workwear. She put on a matching red lipstick, also her friend’s gift. Ginny had even added her signature touch by teaching her how to enchant her curls to frame her face perfectly.

But just as the lioness finished getting ready, she received an owl from the redhead. The note was hurried, apologetic—Theo needed her help with something urgent, and she couldn’t make it. Hermione’s heart sank as she read it. She had been looking forward to the evening, to a chance to vent, laugh, and perhaps drown her stress in a few too many glasses of Firewhisky. Now, the prospect of going alone felt daunting, but the thought of staying home was worse.

The pub was buzzing with the low hum of conversation as Hermione stepped inside, brushing the drizzle from her hair. The warmth of the Silver Stag was a welcome reprieve from the damp chill of the December evening. Tucked away on a quiet street in Diagon Alley, the Silver Stag had a reputation as a cozy yet lively spot for those looking to escape the winter cold with a warm drink and good company.

She had planned for a quiet night—just one drink to unwind before heading home to the mountain of parchment awaiting her review. But the place was packed.

Hermione scanned the room, noting with mild irritation that every table was full. Her usual corner booth, a snug spot near the enchanted window that showed falling snow even on clear nights, was taken by a group of young witches laughing over Butterbeers. Even the bar was packed, the stools occupied by rowdy wizards animatedly discussing the latest Quidditch match.

With a sigh, she turned her attention back toward the entrance, thinking she might try another place, but then decided against it. The Silver Stag had been her comfort zone for years, and tonight, she needed comfort.

Instead, Hermione approached the bar, weaving through the bustling crowd until she reached the counter. The bartender, an older wizard named Benwick with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, looked up as she approached.

“Evening, Miss Granger,” he said, setting down a polished goblet with a smile. “What can I get you tonight?”

“Hi, Benwick,” Hermione said, returning his smile with a faint one of her own. “Honestly, I could use a Firewhisky—or two. But before that, is there anywhere I can sit? It’s absolutely packed tonight.”

Benwick poured a generous amount of Firewhisky into a glass and slid it toward her with a knowing grin.

“You’ve got that right. Winter nights always bring a crowd, and with the snow picking up outside, everyone’s huddling in for the evening.”

Hermione sighed, leaning her elbows against the counter. “I just need a quiet spot. Anywhere, really. It’s been one of those days.”

Benwick chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “I might have just the place. Follow me.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, her relief evident as she trailed behind him through the maze of tables. Her thoughts wandered as they moved—she thought about the stack of work waiting for her at home, Ginny canceling on her at the last minute, and the ache of loneliness that seemed sharper in the cold of December.

They reached the far side of the room, and Benwick stopped. 

“Here you are,” Benwick said, gesturing to a small table tucked in a quieter corner. “There’s a seat with this gentleman.”

Hermione looked up—and her breath caught in her throat.

It was Malfoy.

The blond was seated there with his chair slightly angled away from the crowd, one hand wrapped around a glass of amber liquid. His hair, once meticulously slicked back, now fell to his shoulders—slightly unruly, but it looked good. Ridiculously good . His long, lean frame was clad in a dark shirt and his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms inked with magical runes that shimmered faintly in the flickering light of the lantern above. His neck, too, was partially tattooed, the dark ink snaking up from his collar, adding a dangerous edge to his already imposing figure. He was surprisingly tall, even while seated, and his scent—a subtle combination of ciderwood, parchment, and mint—clung to him like an invisible aura. He looked... different. Pleasantly different.

And yet, entirely himself.

Malfoy’s gaze lifted from his drink and his silver-grey eyes locked with hers. She had forgotten how piercingly deep his eyes were. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something unreadable.

“Benwick, I—” Hermione began and her voice faltered as she realized where he’d brought her.

“No need to thank me,” the bartender said with a wink. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Granger.” With that, he turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

Hermione stood frozen, feeling her stomach twisting as Malfoy’s gaze remained fixed on her. For a moment, she thought about leaving, walking straight back to the bar or even Apparating home. But the room was too crowded, and retreating would only make things more awkward.

She hadn’t seen Malfoy in five years, not since his trial. Even then, their interaction had been brief but strangely memorable—a surprising nod of gratitude from him after her testimony, and nothing more. Yet the memory of that moment prickled at her now, though she couldn’t quite place why.

After the war, Malfoy was sentenced to 20 years in Azkaban for his involvement with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. While he hadn’t been one of Voldemort’s most active followers, his name alone was enough to warrant a harsh sentence. However, following an appeal, the wizarding world watched with bated breath as he faced a public trial that would decide whether he could reintegrate into magical society and whether the five years he had already served—marked by good behavior and clear efforts to improve—would be enough to grant him a second chance. In a surprising turn of events, Hermione had testified in his favor.

She stood before the Wizengamot and argued that Draco Malfoy had been a victim of circumstance, a boy thrust into a war he hadn’t chosen, forced to bear the weight of his family’s decisions. She spoke of his hesitation in carrying out Voldemort’s orders, of the way he had lowered his wand in the final battle, unable to take a life. And she reminded the court of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, whose small act of defiance—lying to Voldemort about Harry’s death—had ultimately turned the tide of the war.

It was a controversial stance, one that drew whispers and raised eyebrows, but it worked. Malfoy was granted his freedom, albeit under intense scrutiny.

The Malfoys had suffered enormous losses by then. Lucius Malfoy had died in the war, leaving Narcissa to salvage what remained of their family’s fractured reputation. Although she was absolved of all charges, the family’s once-imposing presence in society had crumbled. Their name, once synonymous with power and influence, became one shrouded in disdain and mistrust.

Even so, they remained wealthy—an irritating truth that only seemed to intensify the public’s resentment. But money couldn’t shield them from the weight of social exile. Few wanted anything to do with the Malfoys. Gossip swirled that Draco had become a recluse, retreating to the vast emptiness of Malfoy Manor or some distant property to live as a hermit.

That image lingered in Hermione’s mind as she sat across from him now. The man before her looked so far removed from the boy she had known at Hogwarts, yet something about him was hauntingly familiar. His nod of gratitude all those years ago had been silent, fleeting, but it had carried a depth that had stayed with her longer than she cared to admit.

The fact that the pub was so full made Malfoy’s empty chair all the more noticeable. He was a figure who couldn’t easily slip into the background—his pale blond hair, sharp features, and unmistakable presence were hard to miss. Despite the crowded pub, no one dared to approach his table. It explained why the seat was vacant when all others were occupied.

Hermione could feel the eyes of the other wizards and witches lingering on him as she sat down. She was keenly aware of the stares—some curious, some filled with disgust. It was clear that many knew exactly who he was, and their disdain was palpable. She could almost hear the unspoken judgments in the silence that followed her decision to sit across from him.

But Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t care. His attention remained fixed on his drink, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

“Granger,” Malfoy said at last, in a calm voice but tinged with curiosity. “Are you planning to stand there all night, or…?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she straightened her posture. “Apparently, this is the only seat left,” she said briskly, stepping forward.

Malfoy’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Lucky me.” He gestured to the empty chair across from him.

With a steadying breath, Hermione sat down and placed her drink on the table, reminding herself that it was just one drink. She could endure one drink.

If Malfoy noticed her approach, he gave no indication and his attention was seemingly fixed on the glass in his hand. She hesitated briefly, debating whether to say something or simply turn and leave, but the growing ache in her feet from a long day at work had already made the decision for her.

Once seated, she unfastened her coat and draped it neatly over the back of her chair, revealing the form-fitting burgundy dress she had chosen—or rather, had been coerced into wearing. The fabric hugged her frame in ways that made her feel both daring and uncomfortably exposed, with a modest slit at the side that displayed more of her legs than she would have liked. She silently cursed Ginny for suggesting the dress, swearing she’d have a word with her about it later.

Malfoy’s eyes shifted to her then, and she caught the faintest flicker of surprise before his expression returned to its usual indifference. He scanned her slowly, his gaze sweeping from her tousled curls to the hem of her dress and back up again. His appraisal was subtle but thorough, lingering just long enough to send a flush creeping up her neck.

Hermione shifted in her seat, tugging the hem of the dress down slightly as though to shield herself from his scrutiny. But before she could say anything—or gather the courage to meet his gaze—he turned back to his drink, dismissing her presence as though it were of no particular importance.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Hermione said finally, breaking the silence.

“Likewise,” he replied. “I thought you’d be at work, as usual.”

Hermione bristled slightly. “And I thought you’d be... well, somewhere else.”

He smirked, but it was faint, almost self-deprecating. “I suppose I deserve that.”

She studied him more closely now and her initial discomfort gave way to curiosity. He seemed... settled, in a way she hadn’t expected. The tension that used to coil in his shoulders was gone, replaced by something quieter, more reflective.

“So, what are you doing these days?” she asked, trying to sound casual but not entirely succeeding.

Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he answered. “Enchanting,” he said simply.

She frowned, not understanding.

“Magical enchantments,” he clarified. “Objects, artifacts, even spaces. It’s... a living.”

“Enchantments,” she repeated, the word rolling off her tongue with mild disbelief. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for that.”

He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s precise work. Requires focus, skill. And it keeps me out of trouble, which I imagine is what you’re really wondering about.”

Hermione flushed. “That’s not—well, maybe a little.”

Draco chuckled softly, the sound low and unguarded. “Honesty suits you, Granger.”

This exchange surprised her. It was the longest conversation they had ever had, and certainly the first time they’d spoken without their usual barbed insults. What was more startling was the way he was acting—kind of... nice? Definitely not like him. But there it was, in the calm way he spoke, in the faint laugh that seemed to warm the room. She didn’t quite know how to process it.

Silence fell between them again, and Hermione found herself glancing around the pub. She was hyper aware of him—of the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the faint shimmer of magic in the tattoos on his arms and the subtle but intoxicating scent of his cologne.

“Why did you testify for me?” he asked suddenly, in a quieter voice now, almost hesitant.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the question. 

“You were a victim of circumstance,” she said after a moment. “You were young, manipulated. I thought you deserved a second chance.”

His eyes searched hers, and she felt the weight of his gaze. “Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

“I’m not most people.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No, you’re not.”

They lapsed into silence once more, but this time, it felt less strained. Hermione sipped her firewhisky, letting its warmth seep into her, and stole another glance at him.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly.

“So have you,” he replied in an equally quiet voice.

She looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I suppose we’ve all had to, haven’t we?”

Malfoy nodded. 

“War does that to people.”

The mention of the war hung heavy between them, bringing with it the ghosts of those they had lost—Harry and so many others. Hermione felt the familiar ache rise in her chest, but she pushed it down, unwilling to let it consume her tonight.

When she looked up, she found Malfoy watching her and his gaze was softer than she remembered.

After a moment of contemplation, she spoke again in a lighter tone this time. “I must admit, I’m surprised to find you here. There were rumors, you know. That you’d become a hermit.”

Draco laughed, a bitter edge to it, and took another drink. “Kind of did,” he said. “No one really wanted to have anything to do with me after all that.”

He paused and his eyes flickered over to a group of wizards across the room who were staring at him full of disgust. He leaned back slightly in his chair and added, almost under his breath, “Even now.”

As if on cue, the wizards who had been eyeing him turned their backs with almost exaggerated speed, as if afraid to even acknowledge his presence. Malfoy didn’t seem to care.

Hermione shrugged, her voice calm but resolute. “You did your time, and you did good. You’re free now. People should move on.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he set his glass down and leaned forward slightly. “You’re not wrong. But it’s hard to move on when no one’s willing to let you.”

They both fell into another moment of quiet and the air between them felt comfortable but heavy with the weight of unspoken things. They both reached for their drinks again, and took a larger sip.

The burn of the firewhisky hit her throat immediately, sharp and fiery, and she couldn’t help but wince. Her face scrunched up comically, and she quickly set the glass down, trying to hide her reaction behind a forced cough.

Draco’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he caught the look. He chuckled, low and genuine. “I didn’t take you for someone who couldn’t handle their drink, Granger.”

Hermione shot him a look, trying to regain her composure. “I can handle it,” she said, but her voice was a little strained from the lingering burn. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Malfoy leaned back with a small smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Right,” he said. “Well, next time, maybe ease into it a bit more.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of amusement in her own gaze. “Next time, I think I’ll just stick to something milder.”

They both took another sip, each in their own way processing the comfort of the moment—the strange, unexpected camaraderie that had developed between them tonight. Neither seemed eager to break the silence, but the words seemed to flow easier as the minutes passed.

They lingered for a while longer, not yet ready to break the spell of the unexpected calm they had found in each other’s company. The firewhisky had dulled the edges of their usual sharpness, and the usual banter was replaced by something far more raw and open.

Malfoy shifted in his seat and his eyes studied the now empty glass in his hand for a moment before he spoke. “You know… I never really thought I’d be here—sitting across from you, talking like this.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “No?”

“No,” he muttered, letting out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a self-directed sneer. “I was a bloody idiot back then, wasn’t I? Immature, selfish, impulsive... I thought I had it all figured out, but I didn’t know a damn thing.”

His words took her off guard. She had expected sarcasm, even a hint of the familiar arrogance, but instead, his voice was flat, almost... regretful.

“None of us knew anything back then,” Hermione replied softly, her tone genuine but hesitant, unsure of how to respond to the sudden vulnerability in his words.

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve seen through all of it—the lies, the manipulation. I should’ve… done something. Instead, I followed blindly. I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

His eyes flickered to hers, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione saw something that made her heart ache—a kind of self-loathing that seemed to weigh him down.

“I didn’t even realize how much of a prick I was until after the war,” Draco admitted. “Everything I thought was important—blood, status, power—it didn’t matter. In the end, none of it did. And now... now I just hate myself for it.”

His voice was quieter now, raw, as though he were speaking his confessions aloud for the first time.

Hermione felt the sting of sympathy but didn’t know how to offer comfort. What could she say? What could she do to make him feel better about himself after everything he’d been through? But then, she realized, maybe this was his way of reaching out—letting someone see the version of him he had long buried.

“I don’t think you’re a lost cause,” she said carefully, choosing her words. “People change. We all do. You can’t undo the past, but you can start fresh.”

Draco let out a bitter chuckle, though it lacked humor. “Fresh? I wish it were that simple. It’s not like I just get a free pass. People like me don’t get to just start over, Granger. No one wants to forgive, no one wants to forget. Even now...” He trailed off and his eyes flickered across the room, where a few wizards were still casting sideways glances at him, their disdain as palpable as the stale air in the pub.

He gestured toward them with a faint smirk. “See? Even now, they still can’t let it go. And I don’t think they ever will.”

Hermione followed his gaze, and for the first time, she understood just how much weight he was carrying. There were no comforting words for moments like these.

“You know, you’re right,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly somber note. “It’s not easy. People judge quickly, and it’s hard to let go of the past when it’s constantly shoved in your face.”

She shifted, leaning back in her chair. 

“But I think you’ve done enough. You’ve done the work. People should just move on, and they should let you move on too.”

Malfoy didn’t reply immediately, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. 

“Maybe... maybe you’re right. But I’ve been so used to being the villain, I don’t know how to be anything else.”

He chuckled bitterly, the sound carrying a trace of sadness. “I didn’t ask for any of this—this life, this reputation. But it’s mine now. And I’m stuck with it.”

For a moment, Hermione didn’t know what to say. It felt strange, hearing Draco Malfoy speak this openly. It was as if she was meeting someone new—someone who wasn’t the arrogant, snide Slytherin from Hogwarts, but a man who had been humbled by his own mistakes and the world’s harsh judgments. She was still trying to process it when he spoke again, in a softer voice now.

“Anyway... enough about me,” Malfoy said, with a weak attempt at deflection. “What about you? Has life been kind to the Golden Girl of Gryffindor?”

Hermione snorted, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Not exactly. But I guess I can’t complain.”

She leaned forward. Her elbows were resting on the counter, looking at him thoughtfully. “It hasn’t been easy for me either. After everything… it took time. I thought I had everything figured out too, you know? But the war changed all of us. And I’ve lost people. Good people.”

Her voice faltered, just for a second, as she thought of Harry, Fred, and all the others they’d lost.

“I get it,” she continued in a steadier voice now. “You feel like you’re stuck with the person you used to be, and people expect you to be that person forever. But the truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can. That’s all any of us can do.”

The words seemed to linger in the air, and for a brief, almost surreal moment, they were just two people—two flawed, imperfect people—trying to make sense of the wreckage left behind.

They drank in silence for a few moments. And then, as the last of their drinks were gone, Draco glanced at her with an unreadable expression.

A few beats of quiet passed before he finally spoke and he seemed suddenly nervous. 

“Want another drink? My treat.”

Hermione hesitated, surprised by the offer. But then, with a resigned sigh, she glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, Ginny made me dress up and come out tonight. I’m already here... I suppose another drink won’t hurt.”

She smiled faintly with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “But you owe me one for getting me into this.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and a familiar smirk returned to his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”

She could feel the tension in the air, the subtle shift that had nothing to do with the conversation but everything to do with the space between them. The words they had shared had peeled back layers of things they didn’t usually reveal—and now, it was almost like they were on the precipice of something else, something unspoken.

They both ordered another round, and as the minutes bled into hours, the conversation meandered through unexpected territories. The firewhisky continued to flow, its warmth seeping into their bones, dulling the sharp edges of reality. Every sip was another step down a path neither of them had anticipated when they first sat down.

The conversation took on an almost intimate air, the kind that only alcohol and the passage of time could create. They spoke about what they enjoyed doing in their quieter moments—those little things that made them feel alive when the world seemed too heavy.

Draco’s voice was thoughtful as he spoke, his eyes locked on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “You know, I’ve always liked painting,” he said, a small, almost nostalgic smile tugging at his lips.

Hermione blinked, surprised. “Painting? Really?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of sincerity. “I started back at Hogwarts. It was… well, it was the only thing that made sense to me, at the time. I was never any good at Potions or Transfiguration. But with a brush in my hand, things felt different. I could create something, you know? Something that didn’t feel dictated by anyone else.”

She watched him closely, a hint of curiosity piquing her interest. “I had no idea. You’ve never mentioned it.”

“No one ever asked,” Draco said, his words tinged with bitterness, though not directed at her. “I guess I didn’t think anyone would care. It was always easier to lean into the family business—the Death Eater shit. Everyone expected that. They didn’t expect someone like me to want to paint, to make art. They wanted a Malfoy who could follow orders, who could uphold the family’s 'honor.' And I was too stupid and arrogant to know any better.”

He took a long sip from his glass, his eyes shifting towards the empty space in front of them, as if lost in thought.

Hermione was taken aback. The Draco Malfoy she’d known—hell, the Draco Malfoy everyone knew—would have scoffed at such a revelation. Yet here he was, a man disarming himself piece by piece, revealing the raw core of someone who had been suffocating under expectations for far too long.

“That’s... that’s kind of beautiful,” she said quietly. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Draco gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “You probably shouldn’t. Most people think I’m a lost cause.”

Hermione smiled, the warmth of the whisky giving her the courage to speak her mind. “I don’t think you're a lost cause. You’ve changed. You’re different from the person I remember.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and a spark of something—curiosity, maybe—flickered in his eyes. “What about you?”

Hermione paused, considering the question. Her fingers traced the edge of her glass, contemplating how much to reveal. She hadn't expected to share anything personal tonight, certainly not in this way. But something about the intimacy of the moment—combined with the alcohol—made her feel like the truth was the only thing left to offer.

“I’ve... developed a habit of smashing things,” she said, her voice low and almost sheepish. Draco’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Smashing things? Like what, exactly?”

“Abandoned houses,” she said, the words slipping out before she could fully stop them. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. After the war, everyone expected me to be perfect—someone who’d helped take down Voldemort, who was supposed to be this beacon of hope, in the loss of… Harry. They wanted me to carry his message and become a public speaker to share his philosophy. But I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t healed, and I didn’t know how to deal with everything that happened. So, I started going into abandoned houses—places no one cared about—and I bashed things. Glass, walls, chairs, whatever I could find. It was a way to let out the anger, the frustration. A way to tell the world to leave me the hell alone. I’m just a normal witch. I don’t have to be anything else.”

She met his gaze, trying to gauge his reaction. The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… understanding. As though he knew exactly what she meant.

“You do that in secret?” Draco asked quietly and softly.

Hermione nodded. “I didn’t want anyone to know. If they had, I think they’d have been disappointed. They expected me to be some kind of hero, a symbol. I never asked for that.”

Malfoy sat back. “I get it. The pressure to be something you’re not… It’s suffocating, isn’t it?”

She nodded, feeling her heart strangely lighter now that she had shared a piece of herself. It felt almost absurdly freeing to admit it out loud, to finally let someone see the cracks in her perfect façade.

Hermione took a deep breath, feeling a lump form in her throat as she tried to push through the weight of her emotions. "I miss Harry," she said quietly with her voice thick with nostalgia. "He was so real. So pure, you know? There was no pretending with him. We had something... so simple, so honest. A real frienship. And now it feels like everything's changed since he's been gone." Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the ache of his absence was still so fresh after all these years. "He never asked for anything. He just... gave."

Draco’s gaze softened and his usual aloofness replaced by something more vulnerable. "I think about him, too," he admitted quietly. "Almost daily, actually. Sometimes, I still can't believe he's gone."

Hermione looked up in surprise, not expecting that admission from him. "Really?" she whispered.

He nodded, staring down at the table for a moment before looking back at her. "When I first met him—at Hogwarts, in first year—I wanted to be his friend. I thought he was... well, a badass." His lips curved into a rueful smile. "I’d heard about him, about how he survived. Everyone was always talking about Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and I thought—maybe I could get close to him, you know?"

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the blond continued. "I remember complaining about him to Dobby, after first year, about how annoying he was. But when I was alone, I’d confess to Dobby—I... I was jealous. I was jealous of you, of Weasley, of how you had real friendship, something I never had." He paused. His eyes were distant. "My friends... they were only there because I had the cool toys, the money, the status. Not because they really cared about me." His voice trailed off.

Hermione sat in stunned silence for a moment, letting the surprise of his words slowly sink in. She never imagined that Draco Malfoy, of all people, had ever felt that way. It made her heart ache for him, for the things he must’ve kept hidden away.

She shook her head softly and a tear slipped down her cheek as she spoke. "I never knew," she whispered, feeling her voice breaking. "I never knew you felt that way."

Malfoy looked away. "Not something I ever wanted anyone to know," he muttered. But then he glanced back at her, offering a small, almost sad smile. "But Harry... he was different. I didn't understand him then, but I do now. And I miss him too."

They both fell silent for a while. Finally, Hermione spoke again, her voice lightening just slightly. "Do you remember that time he... caused a Snake to appear when you both were in the Duelling Club? God, that was a mess." She smiled through the tears.

Draco let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I think I nearly died watching him do that. He didn't think before he act, did he?"

Hermione chuckled softly, wiping at her eyes. "He always did that—acted before thinking. Like when I turned myself into a cat... after drinking that bloody Polyjuice Potion because we wanted to spy on you." She laughed "We thought you were the heir of Slytherin. I still don’t know how we didn’t get expelled for that."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "A cat, you say? I don't think I’ve heard that one."

She smiled sheepishly, her eyes glinting with the memory. "It was an accident. The potion, it was a mess. But I guess it’s just what we did back then—got into trouble without ever meaning to. Harry always worried, though. Worrying about everything... but never relaxing."

"Yeah," Draco muttered, looking lost in thought. "That was Potter. He was never really free, was he? Always carrying some weight on his shoulders."

Hermione looked down at her hands, blinking back tears. "It’s like he never really had a moment of peace in his life."

Draco nodded, his voice softer now. "But even with all that... he still smiled. He was... remarkable."

They both fell into a quiet moment, lost in the memory of Harry Potter. Slowly, tears began to fall from Hermione's eyes and Malfoy felt his eyes getting surprisingly teary, neither of them trying to stop it, just letting it happen. The grief, the shared memories—it was a catharsis, something they had both needed but hadn’t realized until now.

And as they talked, laughed, and cried over their memories of Harry, a new kind of understanding began to form between them—one built on honesty, vulnerability, and shared loss.

When the conversation finally tapered off, it wasn’t just the memory of Harry that filled the space between them; it was something else too. Something unexpected. They had started talking as enemies, but now—just for a moment—they were something else entirely.

They both fell into silence. Their drinks were now long gone, leaving only the ice clinking in the bottom of their empty glasses. They were no longer just two people from the past—they were two people, meeting each other anew, in a world that had changed them both.

And yet, despite the vulnerability of the conversation, despite the heavy truths, the air between them was thick with something else. Something that neither of them could ignore, something that neither of them had expected. Sexual tension, curiosity—an unspoken question lingering in the space between them.

The quiet stretched on, the freezing December night outside making the warmth of the pub feel all the more comforting. And as Draco’s gaze flickered to hers once again, Hermione realized they were standing on the precipice of something—something neither of them could quite define yet.

Eventually, as the last of the night wore on, they found themselves standing outside the pub, the cold night air biting at their skin. The bar had long since closed, and there was no one else around. It was just the two of them, surrounded by the quiet of the empty streets and with snow falling gently around them, blanketing the cobblestones in a shimmering white. They had kept talking until the bar closed at 3 in the morning, their words still flowing as if time hadn’t passed.

Malfoy stood with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching her quietly, his breath kept forming faint misty clouds in the freezing air.

Hermione tilted her head back, her eyes lifting to the sky. Small flakes landed on her flushed face, and she smiled—a soft, unguarded smile that made something twist in his chest. The alcohol painted her cheeks a rosy hue, and her eyes, illuminated by the stars and moonlight, seemed a brighter hazel than he remembered. There was something arresting about the way she stood there, so at ease, so unlike the Hermione Granger who always seemed burdened by the weight of the world.

She leaned back against the wall and turned her head toward him to make her gaze meeting his. His heart thudded faster in his chest, a sensation he couldn’t quite place but didn’t entirely dislike.

“Coffee,” she said abruptly, surprising even herself.

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Tomorrow,” she clarified, her cheeks flushing even deeper. “If you’re free. I... I’d like to talk more.”

Draco studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, though there was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, he nodded. “I’d like that too.”

As they left the pub, the snow grew heavier, swirling around them in the night air. The freezing temperature was unrelenting, and Malfoy, without a word, slipped his coat off and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. She hesitated, but the warmth of the fabric—and the faint scent of him, woodsy and clean—was comforting in a way she hadn’t expected.

And for the first time in years, Hermione felt as though the world, once weighed down by grief, might just surprise her again.

And for the first time in years, Draco felt as though he wasn’t as lost as he had once believed, as if a quiet sense of belonging had begun to take root inside him.

Neither of them could say what the future held, but in that fleeting, silent moment, they both sensed the whisper of something new, something delicate and full of promise—something worth exploring, together. Like Alchemy between them.

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Thank you for reading my story. This is response to a prompt and it was a challenge, It was supossed to be a short story. However, I realize I can't make short stories haha, I like long, complex stories filled with emotional moments and strong character development. Still, I did my best to make this story a sort of One Shot. I just posted it today so if the response is good and you want to read more, I can continue writing chapters and develop this story further.

Any comments are more than welcome ♥

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READ THE STORY IN AO3:

[wistfulpoltergeist]

List 5 facts about a favorite sim of yours, and send this to 10 simblrs whose sims you adore ♥♥♥ Maybe something about Dean?

Sorry for such late answer, I simply HAD to remake my Dean first :D Okay, Deanie, tell us what you've got!

He is a professional cook and baker. Making risotto, buns and puddings is his personal antidepressant. But it only works if his friends and boyfriend eat it and comment on how Italian pizza is trash in comparison. (No offense to Italian pizza, though!)

He finds Zen in repairing old cars, seeing how broken things come back to life. He believes his heart is one of those neglected engines that need a touch of a masterful hand.

He is dramatically short and hates his Hobbit's looks but has a good eye for beauty outside (like his handsome, masculine boyfriend :D). Dean never goes anywhere without his camera with which he takes all he finds divine but totally reachless. He believes he can capture it and keep it for himself forever. No wonder he has tones of Roland's photos.

Dean is afraid of Policemen. His darkest fear since he was a boy is to get imprisoned by an armed brute in uniform. He never tells this to the police officer he is dating to his own surprise, but Roland's started to suspect something.

He writes silly romantic songs and stupid angry poems and sends them to his boyfriend anonymously and will deny his authorship even if an armed brute in uniform puts him in prison for that.

Just to show you HOW short Dean is, here's him next to his boyfriend with average height and tall Arwin.

[natreads]

First finished book of the year was 4.5/5 stars!

Review under the cut:

Thank god Han Kang won the Nobel Prize because I'm not sure I would've ever been compelled to pick her up again after DNF:ing The Vegetarian many years ago. But all the buzz around her made me curious enough to look into what her other books were about, and here we are, with the first book of 2025 being NEARLY five stars.

"Amid a violent student uprising in South Korea, a young boy named Dong-ho is shockingly killed." That honestly sums it up perfectly. We get to see this story from various perspectives, as it slowly paints a tragic and violent picture of what exactly humans are capable of; the bad and the good and everything in between.

This was so excellently crafted, and while I don't speak or read Korean and therefore can't read the original, I feel as if the translation by Deborah Smith was able to really capture what Han Kang did in the source material. The introduction, which I read after finishing the book, was a good addition to a reading experience which was shocking and painful, but also beautiful. The way humans mourn for each other. The way that, despite all the bad, there is also good. The reason this wasn't a full five star was because I found it a bit too long, which is interesting to say of a book that's 218 pages… But I feel that, for me, it would've had more impact had there been certain changes to the narratives and amount of characters we follow. I still think it was great though, don't get me wrong!

This definitely made me want to pick up more from Han Kang (maybe even give The Vegetarian another shot?), and I can't wait to explore this authorship more this year!

[olderthannetfic]

Honestly the state of white authorship in the US is that I'm real fucking tired of always knowing the exact same type of white female main character is gonna be leading.

The least offensive features, all told in very sanitized and polite way.

"Hi my name is Kimberly Johson, I'm white, tall, with long brown hair, and brown eyes." It's just a very boring description, but it feels like most characters are introduced so boringly and plainly. Probably because it sells. Of course she's also moderately attractive, but not too much so the reader doesn't feel intimidated, but also not too ugly because who wants an actually ugly main female lead?

What's more is that the character often feels without any background identity. There's no real focus on a culture, or a heritage, it's all just this suburban lack of identity beyond what's cleanly presented.

Even in fantasy worlds or sci-fi, there's just no real culture, it's all very clean and basic. Fantasy/Sci-fi world 101 locked and loaded. And it's not even Generic European fantasy 101 either, it's like castles, and all the fantasy races, but you won't see a lick of actual European culture to color the world. It's a very surface level understanding of fantasy.

Where's a distinct culture between the fantasy races? Where's a distinct culture between sci-fi aliens? It's not there, the only difference is the label and how they look. But if you pick up a random book, could you tell what the main characters culture is? What the world is? Or is it just all copy pasted, with some current trends, and that's it? It's just so empty.

The whiteness of the character doesn't matter either. You could replace her with anyone else, and it would fit because many authors just don't go beyond default-skin playable character.

Maybe that's why there's so much. White characters are empty canvases, if it was never mentioned, you often wouldn't even know the character is white, because there's no culture and story telling to prop it up. Meanwhile you take a fantasy latino story, and you will know it's a story based on Latino culture. A black writer will write in black culture, even if it's only some of the barest hints of it weaved in.

And I'm not trying to default-whiteness, meaning that whiteness is so normalized that we don't even see it. I mean it plainly that even typically white US things are basically non-existent and anything hinting at more depth is incredibly hidden and inoffensive and plain, to the point it stops mattering again. It's like white authors writing white characters for bigger trends decided to completely erase anything deeper because keeping everything as barebones and still fantastical is what sells, instead of real individuality and culture.

--

Dude... Read better books.

[kiyrian]

I love how Alan Wake II is so much more House of Leaves than the original was.

The theme of authorship, of authors being characters and characters being authors. Of echoes moving in time. Of mothers who try to ready their sons for the darkness.

And love. The love that doesn't save them but makes them push forward so they can save themselves.

For anyone ready to go on this journey with me, let's go.

So in House of Leaves, we have Johnny - our main character. He finds a book left behind by a recently deceased man. We get to read this book with Johnny adding his comments. Often those comments are stories from his own life. We get to learn how he feels observed and sometimes attacked by this dark presence. The book overtakes his life. He doesn't feel safe, he isolates himself from everyone. I see this part as what we can see in AW 1

It could be a simple story of being driven to madness by knowledge. Only Johnny admits that he is changing the original contents of the book. He outright says it with a not-that-important detail, but it makes us wonder - is he changing anything else? Are the parts that have been scratched out (!) done by Johnny or the previous owner of the book - Zampano. And here starts the journey explored in AW2.

But is Zampano even real? After all, Johnny also lies about the stories from his life (also a thing he admits to us). At the end of the book, we can read letters that Johnny's mother wrote to him when he was a teenager. He grew up with a foster family as his mom stayed in a mental hospital and his father died. His mom was hospitalized because of schizophrenia - in her letters, we can see her mental health fluctuating from better to worse, up until she commits suicide. During one of her episodes, she created a code she could use to communicate with her son without the hospital staff knowing. A code that can be also found in Zampano's book. There are other signs alluding to Johnny's mom in parts supposedly written by Zampano. So maybe it's not Zampano who is not real. Maybe it is Johnny. Maybe this is all written by a man who imagines someone finding his writing and commenting on it? Who created who?? An echo traveling back in time to change the future - a phone call from yourself that haven't happened yet. An author who writes a story with a poet in it. A poet who wrote poems about a boy who will come and continue his battle. A movie maker who may be a poet but isn't.

Johnny's mom tried to ready her son to face the world. She tried to show him the beauty of words, of reading and learning. She was always in his corner, ready to give him words of support to her best abilities. She told him the world may be hard but he is special and he will beat the odds. A mother that knows her son fears the dark so she gives him a light switch.

Okay. Fine. But what is actually Zampano's book about. A family of four moves into a new home - a photo journalist and his wife with their two young children. Only that this House is a little weird. It is bigger on the inside. Its hallway keeps on growing until a whole new area can be found. More and more dark corridors sprawl in this space that shouldn't be. Will Navidson - the photographer - travels through this space trying to document it. At a certain point, his wife takes their children and moves away. But Will is obsessed with this place - it is his journey to face his own demons. He feels so much guilt for only being there to photograph tragedies without helping people who suffered. (an analysis of his character could take another whole post). He goes deeper and deeper into the house, down a spiraling staircase, up until he fully loses a way out. He is stuck, no way out, waiting to die. Only... his wife hasn't given up on him. For all their problems (the house move was supposed to give their marriage a new chance) she still loves him. She creates a movie solely dedicated to the happy moments they've had together. She goes back to this haunted house and tries to find him. And just like that a way back for him opens. He crawls back from the darkness. His wife's love made her go back to face her own fears (she's feared the dark for a very long time). Husband and wife who struggle but still love each other. Who survive after facing the dark, facing their demons. Who pull themselves out of depths of despair. Wives who take time to memorize those happy moments since they know the men they love are more than their worst moments (more of AW AN moment).

I am doing a great disservice to House of Leaves (and AW2) by trying to sum it up in those few points so please, please read it if you haven't. But I want to show those points that I can see reflected in AW2. Besides, of course once again using Poe's song (sister of the author of House of Leaves who did an album accompanying the book. Haunted from that album was used in AW1). And the motif of Yggdrasil at the end of the book.

There are probably so many things I am forgetting. I need to reread this book. It's this time of the year again.

[boybitcx]

You were beautiful. Warmth was already slowly leaving your body, but the moment of death hasn't changed your features much. You were still laying beside me, with half-lidded eyes as if you were drifting off to sleep. This time you weren't going to wake up later, but no one would have guessed it, seeing peace and satisfaction on your face. Yes, you actually wanted that; you didn't lie, asking me for another acts of violence, kissing my hands covered with your fresh blood. You were sick and twisted, but well, the same could be said about me. Now I am not able to say who got more pleasure from your agony, me or you. But I know you wanted it, even when your clothes became soaked with blood, you still begged me to sink the knife deeper, you kept repeating that you want to feel that final high, the moment of sliding down into darkness. Yet, ironically, I suppose that ultimately, it was me who suffered the most. Yes, your whines, tears, grimace on your face when another bruise started blossoming on your skin, it all brought me pleasure. But now you're resting, free of sentience, while I am forced to continue living without you, without anyone who would understand me, who would complete me. Who would thank me for kissing away the blood from their wounds. If the Church is right, if there's something after death, they’re going to have quite a conundrum with you, when they discover that torturing you for your twisted mind is going to bring the opposite effect of what they want. Maybe though... maybe they will do it. Maybe your hell will be in the fact that this time I'm not the one mutilating your body. But I'll join you there eventually, there's no doubt that we belong to the same place. And nothing will hold me back from licking your blood again, I don't think that Hell cares much about it. I'm not really religious, but I'm ready to believe for that possibility. Eternal void can't match eternity at your side after all, especially when this time we're going to writhe in agony together.

I got up from the bed, and walked to the table. I reached for a glass of water and took a sip, still watching your motionless body. It was undoubtedly, shamelessly naked, even though I doubt that most people would in this moment pay any bigger attention to it. Any norms and reactions, assigned by society to natural nakedness, would be forgotten for the sight of wounds covering your body like constellations cover the night sky. And while those little works of art, admired for centuries by poets and scientists, were created either by God or nature - their authorship was a controversial matter and it depended on whom you asked - at the same time, I had no doubts that your injuries were exclusively my creation. But emptiness caused by your passing made it impossible for me to feel pride of an artist at the sight of finished work. I fulfilled your request, but without your sounds and trembling body, I couldn't enjoy the intense color of bruises even half as much as I did before.

I hesitated for a moment. I wish I could keep you in this state as long as possible, preferably until the moment when I would lay down beside you myself to join you. But I knew well it's impossible. Body doesn't last forever, in contrast to love, and it's gonna start decaying soon. It would be hard for me to leave you for the mercy of worms and to lay at night, thinking how they are the ones devouring you now. I would like to be as close as possible to you, I would like us to become one. With a slight hesitation I went to the kitchen and pulled out a butcher knife from the drawer. We didn't consider this option before, but I knew that you would appreciate it. After all, you always wished that our bodies could merge into one.

Download this story in zine form:

[collection-bundle]

do you ever think about submitting your work to a gallery? i was curious when i first saw a post of yours on my dashboard - i was certain it was part of a piece but it lacked the year and authorship so i was like maybe they credited the artist in the tags or smth. lo and behold it is your actual blog lol! it seems to me like there's a lot to be said about your work (even if you don't percieve it as art) about following the trail of treasures, your acute perception of daily life's overlooked beauty, a childlike wonder about their shape and color and possible history (even if only speculative), even anti-capitalist sentiment surrounding a hobby that is by nature free... you fascinate me!

I kept this in my inbox so long bc it genuinely touched my heart and made me cry <3

I can truly see my photos and collections as fully art now and I think it would be so exciting to submit somewhere although I would have no idea how to do that (might have to do some searching online).

Also anon that last sentence hit me like a brick, its so perfect and you truly get it! Its about the unnoticed, the overlooked, its past and the people it came from, the re-use aspect of this hobby. I'm giving you a kiss anon, you get me.

[love-toxin]

miss ellie i'm realizing now that i never told you now revolutionary your ocs are. like. i've been on this website for literal years and the day i found your blog was with an oc post where you introduced such a dynamic lineup with so much variety, it was the first i had ever seen. maybe i wasn't looking hard enough but you had poc yanderes AND trans yanderes it was the first time i had ever seen any (i know it sounds crazy to say but i'm being so fr rn.) even when i look through your old posts and reread them i just get blown away by how each one is different and has their own personality even though you have so many?? anyway it's late and i just wanted to say that ty <3

will you marry me?? 🥺

LOL to be for real though that makes me sooooo happy you don't even understand, I'm really glad i get to be that way for you and all you lovely people 💕💕 it's a blessing to be able to write & post my work and I'm genuinely happy to see people connecting with it.

tbh, the representation i try to portray accurately is a really long-standing relationship i have with writing & authorship in general. this might not be a terribly interesting bit of lore but back when i was in my teens and consuming a lot of fanfic online in the early forms of it (ff.net my love </3) that was something that hit me a lot in reading self-insert fic, because I'd always been a huge reader and was just then tapping into self-inserts and community fiction posting rather than just books. and i remember distinctly (i think partly bc I've always grown up in multicultural neighborhoods/had mixed family growing up) reading fanfics and having the thought of "huh, i can relate to this description or this experience, but that makes me wonder whether other people can."

funny enough, it was partly when i would read descriptions of the author giving a self-insert long hair or referencing their hair in some way, and I'd start wondering how girls who wore a hijab would read that same piece, cause i went to school with a bunch of girls who wore it or a full niqab. and so i started wondering more like "if i was black, would i relate to this experience in this fic? if i was trans or gender non-conforming, are there characters i can relate to? if i were a mix of these things, could i find somewhere i belong in this setting?" and since then it kind of became a focus in the way i wrote stuff going forward.

i think using inclusive language in fic writing is really integral to a greater horizon of people enjoying it, and thinking on my ocs i always wanted to have characters that people could really relate to. I'd stop a lot in my process of creating my initial sets of characters and try to keep in mind those thoughts that i had in reading fics; "if i were this or that, could someone in that position relate to the stories I'm writing? and if not, what can i change to make that happen?" because if people are going to enjoy my characters or find comfort in them i want everyone possible to have the ability to. it's kind of intimidating at times to write for experiences i haven't had personally but it led me (and still leads me) to do a ton of research, and in doing so I've been able to learn lots of really fascinating things in the process. in doing so, it made it really easy for my characters to develop their personalities through my writing because i think they inherently have identities that are complex, which is always the goal you want for any character in the first place.

sorry that this kinda went off on a ramble LOL, but after so many years of writing and with my degree under my belt i still really think about it a lot. I'm really glad what i wanted to do has come across and i hope you continue to enjoy my ocs!! ❤️❤️

[penroseparticle]

Penrose Song Of The Day Day 40: Hell of a Year by William Bolton

Happy Birthday, Me.

Whew. We are all kind of going through it aren't we? I don't think anyone has had an idyllic, easy year this year. Or any year. More and more I'm realizing that all we can be is kind, because, good or ill, better or worse, we keep being in situations and they keep going to shit. So like. Shouldn't I do what I can to make things a little less bad? Even if that kindness isn't deserved?

One story that really stuck with me posted on here was the story about volunteering at a soup kitchen. I'll see if I can track the post down. But they had to keep cleaning the bathroom because it kept getting trashed. An important lesson was learned by the OP of the post- The homeless people who went to that soup kitchen had precious little they could control. The bathroom was being trashed because it was one of the few places in their life where they could exert their will- even if it made things worse for everyone, even themselves. In distress, you will cause damage. But the thing I learned is that. I don't know. Would being mean to them help? Would I not clean the bathroom after a certain point? They made the mess, they "deserve it" right?

And obviously not. It wouldn't make volunteering for them more pleasant, it wouldn't make their situation different, and it likely wouldn't even feel good. The only thing that helps is the slow, arduous, unlikeable truth that the way to make things better is to help, and do right, and work with someone going through it, even if they are not fun to be around. It might not be "just", but it might just be the thing that works.

Flipwise and reversed though, I have issues with foresight- I do not think things through and I don't always get my just desserts for that. I think I am afforded a lot of latitude and grace for meaning well, which is great if a bit guilt inducing. But that's kind of what I believe everyone deserves, right? Aren't I part of everyone? Shouldn't people be kind to me too? If I think everyone deserves kindness, even when they're not "deserving", I'm part of everyone. I'm a person. I get that same grace.

And isn't grace always unearned? "Deserving is fake" and well, kind of in some of the most important ways it is. Maybe someone "deserves" the bad things coming to them, but in the ways I care about, the ways I'm trying to be, I can't let that be the end. That's not how the story is going to go, not when I'm writing it. And I am writing the story of my own life. Joint authorship with the world, but I'm first author. Pick up the pen!

I often have to remind myself that feeling guilty is a start, not a state, and that I am thankful and grateful I get to fuck it up all over again. It sucks. I have an overdeveloped sense of guilt, in that I think. And I need to pay it forward and walk the walk. Be kind if nothing else.

So instead let's look back at all the shit that's gone down and say WOW! That was wack, huh. And maybe steer next year a little differently this time. Every day is a new day, a new iteration of what I am. Who I am. So I'm gonna try and be a little kinder. Be the change. Gandhi that shit. idk.

This is me telling you to let it go, by the way. Guilt is cancerous, it only grows, and it weighs you down. Let's give ourselves that little bit of grace too, if we can.

Anyways, it's been a hell of a year, hasn't it? Back on track, I found this song years ago. A little bit of a chill, easy pop song. Some cutesy ornamentation, a simple drum loop, and a smooth delivery. I have my good friend Al to thank for this (The Algorithm), he gifted me this song on my Recommended for You playlist on spotify. I like it. It was a nice gift.

It's a little melancholy but it's not all doom and gloom. It's sort of quietly hopeful? Some bad things happened, yeah, it's also a bit of a triumph- he conquered his fears! He traveled the world! The time is now, make some memories! Live your life. Incremental progress.

There's been some bad things, and some good things, but it's your life baby. You gotta live it. I still haven't made it but I'm not that far. What a year.

See you next one.

And hey, as always. You could be dead right now. Go listen to something you love.