#Notes on Modern Irrationality

[quotes-for-the-soul]

I find it especially vital to remember that political dogmas become dogmas expressly because they are repeated with fervor. When a politician or pundit starts to sound more like a commercial jingle or broken record than a scholar, that's a cue to listen more closely--to bear in mind that knowledge isn't always meant to go down like a nursery rhyme.

The Age of Magical Overthinking: Notes on Modern Irrationality by Amanda Montell

[secretmellowblog]

The thing is, Jean Valjean’s “nineteen year prison sentence for stealing a loaf of bread” from Les Mis isn’t actually unusual….not even today! I see people talking about it as if it’s strange or unimaginable when it happens every day.

In modern America — often as a result of pointlessly cruel (and racist) habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws— people are routinely sentenced to life in prison for minor crimes like shoplifting or possession of drugs.

The ACLU did a report in 2013 detailing the lives of various people who were sentenced to life in prison without parole for nonviolent property crimes like:

•attempting to cash a stolen check

•a junk-dealer’s possession of stolen junk

metal (10 valves and one elbow pipe)

•possession of stolen wrenches

•siphoning gasoline from a truck

•stealing tools from a tool shed and a welding machine from a yard

•shoplifting three belts from a department store

•shoplifting several digital cameras

•shoplifting two jerseys from an athletic store

• taking a television, circular saw, and a power converter from a vacant house

• breaking into a closed liquor store in the middle of the night

And of course, so so so many people sentenced to life without parole for the possession of a few grams of drugs.

And we could go on and on!

Gregory Taylor was a homeless man in Los Angeles who, in 1997, was sentenced to “25 years to life” for attempting to steal food from a food kitchen. He was released after 13 years. The lawyers helping to release him even cited Les Miserables in their appeal, comparing Taylor’s sentence to Jean Valjean’s.

And there’s another specific bit of social commentary Hugo was making about Valjean’s trial that’s still depressingly relevant. He writes that Valjean was sentenced for the theft of loaf of bread, but also that the court managed to make that sentence stick by bringing up some of his past misdemeanors. For example, Valjean owned a gun and was known to occasionally poach wildlife (presumably for his starving family to eat.) . So the court exaggerates how harmful the bread theft was—he had to smash a windowpane to get the bread, which is basically Violence— then insist the fact that he owns a gun and occasionally poaches is proof that he is habitually and innately violent. Then when Valjean obviously becomes distressed traumatized and furious as a result of his nakedly unjust sentence and begins making desperate (and very unsuccessful/impulsive/ poorly thought through) attempts to escape…. the government indifferently tacks more years onto his sentence, labels him a “dangerous” felon, and insists that its initial read of him as an innately violent person was correct.

And it’s sad how a lot of the real life stories linked earlier are similar to the commentary Hugo wrote in 1863? Someone will commit a nonviolent property crime, and then the court insists that a bunch of other miscellaneous things they’ve done in the past (whether it’s other minor thefts or being addicted to drugs or w/e) are Proof they’re inherently violent and incapable of being around other people.

A small very petty fandom side note: This is also why I dislike all those common jokes you see everywhere along the lines of “lol it’s so unrealistic for the police to want to arrest Valjean over a loaf of bread, there must have been some other reason the police were pursuing him. Because the state would never punish someone that harshly and irrationally for no reason. so maybe javert was just gay haha”. (Ex: this tiktok— please don’t harass the creator or poster though, I don’t think they were intending to mean anything like that and its just a silly common type of joke you see made about Les mis all the time so it’s not unique in any way.) because like.

As much as I don’t think Les Mis is a flawless book or that its political messaging is perfect….the only way that insanely long unjust sentences for minor crimes is “unrealistic” is if you’re operating on the assumption that prisons are here to Keep You Safe by always only punishing bad criminals who do serious crimes. And that’s just, not true at all. Like I get that these are just goofy silly shallow jokes, and I’m not angry or going to harass anyone who makes them. but it feels like there’s an assumption underlying all those goofy jokes that “this is just not how prison works!” “Prisons don’t routinely sentence people to absurd laughably unjust pointless sentences!” “Prisons give people fair sentences for logical reasons!” When like…no

Valjean being relentlessly hounded and tortured for a minor crime in a way that is utterly ridiculous and arbitrary in its cruelty is not actually a plot hole in Les mis. It’s a plot hole in …..society ajsjkdkdkf. And the only way to fix that is to fight for prison abolition or at least reform, and (in America) stand up against the vicious naked cruelty of habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws.

But yeah :(. I hate how Les Mis opens with a prologue saying the novel will be obsolete the moment the social issues it describes have been resolved— but two hundred years later, the book is still more relevant than ever because we’re dealing with so many of the exact same injustices.

[duskandstarlight]

A Golden Opportunity: Part Four

Nessian [Modern AU]

Notes: Wow, long time no speak, no post, no write. But I'm back - maybe, who knows (hopefully). It turns out this little fic is the thing that made me want to write again and it's been so fun rediscovering my Nessian babies.

No idea if anyone is reading this anymore (@simpingfornestaarcheron tells me the Nessian fandom isn't as active on here anymore so I live with no expectations) but here's an update anyway - and it's also on A03! Big thanks to @noirshadow as always, for being my champion and for getting out her red pen for me despite being absolutely slammed at work.

Oh, and this is angsty AF I am sorry.

PS Sorry, this taglist is most likely HUGELY out of date but it's all I have. Shout if you are under a diff name / don't want to hear from me anymore - TY.

Part Four - Cassian

Cassian didn’t hear from Nesta for weeks. She didn’t turn up to brunches or family events where he was in attendance. And, of course, she didn’t text him. That conversation remained entirely untouched, like a lone tombstone; surrounded by overgrown grass and weeds, some abandoned flowers brown and crumbling collected with a dirty ribbon at its feet.

If it had not been for the subtle nods to Nesta’s continued existence, Cassian might have thought she’d been entirely erased from the planet. But there were name drops from her sisters, mentions of meeting for coffee, of having her over for lunch. At dinner the previous week, Cassian had overheard Elain confiding to Feyre that Nesta had seemed out of sorts. And Cassian, who had been straining to overhear the conversation, had felt both pained and filled with some a stark sense of hope that if she’d at least let him go, at the very least, she might be mourning him, too. 

Maybe, he thought fatuously, she cared too much. Maybe, she was still mulling them over, weighing the pros and cons. 

Maybe, by some sort of miracle, she would come to the conclusion that he was worth it.

But that hope dwindled as the days continued to pass and Cassian still heard nothing from Nesta. At some point, he knew he needed to take her silence as a no. Knew he would need to follow through on his side of the bargain. Allow that line to be drawn beneath them, the flame snuffed out until there was nothing but ash.

As the weeks passed, Cassian’s spiky irritability fell into a flat sadness that physically ached. He continued to run every day despite his protesting knee. He continued to work himself until he just couldn’t anymore and tried not to think of her. 

But Nesta crept through the gaps in his mind anyway - snatches of her, always beautiful, always sardonically cruel in their torture. Jasmine and vanilla. The smell of her skin as he buried his nose into her neck. Wisps of golden-brown hair escaping from a braid. The glint in her eye, the upwards tilt of her chin as she accepted a challenge. 

The taste of her mouth, the sound of her sigh, her breath whispering across his cheek. 

A hint of a smile - then better, the sound of her laugh. A true one, just for him.

And on and on it went with no reprieve—

“Is that the amended timetable for next week?”

Anyone else might have jumped, but Cassian was used to Azriel’s ability to sneak up on him. 

The thought of Nesta vanished in a wisp, like smoke rising from an extinguished candle. And despite having spent the past few weeks trying to forget her, Cassian found himself irrationally disgruntled that Azriel had interrupted the vision.

Leaning back in the leather desk chair that resided in he and Azriel’s shared office, Cassian grunted in affirmation.

“Boxing needs to be at six thirty if you want me to take that class,” Azriel replied. “I’m in a meeting at the Sangravah site until four.”

Cassian made another noise in the back of his throat. Scribbled out the timetable with a little too much outward frustration and acknowledged, not for the first time, how tired he was. 

But regardless of the fact that his eyelids were actually burning due to a severe lack of sleep, the problem still remained that whenever Cassian tried to rest, his mind did the opposite. 

And then he was thinking of Nesta again. Of the way she stared dead ahead during their car ride, unable to face him as he laid his feelings bare - how he’d always felt right from the start.

Not that it had made any difference. 

And then there was his mum, too. 

She was always at the forefront of his mind at this time of year. The blurry shape of her, the edges of her fading into shadow, time slowly eating away at her frame until she threatened to disappear completely. 

Soon, all that would be left of her would be the cavernous space where she should have been. And Cassian knew that would haunt him too - worse, even, his mourning growing even more acute. 

For now, he was lucky enough to still hear the crackle of his mum’s laugh, feel her chapped palm warm against his as they walked hand-in-hand down the street. He could even scent the shampoo of her hair as she hugged him close, her hair tickling his nose. Could remember how, whilst his chin always met her bony shoulder, Cassian always felt like they fit just right. The two of them, together - always. 

But now it was just him, alone. 

Reaching for the red pen atop the surface of his desk, Cassian intended to tackle the timetable for good. But then his laptop pinged with a notification.

Lifting his eyes to the messaging app open on his browser, Cassian expected to find his one thirty pm client cancelling on him.

But what he saw had his fingers diving for the keyboard.

Nesta 🧙‍♀️: Where are you?

Cassian felt his heart beat with such force that it lurched upwards, tearing through pericardium to lodge itself impossibly in his throat. 

His fingers moved before he could command them. Had hit enter before he could even read his response.

Cassian: Work. 

Cassian’s thoughts began to race, his anticipation a tempo to the rapidity of his pulse. Did she finally want to talk? Had she finally made a decision on them? Was she going to end it all without even looking him in the eye, a hastily typed dismissal to match the original message she’d sent to cancel their first date?

He couldn’t bear waiting, couldn’t bear that Nesta was not typing. But then, as the wait became a little too long, something crept along the back of his neck. A feeling. A premonition. An omen that something was off.

“What is it?” 

There was a rare frown that accompanied the usual chill to Azriel’s voice. 

But Cassian didn’t have time to tell his brother to kindly fuck off and stop reading the conversation over his shoulder. 

Instead, he was typing, his fingers moving at a speed he hadn’t known possible - terrified that if he was not fast enough, that she might disappear on him.  

He hammered his fingers into the keys, asking what he, somehow, knew to be true. What’s wrong?

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back. 

Cassian found he was holding his breath without realising. And when the answer finally came, his heart seemed to thud to a stop in his throat, as if it were too horrified to beat.

Nesta 🧙‍♀️: I’m at Kaffe at the corner of Bone and Salt. Tomas is here.

Cassian’s office chair roared as it wheeled back across the hardwood floor - straight into the granite planes of Azriel’s stomach before rebounding back into Cassian’s knees. 

Not that Cassian registered it. He was already leaning back over the oak desk, firing off the question he needed an answer to. 

Cassian: Has he seen you?

No. The cursed three dots appeared again, but this time they didn’t take long to disappear as Nesta’s reply materialised on the screen. I don’t think so, he shouldn’t know I live near here. But I can’t leave. I’d have to walk straight past him.

Cassian: Stay there.

Blindly, Cassian reached for the jacket he’d slung over the back of his chair, for the mobile in his jeans’ pocket. 

When he turned towards the door, Azriel was already there, car keys in hand. 

“Kaffe?” he asked.

The downwards jerk of Cassian’s chin passed as a nod. “On the corner of Bone and Salt.”

“Let’s go,” Azriel said as Cassian’s mobile buzzed again in his hand.

Another notification from Nesta. And when Cassian read what she’d typed, he knew just how it sounded. Small and unsure and so unlike his Nesta that Cassian wanted to beat something—a very particular someone until they didn’t stand again. 

Nesta 🧙‍♀️: Cassian? 

Cassian: I’m coming to get you. Don’t try and walk past him, ok? Promise me, Nesta. 

For a moment, nothing. Then:

Nesta 🧙‍♀️: How long will you be?

Cassian: Fifteen minutes if the traffic is good. Can you wait that long?

Not that Cassian could change the shape of time to get there sooner. But what he meant was: can you survive? Can you keep it together until then? Because Cassian had witnessed Nesta scared around her ex and it made someone who was usually perfectly composed, wild and unpredictable. He had no idea what Nesta she’d be today. Whether she’d suddenly bolt, her fear overriding her ability to be inconspicuous and grabbing Tomas’s attention in the process. Or whether she’d freeze where she was, paralysed with fear, unable to move. 

The rear lights of Azriel’s Tesla flashed through the drizzle as they exited via the back entrance of the gym.

Cassian didn’t remember tugging on his seat belt or the soft chime of the infotainment system as Azriel brought the car to life. 

All he was focused on was the screen, his conversation with Nesta as she told him, Don’t let him see you.

That was something Cassian knew all too well. 

In the time Cassian had had the displeasure of knowing Tomas, the male had been consumed with the idea that he and Nesta were having an affair behind his back. On that count, he’d been wrong. But there was no denying to anyone who knew him that Cassian had taken one look at Nesta across the room at Feyre’s birthday party and known that his gravity had just shifted, his world tilting even further on its axis.

Cassian: He won’t.

Nesta 🧙‍♀️: He won’t?

Cassian: He won’t. I’ll be there soon, ok?

After that, no answer came. Every second on the road was torture, but thankfully, despite the spitting rain darting patterns on the windshield, the traffic was on their side. Azriel streamlined along the road, smooth as butter and for a while, they remained in silence.

Until finally, Azriel asked, “What do you need?”

So, Cassian told him. Together they formed a plan. Together, they stepped out of the automatic doors and into the small parking lot at the rear of the coffee shop, ready to step into their assigned roles.

After all, he and Azriel had always been a team.

Yet, it all seemed to take too long - especially as Cassian waited uselessly in the alleyway out the back. Feet eating up the rain-soaked tarmac, pacing back and forth, past the foul smelling bins that lined the concrete wall and the employee entrance to the coffee shop opposite.

Too much time had passed when the back door finally opened with a loud clank. 

A girl stood in the entryway, the heavy industrial door propped open with an outstretched arm. She was wearing a coffee-stained apron, her hair haphazardly piled atop her head.

She looked unsure. “Are you Cassian?”

Together, they walked down the short echoey corridor, the vinyl floor squeaking too loudly beneath the wet soles of Cassian’s shoes.

“There’s a door through that closet,” the girl told him. She pointed through the doorway, into the darkness. “If you open it you’ll be at the back of the shop.” 

Cassian stepped over a mop and bucket, passing cleaning supplies and endless stock that lined the shelves: takeaway cups, stirrers, and sugar packets.

Then the door was there. The light from the shop on the other side shining through the cracks, beckoning him. 

It was like stepping into another world, out of a vacuum. Immediately, the quiet from the storeroom was swallowed up by the noise of the shop: the chatter, the moving bodies, the background music coming from the speakers on the walls. 

The mid-morning rush was a relief - a shop bustling with customers made it easier to be inconspicuous. After all, it was exactly that which allowed Azriel to slip away from the front counter and out the entrance, a baseball cap angled low to shield his face from view.

They’d meet at the car as planned - once Cassian had extricated Nesta from the shop.

Easing the door shut behind him, Cassian scanned his surroundings. It was no surprise that his eyes immediately snagged at the sight of Nesta’s golden head. She was not sitting too far from where he’d entered, her laptop balanced on the tabletop in front of her. 

The tension knotting her shoulders, her neck, her ramrod spine, were as clear as day. In fact, the utter stillness emanating from her could only be described as inanimate - that of a statue.

And Cassian knew what had caused it, had been prepared for it, but when he saw the evidence before him, it still struck hard. 

Ahead of Nesta, only by a few seats, was Tomas Mandray.

He was leaning back in his chair in the way Cassian had learnt to expect of Nesta’s ex-partner: taking up more space than he should for a male who was neither wide or tall. Slouching practically sideways in his chair, Tomas was scrolling mindlessly on his phone. One foot was stretched out so it was slap bang in the lone aisle that separated the two halves of the shop. The calf of his other leg rested atop it, the sole of his shoe sticking out so anyone wanting to get past him would have to ask for him to move - Nesta included.

Anger flared inside of Cassian, fresh and salt hot. It tasted like blood, smelt like it, looked like it, but Cassian made himself push back the colour red as he began to make his way down the aisle.

Nesta didn’t sense him coming. Nor did Cassian expect her to. He hadn’t messaged her since he’d first entered the car and it had been a decision he’d weighed up the entire rest of the ride.

But in the end, both he and Azriel had decided that if Nesta knew the intended plan and it went sideways, she might panic enough to do something rash.

It was a choice Cassian came to regret the moment he opened his mouth.

“Nesta.”

It didn’t matter that he’d had purposefully moulded her name into something soft: Nesta jumped a mile. Then, two things happened at once. The first was that her head turned so fast Cassian wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d gotten whiplash. The second, was that the shock of seeing him sent the mobile in her hand flying.

Cassian didn’t have a moment to think, but his reflexes never failed him. His hand shot out to catch the phone at the same time that Nesta’s did. The mobile missed the table by a breath and tumbled into her lap where they trapped it, their fingers tangled. 

Nesta’s grip was so white Cassian could see the straining tendons. Breathing hard, he raised his eyes to meet hers only to find that they’d already snapped back to Tomas.

Cassian had seen that look of fixation in people plenty before. There was flight or fight but there was also freeze — and Nesta was definitely in the latter. He needed to get her attention for long enough that he could convince her to leave, but with her eyes so saucer-wide that he could see the whites of them, her pupils blown, skin bloodless, breathing shallow, Cassian knew it was going to be easier said than done. 

“Hey sweetheart.” The affectionate term came out in a low rumble that did nothing to penetrate Nesta’s steadfast attention. Cassian sank into a crouch beside her. Tried again, “Nesta.”

This time there was enough quiet command in his voice that her eyes finally dragged to look at him. It was fleeting. A scant acknowledgement that he was kneeling beside her, but it was all Cassian had to work with so he seized it. “Time to go.”

But it was too late. Nesta’s attention was already back on Tomas and she was drawing herself in, shrinking back into her chair until she looked so small and so unlike the Nesta Cassian had come to know, that his heart cracked on her behalf.

It physically ached, that fissure. Threatened to snatch Cassian’s breath as he teetered at the edge of it - a depthless cavern, jagged like a lifeline.

For years, Cassian had watched as Nesta glued herself back together. He’d seen it all. The grief of who she’d been, who she’d been forced to become when, on her knees, she realised the shattered pieces of her identity didn’t fit back together. Splinters were missing, core fragments of her personality had changed shape so monumentously that she finally realised they would never slot back into the past version of herself. 

And she’d weathered it. Mourned it, yes, but then Nesta had gritted her teeth and fought it. Discovered the new pieces of herself, acknowledged the changed, filled the gaps until she’d drawn together into someone who was stronger, more resilient yet intrinsically still Nesta. 

Cassian would not let that battle go to waste. Would not let a male with a small dick and an abusive temper ruin someone who, quite frankly, was the most amazing person he’d ever met.

Shifting his weight onto his better leg, Cassian ignored his throbbing knee and said, “We don’t need to walk past him. We can leave out the back—”

But Nesta was shaking her head. When she finally spoke, her confession was a hoarse whisper. “I can’t do it, Cassian.”

In all the time Nesta had known him, she’d barely ever called him by his name. He’d imagined her saying it like it was a habit, for sure. But he hadn’t thought it would come out with a confession, in a crackled, broken whisper. 

Gently coaxing Nesta’s phone from her vice-like grip, Cassian slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then, before her fingers could ball into fists he slowly threaded their fingers together. “Yes, you can. I know you can. I’ve seen you do it before.”

Cassian had dared to hope that the contact would pull her attention back to him, but it didn’t work.

So slowly, Cassian raised their hands, pressed them into his cheek.

For a fleeting second, he had her. Nesta’s eyes snapped to him - to the warmth of his skin. But then they darted away, back to Tomas who was now talking on his mobile.

Nesta's grip on him tightened at the sound of her ex-boyfriend’s voice, locking down so hard that Cassian knew if he were to look at their threaded fingers, they’d appear bled dry.

Hoping that Nesta was still listening, Cassian continued, “There’s a door out the back. It’s how I got in. He won’t see you but we should go now whilst he’s distracted.”

And then Cassian took the biggest risk of all. He lifted their hands to his mouth, pressed his lips to her fingers.

That’s what did it in the end— it was like a summoning. Nesta tore her eyes away from Tomas. It took effort, Cassian could tell because her eyes darted back and forth until finally they stayed with him. Long enough for her to confess her greatest fear around the tightness in her throat. “He might.”

“Not today.” 

Carefully, Cassian stood, ignoring the painful tweak in his knee as he did so. 

Tomas was still on his mobile. Somehow, he was leaning back even further in his chair, commanding the space. His voice was so loud and obnoxious that the woman at the table next to him shot him a glare.

Cassian didn’t care. Tomas was busy and that was how they wanted him.

“We’re going to get you out of here, but I need you to get up. You can do this, ok?”

There. A hesitation. A belief that dared to creep in through the cracks of Nesta’s fear and tell her that there might be hope.

After that, the adrenaline kicked in. Nesta fumbled for her bag, her belongings. By then her hands were shaking so badly that she nearly dropped her laptop, but Cassian swooped in, swept everything into her satchel and shouldered it. 

“This way,” he coaxed, summoning every ounce of restraint not to touch the small of her back in encouragement. He had a feeling if he did that all the adrenaline coursing through her veins would make her startle.

Somehow, they made it out. The moment Cassian closed the closet door behind them, shutting out the coffee shop, he could breathe a little easier. Didn’t worry so much when Nesta stumbled over a bucket, the sound ricocheting around the storeroom as she righted herself. 

The fresh air that hit them as they stepped outside was bracing. It snatched the breath from their lungs. But to Cassian it tasted like nothing but relief. He barely noticed the fine fuzz of rain that immediately coated his clothing, wet his face, his hair.

And clearly neither did Nesta. For the second the back door shut behind them, Nesta met his eyes. And then, without any adieu, she bent over double and vomited onto the tarmac.

The suddenness of it all was so unexpected and so violent that Cassian moved on instinct. He forgot that he was supposed to be keeping his distance. Forgot that he was trying not to spook her.

In hindsight, during the long night that followed, Cassian replayed the following scene over and over in his head trying to make sense of it. And each time, he came to the same conclusion. Nesta - whose body was hyper-vigilant beyond belief - clocked him leaping towards her out of the corner of her eye and catalogued him as a threat.

Nesta startled like an animal running for its life, jerking away from him before he could reach her.

But whilst Cassian had paced up and down the alleyway for a good five minutes before Azriel had sent the staff member to the back door, Nesta was unacquainted with her surroundings.

Bent over double as she was, she didn’t see the wall until it was too late. Straightening and twisting away from him at the same time, Nesta collided into the pebble dash with a crack.

“Shit,” Cassian panted, eyes wide, hands up as he hastily backed away from her. “I’m sorry, Nesta. I didn’t think—”

He abruptly stopped speaking as Nesta lurched forwards again, the movement jolting and ugly, and retched.

The acrid scent of bile mingled with the odour coming from the trash cans - old food and stale coffee and the wet mulch of cardboard intermingling with damp rain - the latter of which was coming down harder now. 

But now, neither of them noticed. 

All Cassian could think of was Nesta. He watched her straighten, her hands now clutching at her head as if that might physically hold in the shock of the collision. 

And all Cassian could do was stand there, his chest heaving as if he’d run a marathon but the rest of him frozen in place. His palms, which had flown up on instinct when she’d thrust away from him, were still facing her, as if she had him at gunpoint. 

He was too scared to move, too frightened that he’d do something else idiotically stupid and cause her more harm.

For a moment, they stared at one another wide-eyed. Cassian could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, trying to burst out of his skin. 

Nesta swiped at her mouth with the back of her shaking hand. When she dropped it from her bloodless face, her lips parted as if she were planning on speaking but then they shut again, her mouth a thin, brittle line.

He watched this happen again, then again. After the third attempt to speak, Cassian watched her give up. Watched her press the heel of her palm to the exact spot where her head had collided with the wall, her brows knitting in confusion, as if she didn’t understand where the pain had suddenly come from.

When her fingers came away, Cassian was alarmed to see that they were red.

It took everything he had not to step towards her, to see if she was ok. But he didn’t dare risk it after he’d terrified her so badly. 

Instead, his punishment for being so idiotically stupid was to watch this play out. To watch her lower her trembling hand so it hung limply at her side and watch a trickle of blood escape down her temple.

Nesta didn’t seem aware of it. Instead, she just continued to stare at him in disbelief.

Then, her expression rippled. A tremor, violent before it was trapped and smoothed out.

A beat passed. 

“Sorry,” she said hoarsely - finally, when she clearly thought herself composed. But her voice wavered as she spoke, and the sound of it seemed to be the breaking point.

Cassian balled his hands to stop himself from reaching out to her. Slowly, he took a discreet step backwards, granting her more space even though all he wanted to do was to pull her to him and swathe her in his arms.

But the action didn’t go unnoticed. If anything, it was the finger on the trigger, the foundational straw pulled out from beneath her.

There was a shaky, high-pitched rush of breath, a last attempt to keep the tears at bay - but it was too late. Nesta’s face crumpled and then words were toppling out between gasped sobs.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why he’s here. He shouldn’t be here—”

“I know.” There was a crack in Cassian’s voice now, a maelstrom of emotions. The aching sadness of seeing her like this, the angry truth of it all, the stark, terrible reality. And then there was the fury of his contribution to it. Him, the male he had hoped she might come to trust, ruining it all. The sound of her head hitting the concrete. “Please. Let me take you home—“

“Is everything ok here?”

A voice interrupted Cassian, smooth as always and deliberately tempered down to be soft. 

Nesta startled anyway. She scrambled away but when she realised she was too close to the wall, she halted in her tracks, panting.

Cassian didn’t need to turn to see who it was, but when he did, his arm outstretched to tell his brother to stay put, he found Azriel in the mouth of the alleyway. 

In his left hand, the car keys dangled.

Azriel did not take a step forward. Instead, he kept his eyes on Cassian. Said, “Tomas is still in the coffee shop, but we should make a quick exit if we want to be safe. He looked like he was readying himself to leave and I’m not sure if his car is in the parking lot.”

Later, when Cassian was back at home he marvelled at how they managed to get Nesta into the car. He supposed the threat of her ex was enough to make someone who was currently very afraid of men shut herself into a car with two hulking ones.

Striding ahead, Cassian opened the rear door for Nesta before backing away. Heart in his mouth, he got into the passenger side, opposite Azriel at the wheel, keeping his gaze locked ahead, not wanting to spook her, not wanting her to second guess a thing. 

In fact, Cassian didn’t feel like he drew a breath. Not as the rear door shut, as fabric rustled, the seat belt pulled across a body, the click as Nesta buckled herself in.

Even as Azriel eased them onto the main road, the rain coming down harder now, Cassian starved his lungs of air.

But when the coffee shop disappeared from view, Cassian allowed a breath to slowly rush back in.

He turned to Azriel. “Head to the hospital—”

“No.”

The response was forthright and quick while at the same time having a quiet incorporeal quality to it - as if it caught in mid-air and retracted into itself before it established itself.

Turning in his seat, Cassian looked at Nesta.

She was staring vacantly out the window, her body moving with the car as it turned in the same way

a puppet followed the command of its strings. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“You’re bleeding, Nesta.”

Absently, Nesta raised a hand to her temple, stared at the red glistening on her fingertips. “It’s superficial.”

“You don’t know that.”

Nesta let her hand fall into her lap, discarded. “I do.”

The seconds that followed felt as if they were swallowed by the gaping maw of silence. Two simple words threatening the imagination as it conjured images Cassian didn’t want to see. A body being thrown around, bruises and fractured ribs, a broken nose and two black eyes. Fell down the stairs, tripped over my own feet. The crack of a nose being set back into place, hiding away to protect a monster. I can’t come tonight, I’ve got a book deadline to meet. I’ll see you when I'm done.

All of it unravelling behind Cassian eyes, in his head, overtaking his senses - everything. 

“Where should I drive to?”

Azriel’s voice cut through the images, abrupt, like a full stop thrown into the middle of a sentence. 

Cassian didn’t stop looking at Nesta. She was still staring fixedly out the window, but he could tell she wasn’t seeing anything at all. He watched her slip farther away, the distance growing and growing, a cavernous feeling, vast, empty.

He turned back in his seat. A plan was already unfolding in his mind. 

Cassian’s hand dipped into his pocket, his fingers closing around the cool metal of his mobile. 

“Mine.”

***

“I need a bowl of warm water.”

A snap punctuated the end of Mor’s request as she stretched the fingers of the disposable rubber glove she was fitting to her hand. 

The action came with the precision of someone who spent her days taking them on and off. Of the doctor who worked at the female health clinic in the less affluent districts and saw things she wished she didn’t.

There was no familiar warmth in his friend’s voice as she spoke. In fact, Mor didn’t even look at Cassian. Instead, she seated herself back atop the coffee table and began to rifle through the personally engraved medical bag he, Azriel and Rhys had gifted her for Winter Solstice last year.

Opposite her, curled up small in the corner of the couch was Nesta, pale in every sense of the word. Pale in pallor, pale in expression, pale in existence - as if she was fading from the room. 

The distance that Cassian had felt growing between Nesta and the world had quadrupled since their car journey home. Wraith-like, Nesta had followed him into his apartment and sat mechanically onto his couch without really seeming to take any of it in. Nor had she touched the mug of chai he’d left on the coffee table in front of her.

That absence, that space, had seemed to worsen since Mor had stepped through the door five minutes ago. 

And Cassian knew that bringing Mor into the equation was not something Nesta would take lightly. But he had been at a loss for what else to do. Nesta had refused to go to the hospital to be checked over and the only person Cassian knew could help - and who would be discreet - was his best friend. 

And Mor, despite her rare day off, had dropped whatever she had been doing and driven straight to him.

Ceramic clinked against the wood of the coffee table as Cassian set down the bowl beside where Mor was seated.

Mor straightened, a small pocket torch in hand. 

She clicked it on.

“Thanks. We’ll be a few minutes.”

It was a firm dismissal and Cassian didn’t dispute it. 

He had already turned to leave when Nesta spoke—

“He can stay.”

Slowly, Nesta slid her gaze away from the tears crying down the window pane, locked them onto Mor in a way that was both absent and wholly fixated at the same time.

Nesta’s eyes were the same slate colour of the sky — no hope of blue within them. 

Mor simply stared back, unfazed, undeterred - strong. “When I’ve performed the initial examination he can come back in. But not until then.”

“No.”

One word. Simple. Defiant despite the disembodied quality to it. The most emotion Nesta had displayed since he’d found her. 

It was enough to tell Cassian that his Nesta was still in there fighting - even if she looked like hell. 

Mor’s lips flattened into a grim line. “That’s my policy, I’m afraid—”

“Then change it.”

The aftermath of Nesta’s order crackled with static. Like a radio before it tuned into the right station. A gear grinding into fourth.

During the whole interaction, there had been no change to Nesta’s expression. It was as if her body had almost shut down, but as Mor searched it, really looked, her serious honey brown eyes scanning Nesta’s face, she seemed to see something in the depths Cassian couldn’t. For she straightened, looked from Nesta to Cassian with a grim sort of understanding, before shifting her attention back to Nesta.

Mor held up a gloved hand. 

“Follow my finger,” she instructed.

***

The snap of rubber and then the subsequent rustle as they nestled amongst the other discarded items in the waste paper basket signalled the end of the examination. 

“It’s a nasty bump but it looks worse than it is,” Mor told Nesta as she began to stow away items into the open medical bag. “No need for stitches and no major concussion from the looks of it. But you’ll have significant bruising, I’m afraid.”

Cassian shifted on his feet from where he stood by the dining table. He had strategically positioned himself by the dining table, which had allowed himself to observe Mor’s assessment of Nesta without crowding the scene. But now, he was unable to stop himself from voicing one of his concerns. “And the vomiting? Nesta was sick right after she hit her head.”

“And before.” Nesta’s reminder was scratchy and resigned, as if Cassian was fussing for nothing. She leant backwards farther into the couch, the cushions threatened to swallow her up. “I just need to sleep it off.” 

She tugged the blanket Cassian had draped over her knees higher over her body, towards her chin. Cassian wondered if she was consciously trying to create a barrier between her and everyone else in the room.

Cassian didn’t know what last time meant, but Mor didn’t press Nesta for more information as her head swivelled back to face her patient.

“The vomiting is most likely from the acute shock of—”

But Nesta wasn’t interested in hearing more. For the first time, her face showed a ripple of what she was feeling: irritation, her patience clearly as threadbare and worn as her body. “Can I sleep now?”

Seemingly unaffected by Nesta’s directness, Mor nodded. “It will do you good. But—” she held up a hand, as if anticipating resistance. “—you will need to be monitored every few hours just in case you do have a light concussion. Is there anyone who can stay with you?”

Nesta stiffened. “I live alone.”

“Emerie? Gwyn?”

Nesta’s gaze shifted past Mor’s shoulder, back to the window. There was a stretched out pause as if the hypnotic stream of water falling down the glass had taken Nesta out of his moment, this room. 

When she spoke, her voice seemed faint, like an echo. “Emerie’s on a business trip. Gwyn has her National Counselor Examination exam tomorrow.”

Mor looked to Cassian. “And you?”

“Done for the day.” Cassian lied, watching Nesta’s face closely in case it betrayed any further feeling. “Nesta can stay here.”

***

When Cassian emerged from the bedroom, Mor was waiting. Leaning against the corner of the kitchen counter, her hip propping her up, she watched him discerningly as he quietly closed the door and came to join her.

A soft rattle sounded in Cassian’s ear as he flipped on the kettle switch. Turning his head, he found Mor shaking a small round bottle at him. “Found these painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. Give these to Nesta every four hours if she wants them - they’ll help with the headache until she’s feeling better.”

Cassian arched an eyebrow but didn’t bother to berate Mor for rifling through his cabinets. Mor sometimes had a tendency to rummage around his one-bed apartment as if she lived with him, helping herself to whatever she needed. Cassian didn’t really mind. Growing up, he’d never had a sibling. He’d always been a lone child.

Now, he was fortunate to have two brothers and a best friend who had eventually evolved into someone he considered to be a sister. 

He was never going to complain about her feeling comfortable in his home. 

So, instead he took the bottle from Mor and asked, “And the nausea?”

“If it’s the result of physical shock, it should disappear soon. Sleep will certainly help reduce the stress and adrenaline in her body. Emotional shock can take longer.”

Now, Mor’s eyes turned sharper as she moved to face him fully. Even as she feigned casual, planting her freshly manicured hands behind her on the counter and leant backwards. “Nesta has had quite the day.”

The kettle clicked off, steam rose from the beak and billowed outwards, spreading like fog. Cassian poured hot water over the tea bag, the familiar scent of green tea momentarily assaulting him. 

When he realised Mor was not going to continue without some sort of response, he made an acquiescent sound in the back of his throat.

“Not like Nesta to get into an accident like that,” Mor continued carefully. “She’s always so composed.”

At that, Cassian turned his head and simply looked at his friend, not speaking. Steam rose between them from his mug. It felt damp on Cassian’s face, but he didn’t blink. He knew what Mor was trying to get at. Had been well aware that when he’d called her over here that she’d know something was up. That, even as she was trod carefully, that this wouldn’t be a subject she’d let lie.

“Cassian,” Mor tried again, her voice low now, “does Nesta need to report someone for the bump on her head? I see it all the time at the clinic and the shock she’s in goes beyond physical.”

The gentle clunk as Cassian set down his mug was enough to disrupt Mor. “Not unless you want to report me.”

Mor grew very still. “What are you talking about?”

“She was scared and I startled her.” Cassian hadn’t planned to confess this - and he still would never betray Nesta by mentioning Tomas - but the guilt that had been rotting inside of him since the incident in the alleyway was now pouring out of him. He couldn’t stop it.The responsibility of causing her more harm when he had supposed to be rescuing her. 

Scrubbing the heel of his palm hard into his forehead as if that might rid the headache of the utter shit show that had been today, he continued, “It was so stupid of me, Mor. So stupid. She threw up and it was so sudden that my head just emptied of sense. Instinct overtook me. I moved towards her, to help or to comfort her, I don’t know and she bolted. Ran headfirst into a wall trying to get away from me.”

There was a careful look to Mor now. The frown that had been marring her forehead whilst he spoke evened back out. But Cassian knew her well enough to see the thoughts sliding behind her irises as she tried to connect the dots. “You didn’t scare her initially.”

“No.”

There was a brief pause whilst Mor processed the information. Then, she stepped towards him sombre-faced and slipped her hands around his waist. She hugged him tight. She smelt like she always did — of cinnamon and citrus, of home. 

“Don’t punish yourself too harshly. It was a mistake.”

Mor’s voice was muffled, almost swallowed by his jacket.

Clenching his jaw, Cassian rested his chin atop her head. “I made things worse.”

Pulling back to examine his face, Mor kept her arms looped around his waist. “But your intentions were good. You are good, Cassian.”

Cassian just clenched his jaw.

“Are you going to be ok?” Mor asked after a beat. When he didn’t reply, she gave him a final squeeze and, minding the mug of boiling water he still held in one hand, extracted herself. “Silly question, I suppose. Want me to stay?”

“No, I won’t be much company. Plus,” he continued, raising an eyebrow at her subtly elevated outfit that sat just above casual and the undulating waves of her freshly-washed hair that Cassian knew had been painfully crafted in front of a mirror, “it looks like I’ve already interrupted your plans for today. Are we dating again?”

Rolling her eyes, Mor hefted her doctor’s bag off the counter and onto her shoulder. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be at home anyway.”

“Thanks.” Deciding not to press her for more details, Cassian trailed his friend to the door. “I think it goes without saying that I owe you.” 

But Mor just turned. Gripped Cassian’s shoulders until he met her eyes. “Friends don’t owe one another, Cass. Ring if you need me, ok?”

***

Despite the gravity of the day, time continued to pass - albeit slowly, torturously. 

Nesta slept and Cassian worked from the dining table in the living room, trying to work but ultimately failing, his eyes more often than not trained on the bedroom door. 

He’d pushed it ajar as soon as Mor had left, unable to stop worrying that something could happen to Nesta and he might miss it.

Cassian knew he was overreacting and if Nesta hadn’t been so scared of him earlier, so on edge, he might have worked from the armchair in the bedroom itself. 

But the dining table had to do. From his vantage point, Cassian could just make out the curled up figure beneath his duvet, the shadowy tangle of hair draped across his pillow.

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t been instructed to check in on Nesta every few hours. To ask her mundane questions like: What’s your name? Where are you? What day and year is it? Spell ‘world’ backwards? 

But each time, when it finally came to wake Nesta, Cassian found himself full of a sort of dread that felt akin to chunks being taken out of his chest every time she opened her eyes. 

It was not least because the depth of Nesta’s sleep was so vast and weighty that it made it hard to rouse her in a way that didn’t feel violent. But also because each time Cassian managed to haul Nesta out of it, she startled. 

The first time had been the worst. Cassian could have sworn that he’d scented her fear before she wrangled it under a forced sort of control that did nothing to hide the panic lingering beneath it. All the while, Cassian knelt beside her as unthreateningly as possible, trying not to loom, cursing the breadth and height of his frame.

Six hours on and Nesta’s reaction to him had thankfully weathered into an apprehensive wariness, as if her body and mind had anticipated what was happening in an attempt to save her from further stress. Opening her eyes, Nesta would tiredly answer whatever Cassian asked of her before she let sleep drag her back down again to its murky depths.

Nesta’s fatigue was not a tiredness Cassian recognised. Instead, he had come to understand that this was Sleep. An entity that yanked at you with taloned hands, snatching you back down so body and mind could restore itself. 

The buzz of an incoming call pulled Cassian’s attention away from the bedroom door. Quickly, he plucked the device from the table so the vibrations wouldn’t wake Nesta and took long strides down the hall.

Putting the door on latch, Cassian stepped into the hallway.

“Emerie,” he said.

Relief surged through Cassian as Emerie’s voice, complete with the soft curl of her Illyrian accent filtered down the speaker. “Why have I got the feeling that I’m not going to like the reason why I’ve got six missed calls from you and a text to ring you as soon as I can?”

“Because you’re right.” Cassian cleared his throat, readying him to elaborate, but Emerie got there first.

“Is it Tomas, Cassian?” 

Emerie’s voice was so gentle that Cassian suddenly felt as if he might choke.

He fought the sensation, swallowed. “There was a close encounter today,” he admitted, and he felt the noose around his neck loosen at the confession. He might not have been able to tell Mor, but Emerie knew everything - more than him - and he hoped that she would know how to best help Nesta - even if she was currently in another state on a business trip.

Emerie remained quiet as the day’s events poured out of Cassian. But when he finished and her silence continued - the faint sound of traffic in the background the only indication that she was still with him - he began to worry.

But then Emerie sighed. It sounded sad, the noise trailing out until it hung between them. Finally, Emerie said, “The tiredness is normal. When she left Tomas, she slept for days. The same happened after the court ruling.”

“That’s what Mor said but—”

“Mor?”

“I—” Cassian broke off with a sigh at the high-pitched and disbelieving tone of Emerie’s voice. Running his free hand exasperatedly over his face, before tugged at the knots in his hair, he said resignedly, “She wouldn’t go to the hospital. Mor was the only person I could think of who would be discreet.”

Emerie snorted. “And how’d that go down with Nesta?”

“I wouldn’t know. Badly, I suspect. She’s barely said a word since we got her in the car.”

A lull followed his words and Cassian gave Emerie the time she needed to ask what he knew she’d been wondering the moment he’d disclosed what had happened. “D’you think Tomas knew she was there?”

“Didn’t seem like it. Nesta didn’t seem to think so, either. He was only a few tables ahead of her and didn’t turn round the entire time.”

Emerie loosed a relieved breath. “Well, that’s something at least. Tomas is a manipulative, masochistic misogynist, but he’s stayed away since the restraining order. He doesn’t even live in town anymore.”

Cassian swallowed. He hadn’t known that, but he just said, “Right.”

“I can come and get Nes tomorrow. She can stay with me for a few days, but I don’t land until ten tomorrow morning—”

“I’m not trying to get rid of her—”

Emerie snorted, a faint playfulness ghosting back into her personality. “I know that, you oaf.”

But Cassian ignored her jest. “I just thought she’d be more comfortable with you. She startles every time I have wake her and she wouldn’t let me try Gwyn—”

“—because of her exam tomorrow,” Emerie finished. 

“Right,” Cassian said again.

There was a pause 

“You ok, Cass?”

“Besides making everything worse, you mean?”

Emerie barked a laugh. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“She was bleeding from the head, Emerie. She thought I was going to hit her—”

And I teach self defence for a living. Cassian wanted to finish. He, of all people, should have know better. He’d witnessed the way his mother suffered. Had watched it all.

“Well, Tomas did - hit her, I mean.” 

“She told me.”

There was a pause as the reality of it sank in all over again. Cassian had known Tomas had beaten Nesta, of course he had, but today had made the truth of it even more harrowing - something he hadn’t thought possible. 

When Emerie continued, her voice rang with the confidence that came with delivering an unvarnished truth, “If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else, Cassian, trust me. I’ve seen Nesta after she’s had an encounter with Tomas. Everything becomes a threat, even things that don’t exist. Once, Gwyn took Nesta by surprise as she came out the bathroom and Nesta threw her mobile at Gwyn’s head.”

“I—” Cassian began but he broke off, not sure how to continue. Finally, he found his voice, “Will you tell Nesta you’ll be coming or shall I?”

“I’ll tell her, but I’d mention it as well when you can. Her memory gets patchy when she’s been through something like this - best to repeat it until you know it’s sunk in.”

“Ok.”

As if sensing Cassian’s discomfort, Emerie added candidly, “Look, what Nesta needs right now is not to be in an empty apartment - which you have covered. If she wants to stay with you when she wakes up rather than go back to her apartment - which I doubt is going to be a no, by the way - let her stay. And whatever you do, try not to scare her. No creeping up on her, ok?”

“Ok,” Cassian repeated. And then again, as if he reassuring himself. “Ok.”

“Good,” Emerie said. “See you tomorrow, Cass.” 

So, with a pep talk tight under his belt, Cassian hung up and returned to the apartment. 

Sat down in front of his laptop, not seeing, not doing and waited. 

***

When Nesta finally emerged from Cassian’s bedroom, it was late. Cassian was still sat at the table staring mindlessly at the rota on the screen, which remained unconquered.

At first, Nesta was so quiet he didn’t notice her. But then there was a movement in the corner of his eye, a whisper and sigh of fabric and then Cassian only saw her.

It was a cruel irony, Cassian thought, that he had been waiting for Nesta to emerge this entire time. But now she was standing in the doorway that connected his bedroom to the living room, her hair mussed and pillow creases imprinted into her cheek, Cassian found that he wasn’t prepared at all.

It took Cassian a moment to recover his voice. And when he did, it came across too rough, too abrasive from lack of use.

“Hey.” He caught his wince a fraction too late, but he cleared his throat gently in a bid to disguise it. “How are you feeling?”

Nesta swayed a little in response, throwing out a hand to right herself against the doorjamb just in time. Cassian did his best to remember Emerie’s parting instruction: slow, purposeful movements. 

Essentially, under no circumstance was he to jump across the room to Nesta’s aid only to startle her all over again.

What Cassian really wanted to do was walk over to her. Raise his fingers to her face, touch her skin, check she was actually there, blood pulsing slowly through her body, warming her skin, rather than a spectral manifestation.

Scrounging up every inch of his willpower, Cassian remained seated. Watched her instead and tried not just to conjure the illusion of calm but feel it too — a place of safety where Nesta could come back to herself. 

“I feel like I’ve been asleep a long time,” Nesta replied hoarsely - distantly. Evading his gaze, she cast a look to the dark windows, to the night sky and the grey blanket of clouds blotting out the stars. “Can I use—”

“The bathroom?” Cassian interjected smoothly. “Towards the front door on the left.”

Cassian tracked her every step as she made her way up the hall. Usually, Nesta floated in a way that was purposefully untouchable. But now, she seemed untethered and unstable, as if she didn’t have control of her body.

It was a while until Nesta emerged again. In that time, Cassian tried to suppress his worry by busying himself in the kitchen. 

The hot water was running when he finally heard the lock turn, the door creak open. 

Purposefully, Cassian did not turn. Instead, he carried on with what he was doing. Plunged his hands into the suds in the sink and began to wash the dishes, purposefully ensuring they clinked softly together so Nesta could guess his location. 

“What time is it?” 

Nesta’s voice emerged from somewhere behind him. Slowly, Cassian turned his head to glance over his shoulder and there she was, the kitchen counter safely between them, her skin as cool as the moonlight lancing through the window. 

“Just gone midnight.”

This elicited a blink and a tiny frown that Nesta kneaded with the crook of a finger before retracting it with a wince. “I didn’t realise I’d slept that long.”

She didn’t elaborate but Cassian read it for what it was: an apology for what she viewed as imposing. “It’s good. You clearly needed it.”

Unhurriedly, Cassian reached for a dishcloth to dry his hands. When he turned to look at Nesta properly, he was careful to modulate the speed of his movements. 

What he was not expecting, was for everything to shatter. But it did. The instant their gaze connected and Cassian saw the vacancy in her eyes, whatever he and Nesta had been trying to be, broke away, unravelling until it was nothing.

It felt like a hand was fisting at Cassian’s intestines, twisting tighter and tighter as they continued to look at one another.

And the more they looked, the more Cassian knew with devastating surety, that this was not their time.

Nesta didn’t need a love interest. What she needed was support. For the people around her not to terrify her so much that she ended up causing herself further harm. 

Cassian swallowed in a bid to rid himself of the lump in his throat. 

Between them, the silence stretched, almost mesmeric in its intensity. 

There was so much Cassian wanted to say, but he realised that what he really needed to do was to not say anything of consequence at all.

The only thing that mattered was that Nesta was going to be ok. That she was here and breathing. And hopefully, in time, she would heal again. 

And in the meantime, Cassian would be here if she needed him. 

It took everything in Cassian to feign casual. It felt like shards of glass had taken up residence in his throat, cutting every time as he spoke. “Want some chai?”

It was not what Nesta had been expecting him to say and Cassian had known that. The surprise of it dragged her back to him, the smallest of lights flickered faintly in the depths of her eyes, cracking through the trauma. “Chai?”

Cassian nodded to the saucepan atop the stove. “I made a fresh batch earlier. Thought you might want some when you woke up.”

Nesta’s eyes followed him as he slowly went through the motions of pouring two cups, using a sieve to catch the cinnamon sticks, the star anise, the cloves. 

When he was done, Cassian slid the mug across the counter to her, careful to keep his distance. 

Together, they drank. Neither of them broke the spell of silence between them, not until Nesta’s mug had been drained to the dregs. 

Then, Cassian dared to ask, “Are you hungry?”

An answering grimace. 

Cassian made the corner of his mouth tug up into a smile. “No appetite of a baby dinosaur today, then?”

No reaction — nothing. Nesta just watched him, the grimace fading away until her expression was yet again vacant. 

“You look like you could still use some sleep,�� Cassian told her carefully. “Why don’t you go back to bed.”

The alarm that fissured through Nesta’s expression took Cassian by surprise. Her gaze snapped to his and every muscle in her body pulled taut. Suddenly, miraculously, and to his surprise, Nesta was fully present. “Where will you be?”

“The couch pulls out.”

The tension that had come so suddenly to Nesta’s shoulders unspooled slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

Cassian pretended he hadn’t detected her unease. Was she worried that he’d leave or that he’d be around the apartment whilst she slept? Did he make her uncomfortable? Did she think he’d insist on sleeping in his bed with her?

Not for the first time, Cassian felt horribly out of depth. But he tried to continue as normal, tried to  get her to engage with him. “Want something comfy to wear?”

Nesta fisted the sleeves of her jumper. 

“There are t-shirts in the second drawer down if you do,” Cassian continued. “Toiletries are in the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink or the one above it - a new toothbrush, toothpaste. Take what you need, ok?”

Later - eventually - when Cassian slept, there was no escaping the day. He relived it all - yet another awful nightmare. Nesta’s bloodless face, her vice-like grip on his fingers. The sound her body made as she struck the wall. Her wide, terrified eyes. The blood glistening on her fingers. 

When Cassian woke the next morning, he didn’t need a moment to remember why he was sleeping on the pull out couch. 

And he certainly didn’t need to remind himself that the secret hope he’d been harbouring, the foolish optimism that he and Nesta might still be something, had been thoroughly stamped out. 

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @wannawriteyouabook @lovelynesta @melphss @a-trifling-matter @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @lavendergoomsltd @princessofmerchants-reads @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @amelie775 @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side

[fantastic-nonsense]

im soso curious, i need to know... why is tim a child of apollo? bless u for not going with fanon<3

[referencing how I decided who the Batfam's godly parents were in my PJO AU WIP]

People like to sort him into Athena because DC has spent the last few years emphasizing how smart he is and how he's better at the more “cerebral” and detective aspects of the job. But Tim’s most prominent pre-reboot traits are not actually his detective or tech skills: they’re his reckless, impulsive bravery, his ability to analyze and think very quickly on his feet in dangerous situations, and his "power of friendship" idealism.

He's a people person; it's one of his greatest strengths. Tim is like...physically incapable of going somewhere and not making at least one friend while he's there. Hell, when he ran off to travel the world on his "fuck you, I'll find Bruce on my own" trip he still managed to pick up his own little crew of assassin friends along the way. Making connections and talking to people and relying on others for help is how he successfully navigates being a hero, as he himself notes on multiple occasions:

"Did you think I was going to run all around the city, desperately trying to save everyone all by myself? I'm not Batman. I have friends." -Red Robin #12

Tim loves his family and friends, and losing so many people he's close to within such a small timespan sends him off the deep end in multiple ways (trying to clone Kon, fighting Dick to get the Lazarus water, isolating himself from everyone, fighting with Dick and running off to find proof that Bruce was alive on his own, etc).

At his core, Tim is an idealist who becomes a hero for no other reason than a) a broken man needs help and a broken family needs mending and b) if Dick won't go back to being Robin he might as well do it, because someone has to be Robin. He sees what will happen if Bruce stays on the path he's on and says "no. I'm not going to let that happen." He's a hero because someone has to help, and he's able and available to do so. He doesn't work on cold hard logic and facts. He works off of gut instinct and then uses his big brain to go find facts and logical conclusions that support those instincts.

Tim was never going to be an Athena child.

So I started thinking. At first, I wanted him to be a Hermes child; it seemed right to frame his parentage around being the child of the messenger of the gods given how he became Robin. But that's not really him, either. Apollo, within the scope of both classical mythology and the PJO-verse's depiction of him and his children, fits him better.

While modern culture tends to zero in a lot on Apollo's status as the god of music, poetry, and the arts (for good reason), Apollo in classical Greek mythology was first and foremost known as the god who (for lack of a better term) helps his people. He's the god of the sun, of light, of medicine and healing, of prophecy, of truth.

Tim comes into Bruce's life at a time when Bruce is at his absolute lowest point. Jason is dead. He's estranged from Dick. He's failing in his mission to save Gotham. He's highkey passively suicidal. And Tim takes it upon himself to fix that. And he does it by being a solid, bright, stable presence in Bruce's life and an extremely blunt, truthful messenger of the future he sees: Batman needs a Robin, and if Bruce doesn't have one he's going to die.

And I didn't abandon his intelligence in the calculations: Apollo is also the god of rational thinking, order, and knowledge, contrasting and working in harmony with Dionysus (the god of irrationality, chaos, and passion). He was also known to be the god whose job it was to interpret the will of Zeus to humankind, which I thought was appropriate for a boy who spends quite a lot of his time being the living communication translator between Bruce and everyone around him.

So. Apollo child.

............also I thought it was funny to make the god of youth the father of the boy DC refuses to allow to age.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet Cute - Ace's Story - 2

Source for the pic

Firestarter 2

Word Count: 2769

Tags For The Whole Story: Fem!Reader, slight NSFW (It's mature, not explicit), slightly sugestive behaviour, flirting, jealousy, frenemies, sexual tension, miscommunication, unresolved tension, slight angst, slow-burn, romantic comedy vibes, alternate universe modern setting, swearing, drinking, fluff, feelings realisation, denial of feelings.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: After moving away from the hustle and bustle of Grand Line City to help your father around the property following a horse-riding accident - and in the hopes of healing your broken heart after your asshole ex-fiancé cheated - you settle into the country calmness of the Calm Belt. You intended to have some alone time, to reflect and heal, but your childhood friend's older brother, Ace, seems to be there just to upset that fragile peace you're striving for. He's a flirt and a womaniser. But why does he also have to be so handsome and perfect? And how long can you resist his charms?

Notes: There's a reference to the very first chapter of the introductory chapters. I really advise reading those before diving into this Ace series, for context. Thank you so much for reading! If anyone want to be added to a tag list, feel free to say so! ❤️

Masterlist for previous introductory chapters.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The door bangs and trembles on its hinges once you set foot inside the house. Shank’s red head pops from the kitchen with a raised brow and a scowl. 

Crap, you thought he was still outside. If there is one thing your father hates, it is doors banging. You learned that the hard way when you were younger and a pre-teen. 

Hiding your head in your shoulders, you grimace and apologise. “Sorry, dad.” 

“You thought I wasn't home.” He smirks and you nod with a shrug. 

“What happened?”

“The car broke down for good. Ace says the engine is fried. Can you give me Kid's number, or actually, if you wouldn't mind calling him yourself?” Showing him puppy eyes, you actually hope he calls him because you're not up to dealing with another infuriating man at the moment. 

“I'll call him.” As you follow Shanks into the kitchen, he stuffs a strawberry into his mouth and chews loudly. “Is that why you’re so upset that you almost broke the door?” His frown deepens as you pilfer one strawberry from his share. 

“Er… Yeah, sure.” The last thing you want to do is go into details with your father about how insanely jealous and irrationally bitchy you behaved earlier. Obviously he doesn't buy your act. 

“Did Ace do something?” He asks indignantly. 

You pull the strawberries closer to you and Shanks just gives up and lets you have them.

“Dad…” You sigh. “Ugh, never mind.”

“Bug, you can tell me anything.” And before he fills a cup of coffee for himself, he asks if you want some. 

You decline with a shake of your head. “Is Ace a flirt?”

Shanks’ eyebrows raise almost to his hairline and he coughs as he tries to swallow the coffee. “What do you mean?”

“Is he a womaniser? Does he sleep around?”

“Why? Did he try something with you, baby?” Shanks loses his footing and grabs the counter dramatically, making you roll your eyes at the exaggerated display. His voice gets so high that it makes you flinch. 

“No, dad. It's just… I… forget it!” You throw your arms in the air and turn, ready to leave and go change your outfit. 

A grumble as Shanks clears his throat makes you stop and turn to listen to what he has to say. “He's trustworthy, bug. But he never had a steady girlfriend. He likes to… have fun. So please, be careful.”

You notice the strain in Shanks’ voice. You can tell he likes Ace, but the veiled warning behind his words tells you that you should steer clear. Just like you thought. 

But you were obviously going to steer clear. You do not want to have anything to do with any man. 

Right? 

-*-

The rest of the day passes pretty fast with chores and housework, but at night sleep eludes you. You toss and turn in your bed but can't find a good position and it definitely doesn't help that a certain raven-haired flirt keeps popping up in your head. 

You turn on the light, defeated, and scroll through your phone, trying to distract yourself from your traitorous thoughts. You finally delete your ex’s socials, you’ve had enough of that, and now you casually flip through Nami’s and Robin’s. You see some likes on their posts from familiar people and you follow some, those who you know won’t bother, and others you have met in the short time you’ve been back.

Then, suddenly, you find Ace’s social. It’s private. Should you? Will you?

Screw it.

You request a follow and gulp while staring at the screen. You did it.

Inhaling deeply, you lock your phone, throw it on the bed and close your eyes, arms dropping dramatically over your face. Why, oh why have you given in to this particular whim? Why is he getting under your skin like this?

Friends! You can just be friends! That’s the answer. You know he’s a good guy so it’s really easy to be friends with him. Except you have to stop acting like an idiot. The time you have spent tossing and turning has actually served a purpose. The purpose of showing how much of an idiot you really are. 

So now you know you have to apologise to him. It’s only fair. Because you reacted like a jealous girlfriend without any reason to. Okay, fair is fair, you wanted to feel special. You know yourself enough to realise that your breakup and being cheated on did a very ugly number on your self-esteem and sense of self-worth. Therefore, Ace’s attention felt like you were actually worth something. Like you were special, pretty, fun and… enough.

But that pressure on him is not fair. He should not be the one you take your frustrations out on when you’re actually frustrated with yourself and your inability to cope properly.

Your phone buzzes slightly and lights up. You cautiously remove your head from the makeshift arm cocoon you were hiding in, and grab it. 

He accepted your request and requested to follow you back.

He’s awake.

You snap yourself upright, your legs crossing quickly over one another and you press the accept button, all while wondering what you’re going to say and how you’re going to say it, because you need to apologise for your childish behaviour. 

Yet, he beats you to it.

You can’t help but stifle a giggle against your hand. This ‘friends’ thing sounds nice. Yawning and rubbing your tired eyes you decide you’re actually sleepy now. 

You turn off the wifi on your phone and the light at the nightstand, cover your legs and lie back. All the while, with the most stupid smile playing on your lips. 

A smile meant for a friend. Just that.

-*-

“Good morning, daddy!”

You enter the kitchen with a light spring in your step as your dad arches an eyebrow. 

“Morning, bug. You seem pretty cheerful for an early morning.”

You chuckle as you pour a cup of coffee. He's right. You woke up happy and rested, even though you barely slept five hours. You even managed to get dressed without your first cup of coffee - knee-length leggings and a sports bra! You had mentioned to your father that you missed your morning jogs and that you were thinking about running again. So he immediately dismissed you from the early morning chores so you could do just that. 

“I slept well.” You give him a small peck on the cheek after you finish your coffee. “I'm going on a little run. Be back soon to help you!” You shout as you open the door. 

After he replies, you use the porch to stretch your muscles and you're ready to go. In Grand Line City you used to run with headphones because the engine and chatter noise was deafening. Here, all you can hear is the song of the birds and nature. And you love it. So no headphones today. 

You do a fast jog from your house and across the pathway to the main road just to get your heartbeat racing and then you resume your usual slower pace. You remain quiet and tranquil for a moment before you hear footsteps behind you. You're not worried. It's the country, no one would harm you. 

“Morning pri-... You!”

Repressing a chuckle you turn your head to the side without stopping. Sure enough you're met with a cheeky grin and a - shocker! - shirtless Ace. 

“Morning, Ace.” Rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you release a snort. “Don't you own t-shirts?”

He guffaws and you let your eyes wander while he's distracted. He must've just started running since he barely has a drip of sweat on him. 

“Laundry day!” He replies with a wink. “Can I join you?”

You notice he slowed down his pace to talk to you, but you were still going slow, anyway. 

“Can you keep up?” Smirking, you don't even let him answer as you sprint forward at your usual pace. 

His low chuckle follows him close to you in a heartbeat. “Can you keep up?” He says sheepishly. “Maybe we can make this interesting…”

No, nope! Don't fall for it! It's a trap! 

“Sure, name your price.”

You fell for it. Weak… 

“First to drop wins.”

“Terms settled. What's in it for me?” Your grin takes up your whole face. If it's a trap, you're about to take advantage of it. 

“What do you want?”

“Honesty.” You reply, deadpan. 

“I resent that! I have been nothing but honest with you.” He says your name with seriousness and you believe him. 

“I believe you, but I want to ask some hard questions and I need you to be truthful and not evade the answer with jokes.”

His pace falters and you smile triumphantly. 

“Agreed.” He nods. “But I want a kiss. If I win.”

Now it's your turn to falter. Your heart does a little stop-and-go motion and you're already regretting this. 

Coward. No backsies. 

“It's a deal!” You're about to kick his butt anyway. 

You both set a steady pace, wanting to keep your strength and your breath, but not lagging behind. 

“I can't believe you actually agreed.” He smirks. “I was not expecting that.”

“That's how confident I am.” You're not. You're already starting to be a bit breathless. Since you found out about your ex, you skipped a lot of morning runs and now, you're resenting it. 

“I can see you struggling.” He turns and starts to run backwards, his arms crossing lazily in the back of his head, just to show off and you roll your eyes. “I'm getting my kiss.” He states and raises his eyebrows three times in a cocky manner. 

“Don't count your chickens yet, mister!”

Hadn't you made a resolution last night that you two were to remain just friends? Then why do you want that kiss so badly? 

Still, you want to ask him some questions and you mean to hear real answers instead of cheeky comebacks. Like, why is he still living with his grandpa when even Luffy has already moved out? You know he and Mr. Garp don’t have the best relationship and you remember him saying that, as soon as he got a job he would leave that house without looking back. You might also ask why he never got into a serious relationship, but that’s mere curiosity. 

Right? 

A few moments pass and Ace is barely breathing hard, while you are panting and huffing and sweating embarrassingly! He keeps talking but you barely have the brainpower to breathe let alone answer him. 

“You want to give up?” He suddenly asks when he catches your heavy huffs. 

Clenching your teeth together, you let out a feral growl. “Never!” 

Yet your bravado is short lived, because your legs falter and you set your foot wrong, causing your previously bruised ankle to send an unending ache up your leg and down your foot as you yelp and lose balance. 

Luckily, Ace is right there to catch you in his strong, sweaty arms. “Whoa, hey! Are you hurt?” You both stop as you dig your nails into his arms for support. You are panting from the run but also from the fact that you have your breasts flush with his chest. And the thought of your sweat mingling with his, is lewd and sinful and it's making your head spin. 

“Fine, I'm fine!” You answer between gasps and pants but you're lying because he smells like a forest and you are dying for a retreat in those woods. 

Get a grip! 

“Your ankle?”

You wince as you pull away from him and support one of your hands on the fence, lifting your leg and rotating your ankle to test it. “I think it's fine. I bruised it the other day, it must still be tender.”

“You sure? I can check it out. I have EMT experience and I know first aid!”

Oh, you don't doubt that in the slightest. He's a firefighter. Obviously he knows basic first aid skills. But you don't want his big, strong hands wrapped around your leg. 

Do you? 

“I'm fine!” 

He raises his hands in mock defence as you test your foot against the ground and check your watch. You should be heading home already if you still want to help your dad around the property. “I think I'll head home, are you going to keep running?”

He shakes his head but his smirk never leaves his lips. “Nah, I'll go with you. Who knows if you might need my help again.” Nodding you start to walk towards your house and he follows. You're still pretty tired from running and you don’t want to further aggravate your ankle, so walking is all you manage. “Besides, I won. I need to claim my prize.”

There's a sensation travelling from your stomach to your legs, leaving them numb, and it has nothing to do with the run. “Right. You're right. You won.”

You take a deep shaky breath as you stop and he stops near you. You feel your face growing hotter by the second but you're not sure if it’s from the effort, or if it's anxiety. Your legs falter again, so you lean against the fence, trying to make it look casual, but you're pretty sure it just looks pathetic. 

You haven't given or gotten a first kiss with someone for over four years. Do you still know how to do this? How much tongue is too much tongue? And were you going to kiss with tongue or just a peck? 

Shit, all this thinking is driving you crazy. 

“Go on.” You urge him and force yourself to stare anywhere but at his lips. Which is, obviously, where you end up staring. He looks smug as he approaches you, his taller frame shielding the sun away from your face and shadowing his. You can feel your heartbeat in your eardrums. 

Is that freaking normal? Are you dying from embarrassment, anticipation, or want? 

He places both hands on the fence behind you and you can feel the heat coming off his chest in hot waves. He's almost flush against you and you keep panting, your breaths escaping your lips in trembling gasps. You expect him to mock you for it, to grin or smirk and make fun of your inexperience or embarrassment. Instead you see his eyes darkening and his grin disappearing as he sets his gaze on your parted lips. 

One of his hands releases the fence and grabs your chin, slowly tilting your head upward to meet him. You feel a feather-light touch on your side as his fingers trace a pattern on your skin and settle firmly on your hip, gently caressing your hip bone. Now your eyes can't leave his. He's intoxicating.

Any moment now he's going to lay his lips upon yours and you'll understand why those girls giggled so hard when they saw him. Any second and you'll be just another girl. Just another conquest, just another kiss. 

You close your eyes in anticipation, and your lips tingle when his hot breath mingles with yours. 

Any second now. 

You sense the bare touch of his lips, for the slightest of seconds, before they land on your face. Very, very close to your mouth. 

But a million lightyears away. 

The world suddenly starts spinning again and you had barely noticed that it had stopped. Ace removes his hands from you and steps back. Your eyes snap open as you eye him quizzically. The knitted brows give away your confusion but he doesn't mention anything. 

If he's rattled, he's hiding it perfectly well behind that well trained smirk. 

“There, it's paid. Are you coming? I'm sure you're rested enough for another run. We'll go slower.”

It's slight. It's a reach. But it's there. There's a hint of raspiness and tension in his voice. You affected him. This affected him as much as it did you. 

Why didn't he take your lips? You feel like asking, but you're not sure you want to know the answer. Perhaps you're not as perfect as the girls he's used to kissing. Your ex used to say that you could try harder. Dress sexier, paint your nails and hair, put on fake boobs. Maybe he doesn't like the way you look. 

“Yeah, let's go.” You croak out without making any more eye contact. 

That has to be it. 

And now you don't know which hurts the most: being kissed and then being just another girl, or not being kissed and being… Nothing. 

[whatwouldsylwrite]

hockey!Abby x dancer!reader pt2

Tags: modern au, fluff, fem!reader, shy reader, Abby is a sweetheart, switching pov

pt1

Notes: author doesn't know enough about hockey, so if you find any inaccuracies just ignore. This description of the hockey game based on my own experience.

In the next few weeks Abby learnt about the dance classes more than she'd ever care to learn. Even though the dance class had a "hockey guys" list, it actually didn't mean that you'll always dance some routines with perfect choreo and attitude for them.

However, if Abby thought she'll be cool and, um, appreciate the art of your dancing when she came from practice with Manny to your dance class, she wasn't prepared to watch you repeat the same sequence again and again and fucking again because your hand movements were not right.

(As if anyone would watch your hands instead of watching your…everything. Abby couldn't really pick a place to look: your ass spins were amazing, but when you arched your back lying on the floor? God bless. Or when you were strutting forward, swaying your hips from side to side? Or when-)

It was a sweet torture for her, watching you do the same move: it felt like hell and heaven combined.

So she stayed and watched and ignored Ellie, who caught up with what was happening. She would grin teasingly at her and make small talk with her (fucking small talk, can you believe?), but wouldn't actually introduce Abby to you.

Abby felt like Ellie did it on purpose, a petty revenge for making fun of her crush on Dina, but Abby was patient - she knew the chance would present itself.



You've noticed the new addition to the usual sofa audience, and you'd steal curious glances at the hockey girl, as you've got used to calling her in your head. She was always so serious, watching everyone, almost as she was your choreographer.

You'd feel yourself blush every time the hockey girl would look at you with her usual intense stare, and you couldn't muster up the courage to go and say hi to her, even though you'd banter with others. You were curious what she thought of your dancing, if she noticed any mistakes or if she thought something was lacking in your performance.

Something about the hockey girl made you flustered and shy, so you've stayed away for a while. Sometimes you'd stand just in the right angle so that you could look at her with a good excuse that she was plainly in your direction. You liked the aura she had around herself, all serious and powerful, like she wouldn't take any shit from anyone.

You've also noticed she was friends with Ellie, but you were too shy to ask Ellie anything about the hockey girl, let alone to ask her to introduce you to her.

This evening you were working on a new group choreo, which meant Ellie was being bossy and sometimes annoying, but it didn't really bother you - at least you all had someone to tell you what you did wrong.

"We need to do it again." Ellie said, irritated.

"Fuck no." Dina said where she was laying on the floor, her head in your lap.

"Tough shit, we don't live in a democracy." Ellie took her place in the formation and everyone stood up too. Ellie was right, you needed to practise.

After three attempts it got better, but you felt like Ellie would kill everyone if it wasn't perfect in a week. Thank god for Manny, who peeked into the dance class and all attention shifted to him.

"Ladies, we've decided it's time for you to watch us, as it's only fair. We have a game this Friday, come watch."

"Watch you getting slammed into the boards? Gladly." Dina laughed.

"And we're having a party after, you're all invited." Manny winked, and you got hopeful all of a sudden.

Maybe that would be a chance to talk to the hockey girl?

-/-/-/-

When Friday rolled around, Abby wanted to strangle Manny for his stupid mouth. She knew you'd be in the audience, and it made her irrationally nervous, like she needed to make you like her, just the way you made her like you with your dancing.

Good thing she was one of the best on ice and the Scars were not the strongest team they've played against. She would be fine. Of course she would, she was Abby fucking Anderson.

Abby put her helmet on and went to the ice for the warmup. She felt hyped, her nervousness turning into competitiveness - it made her shots sharper, her skates faster, their teamwork better. Manny was praising her, but she just scoffed at the ridiculous asshole and carried on with her stretching.  

In the middle of the warmup Abby skated to the boards to take a breath, and she noticed the dance crew taking their seats. 

Abby immediately got hyper aware of your presence, her eyes locked on you. You were dressed in thigh-high socks and a skirt. Abby was so used to you wearing crop tops and joggers she was absolutely not ready to see you in a fucking skirt; her heart started to beat twice as fast as she looked at you, as you sat next to Dina and Ellie, smiling and talking to them. Abby felt her stick falling out of her hands and she barely managed to catch it before it fell on the ice, breaking the spell you had on her. 

"Careful, Anderson." Eric said sternly. "We don't need this kind of stupid fuckups during the game."

Abby rolled her eyes and skated over to others, purposely avoiding your side of the arena and focusing on her warmup - she was afraid if she looked at you she'd lose all her composure and her head wouldn't be in the game. 

You've never been to a hockey game before, so as soon as you sat with Ellie and Dina (not separating them, you didn't have a death wish), you started looking around with childish curiosity. You’ve noticed players on the ice, probably warming up, and you immediately found the hockey girl in the crowd - even though they all were in the same uniform, you knew who the hockey girl was right away. 

She was so damn cool and so damn hot while she skated, and it was only a warmup. 

Dina showed you how to fold a clap banner and you clapped it against your palm - it was a fun noise and you laughed, doing it a few more times, delighted.

Then the seat next to you got taken.

“Hi, (y/n).”

You turned your head to the voice and smiled - it was Finn, and you shared one class together. He was always seeking out your company - god knows why - but he wasn’t a bad guy, so you were friendly with him. He clearly wanted to talk to you, but the noise signalled that the game had started and you turned all your attention to the rink.

The hockey girl was magnificent on ice, all confidence and cold aggression and determination. She refused to let anyone stand in her way, making her shots practically flying on her skates. You watched her, absolutely mesmerised by her skills on ice and how her team relied on her. Fuck she was incredible. When she scored, you screamed your lungs out, jumping in your seat in excitement. Ellie screamed too (fuck yeah, get them Anderson! Holy shit it was cool) and Dina was aggressively hitting her clap banner on her thigh.

The first period ended and you suddenly remembered how underdressed you were - you were so nervous picking your outfit that you completely forgot you were going to the ice rink, meaning the sleeveless shirt you had on didn't really keep you warm. You rubbed your arms and checked the time - the moment the second period starts, you’ll be too lost in the game to care for your comfort.

“Are you cold?” Finn asked. 

“Yeah.”

Finn took his jacket off and put it around you. 

“Thank you.” You smiled, truly thankful and not picking up any subtle intentions. Finn started talking to you about the game and the sports in general, and you chatted with him until the second period started.

Fucking asshole, Abby thought, getting filled with rage by milliseconds. She acted before she thought, boarding the idiot so hard he probably blacked out for a second - that’s what you get after trying to check her. Referee sent her to the benches and Eric shook his head at her, but all Abby wanted to do was to flip him. She didn’t do it, but the desire was strong.

Abby sat at the benches and took her helmet off, stretching her neck. She finally decided she’d be fine if she looked at you. You, sitting next to some guy with (probably) his jacket around your shoulders. The jealousy filled her - who the fuck was this guy? God, what if you were straight? That thought never crossed Abby’s mind. In her book you definitely had some fruity vibes, so maybe bi? Not the point, who this guy was to you? Was he your boyfriend or was he some of those guys who flirted with you? Abby noticed all these people hitting on you in university and making you uncomfortable - but you seemed pretty comfortable with him. A friend? Shit, she had to find out. 

Her five minutes on the bench ran out, Abby put her helmet on and went back in the game, taking her frustrations out on her rivals, leading her team to victory.

God she hoped she’d see you at the party tonight.

[centrally-unplanned]

Richard Hanania is one of my poster child writers for the "he is an complete idiot and also very smart" genre. I disagree with him on virtually everything, particularly core beliefs, but he nonetheless is an actual critical thinker who will come up with and explore interesting ideas, and so he is valuable to follow for exposure to good discussion from a world you are otherwise not gonna touch (and for a good laugh the other half of the time).

This is definitely one of those posts - the US right (not that the left is immune to this by any stretch, this is just about the right) is so infused with an instinct towards perpetual victmization that it becomes easy to buy into their own framing that the Right has been losing front after front in the culture war. This is the foundational premise of The Cathedral, the Moldbug-coined New Right tenet that "Cthulhu Always Swims Left" aka the left's structural advantage in controlling ~institutions~ means that in status-quo modernity culture will shift left over and over, endlessly...and therefore you need to violently overthrow the state and purge the corrupt neoliberal bureaucratic order to realize the will of the silent volke embodied in a CEO-Monarch to turn back the tide. Anyway, Hanania does a good job of pointing out that its really kinda bullshit. Tons of our culture has turned right over the past decades; gun control, education, and economics are the big topics that he mentions, and of course more exist, and its been a result combinations of public opinion shifting and the power of the state implementing agendas, aka normal politics.

Some of this is a bit of an overstatement - victories on like abortion for example haven't shifted minds, but instead exploited the US's ludicrous legal system to back-door legislative reform through the courts, its not a replicable experience in many other contexts or any other country. But the point overall stands, which gestures at the real problem - the only topic where the New Right's analysis 'holds up' is onthe sexual revolution and queer rights, revealing a movement irrationality obsessed with the sex front of the culture war. Here Hanania stumbles into his stupidity on why the right hasn't been successful fighting this, not really grappling with the fact that for example gay marriage is just really popular, this is a bottom-down fundamental sea change in how people view sex and society's role in policing it.

The mistake The Cathedral devotees make in analyzing society is that they take a single sip from a branch of the river of History and assume they have drunk it dry; Society swam left from 1950 to 1980, and the New Right cannot help but obsess endlessly over that transition as The Future. Note how common this is - so many people harken to "the 1950's" as the steady-state idyll of American society, the American economy, identify as 'traditional' everything from holiday songs to food recipes that were all invented around this time and have no older origin than that. Its all myths, and The Cathedral is an extension of that trend - by identifying US society in 1950 as a centuries-old continuity of tradition, it sees the changes of the ensuing decades as a radical discontinuity, and therefore a terrifying new normal.

It is wrong the same way nostalgia-memes are wrong; history never had a steady state, and people's ideas of even the 1950's themselves are primarily myth. Turns out historical conceptions of queer relationships have varied widly across time and space - none have been as progressive as today, but societally sanctioned spaces for queer relationships are legion. There has never been a steady state on sex and society.

But! Modernity *is* different from the past, and certain things have changed irrevocably - there is a verison of The Cathedral that is true. Technology & economic development have radically changed how we lived, from a society of farmers and their rulers to a society of urban professional workers. Cultural norms around sex & society varied all over the place; but (to radically simplify, there are a bunch of other factors) marriage for children to work the farms was near-universal, it was a structural necessity culture was built upon. This was a harsh limiter on sexual norms - said marriage for children needed to undergird it. That limiter is gone, forever, today. To not dive into it because its not the focus, with the limiter gone I don't think the 'sexual revolution', feminism, and queer rights is going to revert in a major way in the future.

Which will permit the right, as long as it stays maniacally obsessed with the idea that people don't have 1950's sexual morality anymore, to claim that they Always Lose. This is why Hanania stumbles, making the opposite mistake - seeing the failure to fight the sexual revolution as just a failed southern offensive in comparison to a successful northern attack on the front of education. The real trap is to not understand that culture is not freely malleable, only some of it is 'up for grabs' from the perspective of activists. Within the new status qup equilibrium of modernity, shifts right and left are not only possible but inevitable - but the rules of game have to be understood. Hanania may have only gotten halfway there, but props to him for opening my eyes to the contradiction.

[dk-thrive]

Our mission, it seems, has to do with the mind.

We’re living in what they call the “Information Age,” but life only seems to be making less sense. We’re isolated, listless, burnt out on screens, cutting loved ones out like tumors in the spirit of “boundaries,” failing to understand other people’s choices or even our own. The machine is malfunctioning, and we’re trying to think our way out of it. In 1961, Marxist philosopher Frantz Fanon wrote, “Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it or betray it.” Our mission, it seems, has to do with the mind.

— Amanda Montell, The Age of Magical Overthinking: Notes on Modern Irrationality (Atria/One Signal Publishers, April 9, 2024)

[tartagliaxx]

。SINKING IN SQUARE OCEAN

━━ PAIRING: tartaglia/reader

━━ CONTAINS: modern!au, usage of childe's real name, briefly mentioned college!au, childe is over 20, exes to open interpretation, not beta'd

━━ WORDCOUNT: 0.9k

━━ NOTES: figure it's childe who drags me back here. enjoy whatever this is that i thought of at 2am and wrote while half-asleep. anyway, don't be like them who wait for or send messages to your exes xoxo

━━ CHILDE'S BIRTHDAY 2023

A taunting red circle with the number 46 written on it (in some random Sans Serif font he couldn’t care less about) mocked him. He thought about it—played with the idea of tapping the irrationally vibrant gradient of the app and just copy-pasting a half-assed 'thank you' message stored and minutely edited in his notes app before tapping send and rinsing and repeating and—in the end, he chose to cling immaturely to the sincerity hidden under the wraps of his fragile humanity. He thinks of it this way; like the unsettling emptiness that sinks in when the bouncing Sony logo doesn’t hit the corners of the television screen. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to be half-hearted to anyone when they went through the trouble of greeting him on his special day. It’s a lonely feeling to be disregarded. He knows that. He’s the special boy of the day but he feels disregarded, and it’s a lonely feeling, and he’s reminded of it all over again so he groans into his pillow, suffocates himself a little before he’s back again to staring at the taunting red circle. 46 messages but none of them were from who he wanted it from the most.

He’s prepared himself for the inevitable disappointment at least three days ago. He’s psyched himself up saying ‘C’mon Ajax! It’s just a message! You can do without it!’ because yes, he can do without another repetitive, standard greeting that may or may not have confetti or cake emojis. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t count. He doesn’t hold it against anyone if they didn’t tag him on an Instagram story with a picture of him and their person together. It was fine. Pleasantries are overrated anyway.

So why? Why did this one—or the lack of it—hurt?

He’s not the perfect boyfriend. He thinks he’s particularly an even worse ex-boyfriend because ex-boyfriends cut you some slack and give you some space and never think about your shared times together at 11:45PM the night before an early shift. Good ex-boyfriends don’t stare at their phones, refreshing profiles and friends’ profiles for even the faintest shadow of their ex. Okay ex-boyfriends don’t make burner accounts like a freaking stalker just so he can still press the tiny heart button at the corner because he does like-love it. The photo. You. Who knows. But what he does know is that even bad ex-boyfriends let go and that’s the thing. Letting go is the one thing he can’t do and it all comes rounding back to his predicament. He’s staring at the taunting red circle that remains unchanging even as he blinks and swipes and opens and exits other apps. It stays the same.

Someone knocks on the door and he mumbles an unintelligible reply. He thinks he hears a ‘Good night, ‘Jax. Happy Birthday’ from his mother. When her footsteps recede and leave him back to the solitary confines of silence and his yellowed walls, it was 12:02AM. His entire arm feels cold and it’s partly because the fan was hitting it and partly because blood has moved down from how he’s been holding his phone while lying in bed. It’s uncomfortable. He feels his palm turning sweaty too.

So he drops it.

It falls and hits his hip and he winces while it clutters to his side over rumpled Spiderman bed sheets that he’s had since he was eight. Honey-ginger fans against his freckled cheeks before it settles, closing finally and accepting the nihility that comes with the darkness.

But then he snaps them open again and he blindly reaches for his phone, furrowing his brows as he’s assaulted by the light from his lock screen—a family picture taken on a very bright sunny day. He ought to change it for midnights like this. Later though, after he sets an alarm because he has to earn some way and tomorrow, he’s on the early shift.

It’s 12:08AM when he freezes. A taunting red circle with the number 47 written on it (in some random Sans Serif font he couldn’t care less about) mocked him. His thumb hovers over it, controlled by his mind that chastises his heart for feeling ecstatic when it can be anything but the thing he wished for when he blew his birthday candles. In the end, he steels himself from disappointment all over again, tapping the corner and feeling ice-cold water pour over him as he sees your nickname.

“Happy Birthday. More birthdays to co”

He knows that—knows you, knows that the ‘o’ in the keyboard is close to the ‘send’ beside the text bar so before you could try to exit the app or pretend to be offline, his fingers that were tensing from the cold aftermath of the rain were fumbling to type a reply.

“Tank u but mt bday is yestrday :P”

He cringes at the typos and the reply and the emoticon and he never wanted to die as much as he did today, a day after his twenty-something birthday. He lost count. Time stopped for him at twenty—at the day he moved back into his family home after dropping out of college and leaving you.

With his eyes squeezed tightly, he mutters hopes and wishes to a god he didn’t believe in. Still, he was willing to convert if they spared him the aftershocks of birthday magic. It’s only ten minutes after his birthday. That’s got to count for something, right? 

Seconds trickle by slowly but it appears. Three dots circle and dance cyclically and hesitantly but they do and he knows, at least, that the conversation’s not over yet, and that for now, that’s enough.

© 2023 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐗𝐗. all rights reserved. do not copy, claim, repost or translate in any platforms but reblogs are appreciated.

[submarinerwrites]

v.c. andrews, flowers in the attic

★★★★☆

flowers in the attic is a classic of modern gothic fiction. published in 1979, it tells the story of the four dollanganger siblings and their imprisonment in the attic of their ancestral home.

my boyfriend and i picked this as our second bookclub book. i was extremely excited to read it since it’s been on my mental tbr since i heard about it in middle school, but i’d always been dissuaded from even purchasing the book by my mother, who found it deeply disturbing. i didn’t. in fact, there was something comforting about the story. flowers in the attic reminded me strongly of adolescence and the feeling of confinement that pervaded mine and so reading it was deeply cathartic in that sense.

andrews has an incredible sense of atmosphere. the entire novel feels like a fairytale—not, of course, a sanitized disney version but one of the real ones, with teeth. even at its most intense moments, the novel remains dreamy and somnolent, reminiscent of radcliffe’s seductively hypnotic prose (but probably honestly not as good), a sensation that’s enhanced by cathy’s deeply disturbing semi-prophetic dream sequences. this romantic fairytale atmosphere would be interesting to compare with the virgin suicides probably.

i will note that this is actually a story where i feel like the horror/terror distinction promogulated by radcliffe does actually make sense. flowers in the attic does not, in my opinion, ever actually reach the point of horror—it doesn’t paralyze your senses with fear, if that makes sense. you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop, which of course radcliffe argues is an atmosphere of terror. even the scenes that most align with the idea of horror end up closer to terror due to andrews’s frequent deescalation of the plot. before cathy and chris are forced to eat raw mice to survive, for instance, they discover the grandmother (supposedly, though based on later evidence i actually think it was more likely their mother) has left them their picnic basket of food. and again, even when horrific things happen, andrews’s prose decisions mean that they don’t feel like horror.

this is also an interesting novel to think about with respect to the male and female gothic, a distinction i think is usually reductive but which interests me here. andrews spent much of her life in a wheelchair while living with a mother who was ashamed of her. as such, much of the novel resonates with radcliffe’s concern about female dependency, consanguineal responsibility, and property rights. it’s very mysteries of udolpho of andrews tbh.

on the subject of consanguineal responsibility: typically, within the gothic, it’s the traitorous family member who commits the act of incest, because the incest is a metaphor for the way their familial responsibilities have been perverted. here, however, chris is not the villain, and cathy does love him, deeply and irrationally. it’s a neat kind of inversion: even though their incestuous relationship is a consequence of a lack of consanguineal responsibility, it’s not necessarily about chris’s specific role in that failure. andrews’s inversion of the concept keeps their relationship romantic, and enchanted, and almost sacred.

also!! hellOOO freudian attraction to the opposite sex parent!! not gonna get into it but it reminded me strongly of the idea that the relationship between fathers and daughters is always already erotically charged.

i will say that the intensity of this erotic parental relationship for both cathy and chris honestly makes the eventual transgression of the incest taboo seem less surprising? lmao. like their attraction to their parents is so intense that it makes sense for them to also be attracted to each other, especially since the book makes so much of them being their parents’s clones.

idk i just thought there should have been more guilt and angst over the incest, but really it felt like both cathy and chris accepted it as the natural course of things. which for them it was, and in some ways i was glad there wasn’t that much shame because there usually is with female teenage protagonists who have sex, even without the element of incest, but at the same time, the shame is what makes it delicious. so i do wish there were more.

and on a similar note, the fact that chris rapes cathy is soooo intensely romance novel coded. her desire for chris is obvious and intense and terrifying and i think in some ways the rape is meant to be the author’s gift to cathy. the onus of desire is taken off of her and she gets to have what she wants without having to ask for it or feel guilty for having it happen. idk much to think about here.

other things i loved: the blood-drinking!! holy shit, that was a good scene. as i think i’ve discussed before, cannibalism and incest have been inextricably symbolically linked since literally the eighteenth century, so i loved that andrews included it. but at the same time, that scene is incredibly tender and loving, which is such a delightful inversion.

as far as the prose goes, it was entertaining but not strictly speaking what i would call great or even especially good. it’s not bad, but it’s not even close to the most compelling thing about the novel: there are no lines that i feel really stuck out to me. it was just kind of... there. not necessarily in a bad way, but the content was clearly more important to andrews than the form.

overall, i really enjoyed the novel. i adore the gothic as a genre, and i can see why it became a cult classic. there’s so much about flowers in the attic that’s compelling, and compelling for young women in particular, and it’s honestly a novel i’d love to share with any future daughters.

[acotars]

books read in 2024

⋆ ⭒˚.⋆ january ⋆.˚⭒ ⋆

one dark window (the shepherd king #1) by rachel gillig

the murder on the links (hercule poirot #2) by agatha christie

pageboy by elliot page

house of sky and breath (crescent city #2) by sarah j. maas

rogue protocol (the murderbot diaries #3) by martha wells

cult classic by sloane crosley

malibu rising by taylor jenkins reid

the beauty of your face by sahar mustafah

exit strategy (the murderbot diaries #4) by martha wells

animal farm by george orwell

everyone in this room will someday be dead by emily austin

carrie soto is back by taylor jenkins reid

a court this cruel & lovely (kingdom of lies #1) by stacia stark

the rules do not apply by ariel levy

poirot investigates (hercule poirot #3) by agatha christie

yellowface by rebecca f kuang

every heart a doorway (wayward children #1) by seanan mcguire

house of flame and shadow (crescent city #3) by sarah j. maas

read: 18

* · ✦ · * february * · ✦ · *

beautyland by marie-helene bertino

bride by ali hazelwood

network effect (the murderbot diaries #5) by martha wells

fugitive telemetry (the murderbot diaries #6) by martha wells

faebound (faebound #1) by saara el-arifi

the raven boys (the raven cycle #1) by maggie stiefvater **

read: 6

.✦.· *. march .*· .✦.

interesting facts about space by emily austin

penance by eliza clark

the book that no one wanted to read by richard ayoade

pride and prejudice by jane austen

unlikeable female characters: the women pop culture wants you to hate by anna bogutskaya

the shame by makenna goodman

greta & valdin by rebecca k. reilly

read: 7

✷ · ✶ · ✧ april �� · ✶ · ✷

this spells love by kate robb

out on a limb by hannah bonam-young

gwen & art are not in love by lex croucher

a lady's guide to scandal by sophie irwin

the friendship study by ruby barrett

the boyfriend candidate by ashley winstead

the pumpkin spice cafe by laurie gilmore

business or pleasure by rachel lynn solomon

how to end a love story by yulin kuang

this could be us (skyland #2) by kennedy ryan

the honeymoon crashers (the unhoneymooners #1.5) by christina lauren

we could have been friends, my father and i by raja shehadeh

how to stop time by matt haig

how to fake it in hollywood by ava wilder

with love from cold world by alicia thompson

funny story by emily henry

love radio by ebony ladelle

old flames and new fortunes by sarah hogle

just for the summer by abby jimenez

don't want you like a best friend by emma r. alban

love interest by clare gilmore

the exception to the rule (the improbable meet-cute #1) by christina lauren

worst wingman ever (the improbable meet-cute #2) by abby jimenez

with any luck (the improbable meet-cute #5) by ashley poston

last call at the local by sara grunder ruiz

happily never after by lynn painter

the ex talk by rachel lynn solomon

i kissed shara wheeler by casey mcquiston

the love wager by lynn painter

morning glory milking farm by c.m. nacosta

will they or won't they by ava wilder

read: 31

.　° * ☆ may ☆ * °　.

when the sky fell on splendor by emily henry

on earth we're briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong

blizzard by marie vingtras

bright young women by jessica knoll

the age of magical overthinking: notes on modern irrationality by amanda montell

the flatshare by beth o'leary **

read: 6

⋆ ˚.⋆ june ⋆.˚ ⋆

not in love by ali hazelwood

the way of kings (the stormlight archive #1) by brandon sanderson

words of radiance (the stormlight archive #2) by brandon sanderson

read: 3

. · ☆ . july . ☆ · .

edgedancer (the stormlight archive #2.5) by brandon sanderson

blue iris: poems and essays by mary oliver

woman, eating by claire kohda

oathbringer (the stormlight archive #3) by brandon sanderson

a novel love story by ashley poston

chlorine by jade song

how to read now by elain castillo

please stop trying to leave me by alana saab

beautifully broken life by catherine cowles

the god of the woods by liz moore

edgedancer (the stormlight archive #3.5) by brandon sanderson

the dead and the dark by courtney gould

a most agreeable murder by julia seales

the murder of roger ackroyd (hercule poirot #4) by agatha christie

read: 14

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁august ݁. ⊹ ₊ ݁.

the bluest eye by toni morrison

more, please: on food, fat, bingeing, longing, and the lust for "enough" by emma specter

the ministry of time by kaliane bradley

system collapse (the murderbot diaries #7) by martha wells

emily wilde's encycolpedia of fairies (emily wilde #1) by heather fawcett

emily wilde's map of the other lands (emily wilde #2) by heather fawcett

catalina by karla cornejo villavicencio

roadside picnic by arkady strugatsky and boris strugatsky

read: 8

reading goal: 93/100

add me on goodreads !

[quotes-for-the-soul]

We cannot perceive self-doubt as a weakness, and we shouldn't demand undying certainty even from experts, or they will surely bullshit us in order to meet that expectation. WASPs in turtlenecks will overpromise eager investors. They'll press launch before the rocket is ready.

The Age of Magical Overthinking: Notes on Modern Irrationality by Amanda Montell

[argyrocratie]

In reconstructing the Degenerate Art debates, we shall see that Susa’s belief that the Egyptian surrealists of the Art and Liberty group were “blindly enslaved” to “Western art and its latest blunders” (which is to say, European modernism) is at the heart of much of al-Risala’s criticisms. Such remarks point to the growing nationalist concern among the Egyptian liberal intellectual elites that cosmopolitanism in arts and ideas was a form of European cultural imperialism and dependence. The al-Risala writers who spoke out against Art and Liberty regarded it as a mouthpiece for “foreign” ideas that would interfere with the development of an independent “Egyptian for Egypt’s sake” national style of art.

What is interesting to note, though, is how the liberal-nationalist attitudes at al-Risala closely paralleled those of anti-surrealist critics in other nations. Surrealists’ valorization of incomprehensibility, uncertainty, irrationality, and desire (as well as their repugnance for civilization’s coercive objective conventions for determining what is “real”) drew contempt from all corners throughout the 1930s. They were denounced as Germanophiles, Bolsheviks, bourgeois snobs, and social-fascists by a variety of commentators in France; in the US, they were mocked as silly, trendy foreign aesthetes whose theories were suitable only for high fashion and department store advertising (and, later in the 1940s, for FBI surveillance); in Yugoslavia, Romania, and Peru, surrealists were thrown into forced labor camps; in Denmark, they were vilified by the press as pornographers and jailed for morals offenses; and the Soviets condemned them as “anti-proletarian” for their criticism of socialist realism. The Japanese Imperial Higher Special Police monitored and arrested them and forced them to recant their deviant views; they were persecuted in Salazar’s Portugal, Franco’s Spain, Mussolini’s Italy, and Hitler’s Germany; and they were forced into clandestine activity by constant threats of arrest and execution in Greece and Czechoslovakia. In response to a 1938 exhibition in London of Belgian surrealist René Magritte’s work, one newspaper critic reported himself “almost persuaded to be a Nazi,” since “Goebbels, at any rate, will not tolerate such stuff.”

In this sense, at least, the anti-surrealist writers at al-Risala were themselves more cosmopolitan than they liked to believe.

-Don LaCoss, “Egyptian Surrealism and ʻDegenerate Artʼ in 1939″

[darkrpfinders]

[* 1x1 request intro ] hihi, i'm seeking 18+ writers only for a dark romance / possible dead dove. oc x oc pairing of the: daughter of rich man's mistress (f) x rich man's legitimate son (m). i'm practically gnawing at the bars of my cage because i crave this one specific dark romance plot so badly. please, come at me if you wanna give me tension, twistedness, and crossed lines... i need red flag actions and toxic emotions in spades for this one,, pls gang,, lets serve chaos and obliterate the thin line between love/hate with this rp 🙏

[ * the plot basis ] f oc is the daughter of m oc's father's mistress and her irrationally beautiful and irreverent existence makes the cruel and prodigial son feel sick with so many intense and unspeakable emotions. he wants revenge and to rule, while she wants to survive and escape. the ocs trauma and upbringing provokes them into a dark game full of revenge and twisted desires. after all, f's existence has cast a shadow on m's iron-fisted rule, so he needs to put her in her place for his family/revenge's sake. while m's cruelty has led the f into a victimhood that she never desired to have, with a resentment building as she fights against him... they'll finally settle their familial debt by using their minds and bodies as a makeshift canvas and scoreboard.

[* setting ] an old money and upper crust seting full of endless money, power-fuelled hierarchy, and cutthroat machinations. i can see dark academia themes and secret society's as a possiblity. modern-day royalty, corporate elite, or a political dynasty are all viable as the family's elite basis. need a very dark family history with a lot of family secrets and in-fighting. lets have fun with with possible worldbuilding and plotting, just as much as the romance.

[ * notes ] details pending on how the cat n mouse game / revenge seeking would pan out because i can go as dark or as light as my fellow writer desires. bad endings full of mindbreak/torture are a-okay with me, AND i'm also fine with a toxic codependant romance forming to soften the ocs into a happier-ending. could see lots of dead dove ⚰️🕊️ themes in the plot if the other writer is comfortable with it (mindgames, dubcon/noncon (?), power imbalance, incest/fauxcest (?), toxicity, darker kinks, possessiveness, psychological horror, god complexes, ownership/obsession, etc). ultimately, i need the m being completely obsessed with the f, and it culminating in him wanting to break her. while she will fight back as best as she can because she is her mothers daughter just as much as he is his fathers son. possible reverse harem / poly antics are fine with me if m's best friends want to get in on the action but not a necessity. maybe secret society and fucked up frat rituals are in play. possibly, an elite academy or university setting, or alternately, a set-up for a fucked up arranged marriage. i would love an exploration into both ocs very fucked-up mindsets. we can workshop things together. <3.

[ * housekeeping ]

i'm 21f+ writer, so looking for fellow 18+ writers only. (cismen dni, and under-18s dni.)

flexible literacy. para to multi-para or multi-message (literate-novella).

i want to write as the f in a mxf pairing for this idea, or mxfxm if desired. my oc idea is new but fairly developed.

fine with realistic fcs (actors or models) manwha/manga fcs or descriptive fcs. small note that my oc will likely be asian as the two character concepts that i'm currently dying to write are asian. also note, i'm fine with giving/taking fc suggestions if needed.

i ADORE headcanons, pinboards, plotting n rambling, side threads/text threads, and playlists. my beloved chatty and rambly writers– pls hmu because we are the same !! i love to yap about ocs and pairings way too much.

love, love, love darker themes, dead dove, smut etc, but i will also respect limits and expect the same in return. expanding on this point, limits and specific rp desires will be discussed in dms before moving to discord.

like/comment if interested.

.

[findroleplay]

[* 1x1 request intro ] hihi, i'm seeking 18+ writers only for a dark romance / possible dead dove. oc x oc pairing of the: daughter of rich man's mistress (f) x rich man's legitimate son (m). i'm practically gnawing at the bars of my cage because i crave this one specific dark romance plot so badly. please, come at me if you wanna give me tension, twistedness, and crossed lines... i need red flag actions and toxic emotions in spades for this one,, pls gang,, lets serve chaos and obliterate the thin line between love/hate with this rp 🙏

[ * the plot basis ] f oc is the daughter of m oc's father's mistress and her irrationally beautiful and irreverent existence makes the cruel and prodigial son feel sick with so many intense and unspeakable emotions. he wants revenge and to rule, while she wants to survive and escape. the ocs trauma and upbringing provokes them into a dark game full of revenge and twisted desires. after all, f's existence has cast a shadow on m's iron-fisted rule, so he needs to put her in her place for his family/revenge's sake. while m's cruelty has led the f into a victimhood that she never desired to have, with a resentment building as she fights against him... they'll finally settle their familial debt by using their minds and bodies as a makeshift canvas and scoreboard.

[* setting ] an old money and upper crust seting full of endless money, power-fuelled hierarchy, and cutthroat machinations. i can see dark academia themes and secret society's as a possiblity. modern-day royalty, corporate elite, or a political dynasty are all viable as the family's elite basis. need a very dark family history with a lot of family secrets and in-fighting. lets have fun with with possible worldbuilding and plotting, just as much as the romance.

[ * notes ] details pending on how the cat n mouse game / revenge seeking would pan out because i can go as dark or as light as my fellow writer desires. bad endings full of mindbreak/torture are a-okay with me, AND i'm also fine with a toxic codependant romance forming to soften the ocs into a happier-ending. could see lots of dead dove ⚰️🕊️ themes in the plot if the other writer is comfortable with it (mindgames, dubcon/noncon (?), power imbalance, incest/fauxcest (?), toxicity, darker kinks, possessiveness, psychological horror, god complexes, ownership/obsession, etc). ultimately, i need the m being completely obsessed with the f, and it culminating in him wanting to break her. while she will fight back as best as she can because she is her mothers daughter just as much as he is his fathers son. possible reverse harem / poly antics are fine with me if m's best friends want to get in on the action but not a necessity. maybe secret society and fucked up frat rituals are in play. possibly, an elite academy or university setting, or alternately, a set-up for a fucked up arranged marriage. i would love an exploration into both ocs very fucked-up mindsets. we can workshop things together. <3.

[ * housekeeping ]

i'm 21f+ writer, so looking for fellow 18+ writers only. (cismen dni, and under-18s dni.)

flexible literacy. para to multi-para or multi-message (literate-novella).

i want to write as the f in a mxf pairing for this idea, or mxfxm if desired. my oc idea is new but fairly developed.

fine with realistic fcs (actors or models) manwha/manga fcs or descriptive fcs. small note that my oc will likely be asian as the two character concepts that i'm currently dying to write are asian. also note, i'm fine with giving/taking fc suggestions if needed.

i ADORE headcanons, pinboards, plotting n rambling, side threads/text threads, and playlists. my beloved chatty and rambly writers– pls hmu because we are the same !! i love to yap about ocs and pairings way too much.

love, love, love darker themes, dead dove, smut etc, but i will also respect limits and expect the same in return. expanding on this point, limits and specific rp desires will be discussed in dms before moving to discord.

like/comment if interested.

-

[midsommersonnets]

[ * 1x1 request intro ] hihi, i'm seeking 18+ writers only for a dark romance / possible dead dove. oc x oc pairing of the: daughter of rich man's mistress (f) x rich man's legitimate son (m). i'm practically gnawing at the bars of my cage because i crave this one specific dark romance plot so badly. please, come at me if you wanna give me tension, twistedness, and crossed lines... i need red flag actions and toxic emotions in spades for this one,, pls gang,, lets serve chaos and obliterate the thin line between love/hate with this rp 🙏

[ * the plot basis ] f oc is the daughter of m oc's father's mistress and her irrationally beautiful and irreverent existence makes the cruel and prodigial son feel sick with so many intense and unspeakable emotions. he wants revenge and to rule, while she wants to survive and escape. the ocs trauma and upbringing provokes them into a dark game full of revenge and twisted desires. after all, f's existence has cast a shadow on m's iron-fisted rule, so he needs to put her in her place for his family/revenge's sake. while m's cruelty has led the f into a victimhood that she never desired to have, with a resentment building as she fights against him... they'll finally settle their familial debt by using their minds and bodies as a makeshift canvas and scoreboard.

[* setting ] an old money and upper crust seting full of endless money, power-fuelled hierarchy, and cutthroat machinations. i can see dark academia themes and secret society's as a possiblity. modern-day royalty, corporate elite, or a political dynasty are all viable as the family's elite basis. need a very dark family history with a lot of family secrets and in-fighting. lets have fun with with possible worldbuilding and plotting, just as much as the romance.

[ * notes ] details pending on how the cat n mouse game / revenge seeking would pan out because i can go as dark or as light as my fellow writer desires. bad endings full of mindbreak/torture are a-okay with me, AND i'm also fine with a toxic codependant romance forming to soften the ocs into a happier-ending. could see lots of dead dove ⚰️🕊️ themes in the plot if the other writer is comfortable with it (mindgames, dubcon/noncon (?), power imbalance, incest/fauxcest (?), toxicity, darker kinks, possessiveness, psychological horror, god complexes, ownership/obsession, etc). ultimately, i need the m being completely obsessed with the f, and it culminating in him wanting to break her. while she will fight back as best as she can because she is her mothers daughter just as much as he is his fathers son. possible reverse harem / poly antics are fine with me if m's best friends want to get in on the action but not a necessity. maybe secret society and fucked up frat rituals are in play. possibly, an elite academy or university setting, or alternately, a set-up for a fucked up arranged marriage. i would love an exploration into both ocs very fucked-up mindsets. we can workshop things together. <3.

[ * housekeeping ]

i'm 21f+ writer, so looking for fellow 18+ writers only. (cismen dni, and under-18s dni.)

flexible literacy. para to multi-para or multi-message (literate-novella). gotta let yall know that i do italicise in rp replies.

i want to write as the f role in a mxf pairing for this idea, or mxfxm if desired. small note that i don't write doubles.

fine with realistic fcs (actors or models) manwha/manga fcs or descriptive fcs. small note that my oc will likely be asian as the two character concepts that i'm currently dying to write are asian. also note, i'm fine with giving/taking fc suggestions if needed.

i ADORE headcanons, pinboards, plotting n rambling, side threads/text threads, and playlists. my beloved chatty and rambly writers– pls hmu because we are the same !! i love to yap about ocs and pairings way too much.

love love love darker themes, dead dove, and smut, but its not a necessity. i will always respect limits and expect the same in return. expanding on this point, limits and specific rp desires will be discussed in dms before moving to discord.

like/comment/dm if interested.