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theinsideofablackhole · 18 days ago

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Dissecting the Watcher's story & characters

⚠️ BIG EDIT ⚠️ I want to share a much, MUCH more compelling reading of the DLC's primary ending, courtesy of @characteranalysisthethird. You can find it in this reblog, spoilers of course.

I've seen a number of people claiming that the Watcher DLC has no story and that the slugcat has no characterization, but I definitely think it's there.

(SPOILERS FOR THE WHOLE DLC!) There are no spoilers for the secondary ending until about halfway down, where there is a warning.

Adventurous...

Since this post gets a bit meandering, I will spell out the general framework of the story here:

The Watcher is a shy, lonely individual who desperately struggles to find companionship after their childhood was cut short. They will go to great lengths to achieve this connection.

Timid mouse

"And through the middle of it all, a lonely lost slugcat trying their best to outlast the ravages of a warped world."

Why are they called the Watcher? It's due to their nonconfrontational, withdrawn demeanor. This is immediately apparent in the intro dream:

When Watcher's parent steps up to fight the aggressive slugcat, Watcher's sibling joins in. But Watcher just hides away, afraid to confront the danger. It's unclear if their family survived the tussle, but they never reunite again. Watcher's shy demeanor has severed them from their family.

Time passes and Watcher grows a bit older, wandering around in what seems like a futile search for their family. Here, they meet Spinning Top, the child Echo.

A desire to bond

Within the DLC's story, youthfulness is tied to a fear of isolation & loneliness.

Spinning Top has been lost & drifting for a long time. When they ascended, they feared the loss of connection to their old life and their loved ones. So they remained on world, searching for a sign that their loved ones still miss them.

This desperate pursuit has led them to travel across reality for eons and eons. By the time Watcher meets them, Spinning Top is now combing through places that have no relation to their life. Spinning Top won't find any sign of grief or remembrance in Coral Caves or Rusted Wreck, so why are they drifting along these pointless locations?

Spinning Top's loneliness and persistence arose because, as a child, they lacked the experience of maturing and could not handle the radical acceptance required to ascend. They are scared to accept the truth: their childhood has come and gone. Their loved ones eventually moved on and also left the world behind. Spinning Top is the only one holding onto this long-defunct family.

Shadow reflecting radiance

Watcher and Spinning Top are very similar characters. Both are lonely children that have been severed from their parents and siblings, and wish to revive the childhood that was ripped away from them. They're desperate to rekindle some kind of connection.

Throughout the campaign, Watcher continually searches for Spinning Top because they're the only individual that Watcher has seen who could bring a greater connection than chomping, fleeing, or stabbing. They even give Watcher the gift of infant godhood!

These childlike characters both find companionship in each other. In fact, Watcher's companionship is what gives Spinning Top the strength to return to the location of their actual memory, and confront the truth of their loneliness.

"All my mothers and fathers and crechemates who went along without me… Do they note my absence? I've traveled from the furthest future to the very seed of our past, and I see no evidence. Only echoes and strays. Aloof. Alone. Afraid."

Spinning Top accepts that it is best to grow up and move on, and so they disappear, finally ascending for real. Watcher, however, does not seem to learn the same lesson from this journey.

I NO LONGER AGREE WITH THIS READING! Instead, I believe that the ending shows Watcher having accepted their isolation in the same way that Spinning Top did, which is why they're content... and alone. I discovered this reading courtesy of @characteranalysisthethird, and you can find a reblog of it here.

While they may seem happy playing with toys, it's still a symbol of juvenility. Despite everything that has happened to them, they still embody a desire to recapture their lost childhood.

And now, Watcher is alone once more. Soon, they will seek out a new companion.

Ripplespace as a symbol of isolation

Before I discuss the second ending, I want to talk about Watcher's abilities and the symbols they embody.

The ripple-world that Watcher is (accidentally?) transported to by Spinning Top is a continuation of the aching, drifting nature of these two characters. They are unable to stay in place for long, constantly seraching for a sign of connection.

Watcher's "gift" of invisibility is a clear extension of their characterization. They tackle threats by hiding away, slipping past unnoticed. As their Ripple level rises, the cloak begins pushing Watcher further out of their typical plane of reality, creating tears into a wholly different plane. And when they reach the (as of now) maximum Ripple level, Watcher is fully pulled out of the material plane and into Ripplespace. Here, they are truly alone except for the primitive, gnawing voidspawn.

Every gift seems to give way to a curse of isolation. Watcher has to detach themselves from reality itself to survive, and the gift-giver Spinning Top leaves them behind.

Endless hunger

SPOILERS FOR THE SECOND ENDING.

Here's a cool divider.

While the purple Throne Rot seen across the campaign may not play by the same rules as Five Pebbles' Rot, its behavior is equivalent. The Rot is the ultimate embodiment of primal struggle, a collective consciousness of brain meat that forever hungers to consume as much of the world as it can reach. It is not unintelligent, but it is very one-minded.

From The Throne itself, a giant flower blooms and gives birth to the Prince.

The Prince is a piece of the Throne Rot that has partially separated itself from its collective consciousness. It is an individual connected to the Throne Rot, but it has its own mind. "STARVING, pressing, grinding, SQUEEZING against... us? But now... I? A... SELF. And… an OTHER."

The Prince is an imitation of an Iterator puppet. This part of his identity causes him to believe that he was born to solve the Big Problem, by assimilating the entire world into the Throne Rot. "The imperative that was in THEM [the Iterators] remains in me." "Imagine: a single substrate… Life! (...) Nothing lost. No one lost. From bug to god, all as one. A TRUE end to the pattern."

I personally don't believe this was the original goal of the Throne Rot, but rather the Prince instinctually assigning purpose to his new life as an individual. He rationalizes his intrinsic hunger to consume in the lens of a "higher" ideal.

You can see how the Prince reflects Watcher's desire for connection in a deeply twisted manner. They're both in an endless pursuit to connect—Watcher offers itself to others as a companion, while the Prince takes companions and forces them into himself.

Opposing will

The Prince loves Watcher. He considers them to be a great friend, as they are the primary individual responsible for spreading the Throne Rot and the only one to have witnessed their genesis. "You have done so much for me, I will not burden you with my troubles. Please, rest here as long as you wish. You are always safe here, my dear friend. You, who were there for me."

Watcher has finally found it—a new companion, who showers them with praise and affection. Out of an acute desire to retain this friend, they go on to spread the Throne Rot across all the threads that connect the ripple-world. Every viable world is corrupted.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—something goes terribly wrong for the Prince. "I can almost feel... a will... at odds with my own."

Karma is antithetical to corruption. When the Throne Rot sufficiently engulfs the "fringes" of the ripple-world (Outer Rim and the Rotted vanilla regions), these regions become unstable and you cannot create a warp to escape them. However, there are pockets in The Throne where a bed of Karma Flowers allows you to exit. It's unknown if the phenomenon is natural or intelligent, but Karma inherently opposes the Rot.

When Watcher returns after corrupting all the regions, Karma Flower begin sprouting from the ground of The Throne. The Prince attempts to keep them in, but he ultimately fails—he freezes up, and countless Karma Flowers sprout from the corruption. The Throne Rot might not be outright dead, but its power has clearly been drained. The Prince has failed.

Karma Flowers are all over the map now. The "unstable fringes" have also been stabilized by their presence. You can create a warp to leave Outer Rim and the Throne from anywhere, and the same goes for the Rotted vanilla regions.

Going by the tone of the select screen art, Watcher just seems to mourn their loss. Another new friend, unceremoniously ripped from them.

Moving forward

Watcher cannot seem to find connection. Their family left and possibly died. They helped Spinning Top mature, but Spinning Top left—given that they viewed corporeal and primal life as absurd, they were bound to do this.

Watcher may have attained infant godhood, but their powers encourage them to hide away and detach themselves from the world, concealing them in the desolate Ripplespace with nothing but occasionally violent voidspawn.

It's almost scary how this godlet is willing to go such great lengths to secure companionship, falling for the Prince and corrupting the entire accessible ripple-world to make their friend happy. This friendship ends fruitlessly, too.

Watcher will eventually have a full conclusion to their story. So where will they go from here?

Narratively, I don't think Watcher will get what they want. Their next (and final, I believe) venture for companionship will end in ruin once again... but possibly, Watcher will recognize that while other people come and go, the only constant who will always be there for them is Watcher themselves, and they will learn to overcome the trauma and yearning of their lost childhood.

^ (I think this theme is actually what the Spinning Top ending is already trying to say, andWatcher realizes this very principle thanks to Spinning Top.)

That's my slightly blunt prediction for the overarching theme of the Watcher.

Extra thoughts

Scav Prediction

I personally believe the next arc will involve Scavengers. In the old pre-release Watcher concept, Watcher journyed with an enlightened Scavenger. While James Primate has stated before that Downpour kinda stole the old concept's thunder (i.e. with Artificer), I get a strong indication that the next arc will still involve Scavengers because of the new Acolytes.

Acolytes are Scavengers who are BRIMMING with attributes that reflect a knowledge of Karma and Ripples.

Acolytes wear glowing golden masks and clothes

A faint Karma symbol between 6-10 surrounds them, suggesting that they are already enlightened (or their armor is imbued with some kind of karmic concentration)

When they are grabbed by a predator, they initiate a crazy karmic retaliation blast to free themselves (which I failed to get a GIF of)

The blindfolded Disciple Acolytes emit a sort of karmic echolocation ping that detects entities from a distance

The definition of an "acolyte" is "a person assisting the celebrant in a religious service or procession". The celebrant is someone performing a rite; often a priest. This implies the acolytes are carrying something out for a leader who is almost certainly not the Chieftain Scavenger in Downpour.

Overall, these guys know something, and I think we're going to find out why.

#rain world #rain world lore #rw lore #rain world spoilers #rain world the watcher #rw the watcher #rw watcher #the watcher spoilers #rw watcher spoilers #rain world watcher #rw the watcher spoilers

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samaraeleen · 4 months ago

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Help Ikhlas and her young daughter Eileen overcome their hardships

My name is Ikhlas Mahmoud Samara, I am 29 years old, and my 3-year-old daughter, Eileen, is my world. We were living a simple yet hopeful life until the devastating war on Gaza turned everything upside down. I lost my beloved husband, Abdullah Al-Boubou, who was just 31 years old, when he was martyred during the heavy bombing. He was our sole provider and source of strength.

We were forced to flee from northern Gaza to the Mawasi Khan Younis area in the south under relentless bombing. Now, we are living in a tent that offers no protection from the scorching heat of summer or the freezing cold of winter. Later, I learned that our home in northern Gaza was completely destroyed, leaving us homeless and struggling to survive.

Since losing my husband, we’ve been facing severe financial difficulties. I am doing my best to stay strong for Eileen, but we desperately need help.

I am launching this campaign to secure our basic needs and provide a dignified life for me and my daughter. Your support, no matter how small, can make a tremendous difference in our lives.

Please donate and share our story with others. Together, we can give Eileen a better future.

#free gaza #gazaunderattack #gaza strip #gaza genocide #gaza #free palestine #save palestine #i stand with palestine #all eyes on palestine #free gazze #free palatine

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unsolicited-opinions · 1 month ago

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Someone asked me why I care about Israel at all.

I thought about it for a bit because I realized I wasn't quite sure.

I knew it wasn't simple tribalism. Maybe it's my neurodivergence, but tribalism doesn't speak to me. I've never really experienced tribal solidarity.

It's not because 80% of Israelis are my co-religionists, because I'm not religious and neither are a lot of Israeli Jews.

It's not because I have a lot of friends and loved ones in Israel because I only know a handful of Israelis.

It's not because I ever plan to make aliyah. I'm way too old to consider it now.

It's not because I admire the extraordinary things Israelis have accomplished, although I do admire that. Lots of countries have accomplished extraordinary things.

It sure isn't because of Israel's government, which I've spent a great deal of time feeling angry at for the last couple decades.

So...why? Why does it matter to me so much?

When I realized the answer, it came all at once in sort of a rush of images and reasoning.

Both sides of my family came to the US around the early 20th century. Like everyone else arriving in the US from Eastern and Central Europe, they emigrated looking for economic opportunity and safety. They were lucky, because they found it.

They (we) were lucky. They got to the US before the US closed its doors to Jews fleeing Europe.

Imagine they hadn't left Europe when they did.

Imagine they'd stayed in the shtetls in the pale of settlement.

If they had, the odds are that none of my family would be alive today.

I know this because we don't have any relatives we know of who survived the Holocaust in Europe. The only family we know of are those who came to the US before the US shut its doors to Jews fleeing Europe. The shtetls we came from now only exist as a handful of records in the Knesset library.

But imagine some of my family members managed to survive the Holocaust and were among those in the displaced persons camps after the second World War. Homeless. Stateless. Penniless.

Know where they and their descendents would be now?

Israel.

Israel is the best possible future that any of my relatives who didn't make it out of Europe in time could have hoped for, and none of them made it there. But a handful of their contemporaries did.

I keep thinking about the way Israel's enemies imagine a cabal of rich Jews plotting to steal from the Arabs of the Levant. I wonder what it would take to get them to understand that nobody went to Israel after WWII because it was incredibly appealing to them for economic opportunity or safety. They went because it's all there was.

Jewish Israelis can accurately be described as all which the remains of the Jewish civilizations of Europe and of the MENA region and a handful of other locations. They're in Israel because there was no other place to go.

To be an antizionist is to rage at them for not dying.

To be an antizionist is to fault them for surviving the genocides and ethnic cleansings and building something extraordinary. For enacting the most successful indigenous reclamation from colonialism in human history.

It's a stupid thing to hate a people for.

And I know, thanks to the genetic bottlenecks of the Jews of central and eastern Europe, that some of them are my distant cousins.

They are what remains of my family which didn't leave Europe in time to avoid being murdered for who they were.

That's why I care about Israelis. If my family had been slightly less fortunate, we either be dead...or we'd be Israelis.

And that's why nothing seems to make me more angry than Jewish antizionists.

Am Yisrael Chai.

#Israel #jumblr #am yisrael chai

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hazemps1 · 3 months ago

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Starting from the middle of the rubble

My name is Hazem Jouda, I am 20 years old and I have spent my life in Gaza since birth.

My life was filled with happiness and comfort until October 7th when the war in Gaza began, bringing tragedy to me and my family. Initially, I was studying IT at one of Gaza's prestigious universities (Islamic University), but the war disrupted my studies in my third year.

This led me to start a campaign to collect donations after much thought, as it wasn't easy for me and my family, as rebuilding my future is my right.

The war stole my academic certificate, and not only that, my family and I lost our own home and our own business, which was our only source of income. We had a well-known shop for making and selling oriental sweets in Khan Yunis city, which my father dedicated his efforts and life to establish in 2013. The occupation destroyed it, and I, along with my siblings, lost our jobs, leaving me unemployed and without any source of income.

I will attach pictures of our shop before and after the war.

Everything changed on October 7th, when the tragedy struck. Within a week, we were forced to flee our home after it was heavily shelled, leaving with nothing but the clothes on our backs. After days, we received news that it had been destroyed, along with our memories.

My family and I struggle to survive amidst extremely inflated prices and needs despite having no income at all.

I will also attach pictures of our house after the war.

Despite the challenges I face, I remain determined to continue my education and achieve my aspirations. With the limited options available to me in Gaza, I made a brave decision to continue my educational journey and help my family rebuild our home and shop, our only source of income, to start over.

No donation is too small, and every contribution is deeply appreciated. Your support can make a profound difference in my life and the life of my family by contributing to this campaign. Not only will this help us continue my education, but it will also enable me to rebuild my life and the life of my family and contribute positively to my community and the world at large.

My campaign goal is $15,000 to rebuild our income stream and get back on our feet.

#free palestine #palestinian genocide #save palestine #signal boost

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kaira-diaries · 3 months ago

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Older

⚠️: violence || death - gun usage || fluff || wound cleaning- mentions of blood

pair: Fem!reader x In-ho

wc: 5k

a/n: this is fluffyy, no smut. More of a "who did this to you" kinda trope if you catch my drift..

summary: You're injured from a rogue player and the frontman fixes you up while also revealing his feelings.

->Masterlist <-

_______________

The elevator doors slid shut with a low hum, isolating you in a confined silence broken only by the rhythmic throb of pain radiating from your upper thigh. You leaned heavily against the cold metal wall, gritting your teeth as you pressed a trembling hand against the angry, crimson wound. Blood seeped through your fingers, staining the black fabric of your suit with a wet heat that clung to your skin. You hissed under your breath, a string of curses escaping as the memory of the fight replayed in your mind.

Player 202.

The name alone sent a fresh wave of frustration through you. He'd escaped after ruthlessly taking down one of your men, disarming him with precision and fleeing into the labyrinth of the facility. The moment the alarm sounded, you sent out a brigade to track him, their boots pounding the metal corridors like a drumbeat of impending justice. Yet it wasn't them who found him first.

It was you.

The confrontation was savage and immediate. He had nothing left to lose, and his desperation made him dangerous. Your pistol clattered to the ground during the struggle, the sound of its impact lost in the chaos. The fight turned brutal, the two of you grappling for control of his weapon. The flash of the muzzle came before the pain—a white-hot, searing agony that ripped through your thigh and left you gasping.

Your troop arrived seconds later, fanning out like a tide of pink uniforms and barked orders before sending him to his grave. They pulled you back, their hands firm and voices taut with urgency.

You left them to handle the scene—the body, the blood, the weapon—but not before stuffing a bandage into the ragged hole torn into your flesh. It was a temporary solution, one that barely stemmed the bleeding and left you limping through the sterile halls, your body screaming with every step.

Now, you stood in the elevator, the walls pressing in like a cage. The report clutched in your hand felt heavy, not just with the weight of its contents but with the implications. You stared at it, the words blurring as your mind raced ahead to the confrontation awaiting you.

The thought of seeing him—In-ho—your boss—sent a shiver down your spine, a conflicting rush of anticipation and dread. You'd worked under him for a year now, long enough to decipher the cracks beneath his cold, enigmatic exterior. He didn't speak much, but you noticed the subtle signs: the way his hand would linger just a second too long on yours, the rare moments his unmasked gaze would meet yours in the low light of late nights spent planning the future of the games.

He was older, yes—marked by the faint lines etched near his eyes. But to you, that wasn't a drawback; it was a draw. The men your age always seemed unsure, fumbling through life with a bravado that couldn't mask their inexperience. They didn't have the weight of the world in their gaze, the scars of hard-earned insight that you saw in him.

In-ho knew who he was, and that confidence was intoxicating. It wasn't just the authority he wielded, though that certainly added to his allure—it was the way he made you feel seen, like he understood you in a way no one else did. He could cut through your defenses with a single look, his intensity both unnerving and thrilling. With In-ho, there were no games, no shallow conversations. Every interaction felt deliberate, meaningful. It was a stark contrast to the fleeting, empty flattery you'd grown accustomed to from others in the facility. In-ho didn't waste time on empty words—when he spoke, it mattered.

But his temper was something else entirely—a storm, sharp and explosive, that left you reeling in its wake. It terrified you, the sheer force of his rage when things went wrong. Yet somehow, you craved it. It drove you to work harder, to strategize smarter, to ensure that every piece of the game moved flawlessly.

Until now.

Now, the flow was broken, disrupted by a single player who had dared to defy the system. And you were the one left to account for it.

The elevator lurched to a stop, a soft chime signaling your arrival. You straightened as much as your injured leg would allow, smoothing the front of your bloodied suit with trembling fingers. Your heart thudded against your ribs, a drumbeat of adrenaline and apprehension. As the doors slid open, revealing the long corridor that led to his office, you took a steadying breath.

The door to his office stood ajar, a soft glow spilling into the corridor. You hesitated for a moment, drawing a shallow breath to steady yourself. The sharp ache in your thigh pulsed in time with your racing heart. Leaning heavily against the frame, you rapped your knuckles lightly on the wood.

He glanced up from his drink, his mask nowhere in sight. The bare planes of his face caught the light, casting sharp shadows along the elegant curve of his jaw. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and piercing, sending a jolt through your already frayed nerves.

"Just dropping this off," you said, lifting the report in a trembling hand. But your voice betrayed you, cracking under the weight of the pain you'd worked so hard to suppress. Quickly, you schooled your features into a mask of indifference, willing the flicker of agony on your face to vanish.

He didn't move at first, only watching you with a quiet intensity that made the air feel heavier. Then, slowly, he set his glass down on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. The light overhead carved out every detail of his features, drawing your attention to the sharp lines and the faint tension in his posture.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low but laced with an edge of something you couldn't quite place. His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the twitch in your expression before you could hide it.

"Nothing," you replied quickly, too quickly. "Just tired."

He hummed softly, a noncommittal sound that sent a ripple of unease through you. His gaze swept over you in one smooth motion, lingering too long on the torn fabric at your thigh. The faint sheen of blood there hadn't gone unnoticed.

You bit your lip, the faint taste of copper grounding you. He knew. You'd been made.

With deliberate steps, he closed the space between you, his presence both imposing and oddly comforting. His fingers brushed yours as he took the report from your hand, but he didn't step back. Instead, his other hand came up, warm and steady, wrapping gently around your wrist.

"What happened?" he asked, softer this time, but the command in his tone was unmistakable.

You flinched, the mask you'd so carefully constructed threatening to shatter. "I told you, it's nothing."

His thumb ghosted over your pulse, and his eyes, normally sharp and unyielding, held a flicker of something softer now. Concern, perhaps, though he kept it guarded.

"You're bleeding." His gaze dipped back to the torn slit at your thigh, voice tightening just enough to betray his frustration—or was it worry? "That doesn't look like 'nothing.'"

The silence stretched between you, taut as a wire. You looked away, but he didn't release you. Instead, his grip remained tight.

"Let me see," he said at last, his voice dropping lower, almost a plea.

You swallowed hard, torn between defiance and the strange pull of his concern.

The vulnerability in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you let your guard slip. Just a moment.

You sighed, the sound heavy with defeat, and allowed him to take control. His hand slid to your arm, carefully, as he guided you toward the bed. Each step sent a sharp jolt of pain radiating from your thigh, and you couldn't stop the grimace that twisted your face. When you finally reached the bed, you lowered yourself onto it with a hiss, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight.

He knelt before you without hesitation, the action fluid and purposeful. His gaze flickered up to meet yours for a fleeting moment, a silent reassurance passing between you before it dropped to the torn fabric of your suit.

With unsteady fingers, you widened the hole in the fabric, revealing the angry, blood-slicked wound beneath. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he clenched his teeth, but his eyes softened in contrast, shadowed with an emotion you weren't sure how to name.

"Who did this?" he asked, his voice low but tense, each word laced with barely restrained anger.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as the heat of his gaze on your injury made you acutely aware of your vulnerability.

"It's all in the report," you said, lifting your chin as if to distance yourself from the pain. "But long story short, a player escaped, and I happened to be the first to find him."

His brow furrowed at your words, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded slowly, his fingers ghosting just above the torn flesh as though debating whether to touch it. He didn't, instead leaning in closer to inspect the wound.

You watched him work, his focus sharp and unwavering, yet there was a tension in the way he moved—an almost imperceptible hesitation as if the sight of you like this unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

"Stay here," he said at last, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Before you could respond, he rose smoothly to his feet and strode out of the room. For a moment, the space felt colder in his absence, the tension in the air lingering like an aftershock.

You shifted slightly, the pain in your thigh flaring as you tried to settle into a more comfortable position. The scent of blood and the faint trace of his cologne lingered in the room, mixing into something oddly grounding. As you waited, the steady thrum of your heartbeat filled the silence, your mind replaying the look in his eyes—the clash of anger and concern.

He returned a few minutes later, the soft grating of the floor pulling your attention. In his hand was a first aid kit, its red cross glaring against the white metal. He placed it on the bed beside you with practiced precision, his movements deliberate and calm. You watched him intently, your nerves prickling as a sense of inevitability settled over you. You weren't one to jump at the chance to see a doctor—or anyone who'd come near a wound with tools—but right now, you had no choice. The jagged piece of metal lodged in your thigh needed to come out.

You swallowed hard, the audible gulp betraying your unease. His head snapped toward you, sharp and assessing, and for a moment, you felt entirely too exposed under his gaze.

"It has to come out," he said, his voice hard but not unkind. "One way or another."

You nodded, forcing a deep breath into your lungs to steady yourself.

"I'll need a better view of your leg," he added, his words carrying an unspoken implication that made your stomach twist.

Your fingers found the zipper of your suit, moving with determined efficiency despite the tremor in your hands. The cool slide of metal teeth was almost deafening in the quiet room. You managed to unzip it down to your hips, but the moment you tried to shimmy the fabric lower, the pain exploded, sharp and blinding. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped your lips as you froze, unable to continue.

Without a word, he stepped closer, his presence both grounding and intimidating. His hands moved to the crumpled fabric at your hips, firm but aware as they took over the task.

"Lay back," he instructed, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

You hesitated, your body stiff with the anticipation of pain, but you obeyed, easing yourself down onto the mattress. The ceiling blurred slightly as you stared up at it, trying to focus on anything but the throbbing ache in your leg.

"Lift your hips for me," he said softly, his tone low and coaxing.

The words carried a strange intimacy, making your pulse spike. You hesitated again, the sharp edge of fear creeping into your expression, and his gaze softened in response.

"I'll be quick," he assured you, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Trust me."

Something in his tone—a rare note of sincerity—eased the tension in your chest, just enough for you to comply. You braced yourself, gripping the edge of the mattress as you shifted your hips upward. His hands moved with quiet efficiency, sliding the fabric down your legs with as little movement as possible. Even so, the motion sent a fresh wave of pain rippling through you, and you clenched your teeth to keep from crying out.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice steady and grounding as he worked.

Finally, the suit was out of the way, leaving your leg exposed. He glanced down at the wound, his jaw tightening again as he assessed the damage. You caught the flicker of something behind his expression—frustration, concern, perhaps even guilt—but he quickly masked it.

He reached for the glass of liquor on the desk, the liquid catching the light as he extended it toward you. His movements were deliberate, slow, as though offering you a choice—but you didn't hesitate. You snatched the glass from his hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, though neither of you acknowledged it.

The cool weight of the glass felt solid in your grasp, and you brought it to your lips without a second thought. The liquor burned as it slid down your throat, sharp and unforgiving, a brief distraction from the pain radiating from your thigh. A few stray drops escaped, trickling down your chin, leaving a warm, tingling trail before dripping onto your chest.

The sight sent a flicker of awareness through you, heat threatening to rise to your cheeks, but you shoved it down, focusing instead on the sting of the alcohol and the sharp, metallic scent of blood that still hung in the air.

In-ho's gaze flickered, lingering for a split second longer than it should have. The contrast between the harsh situation and the intimate glimpse of black lace pulled at something deep within him, but he quickly masked the reaction, his jaw tightening as he tore his eyes away.

You, oblivious, shifted slightly, the motion sending another ripple of agony through you. The sound of your sharp intake of breath jolted him back into focus. He turned, reaching for the first aid kit, and the soft clink of metal brought your attention to the pliers he now held.

The tool looked unforgiving, its edges gleaming under the harsh light. A chill swept over you as he knelt by your side again, his expression grim and unreadable.

He placed the pliers against your thigh, the cold metal brushing the torn flesh. The sensation sent a wave of panic through you, and before you could think, your hand shot out, gripping his wrist tightly.

"In-ho—" you choked, the fear in your voice raw and unguarded.

He froze, his gaze snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, the room felt unbearably still, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

His eyes softened, the sharpness in them giving way to something quieter, something almost tender. But there was a flicker of conflict there too, a shadow he didn't allow to linger long.

"I'll make it quick," he said, his voice low, steady. The words were deliberate, spoken like a promise meant only for you.

You didn't respond right away, searching his face for any sign of hesitation or doubt. Instead, you found only calm resolve, a quiet assurance that somehow steadied you despite the circumstances.

Finally, your grip loosened, though your fingers trembled as you released his wrist. You closed your eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. "Okay," you whispered, almost too quietly to hear.

"Good," he murmured, almost to himself. His hand returned to your thigh, steadying it as he repositioned the pliers.

You didn't see the fleeting glance he cast at you again, the lace and soft curves drawing his attention one last time before he forced himself to focus. He tightened his grip on the pliers, his jaw hardening with determination.

"Just hold on," he said quietly, the words laced with both command and care, and you braced yourself for the pain to come.

The cold metal of the pliers pierced your torn flesh, sending a blinding wave of pain radiating through your body. Your hand flew to your mouth, pressing hard against your lips to stifle the cry that threatened to escape. The pressure did little to mask the muffled whimper that slipped through, but In-ho didn't flinch. His focus was absolute, his movements precise and unyielding as he worked.

Each subtle shift of the pliers sent another spike of agony through your leg, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You bit down on your knuckle, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, trying to breathe through the searing pain.

He remained silent, his jaw set in steely determination as he dug deeper. The pliers twisted slightly, the sharp edges brushing against nerves that made your leg jerk involuntarily. His free hand shot out to steady your thigh, his touch firm but grounding.

"Almost there," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, though it was clear he was speaking more to himself than to you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he paused. The small metallic clink of the bullet being gripped filled the silence. With a quick, decisive motion, he yanked it free.

You exhaled sharply, the release of tension almost dizzying as the pain shifted from sharp to dull. The air felt heavier now, thick with the metallic tang of blood. He set the pliers and bullet down on a clean napkin, the small hunk of metal glinting under the light like a grim trophy.

For a brief moment, you thought it was over—until your eyes caught the crimson stain blooming across the sheets beneath you. The deep red seeped outward, a stark contrast against the pale fabric, forming a small but growing pool.

Your stomach twisted at the sight, a new wave of discomfort settling over you. Your brows furrowed as you forced yourself to sit up slightly, wincing at the motion.

"In-ho," you said, your voice uneven as you gestured weakly toward the mess. "Your bed…"

He glanced at the bloodstained sheets, his expression unreadable. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached for the first aid kit again, his movements efficient as he grabbed a fresh bandage and antiseptic.

"It doesn't matter," he said quietly, not sparing the sheets another glance. His focus was back on you, his hands steady as he worked to clean the wound.

"It does matter," you mumbled, guilt creeping into your voice despite your exhaustion.

"It doesn't," he insisted, his tone firm, almost scolding, but his hands remained gentle. "You're what matters."

You lay back, forcing yourself to relax as he continued tending to your wound. His movements were practiced and meticulous, each gesture deliberate and careful.

The antiseptic stung at first, a sharp, biting sensation that made your leg twitch, but his steady hands didn't falter.

"Luckily, stitches aren't needed," he said, his voice calm and reassuring as he dabbed at the cleaned wound. "It should heal on its own, as long as you don't push yourself."

His tone carried an undertone of warning, though it was gentler than you expected. You nodded faintly, the tension in your body beginning to ebb.

With precise care, he reached for a roll of bandages.

The soft fabric unraveled with a faint rustle, and he began wrapping it around your thigh. His fingers brushed against your skin as he worked, warm and firm, grounding you with each pass. The pressure from the bandage was snug but not overbearing, and the dull ache that lingered in your leg already seemed more tolerable.

"There," he murmured, tying off the bandage neatly. "That should hold. Keep it clean, and you'll be fine."

You exhaled a shaky breath, relieved the worst was over. But just as you thought he was finished, he leaned closer, his head dipping toward your thigh.

Before you could process what was happening, you felt the faintest press of his lips against the bandaged wound. It was featherlight, a fleeting touch that sent a ripple of warmth cascading through your chest.

Your breath hitched, the unexpected gesture leaving you momentarily frozen. His kiss wasn't lingering or ostentatious—it was soft, almost reverent, and so brief that you wondered if you'd imagined it.

He straightened, his expression unreadable as he began gathering the used supplies and setting them aside. But you couldn't tear your eyes away from him, your heart fluttering erratically in your chest.

"In-ho…" you whispered, his name slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

With that, he slipped an arm beneath your legs and another around your back. The motion was effortless as he scooped you into his arms, holding you close against his chest.

His grip was steady, his movements smooth as he carried you across the room to a clean bed. The scent of fresh linen greeted you as he lowered you carefully onto the mattress, his hands lingering for a moment as he adjusted your position to ensure you were comfortable.

You winced slightly as your leg shifted, but the ache was manageable now, dulled by the care he'd already given. He pulled the blanket up over you, tucking it around your shoulders with a gentleness that felt almost out of place coming from him.

His expression softened as his gaze lingered on you, a quiet protectiveness in his eyes that made your heart stutter. "Rest. You'll feel better after some sleep."

You nodded, your body sinking into the soft mattress as the tension slowly began to leave your frame. "Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible.

He didn't respond right away, but his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, the first you'd seen from him in a long time. "Get some sleep," he repeated, his voice low and steady.

As he turned to leave, you couldn't help but watch him, your heart still fluttering from the weight of his touch and the warmth of his unexpected tenderness.

____________________

You began to stir, your senses coming alive one by one. The first was touch—your fingertips gliding across the cool, luxurious texture of green silk sheets. The sensation was foreign, unfamiliar, but oddly comforting, like a gentle reminder that you were somewhere safe.

Your eyelids fluttered open, greeted by the soft glow of ambient light filtering through the room. The memory of pain made you tense, expecting the sharp, blinding agony to pulse through your thigh the moment you moved. But instead, there was only a dull ache, a faint throb that felt almost distant now.

Curiosity mingled with relief, and you slowly shifted, your muscles stretching cautiously as you tested the boundaries of discomfort. The bandage wrapped snugly around your thigh was a subtle reminder of the night before, but it no longer felt like an unbearable weight.

With renewed confidence, you threw the blankets off your body, the fabric sliding off your skin in a cascade of green silk. Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you planted your feet firmly on the floor.

Your red-painted toenails caught your attention for a moment, their vibrant hue a stark contrast against the polished gray surface below. The image was oddly grounding, a small burst of color in the midst of an otherwise muted room.

The coolness of the floor met your bare skin, sending a gentle shiver up your spine. You braced yourself, hands gripping the edge of the mattress as you prepared to stand, the memory of In-ho's care lingering in the back of your mind.

Pushing yourself to stand, you moved cautiously, every muscle in your body on high alert. The moment your weight settled on your legs, you held your breath, bracing for the sharp sting of pain that never came. Instead, the ache stayed dull, manageable, like a whisper of the injury rather than a shout.

Encouraged, you dared to take a step, your right leg moving first. It held steady, your balance wobbling only slightly. Then came your left. You hesitated for a moment before shifting forward, the bandage brushing against your skin as you tested the limits of your body.

The pain remained muted, like a dull ember rather than the roaring fire you expected. Slowly, you reached for the doorframe, the wood cool and solid beneath your fingertips, a reassuring anchor as you inched forward.

But then, as you took another step with your left leg, the sensation shifted. A sharp, searing pain shot through your thigh, fiery and unrelenting, as though the wound had been ripped open anew.

You barely had time to register it before the scream tore from your throat, raw and uncontrollable. The sound echoed in the quiet room, bouncing off the walls like a cry for mercy. Your legs buckled beneath you, the strength drained in an instant, and you clutched desperately at the doorframe to keep from collapsing entirely.

The scream was still leaving your lips when it happened—strong hands gripped your waist, steady and unyielding, as though they had always been there, waiting. It was almost as if In-ho had materialized from thin air, his presence sudden and grounding, like an anchor amidst your spiral of pain.

"Easy," he murmured, his deep voice low but firm, the single word laced with both command and concern. His arms wrapped around you with practiced ease, pulling you firmly against his chest. You felt the solid warmth of him through the fabric of his suit, his breath steady against the top of your head as if he was willing you to calm down with the rhythm of his own body.

Your hands instinctively clung to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as though letting go would mean collapsing entirely. The searing pain in your thigh was sharp, unrelenting, but his hold steadied you, his grip a lifeline pulling you back from the brink.

"You should have called for me," he said, his tone soft but with a trace of reproach. His words hung heavy in the air, not an accusation but a reminder of your limits, one you had clearly tested too soon.

His hands shifted, one sliding from your waist to brace your back, the other moving down to steady your injured leg. The tenderness in his movements was almost startling, a stark contrast to the cool authority he usually commanded. "I've got you," he said, his voice gentler now, an unspoken promise threaded through the words.

He made his way to the couch, lowering you onto it with care. The cushions were soft, and the cool leather soothed your overheated skin. He crouched in front of you, his hands never leaving your sides until he was certain you were settled.

"In-ho, I'm fine," you murmured, watching as he began to peel back the layers of gauze.

His brow furrowed as he leaned closer, unraveling the dressing and inspecting the wound. A faint sigh of relief escaped him when he found the area intact, the underlying bandage only slightly stained with blood. "You're lucky," he said, his tone softening. "You didn't tear it open."

You exhaled shakily, your shoulders slumping in relief.

A shaky breath escaped your lips. "I told you I'd be fine," you murmured, trying to keep your tone light, though the intensity of his gaze made it nearly impossible to focus.

He didn't respond immediately; his eyes locked on the wound as he replaced the bandage with a fresh one. "You need to stop pushing yourself," he said finally, his voice low, almost a growl.

Swallowing hard as his hands lay over your wound, he asked, "What happened to Player 202?"

"Dead," you said simply. "He was a liability. And liabilities don't survive here."

He nodded, with a smirk. You'd learned that from him.

He finished re-wrapping the bandage and sat back on his heels. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, as if searching for something unspoken.

"The games can't afford mistakes like this," he said finally, his tone measured. "You know that."

You flinched, the weight of his words hitting harder than you expected. "I know," you whispered. "It won't happen again."

You nodded faintly, unsure of what else to say. The games had always demanded sacrifices, but hearing it put so plainly was a reminder of the harsh reality you both lived in.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded, until he leaned forward, his arms braced on either side of you as his face hovered closer. His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, you couldn't look away, caught in the intensity of his gaze. His hand rose, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. The gesture was small, almost insignificant, but the way his touch lingered sent warmth rushing through you.

"You're too reckless," he said quietly, his voice low and rough.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in further, his forehead briefly brushing yours, his breath warm against your lips. The proximity made your heart race, anticipation thrumming in your chest like a drumbeat.

"I mean it," he murmured, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk.

"You drive me insane."

Before you could respond, his lips claimed yours. The kiss started soft, almost tentative as if testing the waters. But when you didn't pull away—when your hands gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him closer—it deepened, his mouth moving against yours with a fervent intensity that left you breathless.

The world seemed to fall away, the tension, the pain, the weight of the games fading into the background as his hands slid to your waist, holding you as if grounding himself. His touch was firm and steady, but his lips were anything but—they explored yours with a mix of hunger and restraint, every movement figured yet desperate.

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him to deepen the kiss further, and his hand moved to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest tighten.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as uneven as yours, his forehead resting against yours. "You're unimaginable," he muttered, though there was no anger in his tone—only something that felt dangerously close to fondness.

You smiled faintly, your fingers still gripping his jacket. "And yet, you're still here."

A rare chuckle escaped him, low and brief, as he leaned back just enough to meet your eyes. "Don't make me regret it," he said, though the faint quirk of his lips softened the words.

He stood, offering you his hand. "Come on. You need to keep your mind off things."

You raised a brow, curious but compliant as you took his hand, letting him help you to your feet.

Moments later, you were seated beside him in front of a large screen, the next round of games unfolding before you. The air still felt charged from the kiss, but the distraction of the games offered a reprieve.

"The Dalgona game," you murmured, leaning back against the cushions. Your thigh throbbed faintly, but the pain was muted now, dulled by his bandaging.

In-ho nodded, his gaze fixed on the screen. "A classic," he said, his tone calm, but there was a sharpness in his eyes as he watched the players being handed their candy disks and metal tools. "It's simple, but it separates the clever from the careless."

You watched as the players examined their candy pieces, each etched with a different shape—a star, a circle, a triangle, and, for the unlucky ones, an umbrella. The camera zoomed in on their faces, capturing the dawning realization and fear as they pieced together the task ahead of them.

One player hesitated, their hands trembling as they picked up the needle. "How many do you think will make it?" you asked softly, your gaze flicking to In-ho.

His expression didn't change, but his fingers tapped lightly against the armrest. "Less than half," he said. "The umbrella alone will take out most of them."

You nodded, your stomach knotting as a player snapped their disk in half, the sound sharp and final. The guards wasted no time—one raised their weapon, and the shot echoed through the room. You flinched, but In-ho didn't move, his face unreadable.

"It's brutal," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

"It has to be," he replied. "The games don't reward weakness."

You looked over at him with a smirk, "I know," earning one from him in return.

For a while, the two of you watched in silence. The tension in the game mirrored the tension in the room, each crack of the candy or echo of a gunshot adding weight to the air between you.

At one point, In-ho leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied the screen. His focus was absolute, but you couldn't help noticing the way his profile caught the light—the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.

"They're desperate," he said, nodding toward a player licking the back of their candy. "But smart. That one might make it."

You followed his gaze, watching as the player's determination paid off, the fragile candy shape finally sliding free. A rare smile ghosted across In-ho's lips.

"You like watching them figure it out," you said, a hint of curiosity in your tone.

"It's not just about survival," he said, leaning back again. "It's about adaptation. Those who can think under pressure, who can find unconventional solutions—they're the ones who deserve to win."

His words lingered in the air, and for a moment, the game seemed to fade into the background. You turned your gaze to him, studying the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested loosely on the armrest beside you.

"In-ho," you started, your voice soft.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were gentler now, the sharpness tempered by something quieter. "What is it?"

You hesitated, your fingers brushing against the edge of your bandaged thigh. "Thank you," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady on yours. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek. "You don't need to thank me," he said quietly. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with unspoken words. He leaned closer, his movements slow, deliberate and his lips met yours in a kiss that was soft, careful, and unhurried, a stark contrast to the brutality unfolding on the screen in front of you as the sounds of pleading and gunfire faded into nothing.

#hwang in ho #the frontman #front man #hwang in ho x reader #in ho squid game #front man x reader #the front man x reader #fan fiction #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game fanfic

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littleprinceabdullah · 6 months ago

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"Born into Hope Amidst Destruction: Abdullah's Journey from Gaza"

Hello, I am little prince Abdullah, and I am a six-month-old baby from Gaza. I was born into extremely difficult circumstances amidst war and destruction. Let me tell you my story from the beginning.

Daddy, Mahmoud, is a young dentist, 25 years old. Mom, Abeer, is also a dentist, and they were eagerly awaiting my arrival (their little prince as they called me), dreaming of a bright future for me.

My parents got married and moved into a new home, spending two joyful months there before everything changed drastically on October 7, 2023, when the war in Gaza began. Our home, and the clinic were all destroyed in an instant. They had to flee with only a few clothes, having nowhere else to go. The place that was supposed to be filled with love and laughter turned into rubble and ash.

Mom endured her pregnancy amidst the war, without enough food, water, or medicine. As I grew inside her, I could feel the stress and fear that surrounded us. Mom often went without proper nourishment, sacrificing her own well-being to ensure that I had a chance to come into this world. Every night, she would cradle her belly, whispering prayers and promises of a better life, even as bombs fell around us. She dreamed of holding me in a safe place, free from the horrors of war, where I could grow up surrounded by love and peace.

Despite the chaos, dad and mom clung to the hope that I would be a symbol of a brighter future. They imagined my first smile, my first tooth, my first steps, my first words, and the joy of seeing me grow up in a home filled with laughter. But the reality was far from those dreams. Mom faced countless sleepless nights, worrying if she could bring me safely into a world that seemed determined to tear us apart.

When the time came for me to be born (6th, Apr.2024), there were no hospitals with clean beds, no doctors ready to ensure my safe arrival. My parents faced this moment with courage and a deep, unyielding love, praying that I would be born healthy despite the dire conditions. Each day inside my mom's womb, I felt her love and fear. I heard her heart beat fast when explosions echoed nearby, and I felt her tears when she thought about the uncertain future we faced. She whispered to me that I was her miracle, her reason to keep fighting, and she promised to do everything in her power to give me a life worth living.

Now that I am six months old, my parents continue to face immense challenges. I have spent my first six months of life in a world of uncertainty and hardship. There are days when my parents struggle to find enough food and clean water for us. They do their best to keep me safe and healthy, but the lack of proper medical care and basic necessities makes every day a battle.

My parents' love and determination are unwavering. They look at me with a mix of love and desperation, knowing they are unable to provide the comfort and security every baby deserves. Each day is a struggle for survival, and the joy of my birth is constantly overshadowed by fear and uncertainty. They dream of a world where I can play safely, have a warm bed to sleep in, and grow up healthy and happy. Instead, they face the harsh reality of war, where every moment is filled with anxiety and the haunting thought of what tomorrow might bring. Their only wish is to see me smile, free from the burdens that weigh so heavily on their hearts.

Here is daddy's account telling his own story: @mah99moud

The pressures and burdens on our family continue to grow, so my parents decided to turn to the GoFundMe platform, seeking help from kind-hearted people around the world.

Your generosity can turn our darkest days into a beacon of hope. Please consider helping us rebuild our lives and give me a chance to experience the childhood every child deserves, and help my parents rebuild their lives. Please, help us restore hope for a better tomorrow and give me a chance to grow up in a world where dreams are possible, not destroyed. Every donation, no matter how small, will make a significant difference in our lives.

Thank you for your kindness and generosity.

#donations #star wars #gofundme #signal boost #freepalastine🇵🇸#gaza #free rafah #freedom #free gaza #free palestine #childhood #save the children #donate #donate if you can #gaza genocide #gazaunderattack #artists on tumblr #digital art #gravity falls

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dolche-tejada · 9 months ago

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You know, I think this ending would have been slightly less of a fucking disappointment if the heroes hadn't been so unfairly favored by Horikoshi compared to the villains. I mean, seriously

Deku destroys every bone in his body multiple times throughout the story and is warned that if he continues, he'll permanently lose the use of his limbs ? Everything's fine, his body's just got used to being reduced to a bloody pulp somehow so there's no consequences for him. In fact even when he literally loses his arms to Shigaraki, he gets them back two minutes later thanks to Eri because guess what ? Her horn still works even when cut off from her body. How convenient.

Gran Torino gets his ribcage obliterated by Shigaraki ? Don't worry guys, he'll survive that despite his old age and injuries, and this to have no particular role in the plot afterwards.

Bakugo dies heroically trying to buy time before Deku arrives ? Lmao, did you really believe it ?? No of course not, Edgeshot just uses his last-minute Deus Ex Machina to save his life at the cost of his own and- Oops nope he's fine too, my bad !

Hawks murders a criminal fleeing for his life in cold-blood ? The best Hori has to offer is him completely free and in charge of the HSPC.

And no, losing his quirk isn't a real consequence for him because not only it literally played a major part in saving the world with Vestige!Hawks raising an insurrection among AFO's quirks, but also because his quirk has always been the element through which people exploited him.

Endeavor abused his family for years and completely destroyed his eldest son ? No jail time and no media backlash for that, the only blame he received was due to the heroes' failure to stop the League during the Raid Arc.

And don't even get me started on this bs about facing hell or whatever for what he's done : He's literally free and wealthy ; he has Rei, Fuyumi, Shoto, his sidekicks and Hawks on his side ; and all the difficulties he's apparently going to suffer are off-screened.

Deku had to sacrifice OFA and his future hero career to save the world ? Guess what, Bakugo invested all his time and money to make him an Iron-Man suit and now he can still be a hero with everyone else.

There are plenty more examples of this but I think you get the idea. Now let's take a look at the villains' ending :

Toya is now a piece of charcoal kept artificially alive for the few years he has left, unable to move a finger, and whose few minutes a day during which he can stay awake will be spent talking to his father who abused him as a child.

Toga, a literal teenager, killed herself to save Ochako and because she knew it's still better than rotting at Tartarus her whole life.

And not only did she die but she did by bleding to death. Let me repeat for those who have trouble grasping what I've just said : In a manga where the heroes can survive having their heart blown to bits, being impaled Kakyoin-style or smashed against buildings like a fly on a windshield, one of the main antagonists died of a fucking hemorrhage…

As for Shigaraki, after learning that his very birth and all the tragedies of his life have been orchestrated by AFO, after all this development and narrative promises about him being saved in the end... Deku just kills him.

Because despite all his speeches about saving him, it seems like the best our MC could do was beating him both physically and mentally until he crumbles to dust…

Compress on his side is apparently locked up for life and kept alive by machines too.

A begging Kurogiri tried in a desperate attempt to save Shigaraki, only to be unceremoniously blown up by Bakugo and dying off-screen without anyone giving a shit, including Aizawa and Mic.

And Spinner will now spend the rest of his life struggling with the extra quirks inside him that affect his body and mind, while having to cope with the thought that his boyfriend best friend and companions have either died alone or are locked away for life in horrifying circumstances.

Clearly not the same as with the heroes...

Now don't get me wrong, even if they suffered just as much from the consequences of their actions or the plot as the League, this ending would still be a disaster in terms of writing but AT LEAST it wouldn't reek that much of hypocrisy.

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m8hammed · 6 months ago

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The Story of Mohammed Hussein Ismaeel and His Family: A Journey of Struggle, Loss, and Hope 🍉 🙏💔

Hello everyone,👋🙏

I’m Mohammed Hussein Ismaeel, a 23-year-old Palestinian from Gaza, and I write to you today from a place of deep sorrow and isolation. My family and I have been through unimaginable devastation, and I am here, pleading for your support to help us survive.

My Family's Painful Journey 🗝 🍉🕊

We were once five in my family: my mother Rajaa (51), my father Hussein (58), my sister Iman (18), and my younger sister Noor (13). Our lives were simple, filled with dreams for a better future. But the war has taken almost everything from us.🍉

On October 7th, six days into the war, we were forced to flee our home and seek shelter in Al-Maghazi refugee camp in central Gaza. We spent two and a half months there, surrounded by fear and chaos. Then came the night when the camp was bombed. We lost two of our relatives, and many of us were injured, including my father who now struggles with a severed tendon in his finger.🍉

Loss, Isolation, and Despair 🍉💔😭

After leaving the camp, we found temporary refuge in Rafah and then Deir al-Balah. But I am now separated from my family, living alone in a tent. My life feels like it's falling apart. My sister Iman has contracted hepatitis due to malnutrition, my father suffers in silence from his injury, and our dreams have been shattered.

I lost my job just before graduating, and Iman had to abandon her studies. Noor, the youngest, hasn’t been to school in months. I was working on a master’s degree in business administration, a future I once saw as bright, but now, all I see is the dark reality of our situation.🍉

Friends Scattered, Left Behind 💔💔💔😭

Not only has the war taken our home, but it has also taken my closest friends. Some have fled to America, others have passed away, and the few left are too far to reach. I am here, in a tent, alone, clinging to a fragile hope for survival. I haven't felt the touch of a normal, civilized life in over a year. I don't know what it's like to sleep peacefully or to live without the constant fear of death.🍉

A Call for Help 🙏🙏💔

I am tired. I feel lost, like I no longer belong to this world. I’m pleading for your help, not just for me but for my family. We need your support to escape this place, to find safety in Egypt. Any donation, no matter how small, can make a difference. Please, share our story, help us reach those who can make a real change.

From the depths of my heart, I thank you for any help you can offer. Your kindness and compassion will never be forgotten in these dark times.🍉

Verified by 🙏👋

@Ibtisams and

@el-shab-hussein

Link vetted her 🌹🙏

Note📝: My previous account was deleted, and this is my new one. I hope you can continue to support me during these difficult times.

Thank you very much ❤️

With gratitude,

Mohammed Hussein Ismaeel

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igotanidea · 1 year ago

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Almost there: Anthony Bridgerton x reader

part 1: Too much

part 2 : Not enough

***

„One of those days you will get us both in trouble, Eloise.”

Due to some miracle, Y/N and her second-in-age sister in law managed to escape the watchful gaze of all, lady Danburry, Violet and Daphne, and rushed forward on the promenade. It was generally frowned upon, that the married lady strolled in the presence of a girl, who wasn’t even a débutante yet, but neither of those two seemed to take much interest in ton’s opinion.

“Trouble from merely speaking the truth?”

“Shall I remind you that this virtue is long forgotten in the society full of hypocrisy and deceit?” Y/N whispered taking Eloise’s arm to at least keep the pretences of being discreet. It would be unwise to let anyone else eavesdrop on the little exchange of words between close friends.

“It’s almost like you don’t trust me, my dear sister-in-law.” Eloise chuckled feigning the pompous tone.

“Please don’t ever call me like that again. You were my friend before you were my family. Don’t put the distance between us now. ”

“If anything I’d dare say I’m the reason you met with Anthony and –“ the sentence was cut out abruptly, as Eloise realised that Y/N was currently in the middle of a heavy argument with her husband. An argument that made her flee the house and turned out on the doorstep on the other Bridgerton’s house announced, in search for a friendly soul to talk to. And now she actually realised that all that may have been her fault from the beginning. If Y/N and Anthony have never met, they never would have fought and never—

“Stop overthinking it, dear.” The current viscountess chuckled observing her friend’s slightly hazy gaze and recognising it instantly. Clearly Eloise was getting lost in her own head.

‘Do not call me that!” the girl’s eyes became sharp and conscious again “I can hardly stand being called that affectionately by my mother, let alone by you.”

“Worked just as planned though.”

“Well, my biggest congratulations on being effective in the matter. You are almost as good at me with it.”

“Oh, almost? From what I can recollect I taught you most of those tricks.” Y/N smiled brightly.

“Really?” Eloise raised an eyebrow “I can’t remember. Hey what do you say we run away from our chaperones and have a proper, meaningful discussion on what’s troubling you?”

“I wish it was that easy. But I’m a wife now and apparently –“

“Viscountess Bridgerton!” a sudden voice came from in front of them and Y/N felt like actually taking Eloise advice and rushing off. It was almost like the whole world decided to prey on her misery on that particular day. First lady Danburry, now lady Featherington. “How lovely to see you! Marriage serves you well. You are beaming, dear.”

Y/N gritted her teeth in hardly hidden annoyance at such obvious show of nosiness and lack of tact. She knew instantly that she had to cut the conversation short before another wave of unwanted questions about her blessed (or not) state would come.

‘Lady Featherington. Pleasure to see you there. Are your daughters accompanying you or are they occupied with their upcoming prenuptial agreements? I surely hope they would be as fortunate with their future husbands as I am with mine. And speaking of which, if you excuse me, I need to discuss a very urgent matter on the subject with my family.”She put an emphasis on two last word and not waiting for response, abandoning all the rules of the lady behaviour, tried to drag Eloise away almost sighing deeply in frustration.

„Oh, but viscountess, once Penelope weds Colin, we will be a family.” lady Featherington stopped both girls in their tracks before they managed to escape.

„I beg your pardon, what now?”

‘Oh, you didn’t know, viscountess? Your brother-in-law is about to marry my youngest daughter. By some miracle, clearly, since Penelope--” Portia started rambling without a care in the world.

„Oh I know about that part.” Y/N faked a smile that didn’t reach her eyes „I merely have the deep conviction that us becoming family is rather an improbable claim.”

„But--”

„Dearest lady Featherington, do not push my hand here. I would rather stay in amity with you. A very fragile alliance shall you pry into my private matters. I dare say you have a certain interest in using those bold statements? ”

„I beg your pardon?”

„The viscount, is still in the charge of his famliy’s - our family’s finances. And that shall include the future fortune of Colin. Shall you insist on intruding me during my leisure time I might have a word with my husband.”

„You truly do not disgrace yourself with being modest, do you, Y/N? Has social advancement changed you so much? I clearly remember you being a scrawny child with no aspiration and position and look at you now. A snake in a sparkish dress.”

„She can at least choose the colour that highlights her beauty and doesn't make her look like--”

„Thank you Eloise.” Y/N cut her off before she could cause some more havoc. Lady Featherington was an onerousness but her gossiping nature was something Y/N did not need in the current situation. „I shall believe lady Portia will keep our little conversation in mind for the future purposes. Hers and her daughter’s.

„Actually if the viscount is around --”

„Unfortunately, matters of utmost importance kept him at home today.” Y/N responded with the most patience she could gather at the moment. There was always a possibility of farewelling the unwanted company, but as previously stated - there was no need of spreading the rumours of some discrepancies between the newlyweds. This hydra had to be beheaded immediately before the news spread throughout London.

„Such a shame you were left to tend for yourself then viscountess.”

„I shall believe I’d receive the most warm welcome back once my husband free himself of all the duties and occupations.”

***

While Y/N was having a lively discussion with indefatigable Portia Featherington, someone was observing her closely from behind the tree, staying unnoticed themselves.

“Are you spying on her now?”

“I’m not spying!”

“Oh really? Then tell me brother, why on Earth would you hide in the bush instead of accompanying your wife on the promenade? If I were you –“

“Good thing you are not.” Anthony muttered grumpily keeping his eyes fixed on his wife’s silhouette. Even with her cheeks reddened from the indignation and eyes sparkling with cunning intelligence she was the most beautiful woman he has ever laid his eyes on. If anything, those characteristic may have only been adding to her charm.

he viscount may not have heard all the words exchanged between two ladies, but the way Y/N was keeping lady Portia at bay, standing her own ground and not wavering in the slightest was admirable and worthy of a viscountess. Serving as a reminder that his wife was not a fragile bird who was - in his opinion- in dire need of his protection and care, but rather a capable, strong woman, who would survive on her own.

Which brought him to another conclusion - that she didn’t rely on him as much as he expected her to. That she was proud enough to get the audacity to leave his home, leave him and decided (solely by herself!) to pay a visit to his sister.

“If I were you—“ Benedict grinned mischievously “I would run and drag Y/N away from Eloise before those two officially call you an idiot and make a plan for Y/N to leave you for good.” apparently the second son was capable of reading his older brother’s mind and pointing out all the worries that were already inside viscount’s head

“She would never.”

“I am unaware of the scope of your failure, but given the fact your wife rushed to Eloise, out of all the people must have been immense.”

“That’s it!’ Anthony hissed, almost crawling out from behind the tree, ready to clear this misunderstanding immediately.

***

„Oh, my dear!” Lady Featherington placed her hands on her hips as if she wanted to emphasize her higher position and knowledge of male-female relations. „Do not occupy yourself with the romance fantasies. Courtship is gone once the knot is tied. And after a child is born--” her gaze landed on Y/N’s stomach „you put all the efforts into keeping the family afloat and secure the future of the offspring.”

„I believe--”

„Viscountess, you are so young. So naive and innocent. Fed on the novels and stories.”

„Most of which cover the topic of history, literature and medicine rather than Shakespeare plays.” now the young woman was getting angry her cheeks flushing „topics which I boldly presume are far from your interest.”

„I beg your-”

„I kindly forgive you, lady Featherington. Now if you excuse us - I shall wish you a good day.”

„I am not--”

„Lady Featherington.”

The sudden deep voice coming from behind made all the ladies turn around at once.

„Viscount.” Portia bowed slightly „I was just having a little chat with your wife.”

„Educating her on the specificity of marital relations?”

„Giving her some of the knowledge that her prematurely deceased mother - God rest her soul - did not have the opportunity to teach her”

„How kind of you.” Anthony almost smirked and Y/N had to muffle the chuckle forming in the back of her throat looking down. It was like she saw the old him. „However I suppose that once I am here, you shall be free of your educative duties?”

„I--”

„do not preoccupy yourself my lady. My wife shall not lack the company from now on.” having said that, Antony walked right to Y/N offering her an arm and - a sight truly unexpected - bid the older lady goodbye while leading the viscountess away.

„I didn’t need you to save me.”

„such a shame I happened to be around then.”

„My undoing indeed.”

„Unforunate event that you might have to keep the externals for the duration of a stroll.” Anthony held her tighter and closer to him while nodding head to the acquaintance.

***

„Did you gather some intel on the current situation of our brother and his lovely wife?” Benedict, who followed the two of them without any hesitation, asked Eloise.

„I am Y/N’s confidante, I shall never-”

„You cannot trick me sister.”

„Anthony is an idiot.”

„I had quite a feeling you would say something like that. Now- shall we interfere or remain passive observers as Antony makes a fool of himself begging for her forgiveness?”

Eloise smirked as they continued their following.

She and Benedict always understood each other without words.

Edit: part 4 Stuck

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