#as deliberate advertisement and to give myself time to

[mxwhore]

thinking about uploading here martin 1 from hunger pangs...

[poisonlove]

Hey, I'm not sure if you're taking requests, but I'm gonna ask anyway.

(Wednesday Addams x female reader)

Reader gets Wednesday a black necklace with a miniature dagger on it for her birthday. While Wednesday secretly loves the gift, she acts like she does not care for the gift. However, she wears it all the time. One day, when she comes into her dorm, she finds the necklace missing and practically hunts down the whole school to find it. Wednesday almost kills someone to get it. Reader sees her acting crazy to find something, and when she asks what it is, she has no choice but to tell her. It ends cute with fluff at the end

I can't write it myself, so I need help❤️

Happy birthday | w.a

Pairing: Wednesday Addams X reader

Status: request

Advertising: fluffy, wednesday cry

Author: sorry for this end

"Happy birthday, Wed," I say with a small smile on my lips.

We were at the only café in Jericho, celebrating Wednesday Addams' 17th birthday. Enid had dragged her there, promising the gothic brunette that it wasn't a birthday party but something strange she wanted to show her.

As soon as Wednesday walked into the café and saw her friends—Thing, Xavier, Eugene, Tyler, and Enid's boyfriend—she shot a glare at her roommate.

"I told you no party," she hissed, but Enid beamed at her.

"This doesn't count as a party," Enid replied, trying to reassure her.

With a resigned sigh, Wednesday approached the table.

"Happy birthday, Addams," Xavier said, grinning ear to ear.

Wednesday didn't even respond.

Wednesday's brown eyes locked onto mine, staring intensely as if trying to read my thoughts.

"I thought at least you wouldn't be involved," she murmured slowly, coldly.

Embarrassment flushed my cheeks.

"It was Enid's idea," I quickly apologized, blushing deeply under Addams' accusatory gaze.

"You know I hate birthdays," Wednesday said, unfazed.

"Think of it as an event bringing you closer to death," I suggested, shivering slightly.

Wednesday raised an eyebrow, considering it for a moment. "Interesting perspective. Though death is the only event I eagerly await, it doesn't make birthdays any less... unbearable."

I smiled shyly, trying to lighten the mood. "Well, at least you have an excuse to receive gifts."

"I detest gifts," she retorted, a touch of coldness in her voice. "They're just useless symbols of unwanted affection."

"I know," I admitted, briefly looking away. "But sometimes it's nice to receive something just because someone cares about you."

Wednesday stared at me intensely, as if trying to read between the lines of my words. "Feelings are overrated," she declared, but there was a slight hesitation in her voice.

The brunette walked slowly towards me and sat down next to me. Wednesday's Notes of Amber and Wood perfume reached my nostrils, and I almost closed my eyes in appreciation.

Enid approached us with enthusiasm, her blue eyes shining brighter than usual."Happy birthday, Weddy," the blonde chirped, almost screaming. I smiled tenderly, watching as Enid rushed towards Addams and hugged her quickly.

Wednesday closed her eyes, enduring her friend's affection.

"You don't mind if we got you gifts, right?" Enid almost asked with guilt, and Wednesday sighed loudly.

"No," she muttered through gritted teeth.

I chuckled timidly, and Wednesday kicked me under the table, silencing me and making me bite my lip hard from the pain.

"I think the whole school knows that you are a girl who likes things like death and torture..." Enid begins shyly.

"Too much," Xavier comments amused.

"So Ajax and I wanted to give you this," says Enid nervously, handing over a package wrapped in black paper.

Wednesday took the package with deliberate slowness, carefully observing every detail of the wrapping. With a precise motion, she slid a nail along the edge of the black paper, meticulously peeling off the adhesive tape. She didn't tear the paper but opened it carefully, as if performing a ritual. Finally, she extracted the contents revealing a romantic novel.

She looked up in confusion and stared intently at the blonde.

"We thought it would be torture for you to read it," the blonde said, and Wednesday smiled imperceptibly.

"Thank you," she said seriously.

Other gifts followed: Tyler gave her a coupon to order her favorite drink for free for a week, Eugene a jar of honey, and Xavier a book on various torture methods.

Wednesday glanced at me sideways, and I shrugged indifferently. I tried to hide my nervousness and continued to maintain eye contact with Wednesday. The latter, seeing nothing strange, returned to look at her friends.

I sighed with relief: I wanted to give her the gift later without anyone around.

At midnight, Wednesday's birthday party had officially become unbearable for the birthday girl, and she asked to return to Nevermore. We walked silently towards Wednesday's and Enid's room, although the latter had gone to sleep with Ajax.

Silence surrounded us, and the gift I had in my pocket burned with each passing second.

I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants and swallowed loudly.

"What's wrong with you?" Wednesday casually asks in front of me.

How did she notice?

"Nothing," I mutter timidly, nervously chuckling.

We arrive in front of her room door, and the brunette turns to look at me curiously. My eyes fix on her face illuminated by the faint moonlight, making me blush recklessly. I had feelings for Wednesday for some time now and hoped Addams wouldn't notice.

"When you laugh in this way you hide something," Wednesday says seriously.

Damn.

"Um..." I start nervously, my heart beating fast against my chest.

"I also have a gift for you," I say timidly.

"Y/n/n," the brunette whispers.

"It's nothing," I immediately justify, knowing Wednesday's general dislike for gifts, especially fancy ones.

I take the small box out of my pocket and hand it to Wednesday, trembling slightly.

Wednesday takes the box with the same meticulous care she applies to every gesture. Her long fingers delicately grasp the adhesive tape and peel it off with surgical precision. The paper unfolds under her hands like petals of a blooming flower, revealing the content. Her cold, calculating brown eyes rest on the black necklace with the tiny miniature dagger.

Despite her habit of hiding emotions, for a brief but intense moment a spark of interest passes through her eyes. Her expression doesn't change, but there's something in the tilt of her head, in the way she holds the necklace between her fingers, that suggests a subtle almost imperceptible appreciation.

"It's... an innocent gift, I swear," my cheeks turn red. "It's an old family heirloom," I justify.

Wednesday looks up from the gift and stares at me intensely. Her face is a mask of impassivity.

She says nothing but moves closer and hugs me timidly, a surprisingly tender gesture for her. The contact makes me hold my breath, and my heart seems to want to explode from my chest. Then, with a light movement, she kisses me on the cheek.I stand still, almost incredulous at what just happened.

Wednesday withdraws, her face still impassive but with a slight warmth in her cheeks.

She was embarrassed.

"Thank you," she murmurs. Then she puts the gift in her pocket and enters her room, closing the door behind her.

I stand there for a moment, trying to process everything. The silence of the hallway envelops me, but inside me, I feel a whirlwind of emotions. I bring a hand to my cheek, still warm from Wednesday's kiss, and smile shyly.

(...)

Days passed slowly, turning into months, and Wednesday remained the enigmatic and somewhat peculiar figure typical of the Addams family.

Despite the time that had passed, I had never seen her wear the necklace I had given her. Initially, I felt disappointed, but then I realized I couldn't blame her. Perhaps I had overstated its importance, making it something too sophisticated and not suited to her style. Maybe for her, it was simply an object of little interest, if not outright distasteful.

I didn't reveal my disappointment because I harbored deep feelings for her. I wanted to continue being her best friend, as I always had been, even though my heart sometimes fluttered in the face of her coldness.

One day, Wednesday's behavior took a completely anomalous turn, and I began to worry seriously about her.

I saw her walking through the school with palpable agitation, scrutinizing every corner, lifting vases, and searching through the garden's grass and fountain. It was clear she was searching for something with an almost frightening determination.

I was so worried that even Enid, usually impassive in the face of Wednesday's eccentricities, seemed unsettled. When I finally managed to talk to her, Enid confided that Wednesday had literally torn apart their room, searching everywhere with excessive fury.

"I swear, y/n, it was terrifying," Enid told me nervously. "I simply asked what she was looking for, and Wednesday yelled at me and pushed me out of the room," she continued, her voice trembling, "and if I had insisted, she would have killed me," she concluded, terrified for her life.

Enid quickly waved goodbye and walked away from me, probably wanting to escape Wednesday's wrath.

It was clear that something serious was happening.

I couldn't understand what could have triggered such a reaction in Wednesday, but the anxiety was starting to affect me too.I decided to walk towards Addams' room, eager to talk to her and understand what was going on.

As I approached, I noticed something glinting in a corner, behind a statue. I raised an eyebrow with curiosity, cautiously approaching. It was the necklace I had given Wednesday.I picked it up and carefully put it in my pocket.

I wanted to meet Wednesday and try to understand what was happening. I also hoped she could give me explanations about why she had thrown away the necklace I had given her; she could have at least returned it.

I walked towards Wednesday's room and raised an eyebrow in confusion, seeing the door half-open, accompanied by a deafening noise coming from inside.

I opened the door slowly and found myself facing a scene of total chaos: overturned beds, the desk turned over with scattered objects everywhere, clothes strewn on the floor, papers scattered everywhere.

I even saw a T-shirt on the window.

It was such complete disorder that it left me speechless for a moment, wondering what could have caused all this in Wednesday's usually tidy room.

Wednesday was hunched over her bed, with Things by her side. "No, Things, I don't care if we've already looked under the bed, help me," she said desperately.

What on earth was she looking for?

"Wednesday?" I called out in confusion.

The gothic girl tensed slowly and turned to look at me. I widened my eyes seeing her bloodshot eyes, mascara running down and marking her cheeks.

She had been crying.

I immediately approached her; why she had thrown away the necklace didn't matter to me now.

Wednesday looked at me with seriousness and anguish, her arms wrapping around my neck in a suddenly needy embrace. The warmth of her body made me shiver, a sensation contrasting with the intensity of the situation.

"Enid told me you were looking for something..." I said, my voice muffled by her embrace."Why didn't you tell me?" I added gently, trying to understand what was troubling her so deeply.

"I could have helped you," I added with a smile that I hoped would reassure her.

Wednesday withdrew slightly and looked at me with eyes reflecting palpable sadness.

"I didn't want... to disappoint you," she confessed, lowering her gaze.

"Why?" I asked, confused and curious about her thoughts.

Wednesday seemed to struggle with herself, a visible conflict in her gaze. After a long moment of silence, she decided to reveal the truth.

"I lost your necklace," she admitted, avoiding my gaze and staring at her shoes with evident discomfort.

So that's what she was looking for...

I smiled broadly and chuckled to myself, confusing Wednesday. The gothic girl stared intensely at me, her eyes darkening at my demeanor, visibly annoyed. Without saying a word, I pulled out the necklace from my pocket, and Wednesday's eyes widened in surprise.

"Where did you find it?" she asked curiously, her tone serious."Behind a statue," I murmured timidly, smiling at the brunette girl.

" I thought you had thrown it away... After all, I've never seen you wear it," I confessed shyly.

Wednesday took the necklace and turned her back to me, moving her braids aside and tilting her neck.

"Will you put it on me?" she asked timidly.

I smiled nervously and timidly approached her, my trembling hands fastening the necklace around her neck over the W necklace that her mother had given her.

Wednesday turned around and looked up to meet my gaze.

"I've always had it... I just didn't want anyone to think I really cared," she confessed quickly.

I knew Wednesday wanted to maintain her reputation as the strange girl at all costs, so I wasn't surprised by her choice to hide it. I looked at Wednesday with curiosity, a small smile creeping onto my lips as I noticed her cheeks blush slightly.

I decided to lighten the mood.

"I'll help you tidy up the room," I said timidly, giving Wednesday a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Never do that again," she said, embarrassed.

"What if I do?" I teased, and Wednesday looked at me calmly.

We began to tidy up the room together; I picked up papers from the floor, sorted some clothes where I found a hoodie I had lent her months ago, while Wednesday organized the desk and her bed.

"Y/n?," Wednesday called me timidly.

I turned with the clothes in my hands and looked at her attentively.

The gothic girl seemed nervous."Even though I kept the necklace hidden... I really care about you," she confessed, and I smiled broadly.

I kept smiling, even though a part of my conscience devilishly whispered that Wednesday was only doing it as a friend. But if she allowed me to be close to her, I would accept it anyway.

"If you lose it again, let me know, okay?" I joked timidly.

Wednesday tilted her head, scrutinizing me carefully.

"I won't lose it again, I swear on Nero," she admitted, and my heart skipped a beat at those words.

She had sworn on her scorpion.

"Good," I said embarrassedly, lowering my gaze to hide my blushing cheeks, my heart beating frantically.

Wednesday observed my embarrassment with curiosity.

"Y/n?," she said slowly, breaking the brief silence. "I'm not good with words, but... thank you. For understanding me."

Her voice was calm but loaded with meaning, and I felt a thrill of emotion run down my spine. It was as if she too was struggling with a part of herself that she rarely showed to others.

"There's no need to thank me," I replied sincerely, lifting my gaze to meet hers. "I'm here for you, Wednesday. Always."

A faint smile touched Wednesday's lips, almost imperceptible but full of gratitude. It was a moment of silent connection between us, a mutual understanding that transcended words.

"I know," she finally said, with a hint of seriousness in her voice. "And I... really appreciate all this. You're the only one who truly knows me."

Those words filled me with warmth.

It was perhaps the first time I heard Wednesday express her gratitude so openly, and I felt privileged to have been welcomed into her reserved inner world.

Oh Wednesday... If you knew what I would do for you. Maybe you would finally let me completely into your cold heart.

[catboybiologist]

So. This has lived on my hard drive for over a year and a half now, and in my head for much longer than that. I have the entire plot mapped out in my mind, and it's not *too* long. But it's gonna require a lot of careful writing that I think is beyond my ability, and definitely beyond my current available free time level. Maybe when I advance to candidacy, or maybe this is the story I use a portable backpacking writing setup for.

Either way. It's very deliberately allegorical, and taps into a few sci fi cliche "twists" that you're supposed to kinda figure out early on, but are used for bigger themes later.

As I said. Probably beyond my ability.

But here's how I kicked it off a while back. It has a similar "flow" to the intro of biologics, where it cuts between expository introspection and the actual events happening. Idk if that's weird, but it's what made sense to me.

Also I hate the working title I gave it, but I can't think of it as anything else now.

Symphony of the Stars

The bar I found myself in wasn't much different than millions of others like it. A couple cheap liquors that could be found anywhere, maybe a halfway decent local beer or two, and some tacky tourist paraphernalia hang haphazardly on the walls. Absentmindedly, I swirled my drink. My eyes slowly drifted through the panel windows behind the bar, and onto the orange gas giant visible through it.

That was one thing that made me partial to this little backwater- that damn view. Sure, the closer moons might advertise themselves on their intimate little peeks at the red spot, or the faintest glimpse of Jupiter's barely visible rings, but the people there... Not that I minded the workers, I'm a mechanic of sorts myself- but the miners, water pumpers, and atmospheric skimmers of Jupiter's inner moons were a particular brand of insufferable. Thinking that a couple years managing equipment in the Hellas basin made them the most rugged people on the planet, and then shipped themselves out to the furthest flung inhabited spot in the damn solar system. Joke's on them- most of them don't survive 10 years out here. The ones that make it are a different story, I'll give you that. A certain breed of person actually has what it takes to make it out here, and those people have earned some respect.

But I digress.

Callisto was a remote place, damn far from the sprawling metropolises of Mars or the more cushy mining jobs in the belt. Up until recently, it had been my own little sleepy backwater that I had used to escape my extended hours fixing ships for the harvesters on the other moons.

That was before jumping.

Callisto boasted a small engineering and research center near the south pole, most famous for getting artificial gravity fields working nearly three centuries ago. That bit of notoriety let someone set up a particle accelerator that looped the whole damn moon on its equator. Forty eight years ago, a researcher hit the right island of stability when making ultra-heavy elements, and something just... came together. The exact right amount of mass was focused in the exact right amount of space to dent space time in a perfect little way. A few measurements later, they realized that they had created the smallest documented black hole.

My eyes again wandered to the space in between us and Jupiter. That was the other reason I came to this bar so often. It was also the only place around where you could watch the show.

After a few times generating and collapsing this infant of a black hole, some idiot of a scientist decided that they just had to throw something into it. It wasn't much of anything, just a probe that blasted a repeating live image from its camera in all directions. And hopefully, if it survived in any identifiable form, someone would pick up on it.

Well, someone did. A little over four years later, we got a picture of a star. Real helpful- there's only a couple septillion of those out there, right? But what mattered was the timing, and the direction. The star was eventually identified as Proxima Centauri. The moment the image from the probe had been received, the receiver was exactly 4.2465433 light years away from Proxima. And the image was received exactly 4.2465433 years after the probe was thrown into the hole. Meaning that the probe was at Proxima, exactly 4.2465433 years before the image was received. And it was thrown into the hole, on Callisto.... also exactly 4.2465433 years before the image was received. One moment, Callisto. One moment, Proxima Centauri. In some unit of time that was smaller than our ability to measure, it had traveled to the next star system. It was the textbook definition of a wormhole.

And with that discovery, well....

Jupiter's red spot quivered ever so slightly. They were right on schedule, it seemed. Just need to gain a bit of mass in the accelerator, get the magnetic railgun to throw it all into the space above it....

Like fluid down a drain, the image of Jupiter swirled as a dark spot appeared in front of it. Slowly, it grew, twisting the orange and red tones of the gas giant in mosaic patterns, until the black orb stopped, hovering in the emptiness.

After the initial wormhole generation all those years ago, it was found that by nudging the mass to be a little less, or a little more, or nudging to position of the superheavy object that created it, you could target distant parts of the universe. Soon, small spacecraft were being sent to distant stars. The scientists started it, of course. Shortly afterwards, the Callisto government began lobbying to make our little outpost the first official launch point for interstellar settlement.

That was forty years ago. And at this point, the five established settlements were fairly self sufficient- they just needed occasional contact and resupplies. Every week, a wormhole would be opened to one of the colonies. And every week, a freighter would be there to make the jump through, grab what supplies it needed, leave behind a new list of requests, and then disappear again until their specific colony was contacted again in another five weeks. And every week, I would be in this same bar to watch the fireworks.

My eyes narrowed as the perfect black circle reached its stable state. I watched these things every damn week. Part of me wants to say "blink and you'll miss it", but the truth is, at this point in the process, there's nothing to miss.

One moment, a featureless orb. The next moment, a deep space freighter. No flash. No gradual fade. No coming out of a tunnel. The hole was large enough for the entire mass of the ship to fit through at once, and the jump was seamless.

And to tell the truth... I didn't like it.

Humanity had reached and settled the furthest reaches of space, because of a magic substance that broke physics, stumbled upon by accident, in a random lab, by a some guy who was just trying to whip up a new element.

It was perfect. It was too perfect. And it bothered me.

And well, that's why I was here. I'd been visiting Callisto for years, and the pressure to make jumping more and more accessible to small spacecraft was insane. Pretty soon, everyone trying to engineer or maintain any kind of ship would need to have half of a quantum physics degree, and I wanted to be ahead of the curve. So when the launch point was made official, and they called for mechanics to service the ships that made the jumps to the colonies and back, I lept at the opportunity.

But the push was always for more applications, with little thought to the physics. More jumps, more colonies, more resupplies, more energy efficiency to increase the frequency at which it could be used. Some people were interested in the mechanics of the phenomena to exploit it further, sure, but most seemed to stonewall when you questioned too far. How the hell had this been missed? Why is everyone pushing for applications, and no one freaking out over how much this broke our understanding of the universe? Is it possible to measure the unit of time that the jump occurred in? Was it below detection limits? If it was, what did that mean?

And so, here I was. Sipping some herbal thing, staring at Jupiter, and thinking a little too hard about reality.

Eh, at least I could fix that last part.

"'scuse me bartender?" I asked. "Can I get another one of these, with an extra shot in it?"

He silently nodded, and poured me the synthetic gin mixed with... well, I didn't question it much. Anything to help keep these ideas in check.

The carbon fiber fingertips of my left hand gripped the glass with their usual calculated precision, while the skin of my right idly tapped the bar. I sighed.

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2024: #32

32. THE NETHERLANDS Joost Klein - "Europapa" 26th place (Disqualified)

Decade ranking: 120/153 [Above Ochman, below Andrew Lambrou]

Yeah, #NotForMe. Don't like the blue chicken, don't like the awful murine clickbait faces, don't like how he tried appropriating Käärijä's legacy for his own benefit. In fact, there's a lot I don't like about Joost Klein. Get used to it. Feelings are mixed but they are trending towards the NEGATIVE.

The face of a man I want to trap inside a garbage truck.

What is funny to me though, is that I certainly could have liked "Europapa" if the Dutch hadn't made certain decisions. I have to remain honest. My ranking, my rules, my lack of taste. It didn't work for me.

The song's not without merit though. It's a fun eurodance number at a glance. "Europapa" works best when you hear it live after a few drinks and blurt along with its lyrics. It's an EXCELLENT concert and streaming entry, whipping up a good time out of thin air with few pretences.

As a Eurovision entry though... eh. It tried to be a lot of other things: A tribute to his dead parents, an introspective unspooling of his mental health, a spoof, a meme, a middle finger to society, like all at once? It has that Subwoolfer-like quality of straight men in a mancave brainstorming on how what a Eurovision entry looks like: stupid nonsense. How does that work? The answer to that is "barely", and only if you take it at face value.

The song is not really about Joost dead's father and his world view. That ... I think... is deliberate false advertisement. It's not untrue, but presenting it as the sole truth is a deception. If you delve into the song, you'll find that it's a little bit more complex (and less wholesome) than that.

Verse 1 is about desperately running away from your problems (Joost naming all of the destinations, clawing at people for money, having lost everything but time) and verse 2 tackles validation, desperately craving it and yet not feeling sated. "Europapa" is a coping mechanism first and a song second. It's a deep dive into Joost's inner workings and his soul, but one that exposes him as insecure and vulnerable and putting up a front of irreverence as a mask to the outer world. As per the second verse:

"I'm running from myself, I'm crying out for help - I even give people loads of money and there's nobody who gives me aid [...] turn the radio on, I hear Stromae's "Papaoutai" I won't stop [feel satisfied] until they say "yeah, he [Joost] is doing well, eh?"

Now, this is actually... not a bad thing. It proves that "Europapa" is authentic and has surprising complexity and layers. That's what distinguishes it positively from Finland, which is hollow and cringe.

The problem with the emotions is that they clash with the rest of the song?

Fewer sentiments kill the party mood quite AS hard as one of "Are you feeling alright? 😨 Is everything OKAY?😨 should I call a therapist?" 😨". For me it defo kills the vibe. I don't want to END a fun party song with concern for the singer's wellbeing. The fact that Joost is cishet and therefore incapable of talking about his feelings and yet PUT THESE VERBALIZED EMOTIONS IN PLAIN VIEW IN HIS EUROVISION SONG is enough to set the alarm bells ringing.

Of course it could have worked if the live got it right, but um lol. Let's be honest here: The live was BAD. It was INTENDED to be So-Bad-It's-Good, sure, because that's the only way cishets know to do camp. I don't mind a spoof of a 2008 joke act. It just was... performed and staged so poorly it became the thing it intended to parody.

You sir, are NOT Käärijä.

The best parts of the entry (the emotional complexity and the hak break) are completely washed away by a combination of the awful clickbaity faces, TERRIBLE vocals (the post-chorus "EUROs" in literal Cookie Monster Voice are amongst the ugliest sounds anyone created for Eurovision), nightmare fuel visuals and that ghastly, ghastly outro.

Actually, about that outro. That is what made me turn against Joost. It's the WORST section of ANY song this year. It's the combination of whiplashing from extreme rapture into literal mourning at the drop of a pin (which is kind of... really icky human behaviour when you think about it) with pushing it down our throats by including it in the recap. Make The Guillible Cry With Cheap Emotional Manip, it's not a tool exclusive to Israelis.

And you CAN actually blame this intrusive display of emotional expoitation squarely on Joost because he's a known perfectionist and therefore must have planned the execution of the outro the moment he and his cronies decided to include it in the song.

It did tie the ending together alright. But because it wasn't a showing of personal growth, or strength or accomplishment, which it could have been, it did not align with the rest of the song. Instead it underlined that Joost hasn't moved on and is hopelessly stuck in the past, desperate for validation.

Instead of underlining the cheerful, fun aspect of Europapa it instead brought my attention the dark, emotionally disturbing bits as the last thought, and that ultimately is what killed it for me. The song is a cry for help, which is nothing to be cheerful about.

Aaaaand that's the opinion on the song and the live performance. But we're not done yet because I must address what came after that. 🙄

So, let's tackle the press conference first. Zero complaints about that. I was annoyed with Joost before due to how desperately he tried to push himself as "Käärijä's" successor and fabricated his own PR campaign on TikTok (DIE TikTok), but his behaviour at the PC made me do a complete 180 on him. Him shooting pure unfiltered truth pellets at the EBU and Eden with no regard for the consequences was fucking GLORIOUS. All the things he said needed to be said and were said without a filter. It was pure oxygen and precisely what we all needed to hear, spoken because of its TRUTH and not for clout.

Then, the disqualification. It was 'a valid DQ' purely from a rules perspective but come on now. This was not a DQ worthy incident. He didn't touch the woman and she deliberately, repeatedly refused to respect his privacy despite multiple warnings AND an agreement he made with the EBU. How has this even been reported as a 'crime'? He APOLOGIZED profusely to the lady in question and she refused to hear him and called the police on him. Sometimes you just have the misfortune of running into a Karen on a bad day. And given how riddled with tension this year's backstage was, every day of rehearsals was a bad day for everyone involved.

The DQ went through because the EBU can't fucking clear up the slightest inconvenience. By the time the police became involved, there was no turning back, and they were forced to DQ as per their bureaucracy. The rest is backpedaling.

Both of these things made me feel more sympathetic towards Joost as a person. At the end of the day he's a deeply troubled, complex, tragic figure who (barely) functions on copium and is really terrible at expressing his true feelings and the events surrounding his DQ check out with that. He needs support from those who love him (and enter therapy.) The other delegations taking his side (other than ofc KUN(ts)), is a wholesome signal and proves that Europe can be United By Music even when it is Divided By Politics first. If this disqualification is what leads to some much-needed overhauls for next year (ideally the sacking of Österdahl, the cancellation of the MorroccanOil sponsorship and KAN's expulsion, in any order), I will gladly accept Joost's role in that as the proverbial sacrifce that needed to be made.

Ironically, it was the disqualification that made me realize I shouldn't bump Joost higher out of sympathy for his personality. I didn't miss Europapa on Saturday and barely noticed its absence. The results in the Grand Final were great, specifically because Switzerland won and Croatia beat Israel in the televote. If Joost competes, Swizterland and Croatia's TVs go down in western Europe, while Israel is still top five (since she beat Joost in the semi). He also shoves Bambie out of their serendipitous 6/6/6 placements to boot.

That realization is why I need to eliminate him NOW and not later down the road. I don't care for the song as a Eurovision entry, I DISLIKE the live performance and his presence could have made the results worse for me. Easy elimination at this stage.

Those that care about "Europapa" can keep singing its praises and should. Joost will need and shall appreciate the support after this nightmare Eurovision.

Ultimately though, I am not of his fans.

THE RANKING

[fr-wiwiw]

I have no art to post— actually I do. It's my studies and sketches, sfw & nsfw, things like that. But I haven't been deliberately drawing something. Mainly I've just been focusing on sharpening my art skills to gain commissions as I'm a freelance human artist, in the midst of AI chaos, I'm trying my very best to keep up while not draining myself.

So I just want to give you some updates of my life, idk if this is important or not. I'm still a bit constipatedly (is this even a fucking word lol) awkward with communicating with my followers or advertising myself. Ironic, really, bcs I majored in design & advertisement.

Hi there, my lovelies—I hope you don't mind me calling you all that. I've been trying to do healthy habits and diligently fulfill my needs in 3 aspects. Mentally, spiritually and physically. For the past 7± years, I was not really in a great place mentally. I will not expose it in this post, don't worry it doesn't have anything to do with drugs or whatnot. Just that I've been constantly working and working, controlled by fear and my anxieties and I got depressed I think.

I didn't really understand how to actually 'heal' back then. But now I do now. Starting from January I've been trying to bounce back to have a healthy mindset again— trust me when I say I'm an overthinker & problem solver, it's such a nightmare to live in this body sometimes. Fellow overthinker, problem-solver & feeler type will relate to this perhaps hahah.. I'm a turbulence type too, fucking yay. Luckily, my prayers are answered. I can't write it down one by one here, you would be reading a 10k+ fanfiction and I'm sure you'd rather have me draw or write a real fanfic, smut would be preferable won't it? lol

I have many things change, become my better self (bcs I was, still am obsessed becoming better than my past self and I'm tired of living in such dark headspace). I do feel the changes, it helps that I have better friends, filtered out some that affects me negatively. This journey going into my 30s really is such a roller coaster, I never liked my 20s bcs of all the trauma and pain. But I wouldn't be able to reach this point if it wasn't for it.

So.. I'm grateful. Trying to always be grateful too, no matter how hard my circumstances are. I have faith that I will get what I've always envisioned and dream of

I'm also grateful that in 2022, a friend encouraged me to post my Gahan fanart. Now this may seem like biased and dedicated post for my Gahan moots & followers, in some way yes, I cannot deny that. But mostly this is too all of you, who come here and follow me bcs you like my arts & fanfics, supports me however you can despite having our own hardships that we may or may not share here. Your responses to my creations really feeds me and help me boost my confidence to keep drawing & keep creating, keep hoping. I always read your hashtags here, a lot of you are really such a hilarious individuals. I'm grateful my art can find you or you find my art and take delight in it. Because I do take delight in your reactions. In some ways, I never realized it, but you guys feel like penpals. It still feel one-way communication most of the time, idk if it's because of my awkwardness to respond to such responses. Feeling like, ah this too will pass or just bask in the reactions and sit then do nothing productive. I'm kinda scared I will be satisfied with one post and then not post anymore. You get it.. Yea you can probably tell by now I'm up in my head thinking too much. Posting that first Gahan fanart on twitter really was the best decision. It feels like I gained a special community, that's surprisingly still active and alive till this very day, I'm always waiting for new fics to drop gosh. I get to see tweets & tumblr posts that are deranged, detailed analysis, fan edits, those gifs, aus, fellow artists & authors! I get to know little bits of your daily lives too and what kind of person you are online haha, just so fun.

And then my freelancing journey.. My decision to become a freelancer has always been one of my dreams but boy oh boy isn't it fucking hard to start from 0 and exist in confusion haha. Money doesn't come easy too bcs I help feed my family along with my siblings. I've been swallowing all my jealousy seeing ppl my age can go out and watch concerts (even tho I don't like crowded & noisy places like that). Going on vacation, be in a romantic relationship, marry, so on and so forth. Idk if this is tmi posting my feelings like this out in the world, but it is what it is.

So.. TLDR:

Hi, I'm alive. I haven't post or updated much bcs I've been focusing on my well being. Honing my art skills, trying to get art commissions to put food on my table and simultaneously enjoying life as much as I could wisely. Thankyou to all of you who are still following me and keep supporting me, I will have to say, If you follow me for only Gahan posts, I have to disappoint you bcs I won't always post Gahan bcs I draw other things too. For my enjoyment, yours, others and mostly for me to gain market for commission too. This is norm, I'm sure most of you realized that too. But I still want to address things to you, I like interacting with all of you. I won't be surprised if one day you leave/unfollow, but let me be grateful to you while you're still here supporting me ^^

That's all for my update. I try my best to make this post as short but effective as possible so I don't bore you with my long ass writing, per usual lol. I cannot seem to write in shorts, I have accepted my faith lmao.

I wish you all well, wherever you are. I hope we can all be happy and well in this dark and uncertain place. Don't hesitate to give comments or drop questions here, I'm cooking my skills and art taste so I can give more to you and be satisfied with what I will achieve along with the progress.

See you in the next post!🌟

[adhd-creativity]

Sobriety Journal: Day 2

I have slipped in my sobriety journey the last month or two. I've not been weekend binge drinking (which is why I stopped before, I've never been a daily drinker) but I have been having 1-3 drinks in most social situations. I thought this might be my happiest state; just indulging a little every now and then. Leaving parties early! Still having time for myself!

But, nope. I feel possibly more miserable than I did when I was partying every weekend. I'm at work today and I feel sluggish and like everything is too much and upsetting me. My tummy feels bloated and my eyes look like angry little beads in my head. I literally can't wait to go home and lie in bed and do nothing. And this is all because of two drinks I had on Saturday night.

I think that while I was regularly binging, I was so hungover most of the time ( did you know it can take 10 days for alcohol to leave your system??) that this tired state became my normal. By the time I felt better it was time to go and out and party again.

Now I know. I know that my life can be such much better. I stopped completely for a few months and I was making art regularly, making shakey starts at writing, reading, doing yoga. I was also going on nights out. I actually think part of the reason I started drinking again was because I was feeling worried that I wasn't enjoying myself on (most) nights out....It wasn't even nervousness, it was boredom. I started poisoning myself for boredom!

If something is boring, if I find certain people boring, maybe I shouldn't be doing those things or talking to those people. The answer isn't to number myself out to enjoy it....especially as that only works for a bit before making me feel super sensitive and depressed.

Adhd and alcohol do not mix. I spent yesterday low key anxious and unhappy all day. I lay in bed for the whole sunny day and felt worried about wasting my life, felt exhausted for no reason, planned creative ideas but didn't even journal, got frozen and didn't eat or drink anything until I was hungry enough to get a takeaway. Then the takeaway gave me a stomach ache lol. Is that fun? Am I living my best life?

Even though I know this all makes sense, and I've read a load of books on sobriety, and no longer even really get pleasure from alcohol (I get about 10 minutes maybe before my mood drops)..... when it comes to a social situation and alcohol is offered/present, I take it. It's like whatever willpower or reason I have goes out the window. I don't even question myself- in fact I deliberately don't question myself.

Fuck alcohol. Fuck the social conditioning that surrounds it, the generational alcoholism I have been born into, the lack of education/ willful holding back of information from advertising and the government. Fuck fighting a battle against what is seen as normal and not harmful when it is anything but. My friends dad died of alcoholism yet she continues to drink heavily herself and sees no issue with it. My own mother argued with me that it was healthier for me to drink wine at Christmas instead of drink juice.

Anyway I have decided journal here about my sobriety- I thought about starting a separate blog but I feel that journalling is just another way for me to create and heal myself. I think my creativity, my adhd and my alcohol use are all linked to each other.

I know I can get back to the creative and happy place I was in just a couple of months ago. I just have to give up alcohol to have everything- instead of giving up everything for alcohol.

[shrimpmandan]

okay but you forgot the part where sometimes it's literally just a preference. i didn't even mention having trauma with men myself, i simply want to date women and i'm allowed to exclude men from my dating pool if i like. i'm happy being bisexual. i often express attraction to men. just because not dating them is an active decision doesn't mean i'm unhealthy.

Most of the "you"s in my response were general, not specifically towards you as a person since I do not know who you are. The point stands that "muh trauma" is a shitty reasoning, and that's not gonna fly here.

And again: I've stated several times that preferences are inoffensive and fine. I've gone back and forth on preferring women and men (the 'bi-cycle') before settling on the fact that I just don't care in the grand scheme of things. I'm not calling you a weirdo for preferring to date women, I'm calling you a weirdo for making that a fundamental aspect of your identity when the SPECIFIC label of 'febfem' is associated with radfems, and also when literally no other demographic except a small group of mostly radfem women use the term.

AGAIN again: my mom is bisexual, she only dates and has mostly only ever dated men. She's fairly exclusive in her preference for men, especially in long-term relationships. She doesn't call herself a fucking "mebfem". Literally nobody outside of the internet is gonna understand what the hell you mean by "febfem" as opposed to you just saying "oh yeah I'm bisexual but I basically only date women jsyk", where it's actually relevant to mention.

Again I have literally ONLY seen bisexual women who prefer women make up a wholeass fucking label to differentiate themselves from other bisexual women under the pretense that dating men is "betraying" the WLW community. This is literally because the word "febfem" originated among radfems, who are NOTORIOUSLY biphobic, so that bi radfems could advertise themselves as "one of the good ones" for not dating men. There is a wholeass context to the word that you're either just missing or deliberately ignoring, but I find that hard to believe when you've already mentioned the radfem association. Fucking URBAN DICTIONARY acknowledges the radfem origins on some level, by mentioning that febfem is often a political thing.

Wikitionary also acknowledges the term as having gender critical origins, and goes on the double whammy of saying that it's specifically CIS women that febfems dedicate their exclusivity to. Because it's a radfem term. Just say you prefer women jesus christ lmao. The reason variations of the terms have never caught on with other demographics is because every other demographic thinks it's redundant, and frankly even most bisexual women I've met don't want that radfem association around them at all even if they do mostly/exclusively date one or the other. I don't know why you're so attached to this term that has nothing but garbage origins when you could quite literally JUST SAY "sorry, I'm only looking for women for a long-term relationship right now" if someone asks.

I literally don't give a single shit who you decide to date on a personal level. Most bisexuals I've met had some sort of preference or just straight-up more familiarity with one sex over the other. That's not what I'm taking issue with no matter how hard you're trying to frame it that way. I'm taking issue with a radfem term with radfem associations that explicitly involves either "trauma :(" or "politics lmao" as primary reasons for not dating men as opposed to people just being normal and. Y'know. NOT using the radfem term with radfem origins, just a thought.

Take a shot every time I said "radfem."

[invisiblegarters]

The New Employee 5 & 6

Episode 5

Ah okay back to the crush days. I didn't really have crushes in college, but I remember when I did get them and I both loved and hated the feeling.

So he recognizes the pen because he was there when it was purchased. That makes sense. I knew it was Yu Seong's because ~drama, but I have to admit I was curious about how Seung Hyun knew it.

Also, my dude. It's been literal years. Might be time to stop pining over your old crush.

Aw, Jong Chan is sweet. And the poor guy has no idea what the hell happened. YOU ARE 28 WHOLE YEARS OLD, SEUNG HYUN. Open your damn mouth.

Ji Yeon remains the best. I love her and I wish I had a bestie just like her.

I do love a good workplace romance but I also see the inherent issues in dating your boss. I am having the same problem with Mon and Sam in GAP. I like the trope, but also that's your money and your livelihood, people, do try to keep the love life out of the workplace. But then I also really like workplace shenanigans…

I waffle, is what I'm saying.

"You know how small our dating pool is" - ain't that the truth. And I don't think that it's bad that he and Yu Seong are still friends, in fact I think that it's a good thing. Especially since I get zero vibes of longing from either of them. I mean, they were only in a few scenes together, but from what I recall it almost seemed like Yu Seong was prodding Jong Chan in Seung Hyun's direction. Like a good friend and senior.

In a way, I think that it would have been better had the two of them dated. Since Seung Hyun never got to have that relationship he built it up in his head, made it a wall that blocks out any real thing that he might have been able to experience. And I don't blame Jong Chan for being frustrated, either. Also he has a cat and as a cat person myself, I can't have beef with a man who cuddles a kitty and uses it as an emotional sounding board for his feelings about his intern.

The cat text struggles are real, people.

Oh yeah Team Leader Choi is gonna be a problem.

I must say I do like all the pining this episode, but I'm glad everything got resolved in the same one instead of dragging out. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some drama, but it's also nice to see an adult relationship where they actually behave like adults and talk things out. 

Episode 6

They are so cute. And I love a good height difference. Of course, nothing beats Semantic Error for that.

Aw, the way Seung Hyun says "hyung" is so adorable. The quiet little voice.

"Do you want to see my cat?" I love that this isn’t actually a euphemism. I have to admit that would get me, too.

Interesting that Jong Chan decided against journalism because he didn't want to do the networking and brown noising required to succeed. I mean, he's gotten by without doing it in advertising, but I think that all this workplace tension means that that's not going to last. People are already back biting at him, and at Seung Hyun for being kind of taken under his wing. One of them is going to suffer for Jong Chan's approach to work, and let's be real, the intern is easier to get at.

I like how much Jong Chan believes in him, though. It's sweet.

I really like how much Seung Hyun's whole team supports his efforts to get a permanent position in the company. They all root for him. As they should.

But he didn't get it, did he? I wonder if that is what the phone call that Jong Chan received was about.

Still feel like it will turn out to be deliberate sabotage. Manager Choi is my first guess, because he's a jerk, he's clearly jealous of Jong Chan, and he's noted the way that Jong Chan supports Seung Hyun. And as I already said, getting at the intern and ruining his chances is a lot easier than trying to go after Jong Chan directly, especially when he's so good at his job that the higher ups will do anything to keep him around.

I have to give it to this show, they manage to pack in a lot into a small time frame. The progression of the relationship doesn't seem forced at all, and both of the actors are really doing a good job conveying that they really like each other. They're also managing to get in enough conversation about important things that I can really see how they work as a couple. I've seen shows with much longer run times that don't manage it half as well. 

[sargentgeorge]

Original Project

My aims for this project over the Christmas break is to familiarise myself with music distribution and promotion , I intend to release a song onto streaming platforms and promote a pre-existing song through advertising.

I wish to get more comfortable with advertising and distributing my music whilst attempting to accurately cast a net to people who might actually listen to the song, as well as understanding my audience analytics.

To do this me and a contemporary will be releasing an advert on Instagram for a song we released last year called ‘Drilly Xmas’.

We looked at the analytics of our demographics as Instagram asks you who to advertise to. This ensures your advertisement can be as successful as possible.

Spotify for artists is a very useful tool as it gives you this information freely and the predominant demographic was UK men between 18-27.

With this knowledge we made the ad which was a snippet of the pre-existing YouTube video and we both paid 15 pounds to promote it over the Christmas period. You can get very forensic with advertising by tailoring the ‘behaviours and habits’ of people who use the app. The same data Instagram uses in its algorithm to show users content they like to consume however we just set the age range and went to all audiences.

This is the ad !

The ad was also linked to the YouTube video and Spotify and was clearly quite successful, before the ad the YouTube video had less than 1k views and now is close to 4K.

The song also gained more then double it’s original streams so I believe this advert was very successful in drawing eyes to ‘Drilly xmas’ and I feel much more confident with future promotion of my music. In this part of the project I’ve gained a more solid understanding of accurately using advertising as a tool to draw attention to my music.

I also feel comfortable in saying this part of the project achieved what I wanted both in learning the skill set and the final outcome as it has gained more attention than anything I’ve done prior.

For the second half of my project I would also like to become much more confident in my understanding of distributing music onto Streaming services, as well as understanding which service is best when it comes to releases.  Before this I have never released a single only ever featuring my work on other artists music so I have never had to distribute anything myself. What I hope to achieve before the end of 2022, is to have a song out on streaming platforms.

I will be putting out a single called ‘The bower’ which has been completed during my time at uni. I have also researched third party distributors to get my song into the platforms and the two I am deciding between is. CD baby and Distrokid. Both offer unique advantages primarily in terms of cost.

CD baby offers a flat fee to release music and then it’s out permanently wheras Distrokid is an annual expense that you can use to release as much music as you would like but if ever you want to cancel you would have to pay extra to keep you music on streaming platforms.

After some deliberation I’ve decided to go with Distrokid as they allow you to upload music in 24bit depth as opposed to CD baby’s 16.

I released ‘The bower’ onto streaming platforms and have an account on Distrokid that I intend to use throughout the year.

As I was so focused on releasing the music I did not promote this release nearly as much as ‘Drilly xmas’ but I believe this has served as a benefit as it has also brought my attention to how important promotion is.

As of 16/1/2022 ‘The bower’ sits on 152 streams which is considerably less than the near 3,000 views the ‘Drilly xmas’ gained over the time period. So this project has also shown me that advertisement really works when it comes to releasing music. As the more people that get shown the music more people will interact with it.

So to summarise at the start of this project I wanted to release a song onto Spotify and to advertise a pre existing track for the holidays, in doing so it has given me the tools to continue doing so in future. It has also given me insight in how successful advertising can be if utilised correctly.

I feel much more prepared to advertise my music again and have lined up more songs to be released through Distrokid as the year goes on.

[enki2]

The term for this is "the digital divide", but it's way more complicated than this tbh, because software quality in general is so bad.

The DMV website *should* work like the homework website, but it doesn't, because both of them were farmed out to the lowest bidder who promised to follow "best practices" and the accepted "best practices" are based on maximizing engagement to maximize profits, something that neither the DMV website nor the homework website should or need to do. Since these practices do not directly apply, they need to be selectively bent, which produces software that's unpredictable and hard to understand, even if this software was written by people who were motivated to do a good job.

On top of all that, this kind of municipal software (the only kind of software that people are *required* to interact with, and so, the only kind of software that people who have no interest in ever using a computer have experience with) is selected and purchased by people who are not the actual end users & do not have the experiences of the end users. If you are selecting software for a group (say, you are in management at a supermarket chain and need to buy a license for a point of sale system for the cashiers to use, or you are a government bureaucrat choosing food stamp website software), you *can* get actual users to test your stuff and give feedback, if you care and you have the resources and you can figure out how to get the users to give meaningful and accurate feedback. But in practice, there's a huge class thing going on: not only are the people making the decisions not part of the group they're making decisions on behalf of, but they are totally isolated from the needs of those people and aren't equipped or motivated to understand.

The result is that often, this software simply *doesn't work* or *works intermittently*. If you're of middling technical proficiency, you know just enough to push through the annoying malfunctions, and you lose a few hours getting the doctor's appointment or whatever; if you're of lower technical proficiency, you can't figure out how to get the thing done (or it takes much longer); if you're of higher technical proficiency, you are so aware of the ways things could have been done better that the whole experience is way more demotivating and you're liable to give up like the lower technical proficiency crowd. (I am an example of the latter category. I am a professional software engineer, and I stopped going to the doctor for 10 years because using the employee health insurance portal feels like forcing myself to eat a cold mcdonalds hamburger after I just watched an obviously-ill person deliberately spit on it while making direct eye contact the whole time.)

We can make software that's actually good. Almost nobody does, and almost nobody knows how, because the rules you learn in school and the rules enforced by your manager and the rules that are publicized by famous software development and UI/UX influencers are wrong (or at least, put "good software that people can use to perform tasks" far below other concerns like "have more pictures than words" or "keep people on the website as long as possible" or "waste screen space" or "have a branded color scheme" or "extract information about users to be sold to advertisers").

I don't think it's talked about enough how truly buck wild our level/speed of communication is. We didn't have this 100 years ago! And even then it's only been in the last 20-30 we really embraced technology and our global stage.

Our communities are still experiencing huge upheavals around this and we don't acknowledge it because of all the benefits being wired in brings. You can find jobs and resources and entertainment, sure, but you also have to have accounts here, here and here to access healthcare or a rent portal or TV.

On one end we have an elderly class that is overwhelmed. They learned complex systems already! Taxes, licensing, registration. They know where the offices are - right down the street. Why the change? "Because this site simplifies it." Does it? Does it really? Is it really more simple when someone has to have reliable access to a computer, the wherewithal to make/check an email, and the ability to navigate ten different sites to access the one they want? Why can't they go meet their doctor in person when that's the way it's been since they were children? Why did they learn to make eye contact and shake hands if not for this?

On the other, we have a younger generation that has been tasked with absorbing a huge amount of information since day one. Their brains have to work differently because the tools given to them are different than the ones older generations received. Of course they can find a primary care physician. The site operates like the one they were forced to learn in high school to turn in assignments! And why should they know how to do taxes or balance a checkbook? They were tasked with learning how to navigate the internet - they know where the information is. In a sea of "right now" demands and "this shouldn't take long because you can Google it" assignments, they have to be selective in what takes their attention.

We are currently between a time of "trust the process" and "immediately." So many people feel unheard or ignored because of this. The elderly feel isolated, helpless, and stonewalled. The youth feel anxious, mocked, and bullied.

The world changed and it happened invisibly.

[stars-and-the-sublime]

10 Things that Don't Suck

This is an exercise that I've used a lot when in the miserable throes of depression and anxiety to give myself a little bit of a foothold to stop from going fully over the edge, but it works equally well as a general grounding exercise, something to help combat mild to moderate stress, and a chance to deliberately practice forming positive associations in your brain to things that make you happy. I've found that for me it works best outside, but if that's not an option available to you, you can try it inside, too. If you're able, doing this exercise while sitting by an open window, in a quiet spot in the sun, or while taking a little walk around the block is great.

Here's how it goes: sit up, step outside, or start to walk, as you are able. Focus on your senses. Look around, listen to what noises you can hear, pay attention to how your body feels and what you are touching with your skin. You may want to take a couple of deep, slow breaths at this time, or do something else to help you get to a place that is calm and present. You can focus on one sense at a time or bounce between them as different things come to your awareness. Do whatever is comfortable for you.

While you're paying attention to your surroundings like this, try to find ten things in your immediate environment that don't suck. This could be an observation of how warm the sunlight feels, it could be noticing a piece of birch bark on the ground, it could be appreciating the way that the frost glitters in your window. Bonus points if you find at least one thing that sparks genuine happiness somewhere inside of you, but if you're not finding that, neutrality is just fine. For each thing you find, spend a moment observing it, noticing what it looks like or sounds like or how it smells, what you like about it and how it makes you feel. Keep count of each thing in your head or out loud or on your fingers, whatever is easiest for you.

If you can't find ten things, five is a good place to start. If you can't find five things one is a good place to start. Oftentimes, by the time I get to ten, I've gotten into the groove of the game and continue to notice new not-sucky things around me. If that's the case, you can absolutely challenge yourself to hit fifteen or twenty. If not, you can stop.

For example, here’s my list from my lunch break today:

Fresh air on my face

Sunlight on my skin

New buds on a nearby tree

A butterfly that landed on the grass a couple feet from me

Fresh spinach in my sandwich

White flowers on a nearby bush

A white bird soaring overhead

The vividly blue sky

Dappled shadows on the street

A person walking past with a really fluffy dog

It doesn't have to be anything big or super impactful. You don't have to feel any particular way about what you find, only to notice.

I’ve found this helpful for me, because popularly advertised exercises like gratitude journaling really tend to hit me in the guilt and the religious trauma, and this does a lot of the same work of helping you ground yourself in the moment and practice training your brain to hold on to positive memories alongside the bad, without dismissing the bad things or necessarily attributing the good to a higher power.

As always, ymmv, and feel free to adjust or discard my advice as needed. The important thing is finding a practice that works for you.

[amjustagirl]

Hogwarts AU (Haikyuu!)

feat. Tsukkishima Kei 

requested for by @animestheticz (hope you enjoy it bb!) 

Previously:

Miya Atsumu. Miya Osamu. Kita Shinsuke. Kuroo Tetsuro.

Masterlist link here

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff

Wordcount: 2k

Genre / Pairings: Fluff, Hogwarts AU, Tsukkishima / Reader

A/N: Any other characters you’d like to see? Send me an ask! 

(happy to do any characters other than Kenma / Hinata / Tendo - I don’t trust myself to do them justice!)

Oh and this is just shameless advertisement for my other fic - but I’m also writing a multi chapter fic based off Your Name / Kimi No Nawa featuring Akaashi Keiji (i.e. a bodyswap AU featuring our favourite Tokyo pretty boy). Check it out here!

——————————————————————

“P-please? Just this once?’ Yachi begs, fingers gripping your sleeve like a vice. 

You’re sorely tempted to refuse her ridiculous request, but you can’t bring yourself to. This is Yachi Hitoka, your best friend, though currently she’s a nervous wreck fretting over her first date with Yamaguchi Tadashi. The sweet, freckled Hufflepuff chaser has finally worked up the courage to act on his painfully obvious crush on Yachi - both veritable balls of sunshine, so sweet and anxious and caring that you can’t imagine a better match. 

So you don’t understand why on earth you’re being asked to tag along on a double date with one Tsukkishima Kei. 

It’s not that you dislike the guy – far from it. You’ve had a crush on him yourself ever since Yachi started hanging around Yamaguchi in your third year, sucking you and Tsukkishima have been sucked into their orbit, reluctant moons revolving around twin suns. But you’ve tucked it away since Tsukkishima doesn’t seem to have an interest in anyone at all – in fact, half the time his snarky replies and cold silences make you think he barely tolerates Yamaguchi as a friend, let alone yourself. 

Still, refusing Yachi is tantamount to kicking an injured puppy, so you swallow your reservations and agree. 

‘Thank you!’ Yachi cheers. ‘We’ll have fun, I promise!’ 

-----------------------------------------

It’s summer, and your blouse is sticking to your back as you dash through Diagon Alley. Tsukkishima and Yamaguchi are already waiting in front of Flourish & Botts, the former barely even granting you a nod, though he does give you the courtesy of removing his headphones, while Yamaguchi bounces on the balls of his feet to greet you cheerfully. 

‘Woah there Yamaguchi – keep your enthusiasm for your date’, you joke, and he grins back at you.  And he does – stuttering and blushing as Yachi arrives. Yachi herself is no better – you swear you can hear her teeth chatter as she greets all of you, though she beams when Yamaguchi presents her with a small posy of flowers with clammy hands. 

‘They’re cute’, you remark to Tsukkishima as you walk beside him on the way to the first stop -  Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. 

‘Mm’, he responds, his face blank. 

You know he doesn’t suffer fools – worse still, talkative ones, so you fall silent until you reach the ice cream store. To your surprise, he pulls the chair out for you, and accepts your offer to share a cup of ice cream with you, a tilt to his lips when you automatically order a strawberry shortcake sundae – it’s his favourite after all. 

Yachi and Yamaguchi seem to have gotten over their initial shyness, chatting up a storm in their own little world. You’re excluded, as you expected, but you’re glad for their sakes. 

‘Excited about the last year of school?’ 

You glance up from your melting sundae, surprised that Tsukkishima is the first to break and initiate a conversation. From your interactions with him, he’s deliberate and methodical in his thoughts and words, so you take a few beats to formulate a response. 

‘Yes and no, really’, you answer honestly. 

He raises a thin blonde eyebrow, wordlessly beckoning you to elaborate. 

‘I’m excited for our classes, the syllabus seems really interesting this year’, you say, wincing at how desperately nerdy you sound – but you’re a hopeless Ravenclaw, and advanced Arithmancy and Astronomy excites you. ‘But it’s scary isn’t it – knowing that it’s our last year, and having to make all those important decisions that are going to affect us, years down the road?’ 

He hums thoughtfully. ‘I get that’, he responds, hands steepled under his chin. ‘I’m deciding between doing further studies in magical history and going pro – just for a few more years. But I know no matter what decision I end up making, I’ll probably end up second guessing myself’. 

‘Why can’t you do both?’ you find yourself saying before you can stop yourself. His brow furrows a notch. ‘You’re great at both, and I can’t see why you can’t as long as you put your mind to it’. 

You cringe at your cheesiness, expecting him to snark at you for your Hufflepuff-like optimism the way he does with Yamaguchi, but you’re surprised once again when he mutters a quiet ‘thanks’, a flush high in his cheeks, and then asks -  ‘And what about you?’ 

You wonder if he’s merely being polite, but his tone is serious, and his eyes are intently focused on you, so you tell him about your plans of taking on further studies in Arithmancy, perhaps even enroll in a Muggle university to study Mathematics for a semester or two, before working in Gringotts. The goblins may be archaic in their beliefs about the magical world, but their application of mathematics is extremely advanced. 

‘It suits you’, he comments. You want to ask him what he means by that, but Yachi pipes up from across the table.  

‘If you’re done with your ice cream, do you guys want to check out the magical menagerie? Yamaguchi’s going to get a cat!’ 

Before you can agree, Tsukkishima tells Yachi and Yamaguchi to go on ahead, drolly reminding them that they’re on a date, and they should go spend some quality time together. So they head off with wide smiles, shoulders bumping. They’re so sweet together it almost makes your teeth ache. Well, at least you’ve been dismissed as their reluctant chaperone, and you’re about to wish Tsukkishima a polite farewell when he taps your shoulder. 

‘Let’s go check out Flourish & Botts. I’m sure you have books you want to check out’. 

You blink – because you do, but you don’t expect Tsukkishima to accompany you, let alone be the one seeking out your company. He doesn’t even wait for your assent before he sets off, and you have to jog to keep up with the pace his long legs set. Thankfully, he notices you’re still lagging behind and slows down, though he teases dryly – ‘you know, at the rate you’re walking, I’m not sure we’ll get there before sundown’. 

You pointedly look up at the sun, still high in the sky, before levelling an unimpressed glare at him. He only smirks in response – and you’re so flustered by how attractive his expression is that you nearly trip over the threshold to Flourish & Botts. He catches you with a steady hand to your elbow – and now your heart is fluttering – is this how Yachi is like all the time? If so, you should really cut her some slack – the thoughts crowding your mind so distracting that you hardly hear Tsukkishima call your name in concern until he shakes your shoulder gently. 

‘Are you alright?’ Tsukkishima repeats, with a frown. 

‘Y-yes’, you reply, cursing your traitorous heart again. He doesn’t look like he believes you, insistently pushing you towards an empty couch. 

He clicks his tongue. ‘Don’t move’ he orders, before he disappears, probably to get the books he has his eyes on.  

You sink into the cushions, resisting the urge to bury your face in your hands in embarrassment. An hour spent in his presence and you’ve already turned back into a lovesick fool. You’ve told yourself countless times to just get over your silly crush on him already because it’s not going to do you any good. 

Yamaguchi’s complained to you and Yachi countless times about girls asking him if Tsukkishima is single, but you don’t see him taking an interest in anyone at all – spending all his time instead in the library and on the Quidditch pitch. 

He’s the stone faced beater from Ravenclaw. People wonder sometimes if ice flows in his veins – but they don’t see the determined set of his jaw when he’s ploughing through homework and assignments because he knows he’s going to have to spend the whole day in training the next day, the glint of satisfaction in his eyes whenever he wins a match or scores a good grade, the patience he expends tutoring Yamaguchi (along with Hinata and Kageyama) in Ancient Runes – 

Oh Merlin. You’re a hopeless case. 

 You jump when he returns and drops into a seat beside you. 

‘Oi, what’s wrong with you’, he mutters a tad scornfully, though he drops the book you were eyeing onto your lap. 

‘N-nothing. T-thanks!’ you answer, internally cursing yourself for even picking up Yachi’s speech patterns. 

Get it together. You’re not a fool. 

He hums, browsing his own book. 

It’s pleasant spending an afternoon in a nook reading books. It’s not so pleasant when your heart palpitates every single time his knee grazes yours - and if you shift just a tiny bit to the left you’re pressing against his side and - oh 

‘Are you sure you’re ok?’ he asks, frowning again, when he notices you’ve been reading the same page for the past fifteen minutes. 

‘F-fine’, you stammer, warmth flooding your cheeks when he leans his face dangerously close to yours, bringing his palm to brush against your forehead. 

‘Your temperature’s fine’, he mutters, but he doesn’t pull away – and oh gosh, you’re so close you can count every single lash on his eyes, your traitorous heart causing you to drown in the quiet concern in his eyes – and oh - 

You’re not quite sure who makes the first move because your eyes flutter close, your nose bumps against his and you feel his chapped lips against yours for a split second before he pulls away. 

You open your eyes. 

Did that truly happen? 

Judging from the blank expression on his face, the past few seconds were probably just a fever dream. But there are signs that cool, quiet Tsukkishima isn’t his usual self - a flush creeping up the back of his neck, his fingers gripping the pages of the book so tightly it starts to crinkle.  

‘What was that?’ you blurt out, confused. 

‘What was what?’ Though his voice remains calm and collected, his flush has traveled all the way to the very tips of his ears. 

‘Nothing’, you answer, dropping your eyes back to the open book on your lap, your mind in a whirl. Surely you didn’t imagine that, right? Did you just - did he just - wait, you’re confused again, what’s going on? 

Your thoughts are interrupted by elegant, long fingers slotting between your own. ‘Silly’ he mutters, but there’s a fond twist to his lips and a softness in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. 

‘I’m pretty sure I’m not the only silly one here’, you respond, in a sudden swell of confidence, though your pulse is sending tremors down your spine, your breath catching in your throat. ‘I’m pretty sure you’re the silly one too’. You curl your fingers over his and lean into his side. 

He hums diffidently. ‘I guess it might seem that way’. 

You both share a shy smile. 

-----------------------------------------

Yachi is smug when you confess to her later that Tsukkishima - no - Kei asked you out as he walked you home that evening. 

‘I told you that we’d have fun!’, she says, grinning cheek to cheek. Then she starts rambling on and on about future double dates with her and Yamaguchi in Madame Puddifoots, where you can share couple sundaes and steaming mugs of hot chocolate - wouldn’t that be wonderful? 

You resist the urge to tell her that Kei has sworn off any future double dates - let alone at the white and pink lace bedazzled monstrosity of a cafe, and his suggestion of a quiet afternoon spent at his favourite bookshop cafe sounds far more inviting to you. 

You’ll let Yamaguchi break the news to her later, on a more appropriate date.  

Instead you just smile to yourself, thinking of the quiet affection in his voice as he wished you farewell, and the suppressed delight in his eyes when you called his name just as he was about to turn away and surprised him by pulling him down to you and pressing your lips to his cheek. 

Yachi’s right. You did have fun after all. 

[chisheya]

hanahaki disease [niragi x reader x chishiya] highschool au!

Summary: love is reckoned to make us powerful; not susceptible - as much as i tried to convince myself that. as much as i tried to stay strong; tough and heroic, enough to risk it all and let my emotions surge on the exterior. strong enough to be crushed yet again, to love and be loved again - knowing my fragility. 

 i’ve known the agony and lament sufficiently enough that it demolished my sanity, left my soul burning away, gradually fading into ashes and disappearing like dust under the moonlight’s breeze. and the funny unfunny part is - i wish i had told him, perhaps one day i will. 

‘‘I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you. My love bloomed like a flower in my chest.’‘

Tag list: (if you want to be tagged, let me know because the previous post got deleted for some weird reason lol)

Word count: 2.5k

The sun's soft twinkles crawl over house rooftops, and in an early hour, despite it, it still felt like a chilly morning. Early as it is, the neighborhood was caught up with parents rushing with their children, some going to work, some even rushing late. Thankfully, the riots of youngsters were vetoed by the sound of Supermassive Black Hole by Muse playing through my earphones. I was deliberately walking down the alley on my way to school, gripping the hem of my uniform and cursing to myself that this skirt was of no use to at least keep my legs warm. 

The reckless gust reaching from my left side provoked me to jump out of my skin, revolting me from my daydream. 

‘’God's sake-’’ I turn my head only to see Chishiya standing next to me, with a smirk on his lips. The sudden view of him caused me to blush, as my brain screamed oh-look-your-crush. Although you could rarely see this guy smiling and being friendly, his agenda was incompatible. Clever, crucial, and cunning as he is, he always had a special place in my heart. Why, you ask? I'd love to know that too... Maybe because he has been my friend since forever. 

''You must be that cold, huh,'' Chishiya says sarcastically. ''Y-yeah.'' I murmur, ''anyway, again one of early practicals at the hospital today?'' ''Correct.''

''Yikes,'' I add, clicking my tongue, ''good luck.''

''Have you decided if you'll stay here in Tokyo?'' Chishiya pops a question, clearing his throat, as his face remains immersed on the boulevard in front of us. ''Huh, what do you mean?'' I add, looking up at him, wishing he'd look back at me. But he never does... 

''For university.'' ''Oh, that,'' is all I say, before taking the next few seconds to think what to proceed with, ''yeah, Tokyo - I guess, still not sure yet.''

''It better be Tokyo or I'm disowning you.'' He says in a stern voice, delivering it with a smirk as he quickly runs his hand through my hair, resulting in becoming a mess.

''Hey!'' I chuckle, about to return the favor but he succeeded to grab my wrist and stop me just on time. Shucks.

Chishiya and I have been friends since childhood, as our dads have been friends since their early school days as well. He's in his third year in med school and I'm about to graduate in less than a month and enter university in few months. Not to mention, living close enough in the same neighborhood visiting Shuntaro's family every Sunday for dinner was a ritual that my dad, Aguni, and I couldn't stop doing. My mother has had enough of Tokyo so she decided to leave for England. Yeah, pretty simple...it has only been dad and me since. Not like I regret staying with dad, and if there was the father that would win The Dad of the Year award, it would be him. Playing cards meanwhile drinking wine was a post-dinner ritual for our dads, later through time, Chishiya joining them as well. In most cases, I'd end up just observing how they play and anticipating who's going to win. From Aguni being the best to, Shuntaro's dad, a few years later as Chishiya evolved enough his cunning games he beat them in it. He became a card game master, no jokes. 

I didn't notice it has come for the time for us to go different paths, as my school was in the complete opposite direction.

''So,'' I murmur, stopping and turning to face him, ''I guess time to say goodbye.''

''Good luck, kid.'' He says, giving me a soft smile. Ah, if he only knew how something so insignificant and minor to him has such a consequence on my heart. But he never will though. As I know, what we are and what we are not. 

I just smiled as I watch him turn his back on me and leave first. He always leaves first. I stayed few more seconds as his figure slowly fades of to distance I get ready to go my way.

                                                        ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ 

 After the last class, I choose to go to a nearby library to catch up on some assignments. The library is a soft of the enormous coffee shop yet one can stay all day and feel good even if one buys nothing at all. That's the discrepancy. It is a place of welcome for everyone rather than for "customers." This is not a money-nexus venue yet a love-nexus space, and that makes it a real treasure in this city.

I was relinquished and dazzled by the book in front of me, until the moment someone’s voice yanks me out of my thoughts.

''Since classes are over, want to grab lunch?'' I feel a hand placing softly on my left shoulder as a soft boyish voice peaks behind me.

''Niragi,'' my lips stretch in a smile as I embrace my best friend in a hug, ''of course, you mind if Chishiya tags along as well?''

''Oh,'' he mouths, providing it with a vague look, as I feel him stiffen up a bit and breaking the hug before proceeding, ''Chishiya..too?'' 

''Yeah!'' 

''Sure,'' he says, providing it with a soft smile, ''definitely..'' 

''Great, I'll let him know then.'' 

                                                        ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ 

Niragi and I walked after school side by side, on the way to Shibuya where we agreed to meet up with Chishiya. As we have arrived early, we stand by a big poster advertisement. I gently lean my back onto it, facing the industrious avenues of Shibuya wandering with people. Niragi, leaning as well, right next to me. 

''So, have you decided? Is it going to be Tokyo or London?'' 

''Hm,'' I murmur as his question breaks me out of my trance, ''regarding studies?'' He nods. 

''Honestly, not sure,'' I hesitate, before proceeding, ''but I'd love to stay in Tokyo.'' This was not a lie, but London on the other hand, was just an excuse in case my health gets worse. An agreement was made with my dad that it'd be best to stay there with my mom and focus on getting better. 

''Tokyo.'' I sigh, still caught up thinking what if I have to end up having to go back to London. What do I do then? And more importantly, what do I tell them? The minor, simple thought of lying to the people I deeply care about stings. 

''And you?'' 

''Tokyo,'' he says softly while looking down, smiling - as the thought if he had something that binds him to dwell in this city, ''I already got accepted in for game engineering.'' 

I knock him softly on top of his head, standing on my tippy toes. Though he was portrayed as the delicate and sweet guy he is, he was taller than both Chishiya and me. 

''Ouch,'' he exclaims as his hand rests on top of his head, my action catching him off guard, ''why did you do that?'' 

''Why haven't you told me, little idiot?'' 

''I planned to,'' he giggles, a wide smile as I've never seen scattering across his delicate features, ''I was waiting for you to confirm you got in your desired major as well.'' 

Yeah, I have, Niragi. It's just that I might not even be able to go because of my health. The phrases, the verdict, that I desired I could have mouthed out. But I couldn't, not now. Not when we're about part ways, and the way I want to remember these recollections is by them as their happy-selves, us cycling through alleys of Tokyo, eating noodles in the park during chilly nights, by city lights as the background noise of crickets was vetoed by our laughter. The recollections, moments I'll protect in my psyche permanently. 

I just remained silent, looking at my friend as he was smiling and looking off to distance till he started waving to someone. I shift my gaze only to see Chishiya's figure approaching us, hands in his pockets as usual. 

''Hello there, peasants.'' Chishiya teases, as he finally approaches us.

''Excuse me, lord Shuntaro.'' Niragi scoffs at him, crossing his arms.

''So where will we head to?'' 

''Whoa, Morizono, not even embracing your friend in a warm hug and you're already talking about eating,'' Chishiya says falsifying pain in his voice, ''I'm hurt.''

 ''Chishiya,'' I let out, rolling my eyes at his statement, ''I know you don't do hugs.'' I proceed, nudging his forearm slightly, hoping that the warmth I felt growing in my cheeks wasn't showing. 

''Fuunji or Ichiran Shibuya?'' Niragi says, clicking his tongue. 

''Fuunji,'' I mutter, at the same time as Chishiya adds, ''Ichiran.'' Our eyes met instantly as we both realized our choices were different.

Do I have to mention that I'm probably already blushing? No, because heck - yes I am. 

Oh boy, here we go. Let him have his way, Y/N. 

As you always do. 

''You know what, let's go to Ichiran,'' I exclaim, looking in between my best friends waiting for them to agree. 

''Ichiran it is,'' Niragi exclaims. 

A little while later, our food has finally arrived. The moment it lands on the table, Niragi digs at his sweet and sour soup and pulls out all the cubes of carrot. I don't say anything, I really couldn't care less about table manners and there's always something interesting going on in his head. Chishiya calm and collected as he is, starts eating at a slow pace. After swallowing his first bite, he breaks the silence, ''we must go somewhere to celebrate your birthday, Y/N.'' 

''I'm not sure-''

Niragi peeks up at me with sticky fingers in his mouth. Meanwhile, Chishiya adds, through the mouthful, that I could just about make out the name "Kyoto."

As my mouth was full of food as well, I just nod seriously. 

"That's a great idea, Chishiya. I never thought of that." Niragi grins, still with the fingers in his mouth, then he scoops them up and lines them neatly next to his stocking.

Chishiya holds out a cup of soju, "for Y/N." Niragi's hand comes over and snatches it up, his grin as wide as his cheeks will stretch, and scatters back.

Chishiya and I just exchanged looks, laughing at his silliness.

We drank soju, we were already merry and full, we told the most terrible of jokes. That was us. Casual, informal, yet caring enough to make the time we spend together joyful. 

                                                         ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ 

After grabbing lunch with Chishiya and Niragi, I headed straight home. The thought of visiting Kyoto for my birthday with them was still bouncing on my mind. The thing is, how to bring it up to Aguni? Hm? As loving and fond as he is of both of them, the thought of sending his only daughter away with two boys on a trip probably sounded far away from a brilliant idea. Sigh, I guess it'll take a lot to convince him. 

''Dad, I'm home!'' I exclaim, meanwhile closing the doors behind me and taking off my shoes in the hallway. 

''Someone's back home early, huh?'' Aguni says chuckling, as he plants a soft kiss on my forehead. 

''Yup, something smells delightful,'' I say, meanwhile slapping my hands in excitement and taking my seat. 

''Ah, you sneaky,'' He adds, taking the seat as well across me, ''it's your favorite - pad thai chicken wok.'' 

''So,'' I began, meanwhile randomly picking food with chopsticks in my plate, ''I have a question.'' 

''Yes?'' Aguni murmurs, mouthful, gazing up at me. ''So you know that my birthday is next week...'' I say awkwardly, placing my chopsticks gently on the table. 

''Of course, how would I forget my daughter's birthday?'' He scoffs, butthurt that his daughter thinks he's that forgetful. 

''No, of course not.'' I chuckle, ''but I did want to ask you something, uh...'' 

''Go ahead, silly.'' 

Just say it. Now or never. And I do - ''I've been thinking of visiting Kyoto with Chishiya and Niragi-'' 

''Not happening.'' 

''But-'' 

''You? On a trip? With two boys?'' his voice stern as he glares up at me, causing me to swallow, ''you must be out of your mind to think I'll let you, Y/N. Boys your age are wild.'' 

''No, there's going to be more of other friends...too, from school.'' I start, slightly panicking as I was also trying to think of the ways to get him to approve, ''not just Chishiya and Niragi, although you know they're my closest friends.'' I proceed further, looking around the food on the table, as I noticed he has almost cleared out his plate, and yet there was still chicken left in mine. Splendid, a perfect way to bribe him now.

''Plus,'' I mutter, as I start taking out the chicken from my plate, putting on his, his eyes now fully focused on that chicken, ''I know you trust them enough to protect me if anything happens, right?'' I grin, awkwardly. 

''Only because they are aware who's your father and someone not to mess with.'' He adds, still not convinced enough, but still taking the small pieces of chicken with his chopsticks. 

''Uh, yeah,'' I murmur, as I watch him, eating up those last few pieces of chicken as if they are his last, ''beside your protectiveness, what do you think?''

''Y/N, you've forgot one thing.'' Aguni says with a serious tone, placing down his chopsticks. 

''What?'' I question, acting dumb. Expecting him to answer, he just remains silent and gives me an even worse glare now, ''doctor's appointment,'' I add, ''come on, it doesn't have to be next week as well. Just check with them if they can postpone it.''   

He preserves silent, still staring up at me with a serious look on his face. Sigh.

''A trip with my friends is more important. Not to mention, it's our last as we're all parting ways soon because of university.''  

''To you. But to me, your health is more important Y/N.''

''I...understand, dad,'' I sigh, looking up at him, falsifying a smile, ''but look at me, I'm feeling fine. I've never been better.''

''Same as you claimed in the past, until it happened again and I was close to losing you forever.'' He asserts, this time his voice louder than before.

''Dad...cheer up,'' I exclaim, as I reach out my hand, placing it on top of his, ''it's...just because it happened then, doesn't mean it will happen again.''

''You don't know that. Your condition is serious-''

''I'll take care of myself. Alright?'' I murmur, squeezing his hand, ''please, can I go?''   

''Alright, alright. Under one condition, take care of yourself and as soon as you get back we're going to the doctors. Promise?''

''I promise.'' I holler, lunging from my seat to hug him before storming off to my room. As soon as I shut the door behind me, I lean my back on it. 

There was an eerie sentiment I felt within, a good sort though - just not sure for what exact reason yet. It felt like it was the calling card of an adventure, paths awaiting, what will transpire. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was an exploration to take and so I smiled. The inklings would come, perhaps when I’d least expected it, so I’m ready to take this leap of faith.

[itariilles]

My Statement on Tolkien 2019

[ French translation and German translation availible. ]

It has been incredibly difficult for me to speak on my experiences regarding my experiences of hostility and othering in spaces that I loved and still hold dear to my heart, and for that reason I have been silent. That is until now. 

I have decided that now is the right time for me to come forward with my experience and statement regarding my negative experience as a person of colour engaging in Tolkien spaces. 

I want people involved in the wider Tolkien community to reflect on their roles in the specific spaces they inhabit, and how you can foster a better environment for marginalised groups to interact and engage with those spaces in a safe and inclusive manner. 

Take your time to listen and put effort into listening to fans of colour when they are speaking about their lived experiences and their grievances especially when they are speaking about a topic as personal as racism. Being critical of a work you love and the media surrounding it is not easy thing, but we need to recognise that these criticisms are valid and deserve to be taken seriously when it affects a collective of people across different backgrounds. 

I want to preface this by stating that I am speaking only for myself and my own lived experience as a vocal young non-black POC in a predominantly white space. I acknowledge that my experience is by no means universal or indicative of all POC in Tolkien fandom spaces. 

I also understand that real life interactions differ widely from interactions on online fandom spaces, but there are disturbing similarities across both online and real life spaces with specific regard to the environment and treatment of vocal POC in both. 

The tragedy is many people do not realise their impact not only on the individuals involved, but on the wider attitude towards POC voices in fandom when the topic of racism is discussed. We need to build safe environments where critical discussions of diversity and race from the people most affected by them are taken to heart, not invalidated or spoken over as targets of microaggressions. 

To give a bit of context, Tolkien 2019 was an in person conference organised by the Tolkien Society (which I was a member of at the time). The official website for Tolkien 2019 has been taken down but the Tolkien Society has a nice summary written in August 2018 breaking down the event here. 

I was approached by the Education Secretary at the time about my possible involvement in a panel discussing the history and future of the Tolkien Society which I elaborate on further in my statement. It was the first time I had felt that I had a platform where I could freely express my voice as a diverse reader and consumer of Tolkien media who held diversity in Tolkien as a core value in the wider Tolkien brand. 

I felt that as the only non-white member on the panel I had an obligation to speak out on the topic of diversity when it was raised. I tried to speak briefly about some of the points and discourses I had heard on portrayals of diversity in Tolkien media with as much nuance as I could manage at the time. In response to some points I had made I was met with vocal disapproval by some audience members and visible signs of disapproval and hostile body language from others. 

This was made even more jarring when later during the course of the event when two white creators hinted at vague notions of diversity were met with a far greater degree of approval. The former instance was during the context of a panel regarding the upcoming LOTR on Prime series, and the latter was during a talk presented by the chair of the Tolkien Society.

I felt intimidated and reluctant to involve myself any further in the Tolkien fandom, especially in real life spaces as my experience at Tolkien 2019 had only solidified and reaffirmed my fears and unease I had engaging in a predominantly white fandom with few visible POC members and creators who tackle topics of diversity and racism in both the community and source texts.

Following this event I was approached by an affiliate of one of the attendees who very kindly took the time to listen to me and suggested that I should write a statement in response to my experience. To my knowledge, my statement has not been shared or published on any platform yet and this will be the first time I have ever spoken about it publicly. 

Since then some of my thoughts and opinions on certain aspects of Tolkien fandom and meta have shifted or evolved which I will hopefully expand on in the future, but I wanted to share my initial unchanged statement I wrote reflecting my immediate reaction to my experience. 

I want to be seen as a Tolkien creative and critical thinker above anything else, but I cannot move forward with my work without speaking about my lived experience in a space which has been consistently hostile to me and so many others across different Tolkien spaces for so many years starting with my account of this one experience.

I hope my statement finds itself in good hands and I will always be willing to engage with others about my experiences so long as you engage with me in good faith. 

The statement I wrote on 25/09/2019 is as follows:

From the 9th to 11th of August of this year I attended a conference held by the Tolkien society aptly named “Tolkien 2019” that advertised itself as the “largest celebration of Tolkien ever held by the Society” in which I both spoke as a panelist and independant speaker. The event itself was a mixture of both formal and informal panels, papers presented by selected members of the society, and evening social events.

My invitation to speak on the “History of the Tolkien Society” panel was presented as deliberate choice made by the panel organiser as a gateway for discussion about diversity and representation in Tolkien. On the official programme, the panel was described as a discussion concerning “what the Tolkien Society and Tolkien fandom in general may become as it encounters digital spaces, issues of representation and diversity, academic interest and a myriad other factors that make up our lived experience today”.

Although there was much excitement and anticipation on my half in the weeks and days leading up to the event, it soon turned to dread when the tone and climate of the discussion dawned on me when I took my seat alongside five other panelists ranging from seasoned Tolkien scholars, long-time members of the Society, and a member with a leadership position within the Society. On that four person panel, I was the only one racialised as non-white. In fact, I was one of only three people in a room of approximately fifty to sixty people racialised as non-white.

It wasn’t long before the true motive of placing me — a young, new member of the Society, who felt already out of place and out of my depth even being offered the opportunity to participate in the first place — on a panel of what I perceived to be more seasoned members of the society.

When the topic of diversity and representation in the Tolkien fandom was raised by the moderator, I saw it as an opportunity for me to share my own experiences as a young fan who predominantly consumed Tolkien content online, as well as some observations I had made regarding the current pop-cultural perception of Tolkien as being heavily influenced, if not wholly entered around the Peter Jackson trilogies and being deeply ingrained with the issues that seep from those interpretations into our overall perception of the Tolkien brand.

One of the talking points that seemed to have caused the biggest uproar and dissent was one in which I referred Tolkien’s description of Sam’s hands as brown in two instances — the first in the Two Towers, and the second instance in Return of the King and how this has been translated into film as both literal and symbolic interpretations. The former in the Ralph Bakshi’s the “Lord of the Rings” released in 1978 in which I noted that the decision to portray Sam as more ethnically ambiguous compared to the other Hobbits was a deliberate choice, whereas the latter was depicted in the recent Peter Jackson trilogy released in the early 2000’s took the description symbolically and cast the white American actor Sean Astin for the role.

The backlash I received for this was, I believe, absolutely disproportionate to the views I expressed. I saw members frown and grunt in disapproval, as well as some visibly shake their heads at me. In spite of me parroting how I saw both interpretations as equally valid as a defence mechanism in the face of such an aggressive response to what to me seemed like an innocuous observation made by a young person of colour who did not see many portrayals of people of colour in Tolkien. 

Comments such as “I don’t care who they cast as Sam whether he’s black, brown, yellow, blue or green!” and “Tolkien’s message is universal I don’t see how race factors into this!” were shouted in between points I was making, and countless others were made as an effort to dismiss the effort I put in to hopefully start an open dialogue about the lack of diversity in adaptations of Tolkien and how it has coloured our perception of the overall brand, and perhaps fantasy as a whole.

Some other talking points I decided to mention included Peter Jackson’s Easterlings (coded as being North African or Middle Eastern in the film) as being appallingly Orientalist and damaging in a post-911 world, as well as referring to Tolkien’s vague descriptions of certain characters and people groups that can be interpreted as ethnic coding or perhaps hint at a more diverse cast than the popular brand of Tolkien that may have us believe. I iterated that it is the responsibility of consumers of Tolkien and Tolkien related media to push for different interpretations of the text in order to break the perception that Tolkien’s works are entirely Anglo and Eurocentric with no place for people of colour in the vast world he had created in my opinion as a love letter to his own.

A month later it is still difficult for me to fully wrap my head around what I had experienced during the conference, much less articulating it in a statement, but if there is a note I would like to conclude on it would be this: it was never about changing Tolkien’s works, but reinterpreting his 20th century text littered with colonial artefacts and reimagining the foundations of his work through a 21st century lens in an attempt to decolonise the interpretation of his works in popular culture.

To change the way we read, write and depict the Tolkien brand is to fundamentally change the landscape of the entire genre of fantasy which has and still derives so heavily from Tolkien’s works and the global Tolkien brand.

End.

[yakocchi]

A Blood-Sucking Valentine (Collection Event) // Count

long time no see on ikevam stories huh well sad to say that this is only a small moment before another apparent ikevam lull cuz this event is 2 weeks long (aka until valentine’s day itself). guess theyre slowing down on new event output until further notice? but im kind of sad by the implication that there won’t be a valentine’s scenario event this year. either that, or they plan to have it after valentine’s day which is way too dumb for even cybird to do… so idts. idk what they’re planning… hope it’s good

this event is pretty run-of-the-mill. the count’s ministory is at like 40% progress in the item list so u dun even have to pay to reach his story if u play frequently. i think? well i would hope… feel like most of the playerbase are concentrated in the top 5 charas the interesting ones and they’re a good chunk after the Count

Spoilers under the cut!! Please credit if you take any of it, thenk u (･ω･*)

(I shall give you both this chocolate… and myself. So, with that— please be your unbelievably sweet self.)

February 14th, Valentine’s Day. I had attended a party that was hosted by an acquaintance of the Count. Since we came all the way here, it had been decided that we’d stay at the inn of the party venue, but…

…

[Count]: “I’ve received so many presents that I couldn’t possibly eat them all, hm.” A mountain of sweets had been piled atop the bedside table. [Count]: “Well then… Kara, I wonder— you wouldn’t happen to have a Valentine’s Day gift yourself, now would you?” I readjusted my hold on the gift box I had been hiding behind my back, and deliberately turned my gaze away from him. [Kara]: “…I don’t have one.” [Count]: “I don’t recall you becoming such a bad girl, lying like that— Kara.” His scent faintly drifting in the air, the Count took my waist into his arms before pinning me over the soft bed. He picked up the gift box the moment it tumbled out of my hands, and a mischievous smile seeped from his lips.

[Count]: “Now, who’s this for? If you’re going to tell me that it’s a present for another man, I’ll be quite jealous…” (…He already knows the answer, and yet he still…)

[Kara]: “…It’s for the Count, who has been doing nothing but accept Valentine’s gifts from women— with the exception of his own lover.” [Count]: “Your pouting little face is just so adorable, I thoughtlessly accepted them, that’s all.” Seemingly satisfied by my response, he dropped a kiss on my forehead. He then opened the wrapped box, tossing the brandy-filled chocolate into his mouth. Something about his expression resembled that of an innocent child…

[Kara]: “Hehe, you’re usually a mature man— but from time to time, you almost turn into a little boy.” (I think I’ve come to really love that part of you too…) I pondered over my love for him, when the Count gently neatened my disheveled hair with his fingers, his golden eyes then piercing through me. [Count]: “For the animal that is a man to be before the woman he is utterly charmed by— it is only natural for him to unfailingly turn into a child, no…?” (…ngh-) The expression before my eyes was completely unlike the one from before— it was that of a terribly bewitching, dangerous man… (…He’s a sly man, to make that sort of face.) The Count smiled as if he had read my innermost thoughts before taking my lips, the flavor of brandy streaming in. [Kara]: “…Mn-, ngh-…” [Count]: “…These kisses are terribly sweet tonight.”   Our lips parted with a wet sound, his hands feeling through my chest to tease me. Beneath his large palms, my heart loudly beats in a frenzy. “I want this person to take me,” my body cried. So, with that— [Kara]: “Tonight… crave me childishly, selfishly.” [Count]: “…Mhm, I didn’t even have to be told that.”

FIN

alternatively, he’s saying something along the lines of “even if you didn’t tell me to (I would’ve done it anyway)”. + also more precisely she says “crave me akin to how a child would” (“with actions resembling a child”) but that sounds…..

“blood-sucking valentine” me: so the purebloods gonna have like a mild blood scene right cybird: wat, u think we actually understand how ppl who like vampire stories operate

this ministory is p cute (albeit very short… i think it’s like 10 lines shorter than the last one?), except the implication that this guy was watching his waifu go （ ´_ゝ`）for most of the evening as he took up $23423 chocolates from girls left and right and was just like “hehe cute”. leo is advertised as the ずるい one but this guy is smth else smh

as always, thanks for reading!

[erazonpo3]

(This is a written collaboration between myself and Hemlock/pathygen in the ‘Cassandra’s Tangled Adventure’ AU verse, featuring our characters Alphecca and Violante. This was just a fun little back-and-forth with our two villains set in the period in which Violante has possession of Alphecca’s phylactery.  

The formatting is based on our replies, it was really fun to get to write together and watch Violante flex on Alphecca. I’d recommend reading it on my blog’s desktop page for the formatting) 

The Eagle and The Mole

Ever since her rebirth in flame and ash, Alphecca hasn’t known the icy grip of cold; yet Countess Violante’s chateau inspires it in her bones. It’s a monument of stone, glass, and drapery, and at this time of night the torchlight in the hallways are extinguished; malingerers are unwelcome. Even the ever-present ache in her chest takes its leave here, something she would have been thankful for if it weren’t Violante’s doing. Her soul burned like a dying star, but since her phylactery fell into Violante’s hands all she has known is its absence— numb apathy— the closest thing she knows to cold. 

She’s sure to school her features before entering Violante’s parlour, smoothing out the notch between her eyebrows and the curl of her lips that may as well have been sculpted into her flesh these days. Trinket shrieks at her as she walks past, aggrieved that her delicious bones are today wrapped in the illusion of skin and, on top of that, a stupid uniform. It’s stiff and it pinches in ways she can’t feel but is nonetheless frustrated by, and whenever she catches her reflection in the silverware she can’t help but grimace at the militant emblems and pageantry she advertises. All that’s missing from her marionette costume is the strings. 

The Countess is waiting for her as expected, perched perfectly poised on the gaudy piece of furniture she likes to pretend is a throne. She resists the urge to sneer at the pretentious display, if only because Violante would find it so amusing. 

“I’m back,” she announces flatly, absently picking at the cuff of her jacket. 

“Yes, I noticed.” Violante replies, crystal and calm as a winter morning. 

The countess has a quill pinched between her fingers; sharp motions carry the crimson plume across the page laid out in front of her, scratching. The chamber swallows sound and bounces it back. Dim moonlight ekes through tall, arched windows of blue stained glass, and casts a watery pattern against the polished floor. 

Violante does not look up at the dead woman. 

A minute and a half passes before she finally caps the tiny, neat scrawl on the parchment with a looping signature, rolls it into a neat cylinder, and sets it aside. The feathered end of the quill finds its way between her lips, ponderously. She tilts her head up and her smile is delicate. There’s something of a spider in it. 

“That certainly took you long enough. One little village could hardly have been all the effort.” The Countess of Solanales stands with a fluid motion, and folds her arms loosely across her chest. A cigarette smolders in it’s holder on the edge of the desk, filling the room with an oily, herbal smell. She inspects Alpchecca like one might a mannequin stuck in a display, lips pursed.

“Well, at least you kept everything in order this time. See? You can look nice. I knew the collar would be a nice touch. The color accents your eyes, now that you have them in.” 

Trinket croaks from her perch. The monochrome vulture returns to preening, bored now that the arguably edible bits of the lich aren’t on display. Violante leans back against the edge of her gilded seat. “So how did it go? Did you make any friends?”

This time Alphecca doesn’t withhold the grimace that curls back her lip to expose a yellowed canine. She’s aware of the way the moonlight makes her pale skin seem especially waxy and sallow, which typically serves to unnerve humans- all save the Countess. Violante’s  eyes glitter like a cut diamond as she appraises her, and Alphecca forces her gaze away in a show of deliberate disregard. She stares through the blue washed windowpane to speak to the waxing moon, but keeps an eye on Violante’s figure in her periphery. 

“I was just being thorough, I’m sure you can appreciate that. No stone left unturned, no building left standing, everything razed just right, just for you,” she says, flashing Violante a quick, sardonic smirk before returning her gaze to the window. “I don’t imagine you’ll have much of a problem marching your people down there and claiming a new pile of dirt, or whatever it is you do with the ashes. There’s nothing left.” 

The moon’s bright glow begins to burn a spot into her vision, but facing the window makes it easier for her to keep her face blank. Her excursion today would be considered a success by Violante’s standards, but she had been sure to cause enough of a racket as she tore through the streets that most villagers had ample time to flee before she tore into the place. If they couldn’t escape even after all the time she gave them, well, Cassandra can’t say she didn’t try. 

Under the scrutiny she can’t help but scratch at the briarthorn collar, and she chances another glance back at Violante. 

“Thoughtful. I can’t say I have much use for more dirt than I already seem to own, but,” Violante gestures and Trinket stretches her neck. The vulture flaps off the stand and onto the desk with a crooked hop, and remains still while the countess fastens the scroll to her leg. “I’m sure whoever is left will be happy to accept all the aid Solanales is willing to provide, in the wake of their unfortunate devastation.” 

Eyes glittering, she crooks a gloved finger under the large bird’s beak and hums. “The world is lousy with monsters, after all.”

And in the end, it was only a barrier town. But every little bit counts, every scrap of seizure. Scraps still. But these were things that couldn’t be rushed. Or shouldn’t have been, if she had been able to stick to her original schedule. Plans were important, but the ability to adapt to a situation was worth even more. Put attention in the right places, stress on the right joints, poison in the right tea. 

Or get creative, and toss a skeleton into a henhouse. Ho hum. 

“Go on.” Violante says to the bird. Trinket makes a clicking noise low in her throat, and takes off without a backwards glance at Alphecca, winging towards some high and hidden exit. Violante watches her go in silence. She doesn’t expect it will take long for a response, in some capacity, but she doesn’t really plan to wait for one either. Aldara is out in the field somewhere, hopefully stalking her other quarry, but there’s a decent chance both situations will muddle together eventually. 

“Now, what to do with you?” Violante turns back to face the dead woman, who looks hilariously unsure. It’s already late, and she needs to keep some space between the raids, as she creeps them closer to the borders of the Iron Kingdom. 

Alphecca scowls at the vulture’s retreating form, however glad she’d normally be to see it leave. With Trinket gone, only the two of them remain. It didn’t exactly make for a good buffer, yet in the leering bird’s absence the room tightens with intimacy. Violante and intimacy are her two least favourite things, and combined they manifest as the bane of her existence. The only thing that can make it worse is Violante’s voyeuristic shadow who is thankfully out on her master’s orders tonight, likely committing her own fill of atrocities. 

The Countess’ icy veneer betrays nothing of her intentions. In a game where information is everything, Alphecca knows she’s at a woeful disadvantage. If she tries fishing, Violante will know what she’s doing the minute she speaks, no matter how vague or disinterested she comes across— but she might be indulged. It begs the question of whether it’s better to stumble around blindly or sniff out a trail she can’t trust. Either way, she needs to say something- the longer she concedes to silence, the further the scales tip in Violante’s favour. 

“How about giving these old bones a rest? You’ll find a siesta does wonderful things for the constitution,” she quips. “I’m assuming you don’t want to cause too much of a stir, anyhow,” she adds, unable to deny the temptation of the gamble. Now she forces herself to keep her eyes trained on the Countess, and settles into a smirk. 

“You’re dead, you don’t have a constitution,” Violante drawls.

She glances away towards the window, the picture of disinterest, thinking. Ghostly evening light blankets the room, and flows over the silent collection of statues and armor bordering the walls, the curtained archways. Rooting out the location of the lich’s phylactery had been more of an effort of time and money than anything else. She had a number of contacts stretched over the continent, from tomb takers to Morcant to disgruntled former servants who had once swept the halls of the Spire. The crumbling little ruin of a shrine had seemed like a forgotten afterthought, nestled on the edge of an icy valley north of Ingvarr. The pendant had been wrapped in hay and rue. The plain little goat skull carved into the stone that boxed it had worn smooth with time. It was imagery that had become much more frequent among the information she lately received. So many old stories seemed to be pulling themselves up out of the grave these days. Even keeping the new ones in the ground was proving to be a challenge.

 No one died like they used to. The lich had certainly been involved in that most recent of frustrations.

Although, maybe, her decision to poison Cassandra had been a little hasty. She had maybe been a little angry. A little perturbed. Corpses and memories were generally less useful than breathing attendants, even if they were less trouble. People were so stubborn. Still, even there the lich might prove..useful. If that was the way things shook out in the end.

“Besides, we both know rest isn’t really in your cards.” The countess says, stepping down away from the desk, towards Alphecca. Reaching up, she adjusts the collar the lich keeps fiddling with, smooths down the epaulettes on her shoulders. The illusion of flesh truly was impressive. Almost as much as the facade of confidence. “You know, I once heard that a long life eventually deprives you of optimism. They also say that time heals all wounds. People never seem to be able to make up their minds about just how sad they think they’re supposed to be.”

Alphecca wraps her grimace up into a wry grin, though the fury in her eyes burns a palpable heat in the gelid room. Violante ignores said look as she smooths out the creases in her uniform, abusing all sentiment of personal space. The woman isn’t physically intimidating in the slightest; even wearing stilettos Alphecca has to look down her nose at her. But the proximity is unnerving. If her physical body is merely an extension of her soul, then Violante owns both, and she isn’t shy about making it known— so Alphecca does her best to ignore it, training her eyes on the wall in front of her instead of the head of perfectly coiffed curls only a breath away and the nails that cross her clavicle to smooth over her shoulders. 

“In my experience, more time is just an avenue for more procrastination,” she admits. It’s the truth, or at least it’s her truth, and there’s no harm in admitting it- the information has no value to Violante. If the Countess got her claws on immortality, the last thing anyone should be concerned with is if she were happy or sad. 

“People also say that destroying people’s lives and livelihoods won’t make you happy, but we both know that’s not true,” she adds. She hasn’t actually heard anyone say that, but it’s one of those unspoken things- and it’s wrong. Schadenfreude and victory are one hell of a cocktail. 

“A common adage, is that?” Violante hums, stepping back. “Stagnation is hideous. And regret is a waste of energy. If you’ve really wasted all this time waiting for a death that’s never going to come, then it’s fortunate I came along to make better use of your… afterlife.” She tilts her head. “Especially considering that I found you rooting around in a cave, talking to bones. I can’t imagine skeletons make for very good conversation.”

For once, Alphecca isn’t bothered by the barb. She wastes her time however she pleases, spending her years harassing new villages until she gets bored and moves on, or searching for new fossils to reanimate, playing in the dirt. She knows she’s a disappointment but that’s how she’s come to like it— fuelled by the spite of those more ambitious than her who have to watch her gnaw on the unending life they can’t have. That is, until Violante took it from her. 

With more distance between them now, Alphecca releases a breath; it’s unnecessary, but calming all the same. 

“They make better company than your pets, at least,” she says. They don’t talk back, for one thing, but she’ll keep that part to herself. All the bones she finds have very interesting stories to tell, but unfortunately Violante’s dreadful companions only find them useful for teething. 

“Tsk. Oh, kettle.” Violante says, sotto voce. She has very little interest in making any argument about the quality of company Aldara or anyone else brings to her circle. She doesn’t keep them around for their people skills. Mostly. The countess reaches out to tap the bottom of her jaw. “You’re so uncertain for a corpse. You chatter so much for a tool. But if that’s the way you feel…” A thoughtful pause, wintry silence. Violante steps past her, the dark pool of her gown trailing on the floor. “Come.” 

“What, you’re not a fan of our stimulating discussions?” Alphecca jeers, cocking her head. Blunt as they are, words are the last weapons she has in this fight, but she turns to follow her nonetheless. She kicks her feet up off the ground to hang a foot in the air to let the click of Violante’s heels echo down the hollow hallways alone, creeping behind her like a spectre. 

She’s hesitates, trailing behind at a healthy distance, but she can’t deny her curiosity is piqued. 

“I think your talents lie elsewhere.” Violante answers without turning around, wry. The castle is large and cold and strikingly empty of people. There are servants, courtiers, of course, but this late at night the work has gone to ground. Most of them, having been around this long, have learned to work out of sight, or in silence. Violante lifts a low burning candelabra from a table in the tapestried hall, wax dripping into the filagree crevices that tomorrow will be picked clean again before she wakes. The halls stretch on, half covered portraits lining the walls, tall arched windows that continue to leak in cool evening light. Violante takes them down, towards the ground floor, and eventually comes to rest in front of a heavy, ornate door set back far from the main vestibule. 

“Wait here.” she commands, and without stopping, the countess takes off down another hall and vanishes around the corner. She returns about ten minutes later, unchanged and smiling. In her hand is a small pouch, dangling with a loop of cord that she drapes around her neck. She nods at the door. “Shall we?”

Alphecca lingers back as she follows Violante through the chateau. She’s no stranger to silence, and she can even appreciate the servants’ scarce presence; humans can be such annoying creatures. However, there’s a hostility that comes with the quiet— an unspoken threat that has butlers and maids scurrying away like rats in the corner of her eye, only daring to move when the Countess strides past.  

She halts when instructed, taking the time to inspect the portraits of Violante’s ancestors while she waits. The dim light is no obstacle as she takes in the details, sneering at the pompous Lords and Ladies that line the walls. The different fashion styles over the centuries blend together in her mind, but she recognises the distinct ruffles that predate the Shampanier Era crossing over to the more modern style of headdress, evolving across the row of portraits. They have matching brutal, patrician features and cold eyes, and their arrogance is palpable even through the oils. She wonders if Violante sees them as an inspiration or an embarrassment. 

Alphecca drops to her feet when Violante arrives, eyeing the new fashion accessory. 

“Ladies first,” she gestures in a parody of an usher, trying to avoid the sense of dread that accompanies the sight of the heavy wooden door. 

“True.” Violante says agreeably, placing her gloved hand on the door. In the other she still clutches the flickering candelabra, and the light plays shadows against its surface. The front of it is carved with vines and flowers, mountains and snowflakes. It opens with a heavy grinding sound when she tries the handles, with some effort. Cobwebs stick and pull between the gap, and Violante sneers a little at the dust that collects on her fingertips. A staircase leads down into darkness. It reeks of earth, dry and undisturbed. 

Violante’s face remains impassive as she starts down the steps, the click of her heels ringing against the stone. The walls are featureless rock, and roots start to press through the gaps the farther down they travel. Eventually the stairs level out onto a narrow, dark, landing. Violante moves with a caution in the dark that relaxes when she finds the torches set into thick pillars that frame the entrance, and she lights them with the candle flame. Orange light fills the cavern.

“Homey, I imagine.” she says. “But still better than what you were used to.”

It is a tomb, of course. More a mausoleum, seemingly built into the naturally limestone cavern underneath the castle. The roof of the crypt rises up high above the chamber, arched ribs and all angles like the inside of a cathedral. Violante doesn’t pause in her intrusion, gliding down the center aisle with a curious fervor, idly stroking the covered parcel around her neck. She finally stops as they near the back of the chamber, in front of a stone dais that elevates two, long, solid coffins. Side by side, in their lofty place of honor. Violante sets the candles down. She looks back at the lich. 

She says, “You’re going to wake them up.”

Violante isn’t wrong to assume that the cavernous underbelly of the castle is more comforting to Alphecca than the bleak architecture and furnishing upstairs, but it’s still far from homely. The crypt is stale and azoic, lacking the warm smell of rot and soil that accompanies her usual hovels. Nonetheless she does feel more at ease here, and it takes the tension out of her shoulders.

“Is this mum and dad? I didn’t really take you for the mournful orphan type,” Alphecca says, her smirk eking into her voice. She approaches the left coffin and slides a hand over the lacquered wood, which is stained with black and ornately carved. The golden filigree is finely engraved and the craftsmanship of the coffin itself is masterful. A thrill runs through her bones; as disinterested as she is in the coffin’s inhabitants, she’s eager to see what bijous and tchotchkes she’ll find inside. 

It takes her mind off of Violante’s request. Resurrecting one body, one soul, takes more effort than she is usually willing to expend. Two isn’t out of the question, but it’s going to take time. There are shortcuts she could take- 

No. She’ll take all the time she needs. 

“I can do it for you, but it’s not going to be quick or easy. I’m assuming you want more than just a couple of braindead puppets, after all,” Alphecca states, glancing carefully at Violante. 

Violante watches the dead mingle, the old and the ancient. There’s a stone bench opposite the dais, maybe long ago a place meant for prayer or meeting. The back of it curves up into a chiseled swan’s head, with the beak broken off. She sits, and crosses her legs, eyes lidded, observing Alphecca as she circles the caskets. The lich’s interest is evident, undisguised. She’s being so nice.

“Mmm.” she confirms, very calm. “Lady Fiore and Count Viator. I poisoned them when I was seventeen.”

She draws a finger across the jagged beak of the swan and rubs the grit between her thumb and forefinger. The black fabric of her gloves are already powdered with dust. Idly, she pinches one finger and slips it the long glove off, stretching her hand in the cool, dry air of the crypt. The tips of her fingers are stained purplish-black, even deep under her nails. 

“They need to be able to speak, and answer questions truthfully. I’m not especially worried about mobility, but memory is important.” She tilts her head, dark eyes focused on the bone witch. “How long? Describe the process for me.”

Alphecca’s lips twist as Violante confesses to her parents’ murder, but continues to investigate the coffins. 

“Well, the process involves bartering with Death, binding the soul to an anchor and then binding said anchor to your will- it’s something that can take months, depending on how long it takes to get the reagents, and that’s just for one soul. Doubling up will save time, but even you don’t have infinite resources,” she explains.

Without asking Alphecca lifts the nearest coffin lid, and lets out an involuntary whoop at the burst of pungent aroma. There’s not much left of the carcass itself, despite what she’s sure was a vigorous embalming. Corpses are meant to return to the earth, and the ones buried above ground have a messier time of trying to find it. Lady Fiore’s robes are completely soiled with corpse juice, but she’s surrounded by a few glinting baubles that could still be disinfected- although she’s sure Violante won’t let her play with them. 

“A fresh corpse is always easier to work with, but it’s just as well you kept the remains at all- souls will anchor to their own bodies with less of a fuss,” she says, disregarding all the loopholes that come to mind. With a snap of her fingers Fiore’s bones glow a pale blue, battling the orange torchlight for a moment before it subsides. It’s a basic preservation spell that she uses on all her creatures to protect their bones from the elements, which she hopes Violante will take as a sign of her veracity. 

“You’ll find my resources will more than suffice.” Violanate says. “Considering the state of your previous arrangement, and what you’re used to.” Scrounging around in the shadows and the muck couldn’t have been all that profitable for the lich. Procuring things, especially things of an elusive nature, is not usually a problem for her.

The stench that emanates from her mother’s coffin is certainly vile enough. Violante’s nose wrinkles, and she nearly rolls her eyes at the bone witch’s obvious enthusiasm for it. For a moment she has to tilt her head to the side, and she brings the pouch around her neck closer to her face. There’s baby’s breath and rosemary inside: a good dampener, or so she’s been told. The Countess is not unfamiliar with corpses, but they’re usually less decayed, and less in her face. She could have used a stronger perfume. 

“Useful little spell.” She says, turning back to face the dais. 

And then, “..bartering with death.” Violante drawls, stretching the words out slowly. That has her curiosity piqued. Something about it, a string to tug. “Like it’s a person.”

Alphecca hums absently, neither in agreement or disagreement. 

“I suppose we’ll see,” she says. She swipes a thumb over Lady Fiore’s cheekbone, imagining how the muscle would have wrapped across it and how the skin might have sat on top. Her sharp jawline mirrors Violante’s, and she’s willing to bet they shared the same nose. She was no doubt a very attractive woman in her prime, and Alphecca finds herself almost frustrated that she’ll be deliberately prolonging the reconstruction process. 

She crosses over to the coffin on the left but her fingers tapdance across the lid, and her head perks up at the mention of Death. 

“Well, yeah- okay, she’s not really a person, but she’s the shepherd between this realm and the realm where lost souls are... supposed to go, and you’re not going to get a soul back from the realm of the dead without her noticing,” she explains, smiling at the memory of the spectre. Absently she traces shapes in the dust of the coffin lid as she continues. 

“It’s far simpler to make a trade with her than to try and steal one, but that’s still easier said than done.” 

Having to watch the lich inspect and handle her parents' remains doesn’t seem to phase the Countess very much. Legs crossed, she sits back on the mourning bench, and rests her chin on the back of her fingers. 

“‘She’. You make a trade with death.” Violante repeats, not a question. “What could..death-the-entity possibly want in exchange for a soul?”

There’s a visible sneer on her face at the word soul. It’s not that she doesn’t believe in spectres or spirits: she’s essentially speaking to one, even if it’s trapped in a bone. The concept of anything trying to tell her what to do, even after death, dissatisfies. Even at a young age, playing with her first herbs and poisons and staining her skin, Violante knew that she wasn’t going to go until she was good and ready. 

She can guess what the lich might think of her. The many things, every terrible notion. Most she’s probably right about. But Violante has no interest in living forever. Cavorting around for centuries as a moldering corpse isn’t an appealing notion, and it obviously hasn’t done the witch any favours. No. She is going to build something great. Something right, something hers.

In the end, if it is really worthy, it will outlast her. 

And if it’s not...well. 

Violante hums, “Longing for death is a bit of a cliche, even for you.”

“Depends,” Alphecca shrugs. “Sometimes she asks for help wrangling the ghosts that refuse to let go, or she has a specific soul in mind, or sometimes she just wants a favour to keep in her pocket. There’s always some kind of catch though, because she’s hardly going to ask for something she can get herself.” 

Even if she weren’t already planning on delaying the process, she anticipates bargaining for two souls will be the most difficult part. Bartering with Death isn’t exactly something she makes a habit of; she can count on one hand the amount of times she’s made the deal, and every time had brought its own headache. Just the memory of it is enough to make her head hurt, so she turns her attention back to Violante.

“Yeah, well. Even you’d be begging her to come take you after long enough. You and I both know Death can be a mercy,” she says with a smirk, and cracks open dear father’s casket.  

Help, promises, wayward souls. “That’s a lot out of death’s reach.” More than one would think, for such a definite force. Violante listens to the dead woman without looking up, thinking, rubbing the pad of her thumb across the velvet pouch dangling from her neck. There is another wave of foul scent, all earth and rot. The sound of heavy stone dragging on stone. Her father had been a count of some notable prowess. He had been good at getting people to listen, and always spoke with confidence. Curt at times, but he shared a warmth with her mother that would have seemed anathema to the traditional Solanales chill, to anyone outside of their family. They were a private people. Violante had loved her parents. She had loved them even when she was putting them in the ground. 

 “Who said anything about mercy?” The countess murmurs, tilting her head, a silver-dark curl of hair sliding over one side of her face. Wintry, she says, “How long is this going to take you? Approximately, for one body?”

Alphecca rakes a finger down Count Viator’s sternum, making a mental note of his measurements. She’s sure there’s a portrait somewhere in the castle she can look to as a reference for their bodies, which are clearly tall but perhaps wider than their frames let on. Violante’s voice echoes in the cavernous room, yet the words themselves float around in the air. There’s a few trinkets scattered in the coffin, rings and jewels and heirlooms; they’re gaudy and expensive, but far from valuable to the dead. The sudden change in the intonation of Violante’s voice catches her attention, and she only catches the tail end of her question. 

“Hm? Oh- well, for one? It’d normally take around a month or so to source all the reagents- meat, ivory, rare herbs and spices and whathaveyou- then somewhere between one to two weeks to build the body itself. After that it really depends on what I need to do to recover the soul,” Alphecca explains, finally dragging her eyes away from the remains. 

“And of course, I wouldn’t want to rush perfection.” 

“How thoughtful,” Violante drawls. “But they don’t need to be perfect, just functional. Enough to answer what I want to ask of them. You fare well enough without lungs. Or gray matter.” The countess tilts her head again. “They’re going right back in the ground after I’m finished with them.”

Pushing away from the bench, Violante stands with fluid, gossamer grace. Holding one arm loosely tucked around her waist, she climbs the steps and despite the reek, peers slowly into each of the caskets, expression unreadable. Swipes one stained fingers against the dust collected on the stone lip, rubbing. 

Almost conversationally, she looks back and says, “Tell me what you need, and you’ll have it within a week. If not sooner. We have the merits of civilization here.” With a surprising amount of ease, Violante leans back against her mother’s grave and lifts herself into a sitting position on the skewed cover, ankles crossed. She smiles, her mouth a sharp, dark slash. “Three weeks, I think, is more than enough time for you to finish the work.” 

Very slowly, she lifts the velvet pouch and threads it open. The amulet is heavy, and Violante curls it’s chain delicately around her fingers, thumb hooked under one of the horns. Scarlet light suffuses her from below. 

Coy, Violante hums, “If you put your mind to it.”

Alphecca scowls at Count Viator, cursing him for ever procreating. 

“If you want a botched job, then fine,” she sneers, bristling at the intrusion on her oasis. The presence of the phylactery is like a sneeze sitting at the back of her nose, painless and yet impossible to ignore. However, the Countess has extended her a favour in the same token, providing her the irritation necessary to redirect her attention elsewhere. 

“The souls of the dead don’t tend to like being torn from their peace and shoved back inside their corpses, and the further the vessel is from their actual flesh and blood, the harder it is to attach them. And if a soul doesn’t attach properly, then you’re going to have a very uncooperative, likely half-braindead, pale imitation of your dearly departed loved one. So it’s your call,” Alphecca explains, drumming her fingers on the coffin lid. 

It’s a gambit for more time, but the phenomenon of corrupted souls isn’t unheard of. And it’s not exactly something she’s keen on dealing with. 

And then there was silence. It was followed by the shrill whistle of a lofty wind, swiftly swallowed by the cavern, sucked down. Above, a jagged crack in the apex of the cave opened up to mountain air and evening sky. Snow-melt had formed thin icicles which dripped with languid precision onto the old stone. There were some places within the cavern where if you listened close enough you could hear the sounds of running water; more runoff that was kept flowing by the warm channels that ran all underneath Solanales. The recessed thermal rivers: mineral rich, were responsible for the health and diversity of the medicinal herbs the county was able to cultivate. Her father had shown her maps, long ago.

Violante regards the lich cooly. The sneer; the constant flow of excuses, the obstinance. There is a moment before she speaks, where the slick consideration in her dark eyes slides towards bored. Just as quickly, the flat stare is replaced with a knifelike flash of malice, penetrative and acute—then a return to hawkish study.

“You’re right,” The countess says smoothly, examining the blemished fingers of her free hand, “it is my call.” She tilts her head, and wrly continues, “..and if I cared about what they liked, I wouldn’t have killed them in the first place.”

The glow from the amulet gives her skin a rosy tincture it doesn’t usually possess. Violante places her empty hand back on the coffin lid behind her, relaxing back into a lounge.

“Alphecca…” her voice is deadly soft. She rarely uses the corpse’s name. She’s never seen much point. The countess peers down at the phylactery, slim fingers curled under the horns and through the chains.

“You know, this really was remarkably easy to find. Time; a few simple exchanges of gold, a barter with a like-minded contact—who will no doubt realise, eventually, the true cost of that information, and likewise, the great loss she would accrue attempting to take it back.”

Calm, easy, her posture is that of a woman relaxing in a parlor; not an arm's reach away from her mother’s seeping skeleton. Violante runs her thumb up the side of the crystal. It’s warm, with a steady, pulse-like thrum. 

“That is a part of what it means to have dominion—to have dominance. Laying the foundation. Control over people and their emotions, so that they don’t go spinning them out into actions they haven’t thought over properly. Something always there, in the back of their minds.” 

With a sly smile, Violante tilts the amulet. “Like this.” Her fingers tighten, squeeze around the pulse. 

“Come here.” she commands.

The Countess’ silence brings the familiar weight of dread, the coils of her contemplation winding and tensing before their inevitable release. The use of her name, soft as it is, is like the snap of a twig; the arrow is coming next, but she has nowhere to run. When Violante speaks, her words are dripping with nightshade, and Alphecca pays less attention to the words as she does those eyes and the way they peel back the illusion of her flesh. How long ago was it that Zhan Tiri had stood in her place, holding the phylactery that they’d created together, swinging it before her like an aberrant hypnotist? The image lingers in her mind, branded into her being, and it burns again now. Violante holds her ransom with equal avarice and even more capriciousness. 

She doesn’t fight the command.

One foot drags after the other, pulling her away from Viator’s putrid remains towards his fetid offspring. The ends of her hair dance in the waves of heat that surge from her body, casting her pallid skin in the same glow mirrored in her bottled soul, and her sclera seeps with augural ink. She looks down her nose at the Countess, but stays mute; her glare speaks for itself. 

“Oh, that face again,” Violante smiles slyly as the lich draws near. “You looked at me like that the last time you tried to get me to break this. For all that trite dribble about souls, they pack rather nicely into tight spots, hm?” She lifts the phylactery and lets it dangle from her fingers again. The carved crystal twists, shedding ruby light. 

Tilting her head, the countess adds, “..though honestly the sheep-theme is a little provincial for my taste.” 

From her perch on the coffin lid, she and the lich are almost at eye level. Idly, she taps the curled horns of the amulet against her lips, and  takes a moment to inspect the flickering hair, warmed by the unnatural heat in the cold center of the crypt. She’s seen the witch dressed in bone before, skeletal, human then very much not. She hasn’t yet been able to divine whether the flesh is an illusion, or a simulacrum. 

“...you know, it’s almost funny,” she says after another moment, musing. Gently, Violante reaches up to take Alphecca’s chin between her fingers, feeling for bone or for the presence of a seam. Without much force, she tilts her face left, then right. “The creature that made you this way got to die before you, didn’t it? Whether it wanted to or not. And even though it’s gone, you’re still here. That’s an impressive act of malice I’m not even sure I could aspire to.”

She brushes a strand of winding hair behind the dead woman’s ear, the fingers of her other hand wrapped around the amulet. They rest there, lingering.

 “Mercy,” she hums, “Death. Do you really think that force regards you as anything more than a vague afterthought? Do you know why?”

Close, her eyes are dark and flat. When she smirks, her lips part, and there’s something of a serpent in it. The fingers set behind the corpse's ear hook suddenly, sharply. “It’s because you’re a commodity.” Softly, “A body. It was a waste having you be as you were before: running loose, childish and deranged. Whatever worth you had was decided on ages ago by something greater, and then discarded in one instant, only to be defined again, now, by me. That’s the only thing that matters here.”

Drawing her hand back, Violante twines another piece of fiery hair around her stained, lacy fingers. The amulet beats a rhythm against her palm. “Like that little village you destroyed. Garbage, right? But now, it’ll be built up again into something useful—desirable. Not only as a consequence of my birthright, but because I have the power to make that happen, and the will to speak through it. Because that’s the zeal the world recognizes. In the end, it doesn’t matter who you are or who you’re trying to be. Whether you’re a shambling monster… or a wayward sword, I’ll use the power I have; my proof of conquest, to assert my will—” a rough tug on the strand of hair, closer “—and change the meaning of value.”

Silence, and the drip of distant water. Violante lets the strand slide free from her hair, and inspects her hand with distant disinterest.

“Three weeks,” she says cooly. The phylactery thrums in her grip. “Don’t ever try to argue with me again.”

Alphecca’s phantom heart thumps in her hollow chest. Words intended to cut to the quick come close to their mark, but nothing Violante says can slice deeper than the futility of her situation. She can’t remember needing to gasp for air like this, not for a long time. And yet for all her vast networks of contacts and flies on the walls, Violante doesn’t know everything. She clutches that thought like a final matchstick in the dark, for all its limited warmth. The Countess doesn’t know Death; not like she does. And she’ll get those souls that she wants, and she’ll do her finest job— but Violante’s not the only one that has strings worth pulling. 

For as tainted as Violante’s hands are, they’re still warm. Blood pulses right to the tips of her fingers and beats against her false skin, and she feels its absence when her hand draws away. Alphecca responds with a cock of the head, and a sneer.

“I’d better get going, then.”